ft'liK:-'.; ■ 'H' 
 
DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 CONTAINING 
 
 THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. NINE NEW STORIES BY THE CIIKISI- 
 
 MAS FIRE. HARD TIMES. LIZZIE LEIGH. THE MINER'S 
 
 DAUGHTERS. FORTUNE WILDRED, ETC. 
 
 BY CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ("BOZ.") 
 
 WITH A PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR, ENGRAVED ON STEEL 
 
 T. B. PETERSON'S UNIFORM EDITION OF CHARLES DICKENS' WORKS. 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 PICKWICK PAPERS. 
 OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 
 OLIVER TWIST. 
 SKETCHES BY "BOZ." 
 BARNABY RUDGE. 
 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 
 MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 
 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 INING 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. Containing- 
 The Seven Poor Travellers. Nine 
 New Stories by the Christmas Fire. 
 Hard Times. Lizzie Leigh. The Mi- 
 ner's Daughters. Fortune Wildred, 
 the Foundling, etc. 
 
 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 CHRISTMAS STORIES, AND PICTURES 
 FROM ITALY. 
 
 |3l]ila&clpl)ta: 
 
 T. B. PETERSON, No. 102 CHESTNUT STREET 
 
1 
 
 5^77^6 
 
THE 
 
 SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 
 
 ^^•^^^■^i^^^f**^ 
 
 THE FIRST POOR TRAVELLER. 
 
 Strictly speaking, there were only six 
 Poor Travellers ; but, being a Traveller my- 
 self, though an idle one, and being withal 
 as poor as I hope to be, I brought the num- 
 ber up to seven. This word of explanation 
 is due at once ; for what says the inscrip- 
 tion over the quaint old door? 
 
 Richard Watts, Esq., 
 
 by his Will, dated 22 Aug., 1579, 
 
 founded this Charity 
 
 for Six poor Travellers, 
 
 who not being Rogues or Proctors, 
 
 May receive gratis for one Night, 
 
 Lodging, Entertainment, 
 
 and Four-pence each. 
 
 It was in the ancient little city of Roches- 
 ter, in Kent, of all the good days in the 
 year upon a Christmas Eve, that I stood 
 reading this inscription over the quaint old 
 door in question. 1 had been wandering 
 about the neighboring Cathedral, and had 
 seen the tomb of Richard Watts, with the 
 effigy of worthy Master Richard starting out 
 of it like a ship's figure-head ; and I had 
 felt that I could do no less, as I gave the 
 V.^rger his fee, than inquire the way to 
 Watts's Charity. The way being very short 
 and very plain, I had come prosperously to 
 the inscription and the quaint old door. 
 
 " Now," said I to myself, as I looked at 
 tlie knocker, " I know I am not a Proctor ; 
 I wonder whether I am a Rogue \" 
 
 Upon the whole, though Conscience repro- 
 duced two or three pretty faces which might 
 have had smaller attraction for a moral Go- 
 liath than they had had for me, who am but 
 a Tom Thumb in that way, I came to the 
 conclusion that I was not a Rogue. So, be- 
 ginning to regard the establishment as in 
 Bome sort ray property, bequeathed to me 
 and divers co-legatees, share and share alike, 
 by the Worshipful Master Richard Watts, I 
 stepped backward into the road to survey my 
 inheritance. 
 
 I found it to be a clean white house, ef a 
 staid and venerable air, with the quaint old 
 door already three times mentioned, (an 
 arched door, choice little long, low, lattice- 
 windows, and a roof of three gables. The 
 silent High Street of Rochester is full of 
 gables, with old beams and timbers carved 
 into strange faces. It is oddly garnished 
 with a queer old clock, that projects over the 
 pavement out of a grave red brick building, 
 as if Time carried on business there, and 
 hung out his sign. Sooth to say, he did an 
 active stroke of work in Rochester, in the old 
 days of the Romans, and the Saxons, and the 
 Normans, and down to the times of King 
 John, when the rugged castle — I will not un- 
 dertake to say how many hundreds of years 
 old then— was abandoned to the centuries of 
 weather which have so defaced the dark aper- 
 tures in its walls, that the ruin looks as if 
 the rooks and daws had picked its eyes out. 
 
 I was very well pleased both with my pro- 
 perty and its situation. While I was yet 
 surveying it with growing content, I espied 
 at one of the upper lattices whixjh stood open, 
 a decent body, of a wholesome matronly ap- 
 pearance, whose eyes I caught inquiringly 
 addressed to mine. They said so plainly, 
 " Do you wish to see the house ?" that I an- 
 swered aloud, " Yes, if you please." And 
 within a minute the old door opened, and I 
 bent my head, and went down two steps into 
 the entry. 
 
 " This," said the matronly presence, usher- 
 ing me into a low room on the right, " is 
 where the travellers sit by the fire, and cook 
 what bits of suppers they buy with their 
 four-pences." 
 
 "Oh! Then they have no entertainment?" 
 said I. For, the inscription over the outer 
 door was still running in my head, and I was 
 mentally repeating in a kind of tune, " Lodg- 
 ing, entertainment, and four-pence each." 
 
 " They have a fire provided for 'em," re- 
 turned the matron ; a mighty civil person, 
 not, as I could make out, overpaid ; " and 
 
 (3) 
 
PICK EX'S NEW STORIES. 
 
 these cooking utensils. And this what's 
 
 Eainted on a board, is the rules for their be- 
 avior. They have their four-pences when 
 they get their tickets from the steward over 
 the way — for I don't atimit 'em myself, they 
 must get their tickets first — and sometimes 
 one buys a rasher of bacon, and another a 
 herring, and another a pound of potatoes, or 
 what not. Sometimes two or three of 'em 
 will club their four-pences together, and 
 make a supper that way. But not much of 
 anything is to be got for four-pence, at pre- 
 sent, when provisions is so dear." 
 
 " True, indeed," I remarked. I had been 
 looking about the room, admiring its snug 
 fireside at the upper end, its glimpse of the 
 street through the low muUioned window, 
 and its beams overhead. "It is very com- 
 fortable," said I. 
 
 " Ill-con wenient," observed the matronly 
 presence. 
 
 I liked to hear her say so ; for it showed 
 a commendable anxiety to execute, in no 
 niggardly spirit, the intentions of Master 
 Richard Watts. But the room was really so 
 well adapted to its purpose, that I protested 
 quite enthusiastically, against her disparage- 
 ment. 
 
 " Nay, ma'am," said I, " I am sure it is 
 warm in winter and cool in summer. It has 
 a look of homely welcome and soothing rest. 
 It has a remarkably cosey fireside, the very 
 blink of which, gleaming out into the street 
 upon a winter night, is enough to warm all 
 Rochester's heart. And as to the convenience 
 of the six Poor Travellers " 
 
 " I don't mean them," returned the pre- 
 sence. " I speak of its being an ill-conwe- 
 nience to myself and my daughter having 
 no other room to sit in of a night." 
 
 This was true enough, but there was an- 
 other quaint room of corresponding dimen- 
 sions on the opposite side of the entry : so, 
 I stepped across to it, through the open 
 doors of both rooms, and asked what this 
 chamber was for ? 
 
 "This," returned the presence, "is the 
 Board Room ; where the gentlemen meet 
 when they come here." 
 
 Let me see. I had counted from the street 
 six upper windows, besides these on the 
 ground story. Making a perplexed calcula- 
 tion in my mind, I rejoined, " Then the six 
 Poor Travellers sleep up stairs ?" 
 
 My new friend shook her head. " They 
 sleep," she answered, " in two little outer 
 galleries at the back, where their beds has 
 always been, ever since the Charity was 
 founded. It being so very ill-conwenient to 
 me as things is at present, the gentlemen 
 are going to take oflf a bit of the back yard, 
 and make a slip of a room for 'em there, to 
 sit in before they go to bed." 
 
 " And then the six Poor Travellers," said 
 I, " will be entirely out of the house ?" 
 
 '* Entirely out of the house," assented the 
 
 presence, comfortably smoothing her hands ; 
 " which is considered much better for all 
 parties, and much more cmiwonient." 
 
 I had been a little startled, in the cathe- 
 dral, by the emphasis with which the effigy 
 of Master Richard W^atts was bursting out 
 of his tomb ; but I began to think, now, 
 that it might be expected to come across the 
 High Street some stormy night, and make a 
 disturbance here. 
 
 Ilowbeit, I kept my thoughts to myself, 
 and accompanied the presence to the little 
 galleries at the back. I found them on a 
 tiny scale, like the galleries in old inn 
 yards ; and they were very clean. While I 
 was looking at them, the matron gave me 
 to understand that the prescribed number 
 of Poor Travellers were forthcoming every 
 night, from year's end to year's end ; and 
 that the beds were always occupied. My 
 questions upon this, and her replies, brought 
 us back to the Board Room, so essential to 
 the dignity of " the gentlemen," where she 
 showed me the printed accounts of the Cha- 
 rity, hanging up by the window. From 
 them, I gathered that the greater part of 
 the property bequeathed by the Worshipful 
 Master Richard Watts, for the maintenance 
 of this foundation, was, at the period of his 
 death, mere marsh-land ; but that, in course 
 of time, it had been reclaimed and built 
 upon, and was very considerably increased 
 in value. I found, too, that about a thirti- 
 eth part of the annual revenue was now 
 expended on the purposes commemorated in 
 the inscription over the door ; the rest being 
 handsomely laid out in Chancery, law ex- 
 penses, colleetorship, receivership, pound- 
 age, and other appendages of management, 
 highly complimentary to the importance of 
 the six Poor Travellers. In short, I made 
 the not entirely new discovery, that it may 
 be said of an establishment like this, in dear 
 Old England, as of the fat oyster in the 
 American story, that it takes a good many 
 men to swallow it whole. 
 
 "And pray, ma'am," said I, sensible that 
 the blankness of my face began to brighten 
 as a thought occurred to me, "could one 
 see these Travellers ?" 
 
 " Well !" she returned dubiously, " no !" 
 
 " Not to-night, for instanq£?" said I. 
 
 "Well!" she returned more positively, 
 " no ! Nobody ever asked to see them, and 
 nobody ever did see them." 
 
 As I am not easily baulked in a design 
 when I am set upon it, I urged to the good 
 lady that this was Christmas Eve ; that 
 Christmas comes but once a year — which is 
 unhappily too true, for when it begins to 
 stay with us the whole year round, we shall 
 make this earth a very different place — that 
 I was possessed by the desire to treat the Tra- 
 vellers to a supper and a temperate glass 
 of hot Wassail ; that the voice of Fame 
 had been heard in the land, declaring my 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 
 
 ability to make hot Wassail ; that if I •were 
 permitted to hold the feast, I should be 
 found conformable to reason, sobriety, and 
 good hours ; in a word, that I could be 
 merry and wise myself, and had been even 
 known at a pinch to keep others so, although 
 I was decorated with no badge or medal, 
 and was not a Brother, Orator, Apostle, 
 Saint, or Prophet of any denomination 
 whatever. In the end I prevailed, to my 
 great joy. It was settled that at nine 
 o'clock that night, a turkey and a piece of 
 roast beef should smoke upon the board ; 
 and that I, faint and unworthy minister for 
 once of Master Richard AVatts, should pre- 
 side as th-i Christmas-supper host of the six 
 Poor Travellers. 
 
 I went back to my inn, to give the neces- 
 sary directions for the turkey and roast 
 beef, and, during the remainder of the day, 
 could settle to nothing for thinking of the 
 Poor Travellers. When the wind blew hard 
 against the windows — it was a cold day, 
 with dark gusts of sleet alternating with 
 periods of wild brightness, as if the year 
 were dying fitfuUv — I pictured them ad- 
 vancing towards their resting-place, along 
 variiius cold roads, and felt delighted to 
 thitik how little they foresaw the supper 
 that awaited them. I painted their por- 
 traits in my mind, and indulged in little 
 heightening touches. I made them foot- 
 sore ; I made them weary ; I made them 
 carry packs and bundles ; I made them stop 
 by f.-nger- posts and mile-stones, leaning on 
 their bent sticks, and looking wistfully at 
 what was written there ; I made them lose 
 their way. and filled their five wits with 
 apprehensions of lying out all night, and 
 being frozen to death. I took up my hat 
 and went out, climbed to the top of the Old 
 Castle, and looked over the windy hills that 
 slope down to the Medway ; almost believ- 
 ing that I could descry some of my Travel- 
 lers in the distance. After it fell djirk, and 
 the Cathedral bell was heard in the invisible 
 steeple — quite a bower of frosty rime when 
 I had last seen it — striking five, six, seven, 
 I became so full of my Travellers that I 
 could eat no dinner, and felt constrained to 
 watch them still, in the red coals of my fire. 
 They were all arrived by this time, I 
 thought, had got their tickets, and were 
 gone in. — There, ray pleasure was dashed 
 by the reflection that probably some Tra- 
 vellers had come too late, and were shut 
 out. 
 
 After the Cathedral bell had struck eight, 
 I could smell a delicious savor of turkey and 
 roast beef, rising to the window of my ad- 
 joining bed-room, which looked down into 
 the inn yard, just where the lights of the 
 kitchen reddened a massive fragment of the 
 Castle wall. It was high time to make the 
 Wassail now; therefore, I had up the ma- 
 terials, (which, together with their propor- 
 
 tions and combinations, I must decline to 
 impart, as the only secret of my own I was 
 ever known to keep,) and made a glorioua 
 jorum ; not in a bowl — for a bowl any- 
 where but on a shelf, is a low superstition, 
 fraught with cooling and slopping — but ia 
 a brown earthenware pitcher, tenderly suf- 
 focated when full, with a coarse cloth. It 
 being now upon the stroke of nine, I set out 
 for Watts's Charity, carrying my brown 
 beauty in my arms. I would trust Ben the 
 waiter with untold gold ; but there are 
 strings in the human heart which must 
 never be sounded by another, and drinks 
 that I make myself are those strings in 
 mine. 
 
 The Travellers were all assembled, the 
 cloth was laid, and Ben had brought a great 
 billet of wood, and had laid it artfully on 
 the top of the fire, so that a touch or two of 
 the poker, after supper, should make a 
 roaring blaze. Having deposited my bro\\ a 
 beauty in a red nook of the hearth, inside 
 the fender, where she soon began to sing 
 like an ethereal cricket, diffusing at the 
 same time, odors as of ripe vineyards, spice 
 forests, and orange groves — I say, having 
 stationed my beauty in a place of security 
 and improvement, I introduced myself to 
 my guests by shaking hands all round, and 
 giving them a hearty welcome. 
 
 I found the party to be thus composed: — 
 Firstly, myself. Secondly, a very decent 
 man, indeed, with his right arm in a sling, 
 who had a certain clean, agreeable smell of 
 wood about him, from which I judged him 
 to have something to do with shipbuilding. 
 Thirdly, a little sailor-boy, a mere cliild, 
 with a profusion of rich dark-browu hair, 
 and deep, womanly-looking eyes. Fourthly, 
 a shabby-genteel personage, in a thread- 
 bare black suit, and apparently in very 
 bad circumstances, with a dry, suspicious 
 look; the absent buttons on his waist- 
 coat eked out with red tape, and a bundle 
 of extraordinarily tattered papers sticking 
 out of an inner breast-pocket. Filth ly, a 
 foreigner by birth, but an Englishman in 
 speecli, who carried his pipe in the band of 
 his hat, and lost no time in telling me, ia 
 an easy, simple, engaging way, tliat be 
 was a watchmaker from Ueneva, and tra- 
 velled all about the Continent, mostly on 
 foot, working as a journeynuxn, and seeing 
 new countries — possibly (I thought) also 
 smuggling a watch or so, now and then. 
 Sixthly, a little widow, who had been very 
 pretty, and was still very young, but whose 
 beauty had been wrecked in some great 
 misfortune, and whose manner was remark- 
 ably timid, scared, and solitary. Seventhly, 
 and lastly, a Traveller, of a kind familiar to 
 mj- boyhood, but now almost obsolete ; a 
 Book-peddler, who had a quantity of pam- 
 phlets and numbers with him, and who pre- 
 sently boasted that he could repeat more 
 
DICKEXS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 versee in an evening than he could sell in a 
 twelvemonth. 
 
 All tlu'so I have mentioned, in the order 
 in which they eat at table. I presided, and 
 the matronly presence laced me. We were 
 not lonj^ in tjiking our places, for the supper 
 had arrived with me, in the following pro- 
 cession : — 
 
 Myself with the pitcher. 
 
 Ben with Beer. 
 
 Inattentive Boy with I Inattentive Boy with 
 
 hot plates. ] hot plates. 
 
 THE TURKEY. 
 
 Female carrying sauces to be heated on the 
 spot. 
 
 THE BEEF. 
 
 Man with Tray on his head, containing 
 
 Vegetables and Sundries. 
 
 Volunteer Ilostler from Hotel, grinning, 
 
 and rendering no assistance. 
 
 As we passed along the High-street, Comet- 
 like, we left a long tail of fragrance behind 
 us, which caused the public to stop, sniffling 
 in wonder. We had previously left at the 
 corner of the inn-yard, a wall-eyed young 
 man connected with the Fly department, and 
 well accustomed to the sound of a railway 
 whistle, which Ben always carries in his 
 pocket ; whose instructions were, so soon as 
 he should hear the whistle blovrn, to dash 
 into the kitchen, seize the hot plum-pudding 
 and mince pies, and speed with them to 
 Watts's Charity — where they would be re- 
 ceived (he was further instructed) by the 
 sauce-female, who would be provided with 
 brandy in a blue state of combustion. 
 
 All these arrangements were executed in 
 the most exact and punctual manner. I 
 never saw a finer turkey, finer beef, or greater 
 prodigality of sauce and gravy ; and my 
 Travellers did wonderful justice to every- 
 thing set before them. It made my heart 
 ig'oice, to observe how their wind-and-frost 
 hardened faces, softened in the clatter of 
 plates and knives and forks, and mellowed 
 in the fire and supper heat. While their hats 
 and caps, and wrappers, hanging up ; a few 
 PHiall bundles on the ground in a corner; 
 and, in another corner, three or four old 
 walking sticks, worn down at the end to mere 
 fringe ; linked this snug interior with the 
 bleak outside in a golden chain. 
 
 When supper was done, and my brown 
 beauty had been elevated on the table, there 
 was a general requisition to me, to " take the 
 corner ;" which suggested to me, comfortably 
 enough, how much my friends here made of 
 a fire — for when had / ever thought so highly 
 of the corner, since the days when I connect- 
 ed it with Jack Horner ? However, as I de- 
 clined, Ben, whose touch on all convivial 
 instruments is perfect, drew the table apart, 
 and instructing my Travellers to open right 
 
 and left, on either side ot me, and form round 
 the fire, closed up the centre with myself and 
 my chair, and preserved the order we had 
 kept at table, lie had already, in a tranquil 
 manner, boxed the ears of the inattentive ' 
 boys, until they had been by imperceptible 
 degrees boxed out of the room ; and he now 
 rapidly skirmished the sauce-female into the 
 High-street, disappeared, and softly closed 
 the door. 
 
 This was the time for bringing the poker 
 to bear on the billet of wood. I tapped it 
 three times, like an enchanted talisman, and 
 a brilliant host of merrymakers burst out of 
 it, and sported off by the chimney — rushing 
 up the middle in a fiery country dance, and 
 never coming down again. Meanwhile, by 
 their sparkling light, which threw our lamp 
 into the shade, I filled the glasses, and gave 
 my Travellers, Christmas ! — Christmas Eve, 
 my friends, when the Shepherds, who were 
 Poor Travellers, too, in their way, heard the 
 Angels sing, " On earth, peace. Good-will, 
 towards men !" 
 
 I don't know who was the first among us 
 to think that we ought to take hands as we 
 sat, in deference to the toast, or whether any 
 one of us anticipated the others, but at any 
 rate we all did it. We then drank to the 
 memory of the good Master Richard Watts. 
 And I wish his ghost may never have had 
 any worse usage under that roof, than it had 
 from us ! 
 
 It was the witching time for story-telling. 
 " Our whole life. Travellers," said I, " is a 
 story more or less intelligible — generally 
 less; but we shall read it by a clearer light 
 when it is ended. I, for one, am so divided 
 this night between fact and fiction, that I 
 scarce know which is which. Shall we be- 
 guile the time by telling stories, in our order 
 as we sit here V 
 
 They all answered, yes, provided I would 
 begin. I had little to tell them, but I was 
 bound by my own proposal. Therefore, after 
 looking for a while at the spiral column of 
 smoke wreathing up from my brown beauty, 
 through which I could have almost sworn I 
 saw the efi&gy of Master Richard Watts less 
 startled than usual ; I fired away. 
 
 In the year one thousand seven hundred 
 and ninety-nine, a relative of mine came 
 limping down, on foot, to this town of Chat- 
 ham. I call it this town, because if anybody 
 present knows to a nicety where Rochester 
 ends and Chatham begins, it is more than I 
 do. He was a poor traveller, with not a 
 ferthing in his pocket. He sat by the fire in 
 this very room, and he slept one night in o 
 bed that will be occupied to-night by some 
 one here. 
 
 My relative came down to Chatham, to en- 
 list in a cavalry regiment, if a cavalry regi- 
 ment would have him ; if not, to take King 
 George's shilling from any corporal or ser- 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 
 
 geant, who would put a bunch of ribbons in 
 his hat. His object was to get shot ; but he 
 
 - thought he might as well ride to death as be 
 at the trouble of walking. 
 
 My relative's Christian name was Richard, 
 but he was better known as Dick. lie drop- 
 ped his own surname on the road down, and 
 took up that of Doubledick. He was passed 
 as Richard Doubledick ; age twenty-two ; 
 height, live foot ten ; native place, Exmouth ; 
 which he had never been near in his life. — 
 
 - There was no cavalry in Chatham, when he 
 limped over the bridge here, with half a shoe 
 to bis dusty foot, so he enlisted into a regi- 
 ment of the line, and was glad to get drunk 
 
 ' and forget all about it. 
 
 You are to know that this relative of mine 
 had gone wrong and run wild. His heart was 
 in the right place, but it was sealed up. He 
 had been betrothed to a good and beautiful 
 girl whom he had loved better than she — or 
 perhaps even he — believed ; but in an evil 
 hour, he had given her cause to say to him, 
 solemnly, " Richard, I will never marry any 
 other man. I will live single for your sake, 
 but Mary Marshall's lips ;" — her name was 
 Mary Marshall ; — " never address another 
 word to you on earth. Go, Richard ! 
 Heaven forgive you I" This finished him. 
 This brought him down to Chatham. This 
 made him private Richard Doubledick, with 
 a deep determination to be shot. 
 
 There was not a more dissipated and reck- 
 less soldier in Chatham barracks, in the year 
 one thousand seven hundred and ninety-nine, 
 tlian Private Richard Doubledick. He asso- 
 ciated with the dregs of every regiment, he 
 was as seldom sober as he could be, and was 
 constantly under punishment. It became 
 clear to the whole barracks, that Private 
 Richard Doubledick would very soon be 
 flogged. 
 
 Now the Captain of Richard Doubledick's 
 ' company was a young gentleman not above 
 five years his senior, whose eyes had an ex- 
 pression in them which afl'ected Private 
 Richard Doubledick in a very remarkable 
 /' way. They were bright, handsome, dark 
 r eyes — what are called laughing eyes gene- 
 rally and, when serious, rather steady than 
 severe — but, they were the only eyes now 
 left in bis narrowed world that Private 
 Richard Doubledick could not stand. Un- 
 abashed by evil report and punishment, 
 defiant of everything else and everybody 
 else, he had but to know that those eyes 
 looked at him for a moment, and he felt 
 ashamed. He could not so much as salute 
 Captain Taunton in the street, like any other 
 officer. He was reproached and confused — 
 troubled by the mere possibility of the cap- 
 tain's looking at him. In his worst moments 
 he would rather turn back and go any dis- 
 tance out of his way, than encounter those 
 two handsome, dark, bright eyes. 
 
 One day, when Private Richard Double- 
 
 dick came out of the Black hole, where he 
 had been passing the last eight-and-forty 
 hours, and in which retreat he spent a good 
 deal of his time, he was ordered to betake 
 himself to Captain Taunton's quarters. In 
 the stale and squalid state of a man just out 
 of the Black hole, he had less fancy than 
 ever for being seen by the Captain ; but he 
 was not so mad yet as to disobey orders, 
 and consequently went up to the terrace 
 overlooking the parade-ground, where the 
 officers' quarters were : twisting and break- 
 ing in his hands as he went along, a bit of 
 the straw that had formed the decorative 
 furniture of the Black hole. 
 
 " Come in !" cried the Captain, when he 
 knocked with his knuckles at the door. 
 Private Richard Doubledick pulled off his 
 cap, took a stride forward, and felt very 
 conscious that he stood in the light of the 
 dark bright eyes. 
 
 There was a silent pause. Private Richard 
 Doubledick had put the straw in his mouth, 
 and was gradually doubling it up into his 
 windpipe and choking himself. 
 
 "Doubledick," said the Captain, "Do you 
 know where you are going to ?" 
 
 " To the Devil, sir !" faltered Doubledick. 
 
 " Yes," returned the Captain. "And very 
 fast." 
 
 Private Richard/Doubledick turned the 
 straw of the Blajek hole in his mouth, and 
 made a miserable •galute of acquiescence. 
 
 " Doubledjick," s^id the Captain, " since I 
 entered his Majesty's service, a boy of seven- 
 teen, I have been pained to see many men 
 of promise going that road ; but I have never 
 been so pained to see a man determined to 
 make the shameful journey, as I have been, 
 ever since you joined the regiment, to see 
 you." 
 
 Private Richard Doubledick began to find 
 a film stealing over the floor at which he 
 looked ; also to find the legs of the Captain's 
 breakfast-table turning crooked, as if he 
 saw them through water. 
 
 "I am only a common soldier, sir," said 
 he. " It signifies very little what such a 
 poor brute comes to." 
 
 " You are a man," returned the Captain 
 with grave indignation, " of education and 
 superior advantages ; and if you say that, 
 meaning what you say, you have sunk lower 
 than I had believed. How low that must 
 be, I leave you to consider: knowing what I 
 know of your disgrace, and seeing what I 
 see." 
 
 " I hope to get shot soon, sir," said Private 
 Richard Doubledick ; " and then the regi- 
 ment, and the world together, will be rid of 
 me." 
 
 The legs of the table were becoming very 
 crooked. Doubledick, looking up to steady 
 his vision, met the eyes that had so strong 
 an influence over him. He put his hand 
 before his own eyes, and the breast of his 
 
8 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 disgrace-jacket swelled as if it would fly 
 asunder. 
 
 '' "I would rather," said the young Cap- 
 tain, " see this in you, Doubledick, than I 
 would see five thousand guineas counted out 
 upon this table for a gift to my good mother. 
 Have you a mother ?" 
 
 " I am thankful to say she is dead, sir." 
 
 " If your praise," returned the Captain, 
 " were sounded from mouth to mouth 
 through the whole regiment, through the 
 whole army, through the whole country, 
 you would wish she had lived, to say with 
 pride and joy, ' lie is my son !' " 
 
 " Sparc me, sir ;" said Doubledick. " She 
 would never have heard any good of me. 
 She would never have had any pride and joy 
 in owning herself my mother. Love and 
 compassion she might have had, and would 
 
 have always had, I know ; but not Spare 
 
 me, sir ! I am a broken wretch, quite at 
 your mercy !" And he turned his face to 
 the wall, and stretched out his imploring 
 hand. 
 
 " My friend " began the captain. 
 
 " God bless you, sir !" sobbed Private 
 Eichard Doubledick. 
 
 ' You are at the crisis of your fate. Hold 
 your course unchanged, a little longer, and 
 you know what must happen, /know even 
 better than you can imagine, that after that 
 has happened, you are lost. No man who 
 could shed those tears, could bear those 
 marks." 
 
 " I fully believe it, sir," in a low, shiver- 
 ing voice, said Private Richard Doubledick. 
 
 " ^1 a man in any station can do his 
 duty,^' said the young Captain, " and, in 
 doing it, can earn his own respect, even if 
 his case should be so very unfortunate and 
 80 very rare, that he can earn no other man's. 
 A common soldier, poor brute though you 
 called him just now, has this advantage in 
 the stormy times we live in, that he always 
 does his duty before a host of sympathising 
 witnesses. Do you doubt that he may so do 
 it as to be extolled through a whole regi- 
 ment, through a whole army, through a 
 ; whole country ? Turn while you may yet 
 retrieve the past, and try." 
 
 " I will ! I ask for only one witness, sir," 
 cried Richard, with a bursting heart. 
 
 " I understand you. I will be a watchful- 
 and a faithful one." 
 
 I have heard from Private Rishard Double- 
 dick's own lips, that he dropped down upon 
 his knee, kissed that officer's hand, arose, 
 and went out of the light of the dark bright 
 _eyes, an altered man. 
 
 In that year, one thousand seven hundred 
 and ninety-nine, the French were in Egypt, 
 in Italy, in Germany, where not ? Napoleon 
 Buonaparte had likewise begun to stir against 
 us in India, and most men could read the 
 signs of the great troubles that were coming 
 on. In the very next year, when we formed 
 
 an alliance with Austria against him, Cay^ 
 tain Taunton's regiment was on service in 
 India. And there was not a finer non-com- 
 missioned officer in it — no, nor in the whole 
 line — than Corporal Richard Doubledick. 
 
 In eighteen hundred and one, the Indian 
 army were on the coast of Egypt. Next 
 year was the year of the proclamation of the 
 short peace, and they were recalled. It had 
 then become well known to thousands of 
 men, that wherever Captain Taunton, with 
 the dark bright eyes, led, there, close to him, 
 ever at his side, firm as a rock, true as the 
 sun, and brave as Mars, would be certain to 
 be found, while life beat in their hearts, 
 that famous soldier, Sergeant Richard 
 Doubledick. 
 
 Eighteen hundred and five, besides being 
 the great year of Trafalgar, was a year of 
 hard fighting in India. That year saw such 
 wonders done by a Sergeant-Major, who cut 
 his way single-handed through a solid mass 
 of men, recovered the colors of his regiment 
 which had been seized from the hand of a 
 poor boy shot through the heart, and rescued 
 his wounded captain, who was down, and in 
 a very jungle of horses' hoofs and sabres — 
 saw such wonders done,- 1 say, by this brave 
 Sergeant-Major, that he was especially made 
 the bearer of the colors he had worn ; and 
 Ensign Richard Doubledick had risen from 
 the ranks. 
 
 Sorely cut up in every battle, but aMaya 
 reinforced by the bravest of men — for, the 
 fame of following the old colours, shot 
 through and through, which Ensign Richard 
 Doubledick had saved, inspired all breasts — 
 this regiment fought its way through the 
 Peninsular war, up to the investment of 
 Badajos in eighteen hundred and twelve. 
 Again and again it had been cheered through 
 the British ranks until the tears had sprung 
 into men's eyes at the mere hearing of the 
 mighty British voice so exultant in their 
 valor ; and there was not a drummer-boy 
 but knew the legend, that wherever the two 
 friends. Major Taunton with the dark bright 
 eyes, and Ensign Richard Doubledick who 
 was devoted to him, were seen to go, there 
 the boldest spirits in the English army be- 
 came wild to follow. 
 
 /^One day, at Badajos — not in the great 
 storming, but in repelling a hot sally of the 
 besieged upon our men at work in the 
 trenches, Avho had given way, the two officers 
 found themselves hurrying forward, face to 
 face, against a party of French infantry who 
 made a stand. There was an officer at their 
 head, encouraging his men — a courageous, 
 handsome, gallant officer of five and thirty — 
 whom Doubledick saw hurriedly, almost 
 momentarily, but saw well. lie particularly 
 noticed this officer waving his sword, and 
 rallying his men with an eager and excited 
 cry, when they fired in obedience to his 
 gesture, and Major Taunton dropped. 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 
 
 It was over in ten minutes more, and 
 Doubleclick returned to the spot where he 
 had hiid the best friend man ever had, on 
 a coat spread upon the wet clay. Major 
 Taunton's uniform was opened at the breast, 
 and on his shirt were three little spots of 
 blood. 
 
 " Dear Doubledick," said he, " I am 
 dying;." 
 
 " For the love of Heaven, no !" exclaimed 
 the other, kneeling down beside him, and 
 passing his arm round his neck to raise his 
 head. " Taunton ! My preserver, my guar- 
 dian angel, my witness ! Dearest, truest, 
 kindest of immau beings ! Taunton ! For 
 God's sake !" 
 
 The bright dark eyes — so very, very dark 
 now, in the pale face — smiled upon him ; 
 and the hand he had kissed thirteen years 
 ago, laid itself fondly on his breast. 
 
 " Write to my mother. You will see home 
 again. Tell her how wc became friends. It 
 will comfurt her as it comforts me." 
 
 He spoke no more, but faintly signed for 
 a momiMit towards his hair as it fluttered in 
 the wind. The Ensign understood him. He 
 smiled .ag'iin when he saw that, and gently 
 turning his face over on the supporting arm 
 as if for rest, died, with his hand upon the 
 breast in which he had revived a soul. 
 
 No dry eye looked on Ensign Richard 
 Doubledick, that melancholy day. He buried 
 his friend on the field, and became a lone, be- 
 reaved man. Beyond his duty he appeared 
 to have but two remaining cares in life ; one, 
 to preserve the little packet of hair he was to 
 give to Taunton's mother ; the other, to en- 
 counter that French officer who had rallied 
 the men under whose fire Taunton fell. A 
 new legend now began to circulate among 
 our troops ; and it was, that when he and the 
 French officer came face to face once more, 
 there would be weeping in France. 
 
 The war went on — and through it went the 
 exact picture of the French officer on the one 
 side, and the bodily reality upon the other — 
 until the Battle of Toulouse was fought. In 
 the returns sent home, appeared these words : 
 " Severely wounded, but not dangerously. 
 Lieutenant Richard Doubledick." 
 
 At Midsummer time in the year eighteen 
 hundred and fourteen. Lieutenant Richard 
 Doubledick, now a browned soldier, seven 
 and thirty years of age, came home to Eng- 
 land, invalided. He brought the hair with 
 him, near his heart. Many a French officer 
 had he seen, since that day ; many a dread- 
 ful night, in searching with men and kxnterns 
 for his wounded, had he relieved French offi- 
 cers lying disabled ; but the mental picture 
 and the reality had never come togetlier. 
 
 Though he was weak and suffered pain, he 
 lost not an hour in getting down to Frome 
 in Somersetshire, where Taunton's mother 
 lived. In the sweet compassionate words that 
 naturally present themselves to the mind 
 
 to-night, " he was the only son of his mother, 
 and she was a widow." 
 
 It was a Sunday evening and the lady sat 
 at her quiet garden-window, reading the Bi- 
 ble ; reading to herself, in a trembling voice, 
 that very passage in it as I have heard him 
 tell. He heard the words, " Young man, I 
 say unto thee, arise !" 
 
 He had to pass the window ; and the bright 
 dark eyes of his debased time seemed to look 
 at him. Her heart told her who he was ; she 
 came to the door, quickly, and fell upon his 
 neck. 
 
 " He saved me from ruin, made me a hu- 
 man creature, won me from infamy and 
 shame. O God, for ever bless him ! As II« 
 will, He will!" 
 
 " He will !" the lady answered. " I know 
 he is in Heaven !" Then she piteously 
 cried, " But, O, my darling boy, my darling 
 boy !" 
 
 Never, from the hour when Private Rich- 
 ard Doubledick enlisted at Chatham, had 
 the Private, Corporal, Sergeant, Sergeant- 
 Major, Ensign, or Lieutenant, breathed his 
 right name, or the name of Mary Marshall, 
 or a word of the story of his life, into any 
 ear, except his reclaimer's. That previous 
 scene in his existence was closed. He had 
 firmly resolved that his expiation should be, 
 to live unknown ; to disturb no more the 
 peace that had long grown over his old 
 ofiences ; to let it be revealed when he was 
 dead, that he had striven and suffered, and 
 had never forgotten ; and then, if they could 
 forgive him and believe him — well, it would 
 be time enough — time enough ! 
 
 But, that night, remembering the words he 
 had cherished for two years, '' Tell her how 
 we became friends. It will comfort her, as it 
 cimiforts me," he related everything. It 
 gradually seemed to him, as if in his matu- 
 rity he had recovered a mother ; it gradually 
 seemed to her, as if in her bereavement she 
 had found a son. During his stay in Eng- 
 land, the quiet garden into which he had 
 slowly and painfully crept, a stranger, be- 
 came the boundary of his home ; when he 
 was able to rejoin his regiment in the spring, 
 lie left the garden, thinking was this indeed 
 the first time he had ever turned his fao 
 towards the old colors, with a woman's 
 blessing ! 
 
 He followed them — so ragged, so scarred 
 and pierced now, that they would scarcely 
 hold together — to Quatre Bras, and Ligny. 
 He stood beside them, in an awful stillness 
 of many men, shadowy through the mist and 
 drizzle of a wet June forenoon, on the field 
 of Waterloo. And down to that hour, the 
 picture in his mind of the Frencli officer had 
 never been compared with the reality. 
 
 The famous regiment was in action early 
 
 in the battle, and received its first check in 
 
 many an eventful year, when he was seen to 
 
 I fall. But it swept on to avenge him, and 
 
10 
 
 DICIiEXS' XEW STORIES. 
 
 left behind no such creature in the world of 
 consciousness, as Lieutenant Eichard Dou- 
 bledick. 
 
 Through pits of mire, and pools of rain ; 
 along deep ditches, once roads, that were 
 pounded and ploughed to pieces by artillery, 
 heavy waggons, tramp of men and horses, 
 and the struggle of every wheeled thing that 
 could carry wounded soldiers ; jolted among 
 the dying and the dead, so disfigured by 
 blood and mud as to be hardly recognisable 
 for humanity ; undisturbed by the moaning 
 of men and the shrieking of horses, which, 
 newly taken from the peaceful pursuits of 
 life. cc*uld not endure the sight of the strag- 
 glers Ijing by the wayside, never to resume 
 their toilsome journey ; dead, as to any sen- 
 tient life that was in it, and yet alive ; the 
 form that had been Lieutenant Richard Dou- 
 bledick, with whose praises England rang, 
 was conveyed to Brussels. There, it was 
 tenderly laid down in hospital: and there 
 it lay, week after week, through the long 
 bright summer days, until the harvest, spared 
 by war, had ripened and was gathered in. 
 
 Over and over again the sun rose and set 
 upon the crowded city ; over and over again, 
 the moonlight nights were quiet on the 
 plains of Waterloo ; and all that time was a 
 blank to what had been Lieutenant Richard 
 Doubledick. Rejoicing troops marched into 
 Brussels, and marched out ; brothers and 
 fathers, sisters, mothers, and wives, came 
 thronging thither, drew their lots of joy or 
 agony, and departed ; so many times a day, 
 the bells rang ; so many times, the shadows 
 of the great building changed ; so many 
 lights sprang up at dusk ; so many feet passed 
 here and there upon the pavements ; so many 
 hours of sleep and cooler air of night suc- 
 ceeded ; indifferent to all, a marble face lay 
 on a bed, like the face of a recumbent 
 statue on the tomb of Lieutenant Richard 
 Doubledick. 
 
 Slowly labouring, at last, through a long 
 heavy dream of confused time and place, pre- 
 senting faint glimpses of army surgeons 
 whom he knew, and of faces that had been 
 familiar to his youth — dearest and kindest 
 among them, Mary Marshall's, with a solici- 
 tude upon it more like reality than anything 
 he could discern — Lieutenant Richard Dou- 
 bledick came back to life. To the beautiful 
 life of a calm autumn evening sunset. To 
 the peaceful life of a fresh quiet room with 
 a large window standing open ; a balcony, 
 beyond, in which were moving leaves and 
 sweet-smelling flowers ; beyond again, the 
 clear sky, with the sun full in his sight, 
 pouring its golden radiance on his bed. 
 
 It was so tranquil and so lovely, that he 
 thought he had passed into another world. 
 And he said in a faint voice, " Taunton, are 
 you near me ?" 
 
 A face bent over him. Not his ; his 
 H) other's. 
 
 " I came to nurse you. We have nursed 
 you many weeks. You were moved here, 
 long ago. Do you remember notliing ?" 
 
 '• Nothing." 
 
 The lady kissed his cheek, and held his 
 hand, soothing him. 
 
 "Where is the regiment? What has 
 happened ? Let me call you mother. What 
 has happened, mother V 
 
 " A great victory, dear. The war is over, 
 and the regiment was the bravest in the 
 field." 
 
 His eyes kindled, his lips trembled, he 
 sobbed, and the tears ran down his face. 
 He was very weak : too weak to move his 
 hand. 
 
 " Was it dark just now ?" he asked pre- 
 sently. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Jt was only dark to me? Something 
 passed away, like a black shadow. But as it 
 went, and the sun — the blessed sun, how 
 beautiful it is ! — touched my face, I thought 
 I saw a light white cloud pass out at the 
 door. Was there nothing that went out?" 
 
 She shook her head, and, in a little while, 
 he fell asleep : she still holding his hand, 
 and soothing him. 
 
 From that time, he recovered. Slowly, for 
 he had been desperately wounded in the 
 head, and had been shot in the body ; but, 
 making some little advance every day. When 
 he had gained sufficient strength to converse 
 as he lay in bed, he soon began to remark 
 that Mrs. Taunton always brought him back 
 to his own history. Then, he recalled his 
 preserver's dying words, and thought, " it 
 comforts her." 
 
 One day, he awoke out of a sleep, re- 
 freshed, and asked her to read to him. But, 
 the curtain of the bed, softening the light, 
 which she always drew back when he awoke, 
 that she might see him from her table at the 
 bed-side where she sat at work, was held 
 undrawn ; and a woman's voice spoke, which 
 was not hers. 
 
 " Can you bear to see a stranger ?" it said 
 softly. " Will you like to see a stranger ?" 
 
 " Stranger !" he repeated. The voice 
 awoke old memories, before the days of Pri- 
 vate Richard Doubledick. 
 
 " A stranger now, but not a strangei 
 once," it said in tones that thrilled liim. 
 " Richard, dear Richard, lost through su 
 many years, my name " 
 
 He cried out her name, " Mary !" and she 
 held him in her arms, and his head lay on 
 her bosom. 
 
 " I am not breaking a rash vow, Richard. 
 These are not Mary Marshall's lips that 
 speak. I have another name." 
 
 She was married. 
 
 " I have another name, Richard. Did you 
 ever hear it ?" 
 
 " Never !" 
 
 He looked into her face, so pensively beau- 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 
 
 11 
 
 tiful, and vrondered at the smile upon it 
 throug;h her tears. 
 
 "Think again, Richard. Are you sure 
 you never heard my altered name ?" 
 
 " Never I" 
 
 " Don't move your head to look at me, 
 dear Richard. Let it lie here, while I tell 
 niy story. I loved a generous, noble man ; 
 loved him with my whole heart; loved him 
 for years and years ; loved him faithfully, 
 devotedly ; loved him with no hope of return ; 
 loved him, knowing nothing of his highest 
 qualities — not even knowing that he was 
 alive. He was a brave soldier. lie was 
 honoured and beloved by thousands of thou- 
 sands, when the mother of his dear friend 
 found me, and showed me that in all his tri- 
 umphs he had never forgotten me. He was 
 wounded in a great battle. He was brought, 
 dying, here, into Brussels, I came to watch 
 and tend him, as I would have joyfully gone, 
 with such a purpose, to the dreariest ends 
 of the earth. When he knew no one else he 
 knew me. When he suffered most, he bore 
 his sufferings barely murmuring, content to 
 rest his head where yours rests noM'. When 
 he lay at the point of death, he married me, 
 that he might call me wife before he died. 
 And the name, my dear love, that I took on 
 tliat forgotten night " 
 
 " I know it now !" he sobbed. " The sha- 
 dowy remembrance strengthens. It is come 
 back. I thank heaven that my mind is quite 
 restored ! My Mary, kiss me ; lull this weary 
 head to rest, or I shall die of gratitude. His 
 parting words are fulfilled. I see home 
 again \" 
 
 Well ! They were happy. It was a long 
 recovei'y, but they were happy through it 
 all. The snow had melted on the ground, 
 and the birds were singing in the leafless 
 thickets of the early spring, when these three 
 were first able to ride out together, and when 
 people flocked about the open carriage to 
 cheer and congratulate Captain Richard 
 Boubledick. 
 
 But, even then, it became necessary for 
 the Captain, instead of returning to England, 
 to complete his recovery in the climate of 
 Southern France. They found a spot upon 
 the Rhone, within a ride of the old town of 
 Avignon, and within view of its broken 
 bridge, which was all they could desire ; 
 they lived there, together, six months ; then 
 returned to England. Mrs. Taunton growing 
 old after three years — though not so old as 
 that her bright dark eyes were dimmed — 
 and remembering that her strength had been 
 benefitted by the change, resolved to go back 
 for a year to those parts. So she went with 
 a faithful servant, who had often carried her 
 son in his arms ; and she was to be rejoined 
 and escorted home, at the year's end, by 
 Captain Richard Doubledick. 
 
 She wrote regularly to her children (as she 
 called them now), and they to her. She 
 
 went to the neighborhood of Aix ; and there, 
 in their own chateau near the farmer's house 
 she rented, she grew into intimacy with a 
 family belonging to that part of France, 
 The intimacy began, in her often meeting 
 among the vineyards a pretty child : a girl 
 with a most compassionate heart, who was 
 never tired of listening to the solitary English 
 lady's stories of her poor son and the cruel 
 wars. The family were as gentle as the child, 
 and at length she came to know them so 
 well, that she accepted their invitation to 
 pass the last month of her residence abroad, 
 under their roof. All this intelligence she 
 wrote home, piecemeal as it came about, 
 from time to time ; and, at last, enclosed a 
 polite note from the head of the chateau, so- 
 liciting, on the occasion of his approaching 
 mission to that neighborhood, the honour 
 of the company of cet homme si justement 
 c61t!bre Monsieur le Capitaine Richard 
 DouVjledick. 
 
 Captain Doubledick ; now a hardy, hand- 
 some man in the full vigor of life, broader 
 across the chest and shoulders than ho had 
 ever been before ; dispatched a courteous 
 reply, and followed it in person. Travelling 
 through all that extent of country after three 
 years of peace, he blessed the better days on 
 which the world had fallen. The corn was 
 golden, not drenched in unnatural red ; was 
 bound in sheaves for food, not trudden under- 
 foot by men in mortal fight. The smoke rose 
 up from peaceful hearths, not blazing ruins. 
 The carts were laden with the fair fruits of 
 the earth, not with wuunds and death. To 
 him who had so often seen the terrilde re- 
 verse, these things were beautiful indeed, 
 and they brought him in a softened spirit to 
 the old chateau near Aix, upon a deep blue 
 evening. 
 
 It was a large chateau of the genuine old 
 ghostly kind, with round towers, and extin- 
 guishers, and a high leaden roof, and more 
 windows than Aladdin's Palace. The lattice 
 blinds were all thrown open, after the heat of 
 the day, and there were glimpses of rambling 
 walls and corridors within. Then, there 
 were immense outbuildings fallen into par- 
 tial decay, masses of dark trees, terrace- 
 gardens, balustrades ; tanks of water, tuo 
 weak to play and too dirty to work ; statues, 
 weeds, and thickets of iron railing, that 
 seemed to have overgrown themselves like 
 the shrubberies, and to have branched out 
 in all manner of wild shapes. The entrance 
 doors stood open, as doors often do in that 
 country when the heat of the day is past, 
 and the Captain saw no bell or knocker, and 
 walked in. 
 
 He walked into a lofty stone hall, refresh- 
 ingly cool and gloomy after the glare of a 
 southern day's travel. Extending along the 
 four sides of this hall, was a gallery, leading 
 to suites of rooms; and it was lighted from 
 the top. Still no bell was to be seen. 
 
12 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 " Faith," said the Captain, halting, 
 ashamed of the chinking of his boots, " this 
 is a gliostly beginning!" 
 
 lie started back, and felt his face turn 
 white. In the gallery, looking down at him, 
 Btood the French officer ; the officer whose 
 picture he had carried in his mind so long 
 and so far. Compared with the original, at 
 last — in every lineament how like it was ! 
 
 He moved and disappeared, and Captain 
 Richard Doubledick heard his steps coming 
 quickly down into the hall. He entered 
 through an archway. There was a bright, 
 iudden look upon his face. Much such a 
 look as it had worn in that fatal moment. 
 
 Monsieur le Capitaine Richard Double- 
 dick ? Enchanted to receive him ! A thou- 
 sand apologies ! The servants were all out 
 in the air. There was a little fete among 
 them in the garden. In effect, it was the 
 fete day of my daughter, the little cherished 
 and protected of Madame Taunton. 
 
 He was so gracious and so frank, that 
 Monsieur le Capitaine Richard Doubledick 
 could not withhold his hand. " It is the hand 
 of a brave Englishman," said the French 
 officer, retaining it while he spoke. " I could 
 respect a brave Englishman, even as my foe ; 
 how much more as my friend ! I, also, am 
 a soldier." 
 
 "lie has not remembered me, as I have 
 remembered him ; he did not take such note 
 of my face, that day, as I took of his," 
 thought Captain Richard Doubledick. " How 
 shall I tell him ?" 
 
 The French officer conducted his guest 
 into a garden, and presented him to his wife ; 
 an engaging and beautiful woman, sitting 
 with Mrs. Taunton in a whimsical old- 
 fashioned pavilion. Ilis daughter, her fair 
 young face beaming with joy, came running 
 to embrace him ; and there was a boy-baby 
 to tumble down among the orange-trees on 
 the broad steps, in making for his father's 
 legs. A multitude of children-visitors were 
 dancing to sprightly music ; and all the ser- 
 vants and peasants about the chateau were 
 dancing too. It was a scene of innocent 
 happiness that might have been invented for 
 the climax of the scenes of peace which had 
 eoothed the Captain's journey. 
 
 He looked on, greatly troubled in his mind, 
 until a resounding bell rang, and the French 
 officer begged to show him his rooms. They 
 went up stairs into the gallery from which 
 the officer had looked down ; and Monsieur le 
 Capitaine Richard Doubledick was cordially 
 welcomed to a grand outer chamber, and a 
 smaller one within, all clocks and draperies, 
 and hearths, and brazen dogs, and tiles, and 
 cool devices, and elegance, and vastness. 
 
 " You were at Waterloo," said the French 
 officer. 
 
 '' I was," said Captain Richard Double- 
 dick. "And at Badajos." 
 
 Left alone with the sound of his own stern 
 
 voice in his ears, he sat down to consider 
 What shall I do, and how shall I tell him? 
 At that time, unhappily, many deplorable 
 duels had been fought between English and 
 French officers, arising out of the recent war ; 
 and these duels, and how to avoid this offi- 
 cer's hospitality, were the uppermost thought 
 in Captain Richard Doubledick's mind. 
 
 He was thinking and letting the time run 
 out in which he should have dressed for 
 dinner, when Mrs. Taunton spoke to him 
 outside the door, asking if he could give her 
 the letter he had brought from Mary. " His 
 mother, above all," the Captain thought, 
 " How shall I tell her f" 
 
 " You will form a friendship with your 
 host, I hope," said Mrs. Taunton, whom 
 he hurriedly admitted, "that will last for 
 life. He is so true-hearted and so generous, 
 Richard, that you can hardly fail to esteem 
 one another. If he had been spared," sbe 
 kissed (not without tears) the locket in 
 which she wore his hair, "he would have 
 appreciated him with his own magnanimity, 
 and would have been truly happy that the 
 evil days were past, which made such a man 
 his enemy." 
 
 She left the room ; and the Captain walked, 
 first to one window, whence he could see the 
 dancing in the garden, then to another 
 window, whence he could see the smiling 
 prospect and the peaceful vineyards. 
 
 " Spirit of my departed friend," said he, 
 "is it through thee, these better thoughts 
 are rising in my mind! Is it thou who hast 
 shown me, all the way I have been drawn 
 to meet this man, the blessings of the altered 
 time ! Is it thou who hast sent thy stricken 
 mother to me, to stay my angry hand ! Is 
 it from thee the whisper comes, that this 
 man did his duty as thou didst — and as I 
 did, through thy guidance, which has wholly 
 saved me, here on earth — and that he did no 
 more !" 
 
 He sat down, with his head buried in his 
 hands, and, when he rose up, made the se- 
 cond strong resolution of his life : That 
 neither to the French officer, nor to the 
 mother of his departed friend, nor to any 
 soul while either of the two was living, 
 would he breathe what only he knew. And 
 when he touched that French officer's glass 
 with his own, that day at dinner, he secretly 
 forgave him in the name of the Divine For- 
 giver of injuries. 
 
 Here I ended my story as the first Poor 
 Traveller. But, if 1 had told it now, I could 
 have added that the time has since come 
 when the son of Major Richard Douliledick, 
 and the son of that French officer, friends as 
 their fathers were before them, fought side 
 by side in one cause : with their respective 
 nations, like long-divided brothers whom the 
 better times have brought together, fast 
 united. 
 
THE SECOND POOR TRAVELLER. 
 
 I AM, by trade (said the man with his arm 
 in a sling), a shipwright. I am recovering 
 from an unlucky chop that one of my mates 
 gave me with an adze. AVhen I am all right 
 again, I shall get taken on in Chatham 
 Yard. I have nutliing else in particular to 
 tell of myself, so I'll tell a bit of a story of a 
 seaport town. 
 
 Acoi.-Virlaz, the jeweller, sat in his shop 
 on the Common Hard of Belleriport, smoking 
 his evening pipe. Business was tolerably 
 brisk in Belleriport just then. The great 
 three-decker, the Blunderbore (Admiral 
 Pumpkinseed's ilag-ship), had just come in 
 from the southern seas with the rest of the 
 squadron, and had been paid off. The big 
 screw line-of-battle ship Fantail, Captain Sir 
 Heaver Cole, K.C.B., had got her blue-peter 
 up for Kamschatka, and her crew had been 
 paid advance wnges. The Dundruni war- 
 steamer was fresh coppering in the graving 
 dock, and her men were enjojing a three 
 weeks' run ashore. The Barracouta, the 
 Calabash, the Skullsmasher, and the Nose- 
 ring had returned from the African station 
 with lots of prize-money from captured 
 slavers. The JoUyport division of Royal 
 Marines — who had plenty of money to 
 spend, and spent it too ; occupied the Ma- 
 rine barracks. The Ninety-eight Plungers, 
 together with the depot companies of the 
 Fourteenth Royal Screamers, had marched 
 in to relieve the Seventy-third Wrestlers. 
 Tliere was some thought of embodying, for 
 garrison duty, in Belleriport, the Seventh or 
 West Swampshire Drabs regiment of Militia. 
 Belleriport was full of sailors, soldiers and 
 nuirines. Seven gold-laced cocked hats could 
 be observed on the door steps of the George 
 Hotel at one time. Almost every lady's 
 bonnet in the High Street had a military or 
 naviil officer's head looking under it. You 
 ciiuld scarcely get into Miss Pyeboard the 
 pastry-cook's shop for midshipmen. There 
 were so many soldiers in the streets, that 
 you were inclined to take the whole of the 
 population of Belleriport for lobsters, and to 
 imagine that half of them were boiled and 
 the other half waiting to be. The Common 
 Hard was as soft as a featherbed with sailors. 
 Lieutenant Hook at the Rendezvous was 
 busy all day enrolling A B's, ordinaries, 
 and stout lads. The Royal Grubbington 
 victualling yard was turning out thousands 
 of barrels of salt beef and pork and sea bis- 
 cuit per diem. Huge guns were being 
 hoisted on board ship ; seaman-riggers, caulk- 
 
 ers, carpenters, and shipwrights, were all 
 some hundreds of degrees busier than bees : 
 and sundry gentlemen in the dockyard, 
 habited in simple suits of drab, marked 
 with the broad arrow — with striped stock- 
 ings and glazed hats, and after whose per- 
 sonal safety sentinels with fixed bayonets 
 and warders in oilskin coats affectionately 
 looked — were busy too, in their way : drag- 
 ging about chain-cables, blocks and spars; 
 and heavy loads of timber, steadily bui sul- 
 kily ; and, in their close-shaven, beetle- 
 browed countenances, evincing a silent but 
 profound disgust. 
 
 Aeon Virlaz had not done so badly dur- 
 ing Belleriport's recent briskness. He was 
 a jeweller ; and sold watches, rings, chains, 
 bracelets, snuff-boxes, brooches, shirt-studs, 
 sleeve-buttons, pencil-cases, and true lovers' 
 knots. But his trade in jewels did not inter- 
 fere with his also vending hammocks, tele- 
 scopes, sou'wester hats, lime-juice, maps, 
 charts and log-books, Guernsey shirts, clasp 
 knives, pea-coats, preserved meats, razors, 
 swinging lamps, sea-chests, dancing-pumps, 
 eye-glasses, water-proof overalls, patent 
 blacking, and silk pocket-handkerchiefs em 
 blazoned with the flags of all nations. Nor 
 did his dealings in these articles prevent 
 him from driving a very tidy little business 
 in the purchase of gold dust, elephants' teeth, 
 feathers and bandanas, from home-returned 
 sailors ; nor (so the censorious said) from the 
 cashing of seamen's advance notes, and the 
 discounting of the acceptances of the officers 
 of her majesty's army and navy ; nor (so 
 the downright libellous asserted) from doing 
 a little in the wine line, and a little in the 
 picture line, and a good deal, when occasion 
 required it, in the crimp line. 
 
 Acon-Virlaz sat in his shop on the Com- 
 mon Hard of Belleriport smoking his evening 
 pipe. It was in the back shop that Acon- 
 Virlaz sat. Above his head, hung the ham- 
 mocks, the pilot-trowsers narrow at the knees 
 and wide at the ancles, and the swinging 
 lamps, and the water-proof overalls. The 
 front shop loomed dimly through a grove of 
 pea-coats, sou'-wester hats, Guernsey shirts, 
 and cans of preserved meats. One little gas jet 
 in the back shop — for the front gas was not yet 
 lighted — flickered on the heterogeneous arti- 
 cles hanging and heaped up together all 
 around. The gas just tipped with light the 
 brass knobs of the drawers which ran round 
 all the four sides of the shop, tier above tier, 
 and held Moses knows how many more trea 
 
 (13) 
 
14 
 
 DICKEXS' NEAV STORIES. 
 
 «ires of watchmakinfr, tailoring, and outfit- 
 tinf:;. The gas, just defined by feebly-ishin- 
 ing threads, the salient linos and angles of a 
 great iron safe in one corner ; and finally the 
 gas just gleamed — twinkled furtively, like 
 a magpie looking into a marrow bone — upon 
 the heap of jewelry ctdlected upon the 
 great slate-covered counter in Acon-Virlaz's 
 back shop. 
 
 The counter was covered with slate ; for, 
 upon it Acon-Virlaz loved to chalk his cal- 
 culations. It was ledger, daj'-book, and 
 journal, all in one. The little curly headed 
 Jew boy who was cl'^rk, sliopmau, messen- 
 ger, and a.ssistant-nieasurer, in the tailoring 
 department of the establishment, would as 
 soon have tliought of eating roast sucking- 
 pig beneath Acon-Virlaz's nose, as of wiping, 
 dusting, or, indeed, touching the sacred slate 
 counter without special permission and au- 
 thority from Acon-Virlaz himself. 
 
 By the way, it was not by that name that 
 the jeweller and outfitter was known in Bel- 
 leriport. He went by a simpler, homelier, 
 shorter appellation : Closes, Levy, Sheeny — 
 what j'ou will ; it does not much matter 
 which ; for most of the Hebrew nation have 
 an inner name as well as an inner and richer 
 life. 
 
 Acon-Virlaz was a little, plump, round, 
 black-eyed, red-lipped, blue-bearded man. 
 Age had begun to discount his head, and 
 had given him sixty per cent, of gray hairs. 
 A-top he was bald, and wore a little skull- 
 cap. He had large fat hands, all creased 
 and tumbled, as if his skin were too large 
 for him ; and, on one forefinger, he wore a 
 great cornelian signet-ring, about which 
 there were all sorts of legends. Miriam, 
 
 his daughter, said but what have I to do 
 
 with JMiriam, his daughter ? She does not 
 enter into this history at all. 
 
 The evening pipe that Acon-Virlaz was 
 smoking was very mild and soothing. The 
 blue haze went curling softly upwards, and 
 seemed to describe pleasfint figures of £,. s. d. 
 as it ascended. Through the grove, across 
 the front shop, Acon-Virlaz could see little 
 epecks of gas from the lamps in the street ; 
 could hear Barney, his little clerk and shop- 
 boy, softly whistling as he kept watch and 
 ward upon the watches in the front window 
 and the habiliments exposed for sale outside ; 
 could hear the sounds of a fiddle from the Ad- 
 miral Nelson next door, where the men-of- 
 wars-men were dancing ; could by a certain, 
 pleasant, subtle smell from regions yet far- 
 ther back, divine that Mrs. Virlaz (her father 
 was a Bar-Galli, and worth hills of gold) was 
 cooking something nice for supper. 
 
 From the pleasures of his pipe Acon-A'^irlaz 
 turned to the pleasures of his jewelry. It 
 lay there on the slate-covered counter, rich 
 and rare. Big diamonds, rubies, opals, eme- 
 ralds, sapphires, amethysts, topazes, turquoi- 
 BBS, and pearls. By the jewels lay gold. 
 
 Gold in massy chains, in mourning rings, in 
 massy bracelets, in chased snulf-l)uxes — in 
 gold snuff too — that is in dingy, dull dust 
 from the Guinea coast; in flakes and mis- 
 shapen lumps from the mine; in toy-watclies, 
 in brave chronometers, in lockets, vinai- 
 grettes, brooches, and such woman's gear. 
 The voice of the watches was dumb ; the 
 little flasks were scentless ; but, how much 
 beauty, life, strength, power, lay in these 
 coloured baubles ! Acon-Virlaz sighed. 
 
 Here, a little clock in the front shop, which 
 nestled ordinarily in the midst of a wilder- 
 ness of boots, and thought apparently a 
 great deal more of itself than its size war- 
 ranted, after a prodigious deal of running 
 down, gasping, and clucking, struck nine. 
 Acon-Virlaz laid down his pipe, and turning 
 the gas a little higher, was about calling out 
 to Mrs. Virlaz, that daughter of Bar-Galli 
 (she was very stout, and fried fish in sky- 
 blue satin), to know what she had got for 
 supper, when a dark body became mistily 
 apparent in the recesses of the grove of 
 Guernsey shirts and sou'-westers, shutting 
 out the view of the distant specks of gas in 
 the street beyond. At the same time, a 
 voice, that seemed to run upon a tramway, so 
 «m.ooth and sliding was it, said, three or 
 four times over, " How is to-night with you, 
 Mr. Virlaz — how is it with you this beauti- 
 ful night? Aha!" 
 
 The voice and the body belonged to a 
 gentleman of Mr. Virlaz's persuasion, who 
 was stout and large, and very elastic in 
 limb, and very voluble in delivery, in the 
 which there was, I may remark, a tendency 
 to reiteration, and an oily softness (inducing 
 an idea that the tramway I mentioned had 
 been sedulously greased), and a perceptible 
 lisp. Mr. Virlaz's friend rubbed his hands 
 (likewise smooth and well greased) con- 
 tinually. He was somewhat loosely jointed, 
 which caused him to wag his head from 
 side to side as he talked, after the fashion 
 of an image ; and his face would have been 
 a great deal handstmer if his com]ilexic>n 
 had not been quite so white and pasty, and 
 his eyes not quite so pink, and both together 
 not quite so like a suet pudding with two 
 raisins in it. Mr. Virlaz's friend's name 
 was Mr. Ben-Daoud, and he came from 
 Westhampton, where he discounted bills 
 and sold clocks. 
 
 " Take a seat, Ben," said the jeweller, 
 when he had recognized his friend and 
 shaken hands with him ; " Mrs. \ . will be 
 down directly. All well at home ? Take 
 a pipe ?" 
 
 " I will just sit down a little minute, and 
 thank you, Mr. Virlaz," Ben-Daoud an- 
 swered volubly ; " and all are well but little 
 Zeeky, who has thrushes, and has swollen, 
 the dear child, much since yesterday ; but 
 beg Mrs. Virlaz not to disturb herself for 
 me — for I am not long here, and will nut 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS 
 
 15 
 
 take a pipe, having a cold, and being about 
 to go a long journey to-morrow. Aha !" 
 
 All this Mr. Ben-Daoud said with the ex- 
 treme volubility which I have noticed, and 
 in the exact order in which his words are set 
 down, but without any vocal punctuation. 
 There was considerable doubt among the 
 people as to Mr. Ben-Daoud's nationality. 
 Some said that he came from Poland ; 
 others, that he hailed from Frankfort-on 
 the-Maine ; some inclined to the belief that 
 Amsterdam, in Holland, was his natal 
 place ; some, that Gibraltar had given him 
 birth, or the still more distant land of Tan- 
 gier. At all events, of whatsoever nation 
 he was, or if not of any, he was for all 
 Jewry, and knew the time of the day re- 
 markably well. He had been in the rabbit- 
 gkin line of business before he took to selling 
 clocks, to which he added, when regiments 
 were in garrison, at Westhampton, the art 
 of discounting. 
 
 "Going on a journey, eh, Ben?" asked 
 Acon-Virlaz. " Business 1" 
 
 " Oh, business of course, Mr. Virlaz," his 
 friend replied. " Always business. I have 
 some little moneys to look up, and some 
 little purchases to make, and, indeed, hum- 
 bly wish to turn a little penny ; for I have 
 very many heavy calls to meet next month — 
 a little bill or two of mine you hold, by the 
 way, among the rest, Mr. Virlaz." 
 
 " True," the jeweller said, rather ner- 
 vously, and putting his hand on a great 
 leathern portfolio in his breast pocket, in 
 which he kept his acceptances ; " and shall 
 you be long gone, Mr. Daoud ?" 
 
 This " Mr. Daoud," following upon the 
 former familiar " Ben," was said without 
 sternness, but spoke the creditor awakened 
 to his rights. It seemed to say, " Smoke, 
 drink, and be merry till your * accepted 
 payable at such a dat«' comes due ; but pay 
 then, or PU sell you up like death." 
 
 Mr. Ben-Daoud seemed to have an inkling 
 of this ; for, he wagged his head, rubbed his 
 hands, and answered, more volubly than 
 ever, " Oh, as to that, Mr. Virlaz, dear sir, 
 my journey is but of two days' lasting. I 
 shall be back the day after to-morrow, and 
 •with something noticeable in the way of 
 diamonds. Aha!" 
 
 " Diamonds !" exclaimed Acon-Virlaz, 
 glancing towards the drawer where his jew- 
 els were ; for you may be sure he had 
 swept them all away into safety before his 
 friend had completed his entrance. " Dia- 
 monds ! Where are you going for diamonds, 
 Ben ?" 
 
 "Why, to the great fair that is held to- 
 morrow, Mr. Virlaz, as well you know." 
 
 " Fair, Ben I Is there any fair to-morrow 
 near Belleriport?" 
 
 " Why, bless my heart, Mr. Virlaz." 
 Ben-Daoud responded, holding up his fat 
 hands, "can it be that you, so respectable 
 
 and noticeable a man among our people, 
 don't know that to-morrow is the great jewel 
 fair that is held once in every hundred 
 years, at which diamonds, rubies, and all 
 other pretty stones are sold cheap — cheap 
 as dirt, m^ dear — a hundred thousand gui- 
 neas-worth for sixpence, one may say. Your 
 grandfather must have been there, and well 
 he made his market, you may bo sure 
 Aha ! Good man I" 
 
 " I never heard of such a thing," gasped 
 Acon-Virlaz, perfectly amazed and bewil- 
 dered. "And what do you call this fair?" 
 
 " Why, Sky Fair, as well you should 
 know, dear sir." 
 
 " Sky Fair ?" repeated ♦he jeweller. 
 
 " Sky Fair," answered Ben-Daoud. 
 
 " But whereabouts is it?" 
 
 " Come here," the voluble man said. Ha 
 took hold of Acon-Virlaz by the wrist, and 
 led him through the grove of pea-coats into 
 the front shop ; through the front shop into 
 the open street: and then pointing upwards, 
 he directed the gaze of the Jew to where, 
 in the otherwise illuminated sky, there was 
 shining one solitary star. 
 
 " Don't it look pretty ?" he asked, sinking 
 his voice into a confidential whisper. " Do^'t 
 it look like a diamond, and glitter and 
 twinkle as if some of our people the l'»pi- 
 daries in Amsterdam had cut it into f-ices ? 
 That's where Sky Fair is, Mr. Virlaz. 
 Aha!" 
 
 "And you are going there to-moirow?" 
 Acon-Virlaz asked, glancing uneasily at his 
 companion. 
 
 " Of course I am," Ben-Daoud replied, 
 "with my little bag of money to make my 
 little purchases. And saving your presence, 
 dear sir, I think you will be a great fool if 
 you don't come with me, and make some 
 little purchases too. For diamonds, Mr. 
 Virlaz, are not so easily come by every day, 
 as in Sky Fair ; and a hundred years is a 
 long time to wait before one can make an- 
 other such bargain." 
 
 " I'll come, Ben," the jeweller cried, en- 
 thusiastically. " I'll come ; and if e\ ,r I 
 can do you any little obligation in the way 
 of moneys, I will." And he grasped the 
 hand of Ben-Daoud, who sold clocki. and 
 discounted. 
 
 " Whv, that's right," the other returned. 
 " And I'll come for you at eight o'clock to- 
 morrow, punctually ; so get your littla bag 
 of money, and your nightcap and a comb 
 ready." 
 
 " But," the jeweller asked, with one re- 
 turning tinge of suspicion, " how ai j we to 
 get there, Ben?" 
 
 "Oh," replied Mr. Ben-Daoud, coolly, 
 " we'll have a shay." 
 
 Sky Fair ! — diamonds ! — cheap bifgains ! 
 Acon-Virlaz could think of nothing else all 
 the time of supper, which was sojietbine 
 very nice, indeed, in the fish vr «y, and 
 
16 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 into the cooking of ■which oil entered 
 laroiel}-. He was so pre-occiipiod, that Mrs. 
 Virhiz and Miriam, his daughter, who had 
 large eyes and a coral necklace (for week 
 days), were fain to ask him the cause there- 
 of; and he, like a good and tender husband 
 and father as he was (and as most Hebrews, 
 to their credit, are), told them of Ben-Da- 
 oud's marvellous story, and of his intended 
 journey. 
 
 The next morning, as the clock struck 
 eight, the sound of wheels was heard before 
 Acon-Virlaz's door, in the Common Hard of 
 Belleriport, and a handful of gravel was 
 playfully thrown against the first-floor win- 
 dow by the hands of Ben-Daoud of West- 
 hampton. 
 
 But it needed no gravel, no noise of 
 wheels, no striking of clocks, to awaken 
 Acon-Virlaz. He had been up and dressed 
 since six o'clock ; and, leaving Mrs. Virlaz 
 peacefully and soundly sleeping, and hastily 
 swallowing some hot coffee prepared by 
 Barney the lad (to whom he issued strict 
 injunctions concerning the conduct of the 
 warehouse during the day), he descended 
 into the street, and was affectionately hailed 
 by his fellow-voyager to Sky Fair. 
 
 The seller of clocks sat in the " shay" of 
 which he had spoken to Acon-Virlaz. It was 
 a dusky little concern, very loose on its 
 springs, and worn and rusty in its gear. 
 As to the animal that drew^ it, Mr. Ben- 
 Daoud mentioned by the way that it was a 
 discount pony, having been taken as an 
 equivalent for cash, in numberless bills 
 negotiated in the Westhampton garrison, 
 and had probably been worth, in his time, 
 considerably more than his weight in gold. 
 
 Said pony, if he was a rum 'un to look 
 at— which, indeed, he was, being hairy 
 where he should have been smooth, and 
 having occasional bald places, as though he 
 were in the habit of scratching himself with 
 his hoofs — which hoofs, coupled with his 
 whity-brown ankles, gave him the appear- 
 ance of having indifferent bluchers and 
 dirty white socks on — was a good 'un to go. 
 So remarkably good was he in going, that 
 he soon left behind the High street of Bel- 
 leriport, where the shop-boys were sleepily 
 taking down the shutters ; where house- 
 maids were painfully elaborating the door- 
 steps with hearth-stones, to be soiled by the 
 first visiters' dirty boots (such is the way of 
 the world) ; where the milkman was making 
 his early morning calls, and the night po- 
 licemen were going home from duty ; and 
 the third lieutenant of the Blunderbore — 
 who had been ashore on leave, and was a 
 little shaken about the eyes still — was has- 
 tening to catch the " beef-boat ' to convey 
 him to his ship. Next, the town itself did 
 the pony leave behind ; the outskirts, the 
 outlying villages, the ruined stocks and 
 deserted pound, the Port-Admiral's villa ; 
 
 all these he passed, running as fast as a 
 constable, or a bill, until he got at last into 
 a broad white road, which Acon-Virlaz never 
 remembered to have seen before ; a road 
 with a high hedge on either side, and to 
 which there seemed to be no end. 
 
 Mr. Ben-Daoud drove the pony in first- 
 rate style. His head and the animal's 
 wagged in concert ; and the more he flou- 
 rished his whip, the more the pony went ; 
 and both seemed to like it. The great white 
 road sent up no dust. Its stones, if stones 
 it had, never grated nor gave out a sound 
 beneath the wheels of the " shay." It was 
 only very white and broad, and seemed to 
 have no end. 
 
 Not always white, however; for, as 
 they progressed, it turned in color first 
 milky-gray, then what schoolboys call, in 
 connection with the fluid served out to them 
 at breakfast-time, sky-blue ; then a deep, 
 vivid, celestial blue. And the high hedge 
 on either side melted by degrees into the 
 same hue ; and Acon-Virlaz began to feel 
 curiously feathery about the body, and 
 breezy about the lungs. He caught hold of 
 the edge of the " shay," as though he were 
 afraid of falling over. He shut his eyes 
 from time to time, as though he were dizzy. 
 He began to fancy that he was in the sky. 
 
 '• There is Sky Fair, Mr. Virlaz !" Ben- 
 Daoud suddenly said, pointing ahead with 
 his whip. 
 
 At that moment, doubtless through the 
 superior attractions of Sky Fair, the dusky 
 " shay" became of so little account to 
 Acon-Virlaz as to disappear entirely from 
 his sight and mind, though he had left his 
 nightcap and comb (his little bag of money 
 was safe in his side-pocket, trust him) on 
 the cushion. At the same moment, it must 
 have occurred to the discount pony to put 
 himself out at living in some very remote 
 corner of creation, for he vanished alto- 
 gether too ; and Acon-Virlaz almost foncied 
 that he saw the beast's collar fall fifty thou- 
 sand fathoms five, true as a plumb-line, into 
 space ; and the reins, which but a moment 
 before Ben-Daoud had held, flutter loosely 
 away, like feathers. 
 
 He found himself treading upon a hard, 
 loose, gritty surface, which, on looking 
 down, appeared like diamond-dust. 
 
 "Which it is," Mr. Ben-Daoud explained, 
 when Acon-Virlaz timidly asked him. 
 " Cheap as dirt here ! Capital place to 
 bring your cast-iron razors to be sharpened, 
 Mr. V'lrlaz." 
 
 The jeweller felt inclined for the mo- 
 ment, to resent this pleasantry as somewhat 
 personal ; for, to say truth, the razors in 
 which he dealt were not of the primest 
 steel. 
 
 There was a great light. The brightest 
 sun-light that Acon-Virlaz had ever seen, 
 was but a poor farthing-candle compared to 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 
 
 1? 
 
 this resplendency. There was a great gate 
 throuf^h which they had to pass to the fair. 
 The gate seemed to Acon-Virhiz as if all 
 the jewelry and wrought gold in the world 
 had been half-fused, half-welded together, 
 into one monstrous arabesque or trellis- 
 work. There was a little porter's lodge by 
 the gate, and a cunning-looking little man 
 by it, with a large bunch of keys at his 
 girdle. The thing seemed impossible and 
 ridiculous ; yet Acon-Virlaz could not help 
 fancying that he had seen the cunning little 
 porter before, and, of all places in the world, 
 in London, at the lock-up house in Cursitor 
 street, Chancery Lane, kept by Mr. Mephi- 
 bosheth, to whose red-headed little turnkey, 
 Benjy, he bore an extraordinary resem- 
 blance. 
 
 Who is to tell of the glories of Sky Fair? 
 Who, indeed, unless he had a harp of gold, 
 dtrung with diamonds? Who is to tell of 
 the long lines of dazzlingly white booths, 
 hundreds, if not thousands, if not millions, 
 of miles in extent, where jewels of surpass- 
 ing size and purest water were sold by the 
 peck, like peas ; by the pound, like spice- 
 nuts ; by the gallon, like table-beer? Who 
 is to tell of the swings, the round-abouts, 
 the throwing of sticks, each stick sur- 
 mounted by a diamond as big as an ostrich- 
 egg ; the live armadillos, with their jewelled 
 scales; the scratchers, corruscating like me- 
 teors ; the gingerbread kings and queens ; 
 the whole fun of the fair one dazzling, 
 blinding, radiating mass of gold and gems ! 
 
 It was not Acon-Virlaz who could tell 
 much about these wondrous things in after 
 days; for he was too occupied with his little 
 bag of money and his little fairings. Ben- 
 I>aoud had spoken the truth ; diamonds 
 were as cheap as dirt in Sky Fair. In an 
 inconceivably short space of time, and by 
 the expenditure of a few half-pence, the 
 jeweller had laid in a stock of precious 
 stones. But he was not satisfied with pock- 
 ets-full, bags-full, hats-full of unset, uncut 
 gems. There were heaps of jewelled trin- 
 kets, chains, bracelets, rings, piled up for 
 sale. lie hankered after these. He bought 
 heaps of golden rings. He decorated his 
 wrists and ankles with bracelets and ban- 
 gles enough for a Bayadere. He might 
 have been a dog, for the collars round his 
 neck. He might have been an Ambrose 
 Gwynnett hung in chains, for the profusion 
 of those ornaments in gold with which he 
 loaded himself. And then he went in for 
 solid services of plate, and might have been 
 a butler or a philanthropist, for the piles of 
 ewers, salvers, candelabra, and goblets, 
 which he accumulated in his hands, under 
 his arms, on his head. More gold ! more 
 jewels ! ^lore ! more — 
 
 Till a bell began to ring, — a loud, clang- 
 ing, voiceful golden bell, carried by a 
 shining bellman, and the clapper of which 
 
 was one huge diamond. The thousands of 
 people who, a moment before, had been 
 purchasing jewels and gold, no sooner heard 
 the bell than they began to scamper like 
 mad towards the gate ; and, at the same 
 time, Acon-Virlaz heard the bellman makingr 
 proclama,tion that Sky Fair would close in 
 ten minutes time, and that every man, wo- 
 man, or child found within the precincts of 
 the fair, were it only for the thousandth 
 part of the tithe of a moment after the 
 clock had struck Twelve, would be turned 
 into stone for a hundred years. 
 
 Till the men, women, and children from 
 every nation under the sun (he had not ob- 
 served them until now, so intent had he 
 been on his purchases), came tearing past 
 him ; treading on his toes, bruising his ribs, 
 jostling him, pushing him from side to side, 
 screaming to him with curses to move on 
 quicker, or to get out of the way. But, he 
 could not move on quicker. His gold stuck 
 to him. His jewels weighed him down. In- 
 visible clogs seemed to attach themselves to 
 his feet. He kept dropping his precious 
 wares, and, for the life of him, could not 
 refrain from stopping to pick them up ; in 
 doing which he dropped more. 
 
 Till Mr. Ben-Daoud passed him with a 
 girdle of big diamonds, tied round his waist 
 in a blue bird's-eye handkerchief, like a 
 professional pedestrian. 
 
 Till the great bell from ringing intermit- 
 tent peals kept up one continuous clang. 
 Till a clock above, like a Catherine wheel, 
 which Acon-A'^irlaz had not before noticed, 
 began to let off rockets of minutes, Roman 
 candles of seconds. Till the bellman's pro- 
 clamation merged into one sustained roar of 
 Oh yes ! Oh yes ! Till the red-headed gate- 
 keeper, who was like Mr. Mephibosheth'g 
 turnkey, gave himself up to an unceasing 
 scream of " All out ! All out !" whirling his 
 keys above his head, so that they scattered 
 sparks and flakes of fire all around. 
 
 Till fifty thousand other bells began to 
 clang, and fifty million other voices to 
 scream. Till all at once there was silence, 
 and the clock began to strike slowly sadly. 
 One, two, three, four — to Twelve. 
 
 Acon-Virlaz was within a few feet of the 
 gate when the fatal clock began to strike. 
 By a desperate effort he cast aside the load 
 of plate which impeded his movements, lie 
 tore off liis diamond-laden coat ; he cast his 
 waistcoat to the winds, aud plunged madly 
 into the throng that blocked up the en- 
 trance. 
 
 To find himself too late. The great gates 
 closed with a heavy shock, and Acon-Virlaz 
 reeled away from them in the rebound, 
 bruised, bleeding, and despairing. He was 
 too late. Sky Fair was closed, and he 
 was to be turned into stone for a hundred 
 years.. 
 
 The red-headed doorkeeper (who by the 
 
18 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 way squinted abominably) was leaning 
 with his back to the gate, drumming with 
 his keys on the bars. 
 
 " It's a beautiful day to be indoors," he 
 said, consolingly. " It's bitter cold out- 
 side." 
 
 Acon-A^irlaz shuddered. He felt his heart 
 turning into stone ■within him. He fell on 
 his knees before the red-headed doorkeeper ; 
 and with tears, sobs, groans, entreated him 
 to open the gate. He oifered him riches, he 
 offered him the hand of Miriam his large- 
 eyed daughter : all for one turn of the key 
 in the lock of the gate of Sky Fair. 
 
 " Can't be done," the doorkeeper re- 
 marked, shaking his head. " Till Sky Fair 
 opens again, you can't be let out." 
 
 Again and again did the jeweller entreat, 
 until he at last appeared to make an impres- 
 sion on the red-headed janitor. 
 
 " Well, I'll tell you what I can do for 
 you, old gentleman," he said : " I daren't 
 open the gate for my life ; but there's a win- 
 dow in my lodge ; and if you choose to take 
 your chance of jumping out of it (it isn't far 
 to fall) you can." 
 
 Acon-Virlaz, uttering a confused medley 
 of thanks, was about to rush into the lodge, 
 when the gatekeeper laid his hand upon his 
 arm. 
 
 " By the way, mister," he said, " you 
 may as well give me that big signet ring on 
 your finger, as a token to remind you of all 
 the fine things you promised me when I 
 come your way." 
 
 The jeweller hastily plucked off the de- 
 sired trinket, and gave it to his red-headed 
 
 deliverer. Then, he darted into the narrow, 
 dark porter's lodge, overturned a round 
 table, on which was the doorkeeper's dinner 
 (it smelt very much like liver and bacon), 
 and clambered up to a very tall, narrow 
 window. He leaned his hands on the sill, 
 and thrusting his head out to see how far 
 he had to jump, descried, immediately be- 
 neath him, the tasty shay, the discount 
 pony, and Mr. Ben-l3aoud with a lighted 
 cigar in his mouth and the reins in his hand, 
 just ready to start. " Hold hard!" screamed 
 Acon-Virlaz. Hold hard ! Ben, my dear 
 friend, my old friend : bold hard, and take 
 me in!" 
 
 Mr. Ben-Daoud's reply was concise but 
 conclusive : 
 
 " Go to Bermondsey," he said, and whip- 
 ped his pony. 
 
 The miserable man groaned aloud in de- 
 spair ; for the voice of the doorkeeper urged 
 him to be quick about it, if he was going to 
 jump ; and he felt, not only his heart, but 
 his limbs, becoming cold and stony. Shut- 
 ting his eyes and clenching his teeth, he 
 jumped and fell, down, down into space. 
 According to his own calculations, he must 
 have fallen at least sixty thousand miles and 
 for six months in succession ; but, according 
 to Mrs. Acon-Virlaz and Miriam his large- 
 eyed daughter, he only fell from his arm- 
 chair into the fire-place, striking his head 
 against the tongs as he fell ; having come 
 home a little while before, with no such 
 thing about him as his beautiful seal-ring ; 
 and being slightly the worse for liquor, not 
 to say drunk. 
 
 ■»^^v^^^-^<^#^^^»**' ■ 
 
 THE THIRD POOR TRAVELLER. 
 
 You wait my story, next 1 Ah, well I 
 Such marvels as you two have told 
 You must not think that I can tell ; 
 For I am only twelve years old. 
 Ere long I hope I shall have been 
 On my first voyage, and wonders seen. 
 Some princess I may help to free 
 From pirates on a far-ofl' sea ; 
 Or, on some desert isle be left. 
 Of friends and shipmates all bereft 
 
 For the first time I venture forth. 
 From our blue mountains of the north. 
 My kinsman kept the lodge that stood 
 Guarding the entrance near the wood. 
 By the stone gateway gray and old. 
 With quaint devices carved about. 
 And broken shields ; while dragons bold 
 Glared on the conmion world without ; 
 And the long trembling ivy spray 
 
 Half hid the centuries' decay. 
 
 In solitude and silence grand 
 
 The castle towered above the land 
 
 The castle of the Earl, whose name 
 
 (Wrapped in old bloody legends) came 
 
 Down through the times when Truth and Right 
 
 Bent down to armed Pride and Might. 
 
 He owned the country far and near; 
 
 And, for some weeks in every year, 
 
 (When the brown leaves were falling fast 
 
 And the long, lingering autumn passed), 
 
 He would come down to hunt the deer. 
 
 With hound and horse in splendid pride. 
 
 The story lasts the live-long year. 
 
 The peasant's winter evening filla 
 
 When he is gone and they abide 
 
 In the lone quiet of their hills. 
 
 I longed, too, for the happy night. 
 When all with torches flaring bright 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 
 
 19 
 
 The crowding villagers would stand, 
 
 A patient, eager, waiting band, 
 
 Until the signal ran like flame 
 
 " They come !" and, slackening speed, they came. 
 
 Outriders first, in pomp and state, 
 
 Pranced on their horses thro' the gate ; 
 
 Then the four steeds as black as night, 
 
 All decked with trappings blue and white, 
 
 Drew thro' the crowd that opened wide, 
 
 The Earl and Countess side by side. 
 
 The stern grave Earl, with formal smile 
 
 And glistening eyes and stately pride, 
 
 Could ne'er my childish gaze beguile 
 
 From the fair presence by his side, 
 
 The lady's soft sad glance, her eyes 
 
 (Like stars that shone in summer skies). 
 
 Her pure white face so calmly bent, 
 
 With gentle greetings round her sent ; 
 
 Her look, that always seemed to gaze 
 
 Where the blue past had closed again 
 
 Over some happy shipwrecked days, 
 
 With all their freight of love and pain. 
 
 She did not even seem to see 
 
 The httle lord upon her knee, 
 
 And yet he was like angel fair, 
 
 With rosy cheeks and golden hair, 
 
 That fell on shoulders white as snow. 
 
 But the blue eyes that shone below 
 
 His clustering rings of auburn curls, 
 
 Were not his mother's, but the Earl's. 
 
 I feared the Earl, so cold and grim, 
 I never dared be seen by him. 
 When thro' our gate he used to ride. 
 My kinsman Walter bade me hide ; 
 He said he was so stern. 
 So, when the hunt came past our way 
 I always hasten 'd to obey, 
 Until I heard the bugles play 
 The notes of their return. 
 But she — my very heart-strings stir 
 Whene'er I speak or think of her — 
 The whole wide world could never see 
 A noble lady such as she. 
 So full of angel charity. 
 
 Strange things of her our neighbors told 
 
 In the long winter evenings cold, 
 
 Around the fire. They would draw near 
 
 And speak half-whispering, as in fear ; 
 
 As if they thought the Earl could hear 
 
 Their treason 'gainst his name. 
 
 They thought the story that his pride 
 
 Had stooped to wed a low-born bride, 
 
 A stain upon his fame. 
 
 Some said 'twas false; there could not be 
 
 Such blot on his nobility : 
 
 But others vowed that they had heard 
 
 The actual story word for word, 
 
 From one who well my lady knew, 
 
 And had declared the story true. 
 
 In a far village, little known. 
 
 She dwelt — so ran the tale — alone. 
 
 A widowed bride, yet, oh ! so bright. 
 
 Shone through the mist of grief, her charms ; 
 
 They said it was the loveliest sight, — 
 
 She with her baby in her arms. 
 
 The Earl, one summer morning, rode 
 By the sea-shore where she abode ; 
 Again he came, — the vision sweet 
 Drew him reluctant to her feet. 
 Fierce must the struggle in his heart 
 Have been, between his love and pride, 
 Until he chose that wondrous part 
 To ask her to become his bride. 
 Yet, ere his noble name she bore. 
 He made her vow that nevermore 
 She would behold her child again 
 But hide his name and hers from men. 
 The trembling promise duly spoken, 
 All links of the low past were broken, 
 And she arose to take her stand 
 Amid the nobles of the land. 
 
 Then all would wonder, — could it be 
 That one so lowly born as she. 
 Raised to such height of bliss, should seem 
 Still living in some weary dream 1 
 'Tis true she bore with calmest grace 
 The honours of her lofty place. 
 Yet never smiled, in peace or joy, 
 Not even to greet her princely boy. 
 She heard, with face of white despair, 
 The cannon thunder through the air. 
 That she had given the Earl an heir. 
 Nay, even more (they whispered low. 
 As if they scarce durst fancy so). 
 That, through her lofty wedded life. 
 No word, no tone, betrayed the wife. 
 Her look seemed ever in the past : 
 Never to him it grew more sweet ; 
 The self-same weary glance she cast 
 Upon the greyhound at her feet, 
 As upon him, who bade her claim 
 The crowning honor of his name. 
 
 This gossip, if old Walter heard, 
 He checked it with a scornful word : 
 I never durst such tales repeat ; 
 He was too serious and discreet 
 To speak of what his lord might do. 
 Besides, he loved my lady too : 
 And many a time, I recollect. 
 They were together in the wood ; 
 He, with an air of grave respect; 
 And earnest look, uncovered stood. 
 And though their speech I never heard, 
 (Save now and then a louder word,) 
 I saw he spake as none but one 
 She loved and trusted durst have done; 
 For oft I watched them in the shade 
 That the close forest branches made, 
 Till slanting golden sunbeams came 
 And smote the tir-trces into flame, 
 A radiant glory round her lit. 
 Then down her white robe seemed to flit, 
 Gilding the brown leaves on the ground. 
 And all the feathery ferns around. 
 While by some gloomy pine she leant 
 .\nd he in earnest talk would stand, 
 I saw the tear-drops, as she bent. 
 Fall on the flowers in her hand. 
 Strange as it seemed and seems to be 
 That one so sad, so cold as she. 
 Could love a little child like me ; 
 
20 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 Yet 80 it was, I never heard 
 Such tender words as she would say, 
 Or niurnuus, sweeter than a word, 
 Would breathe upon me as I lay. 
 While I, in smiling joy, would rest. 
 For hours, my head upon her breast. 
 Our neighbors said that none could see 
 In me the common childish charms, 
 (So grave and still I used to be,) 
 And yet she held me in her arms, 
 In a fond clasp, so close, so tight, — 
 I often dlream of it at night. 
 
 She bade me tell her all — no other, 
 
 My childish thoughts e'er cared to know ; 
 
 For I — I never knew my mother ; 
 
 I was an orphan long ago. 
 
 And I conld all my fancies pour, 
 
 That gentle loving face before. 
 
 She liked to hear me tell her all ; 
 
 How that day I had climbed the tree, 
 
 To make the largest fir-cones fall ; 
 
 And how one day I hoped to be 
 
 A sailor on the deep blue sea — 
 
 She loved to hear it all ! 
 
 Then wondrous things she used to tell, 
 
 Of the strange dreams that she had known. 
 
 I used to love to hear them well ; 
 
 If only for her sweet low tone, 
 
 Sometimes so sad, although I knew 
 
 That such things never could be true. 
 
 One da}' she told me such a tale 
 
 It made me grow all cold and pale, 
 
 The fearful thing she told ! 
 
 Of a poor woman mad and wild 
 
 Who coined the life-blood of her child. 
 
 Who tempted by a fiend, had sold 
 
 The heart out of her breast for gold. 
 
 But, when she saw me frightened seem, 
 
 She smiled, and said it was a dream. 
 
 How kind, how fair she was ; how good 
 
 I cannot tell you. If I could 
 
 You, too, would love her. The mere thought 
 
 Of her great love for me has brought 
 
 Tears in my eyes ; though far away, 
 
 It seems as it were yesterday. 
 
 And just as when I look on high 
 
 Through the blue silence of the sky, 
 
 Fresh stars shine out, and more and more. 
 
 Where I could see so few before. 
 
 So, the more steadily I gaze 
 
 Upon those far-off misty days. 
 
 Fresh words, fresh tones, fresh memories start 
 
 Before my ej-es and in my heart. 
 
 I can remember how one day 
 
 (Talking in silly childish way) 
 
 I said how happy I should be 
 
 If I were like her son — as fair. 
 
 With just such bright blue eyes as he. 
 
 And such long locks of golden hair. 
 
 A dark smile on her pale face broke. 
 
 And in strange solemn words she spoke : 
 
 " My own, my darling one — no, no ! 
 I love you, far, far better so. 
 I would not change the look you bear. 
 Or one wave of your dark brown hair. 
 The mere glance of your sunny eyes. 
 
 Deep in my deepest soul I prize 
 Above that baby fair ! 
 Not one of all the Earl's proud line 
 In beauty ever matched with thine. 
 And 'tis by thy dark locks thou art 
 Bound even faster round my heart. 
 And made more wholly mine !" 
 And then she paused, and weeping said 
 " You are like one who now is dead — 
 Who sleeps in a far distant grave. 
 
 may God grant that you may be 
 As noble and as good as he, 
 
 As gentle and as brave !" 
 Then in my childish way I cried, 
 " The one you tell me of who diea, 
 Was he as noble as the Earl V 
 
 1 see her red lips scornful curl, 
 I feel her hold my hand again 
 
 So tightly that I shrank in pain — 
 
 I seem to hear her say, 
 
 " He whom I tell you of, who died. 
 
 He was so noble and so gay. 
 
 So generous and so brave, 
 
 That the proud Earl by his dear side 
 
 Would look a craven slave." 
 
 She paused ; then, with a quivering sigh, 
 
 She laid her hand upon my brow : 
 
 " Live like him, darling, and so die. 
 
 Remember that he tells you now, 
 
 True peace, real honor, and content, 
 
 In cheerful pious toil abide ; 
 
 For gold and splendor are but sent 
 
 To curse our vanity and pride." 
 
 One day some childish fever pain 
 Burnt in my veins and fired my brain- 
 Moaning, I turned from side to side ; 
 And, sobbing in my bed, I cried. 
 Till night in calm and darkness crept 
 Around me, and at last I slept. 
 When suddenly I woke to see 
 The lady bending over me. 
 The drops of cold November rain 
 Were falling from her long, damp hair; 
 Her anxious eyes were dim with pain ; 
 Yet she looked wondrous fair. 
 Arrayed for some great feast she came, 
 With stones that shone and burnt like flame. 
 Wound round her neck, like some bright snake, 
 And set like stars within her hair. 
 They sparkled so, they seemed to make 
 A glory everywhere. 
 I felt her tears upon my face. 
 Her kisses on my eyes ; 
 And a strange thought I could not trace 
 I felt within my heart arise ; 
 And, half in feverish pain, I said ; 
 " O if my mother were not dead !" 
 And Walter bade me sleep ; but she 
 Said, " Is it not the same to thee 
 That I watch by thy bed V 
 I answered her, " I love you, too ; 
 But it can never be the same ; 
 She was no Countess like to you, 
 Nor wore such sparkling stones of flame." 
 
 the wild look of fear and dread ! 
 The cry she gave of bitter woe ! 
 
 1 often wonder what I said 
 
THE SETEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 
 
 21 
 
 To make her moan and shudder so. 
 Througli the long night she tended me 
 With such sweet care and charity. 
 But I should weary you to teli 
 All that I know and love so well ; 
 Yet one night more stands out alone 
 With a sad sweetness all its own. 
 
 The wind blew loud that dreary night. 
 Its wailing voice I well remember ; 
 The stars shone out so large and bright 
 Upon the frosty fir-boughs white : 
 That dreary night of cold December 
 I saw old Walter silent stand, 
 Watching the soft last flakes of snow 
 With looks I could not understand 
 Of strange perplexity and woe. 
 At last he turned and took my hand 
 And said the Countess just had sent 
 To bid us come ; for she would fain 
 See me once more, before she went 
 Away, — never to come again. 
 We came in silence thro' the wood 
 (Our footfall was the only sound). 
 To where the great white castle stood. 
 With darkness shadowing it around. 
 Breathless, we trod with cautious care 
 Up the great echoing marble stair ; 
 Trembling, by Walter's tiand I held, 
 Scared by the splendors I beheld ; 
 Now thinking, Should the Earl appear ! 
 Now looking up with giddy fear 
 To the dim vaulted roof, that spread 
 Its gloomy arches overhead. 
 Long corridors we softly past, 
 (My heart was beating loud and fast) 
 And reached the Lady's room at last. 
 A strange faint odor seemed to weigh 
 Upon the dim and darkened air. 
 One shaded lamp, with softened ray, 
 Scarce showed the gloomy splendor there. 
 The dull red brands were burning low : 
 And yet a fitful gleam of light, 
 Would now and then, with sudden glow. 
 Start forth, then sink again in night. 
 I gazed around, yet half in fear, 
 Tdl Walter told me to draw near. 
 And in the strange and flickering light, 
 Towards the Lady's bed I crept. 
 All folded round with snowy white, 
 She lay (one would have said she slept). 
 So still the look of that white face. 
 It seemed as it were carved in stone. 
 I paused before I dared to place, 
 Within her cold white hand my own. 
 But, with a smile of sweet surprise, 
 She turned to me her dreamy eyes ; 
 And slowly, as if life were pain, 
 She drew me in her arms to lie : 
 She strove to speak, and strove in vain ; 
 
 Each breath was like a long-drawn sigh. 
 
 The throbs that seemed to shake her breast, 
 
 The trembling clasp, so loose, and weak, 
 
 At last grew calmer, and at rest ; 
 
 And then she strove once more to speak : 
 
 " My God, I thank thee, that my pain 
 
 Of day by day and year by year, 
 
 Has not been suffered all in vain, 
 
 And I may die while he is near. 
 
 I will not fear but that Thy grace 
 
 Has swept away my sin and woe, 
 
 And sent this little angel face. 
 
 In my last hour to tell me so." 
 
 (And here her voice grew faint and low) 
 
 " My child where'er thy life may go. 
 
 To know that thou art brave and true. 
 
 Will pierce the highest heavens through. 
 
 And even there my soul shall be 
 
 More joyful for this thought of thee." 
 
 She folded her white hands, and stayed 
 
 All cold and silently she lay : 
 
 I knelt beside the bed, and prayed 
 
 The prayer she used to make me say. 
 
 I said it many times, and then 
 
 She did not move, but seemed to be 
 
 In a deep sleep, nor stirred again. 
 
 N* sound stirred in the silent room, 
 
 Or broke the dim and solemn gloom. 
 
 Save when the brands that burnt so low 
 
 With noisy fitful gleam of light. 
 
 Would spread around a sudden glow, 
 
 Then sink in silence and in night. 
 
 How long I stood I do not know : 
 
 At last poor Walter came, and said 
 
 (So sadly) that we now must go. 
 
 And whispered she we loved was dead, 
 
 He bade me kiss her face once more, 
 
 Then led me sobbing to the door. 
 
 I scarcely knew what dying meant, 
 
 Yet a strange grief, before unknown, 
 
 Weighed on my spirit as we went 
 
 And left her lying all alone. 
 
 We went to the far North once more, 
 To seek the well remembered home. 
 Where my poor kinsman dwelt before, 
 Whence now he was too old to roam : 
 And there six happy years we past, 
 Happy and peaceful till the last : 
 When poor old Walter died, and he 
 Bleesed me and said I now might be 
 A sailor on the deep blue sea. 
 And so I go ; and yet in spite 
 Of all the joys I long to know ; 
 Though I look onward with dehght, 
 With something of regret I go, 
 And young or old, on land or sea, 
 One guiding memory I shall take 
 Of what she prayed that I might be, 
 And what I will be for her sake ! 
 
THE FOURTH POOR TRAVELLER. 
 
 Now, first of all, I should like to know 
 what you mean by a story ? You mean 
 what other people do ? And pray what is 
 that ■? You know, but you can't exactly 
 tell. I thought 80 ! In the course of a 
 pretty long legal experience, I have never 
 yet met with a party out of my late profes- 
 sion, who was capable of giving a correct 
 definition uf anything. 
 
 To judge by your looks, I suspect you are 
 amused at my talking of any such thing 
 ever having belonged to me as a profession. 
 Ha ! ha ! Here I am, with my toes out of 
 my bouts, without a shirt to my back or a 
 rap in my pocket, except the fourpence I 
 get out of this charity (against the present 
 administration of which I protest — but that's 
 not the point), and yet not two years ago I 
 was an attorney in large practice in a burst- 
 ing big country town. I had a house in the 
 High Street. Such a giant of a house that 
 you had to get up six steps to knock at the 
 front door. I had a footman to drive tramps 
 like me ofi' all or any one of my six hearth- 
 stoned steps, if they dared sit down on all 
 or any one of my six hearth-stoned steps ; 
 a footman who would give me into custody 
 now if I tried to shake hands with him in 
 the streets I decline to answer your ques- 
 tions if you ask me any. How I got into 
 trouble, and dropped down to where I am 
 now, is my secret. 
 
 Now, I absolutely decline to tell you a 
 etory. But, though I wont tell a story, I 
 am ready to make a statement. A statement 
 is a matter of fact; therefore the exact op- 
 posite of a story, which is a matter of fiction. 
 vVhat I am now going to tell you really 
 happened to me. 
 
 I served my time — never mind in whose 
 office ; and I started in business for myself, 
 in one of our English country towns — I 
 decline stating which. I hadn't a quarter 
 of the capital I ought to have had to begin 
 with ; and my friends in the neighborhood 
 were poor and useless enough, with one 
 exception. That exception was Mr. Frank 
 Gatlifi'e, son of Mr. Gatliffe, member for the 
 county, the richest man and the proudest 
 for many a mile round about our parts. 
 Stop a bit ! you man in the corner there ; 
 you needn't pert up and look knowing. You 
 wont trace any particulars by the name of 
 GatlifTe. I'm not bound to commit myself 
 or anybody else by mentioning names. I 
 have given you the first that came into my 
 bead. 
 
 (22) 
 
 Well ! Mr. Frank was a staunch friend 
 of mine, and ready to recommend me when- 
 ever he got the chance. I had given him a 
 little timely help — for a consideration, of 
 course — in borrowing money at a fair rate 
 of interest; in fact, I had saved him from 
 the Jews. The money was borrowed while 
 Mr. Frank was at college. He came back 
 from college, and stopped at home a little 
 while ; and then there got spread about all 
 our neighborhood, a report that he had fallen 
 in love, as the saying is, with his young sis- 
 ter's governess, and that his mind was made 
 up to marry her. "What ! you're at it again, 
 my man in the corner ! You want to know 
 her name, don't you ! What do you think 
 of Smith ? 
 
 Speaking as a lawyer, I consider Report, 
 in a general way, to be a fool and a liar. 
 But in this case report turned out to be 
 something very different. Mr. Frank told 
 me he was really in love, and said upon his 
 honor (an absurd expression which young 
 chaps of his age are always using) he was 
 determined to marry Smith the governess — 
 the sweet darling girl, as he called her ; but 
 I'm not sentimental, and / call her Smith 
 the governess (with an eye, of course, to 
 refreshing the meninry of my friend in the 
 corner). Mr. Frank's father, being as proud 
 as Lucifer, said " No" as to marrying the 
 governess, when Mr. Frank wanted him to 
 say "Y'es." He was a man of business, 
 was old Gatliffe, and he took the proper 
 business course. He sent the governess 
 away with a first-rate character and a spank- 
 ing present ; and then he looked about him 
 to get something for Mr. Frank to do. While 
 he was looking about, Mr. Frank b)lted to 
 London after the governess, who had nobody 
 alive belonging to her to go to, but an aunt — 
 her father's sister. The aunt refuses to let 
 Mr. Frank in without the squire's permis- 
 sion. Mr. Frank writes to his father, and 
 says he will marry the girl as soon as he is 
 of age, or shoot himself. Up to town comea 
 the squire, and his wife, and his daughter ; 
 and a lot of sentimentality, not in the 
 slightest degree material to the present 
 statement, takes place among them ; and 
 the upshot of it is that old Gatliffe is forced 
 into withdrawing the word No, and sub- 
 stituting the word Yes. 
 
 I don't believe he would ever have done 
 it, though, but for one locky peculiarity in 
 the case. The governess's father was a man 
 of good family — pretty nigh as good aa Gat- 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 
 
 23 
 
 liffe's own. lie had been in the army ; had 
 suld out, set up as a wine merchant — failed 
 — died : ditto his wife, as to the dying part 
 of it. No relation, in fact, left for the squire 
 to make inquiries about but the father's sis- 
 ter ; who had behaved, as old Gatliffe said, 
 like a thorough-bred gentlewoman in shut- 
 ting tlie door against Mr. Frank in the first 
 instance. So, to cut the matter short, things 
 were at last made up pleasant enough. The 
 time was fixed for the wedding, and an an- 
 nouncement about it — Marriage in High Life 
 and all that — put into the county paper. 
 There was a regular biography, besides, of 
 the governess's father, so as to stop people 
 from talking ; a great flourish about his 
 pedigree, and a long account of his services 
 in the army ; but not a word, mind ye, of 
 his havingturned wine merchant afterwards. 
 Oh, no — not a word about that ! I knew it, 
 though, for Mr. Frank told me. lie hadn't 
 a bit of pride about him. He introduced 
 me to his future wife one day when I met 
 them out walking, and asked me if I did 
 not think he was a lucky fellow. I don't 
 mind admitting that I did, and that I told 
 him so. Ah ! but she was one of my sort, 
 was that governess. Stood, to the best of 
 my recollection five foot four. Good lissome 
 figure, that looked as if it had never been 
 boxed up in a pair of stays. Eyes that made 
 me feel as if I was under a pretty stiff cross- 
 examination the moment she looked at me. 
 Fine red, fresh, kiss-and-come-again sort of 
 
 lips. Cheeks and complexion . No, my 
 
 man in the corner, you wouldn't identify 
 her by her cheeks and complexion, if I 
 drew you a picture of them this very mo- 
 ment. She has had a family of children 
 since the time I'm talking of; and her 
 cheeks are a trifle fatter and her complexion 
 is a shade or two redder now, than when I 
 first met her out walking with Mr. Frank. 
 
 The marriage was to take place on a 
 Wednesday. I decline mentioning the year 
 or the month. I had started as an attorney 
 on my own account — say six weeks, more 
 or less, and was sitting alone in my oflice on 
 the Monday morning before the wedding- 
 day, trying to see my way clear before me 
 and not succeeding particularly well, when 
 Mr. Frank suddenly bursts in, as white as 
 any ghost that ever was painted, and says 
 he's got the most dreadful case for me to 
 advise on, and not an hour to lose in acting 
 on my advice. 
 
 " Is this in the way of business, Mr. 
 Frank?" says I, stopping him just as he 
 was beginning to get sentimental. " Yes 
 or no, Mr. Frank ?" rapping my new office 
 paper-knife on the table to pull him up 
 ehort all the sooner. 
 
 " My dear fellow" — he was alwaj's fami- 
 liar with me — " it's in the way of business, 
 
 certainly ; but friendship " 
 
 I was obliged to pull him up short again 
 
 and regularly examine him as if he had 
 been in the witness-box, or he would have 
 kept me talking to no purpose half the day. 
 " Now, Mr. Frank," said I, " I can't have 
 any sentimentality mixed up with business 
 matters. You please to stop talking and let 
 mo ask questions. Answer in the fewest 
 words you can use. Nod when nodding 
 will do instead of words." 
 
 I fixed him with my eye for about three 
 seconds, as he sat groaning and wriggling 
 in his chair. When I'd done fixing him, I 
 gave another rap with my paper-knife on to 
 the table to startle him up a bit. Then I 
 went on. 
 
 " From what you have been stating up to 
 the present time," says I, " I gather that 
 you are in a scrape which is likely to inter- 
 fere seriously with your marriage on Wed- 
 nesday ?" (He nodded, and I cut in again 
 before he could say a word). " The scrape 
 afiects the young lady you are about to 
 marry, and goes back to the period of a cer- 
 tain transaction in which her late father was 
 engaged some years ago ?" (He nods, and I 
 cut in once more.) " There is a party who 
 turned up after seeing the announcement of 
 your marriage in the paper, who is cogni- 
 sant of what he oughtn't to know, and who 
 is prepared to use his knowledge of the 
 same, to the prejudice of the young lady and 
 of your marriage, unless he receives a sum 
 of money to quiet him? Very well. Now, 
 first of all, Mr. Frank, state what you have 
 been told by the young lady herself about 
 the transaction of her late father. How 
 did you first come to have any knowledge 
 of it?" 
 
 " She was talking to me about her father 
 one day, so tenderly and prettily, that she 
 quite excited my interest about him," be- 
 gins Mr. Frank ; " and I asked her, among 
 other things, what had occasioned his death. 
 She said she believed it was distress of 
 mind in the first instance ; and added that 
 this distress was connected with a shocking 
 secret, which she and her mother had kept 
 from everybody, but which she could not 
 keep from me, because she was determined 
 to begin her married life by having no se- 
 crets from her husband." Here Mr. Frank 
 began to get sentimental again ; and I pull- 
 ed him up short once more with the papeiv 
 knife. 
 
 " She told me," Mr. Frank went on, " that 
 the great mistake of her father's life wag 
 his selling out of the army and taking to the 
 wine trade. He had no talent for business ; 
 things went wrong with him from the first. 
 His clerk, it was strongly suspected, cheated 
 him " 
 
 " Stop a bit," says I. *' What was that 
 suspected clerk's name?" 
 
 " Davager," says he. 
 
 " Davager," says I, making a note of it 
 " Go on, Mr. Frank." 
 
24 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 " His affairs got more and more entan- 
 gled," 8a3'8 Mr. Frank ; " he was pressed 
 for money in all directions ; bankruptcy, and 
 consequent dishonor (as he considered it) 
 stared him in the foce. His mind was so 
 affected by his troubles that both his wife 
 and dau»;hter, towards the last, considered 
 him to be hardly responsible for his own 
 acts. In this state of desperation and 
 
 misery, he " Here Mr. Frank began 
 
 to hesitate. 
 
 We have two ways in the law, of draw- 
 ing evidence off nice and clear from an un- 
 willing client or witness. We give him a 
 flight or treat him to a joke. I treated Mr. 
 Frank to a joke. 
 
 " Ah I" says I. " I know what he did. 
 He had a signature to write ; and, by the 
 most natural mistake in the world, he wrote 
 another gentleman's name instead of his 
 own— eh ?" 
 
 " It was to a bill." says Mr. Frank, look- 
 ing very crestfiillen, instead of taking the 
 joke. "His principal creditor wouldn't 
 wait till he could raise the money, or the 
 greater part of it. But he was resolved, if 
 he sold off everything, to get the amount and 
 repay " 
 
 " Of course \" says I. " Drop that. The 
 forgery was discovered. When?" 
 
 " Before even the first attempt was made to 
 negotiate the bill. He had done the whole 
 thing in the most absurdly and innocently 
 wrong way. The person whose name he 
 had used was a staunch friend of his, and a 
 relation of his wife's : a good man as well as 
 a rich one. He had influence with the chief 
 creditor, and he used it nobly. He had a 
 real affection for the unfortunate man's 
 wife, and he proved it generously." 
 
 " Come to the point," says I. " What did 
 he do ? In a business way, what did he 
 do?" 
 
 "He put the false bill into the fire, drew 
 a bill of his own to replace it, and then — 
 only then — told my dear girl and her 
 mother all that had happened. Can you 
 imagine anything nobler ?" asked Mr. 
 Frank. 
 
 " Speaking in my professional capacity, I 
 can't imagine anything greener !" says I. 
 " Where was the father ? Off, I suppose ?" 
 
 "Ill in bed," said Mr. Frank, coloring. 
 " But, he mustered strength enough to 
 write a contrite and grateful letter the same 
 day, promising to prove himself worthy of 
 the noble moderation and forgiveness ex- 
 tended to him, by selling off everything he 
 possessed to repay his money debt. He did 
 sell off everything, down to some old family 
 
 Eictures that were heirlooms; down to the 
 ttle plate he had ; down to the very tables 
 and chairs that furnished his drawing room. 
 Every farthing of the debt was paid ; and 
 he was left to begin the world again, with 
 the kindest promises of help from the gener- 
 
 ous man who had forgiven him. It was too 
 late. His crime of one rash moment- 
 atoned for though it had been — preyed upon 
 his mind. He became possessed with the idea 
 that he had lowered himself forever in the 
 estimation of his wife and daughter, 
 and " 
 
 " He died," I cut in. " Yes, yes, we know 
 that. Let's go back for a minute to the con- 
 trite and grateful letter that he wrote. My 
 experience in the law, Mr. Frank, has con- 
 vinced me that if everybody burnt every- 
 body else's letters, half the Courts of 
 Justice in this country might shut up shop. 
 Do you happen to know whether the letter 
 we are now speaking of contained anything 
 like an avowal or confession of the forgery ?" 
 
 " Of course it did," says he. " Could the 
 writer express his contrition properly with- 
 out making some such confession ?" 
 
 " Quite easy, if he had been a lawyer," 
 says I. " But never mind that; I'm going 
 to make a guess, — a desperate guess, mind. 
 Should I be altogether in error," says I, "if 
 I thought that this letter had been stolen ; 
 and that the fingers of Mr. Davager, of sus- 
 picious commercial celebrity, might possibly 
 be the fingers which took it?" says I. 
 
 " That is exactly what I tried to make 
 you understand," cried Mr. Frank. 
 
 " How did he communicate that interest- 
 ing fact to you ?" 
 
 " He has not ventured into my presence. 
 The scoundrel actually had the audacity — " 
 
 " Aha !" says I. " The young lady her- 
 self! Sharp practitioner, Mr. Davager." 
 
 " Early this morning, when she was walk- 
 ing alone in the shrubbery," Mr. Frank goes 
 on, " he had the assurance to approach her, 
 and to say that he had been watching his 
 opportunity of getting a private interview for 
 days past. He then showed her — actually 
 showed her — her unfortunate father's letter ; 
 put into her hands another letter directed to 
 me; bowed, and walked off; leaving her 
 half dead with astonishment and terror !" 
 
 " It was much better for you that you 
 were not there," says I. " Have you got 
 that other letter?" 
 
 He handed it to me. It was so extremely 
 humorous and short, that I remember every 
 word of it at this distance of time. It began 
 in this way : 
 
 " To Francis Gatliffe, Esq., Jun.— Sir.— I 
 have an extremely curious autograph letter 
 to sell. The price is a Five hundred pound 
 note. The young lady to whom you are to 
 be married on Wednesday will inform you 
 of the nature of the letter, and the genuine- 
 ness of the autograph. If you refuse to deal, 
 I shall send a copy to the local paper, an(J 
 shall wait on your highly respected father 
 with the original curiosity, on the afternoon 
 of Tuesday next. Having come down here 
 on family business, I have put up at the 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 
 
 25 
 
 family hotel — being to be heard of at the 
 Gatliffe Arms. 
 
 Your very obedient servant, 
 
 " Alfred Davager." 
 
 " A clever fellow, that," saya I, putting 
 the letter into my private drawer. 
 
 " Clever I" cries Mr. Frank, " he ought to 
 be horsewhipped within an inch of his life. 
 I would have done it myself, but she made 
 me promise, before she told me a word of 
 the matter, to come straight to you." 
 
 " That was one of the wisest promises you 
 ever made," says L " We can't afford to 
 bully this fellow, whatever else we may do 
 with him. Don't think I am saying any- 
 thing libellous against your excellent father's 
 character when I assert that if he saw the 
 letter he would insist on your marriage being 
 put off, at the very least ?" 
 
 " Feeling as my father does about my 
 marriage, he would insist on its being drop- 
 ped altogether, if he saw this letter," says 
 Mr. Frank, with a groan. " But even that 
 is not the worst of it. The generous, noble 
 girl herself says, that if the letter appears 
 in the paper, with all the unanswerable 
 comments this scoundrel would be sure to 
 add to it, she would rather die than hold 
 me to my engagement — even if my father 
 would let me keep it." He was a weak 
 young fellow, and ridiculously fond of her. 
 I brought him back to business with another 
 rap of the paper-knife. 
 
 *' Hold up, Mr. Frank," says I. "I have 
 a question or two more. Did you think of 
 asking the young lady whether, to the best 
 of her knowledge, this infernal letter was 
 the i)u\y written evidence of the forgery now 
 in existence?" 
 
 " Yes, I did think directly of asking her 
 that, says he; "and she told me she was 
 quite certain that there was no written evi- 
 dence of the forgery, except that one letter." 
 
 " Will you give Mr. Davager his price for 
 it ?" says I. 
 
 " Yes," says Mr. Frank, as quick as light- 
 ning. 
 
 " Mr. Frank," says I, " you came here to 
 get my help and ad\ice in this extremely 
 ticklish business, and you are ready, as I 
 know, without asking, to remunerate me for 
 all and any of my services at the usual pro- 
 fessional rate. Now, I've made up my mind 
 to act boldly — desperately, if you like — on 
 the hit or miss — win-all-or-lose-all principle 
 — in dealing with this matter. Here is my 
 proposal. I'm going to try if I can't do Mr. 
 Davager out of his letter. If I don't succeed 
 before to-morrow afternoon, you hand him 
 the money, and I charge you nothing for 
 professional services. If I do succeed, I 
 hand you the letter instead of Mr. Davager; 
 and you give me the money, instead of giv- 
 ing it to him. It's a precious risk for me, 
 but I'm ready to run it. Y'^ou must pay your 
 
 five hundred any way. What do you say to 
 my plan ? Is it. Yes — Mr. Frank — or. No V 
 
 " Hang your questions !" cries Mr. Frank, 
 jumping up ; " you know it's Y'es, ten thou- 
 sand times over. Only you earn the money 
 and " 
 
 " And you will be too glad to give it to 
 me. Very good. Now go home. Comfort 
 the young lady — don't let Mr. Davager so 
 much as set eyes on you — keep quiet — leave 
 everything to me — and feel as certain as you 
 please that all the letters in the world can't 
 stop your being married on Wednesday." 
 With these words I hustled him off out of 
 the office ; for I wanted to be left alone to 
 make my mind up about what I should do. 
 
 The first thing, of course, was to have a 
 look at the enemy. I wrote to Mr. Davager, 
 telling him that I was privately appointed 
 to arrange the little business-matter between 
 himself and "another party" (no names!) 
 on friendly terms ; and begging him to call 
 on me at his earliest convenience. At the 
 very beginning of the case, Mr. Davager 
 bothered me. His answer was that it would 
 not be convenient to him to call till l^etween 
 six and seven in the evening. In this way, 
 you see, he contrived to make me lose seve- 
 ral precious hours, at a time when minutes 
 almost were of importance. I had nothing 
 for it, but to be patient, and to give certain 
 instructions, before Mr. Davager came, tc 
 my boy Tom. 
 
 There was never such a sharp boy of four- 
 teen before, and there never will be again, 
 as my boy, Tom. A spy to look after Mr. 
 Davager was, of course, the first requisite in 
 a case of this kind ; and Tom was the 
 smallest, quickest, quietest, sharpest, stealth- 
 iest little snake of a chap that ever dogged 
 a gentleman's steps and kept cleverly out of 
 range of a gentleman's eyes. I settled it 
 with the boy that he was not to show at all, 
 when Mr. Davager came ; and that he was 
 to wait to hear me ring the bell when Mr. 
 Davager left. If I rang twice he was to 
 show the gentleman out. If I rang once, he 
 was to keep out of the way and follow the 
 gentleman wherever he went, till he got 
 back to the inn. Those were the only pre- 
 parations I could make to begin with ; being 
 obliged to wait, and let myself be guided by 
 what turned up. 
 
 About a quarter to seven my gentleman 
 came. In the profession of the law we get 
 somehow quite remarkably mixed up with 
 ugly people, blackguard people, and dirty 
 people. But far away the ugliest and dirtiest 
 blackguard I ever saw in my life was Mr. 
 Alfred Davager. He had greasy white hair 
 and a mottled face. He was low in the fore- 
 head, fat in the stomach, hoarse in the 
 voice, and weak in the legs. Both his eyes 
 were bloodshot, and one was fixed in his 
 head. He smelt of spirits, and carried a 
 toothpick in his mouth. " How are you ? 
 
26 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 I've just (lone dinner," says he — and he 
 \i}i;hts a cij^ar, sits down with his legs 
 erossed, and winks at ine. 
 
 I tried at first to take the measure of him 
 in a wheedlinf;, confidential way ; Init it was 
 no good. I asked him in a facetious smiling 
 manner, how he iiad got hold of the letter. 
 He only told me in answer that he had been 
 in tiie contid(!ntial employment of the writer 
 of it. and that he hacl always been famous 
 since infancy, for a shar[) eye to his own in- 
 terests. I paid him some compliments; but 
 he was not to be flattered. I tried to make 
 him lose his temper; but he kept it in spite 
 of mo. It ended in his driving me to my 
 last resource — I made an attempt to frighten 
 him. 
 
 " Before we say a word about the money," 
 I began, " let me put a case, Mr. Davager. 
 The pull you have on Mr. Francis Gatliffe 
 is, that you can hinder his marriage on 
 Wednesday. Now, suppose I have got a 
 magistrate's warrant to apprehend you in 
 my pocket ? Suppose I have a constable to 
 execute it in the next room? Suppose I 
 bring you up to-morrow — the day before the 
 marriage — charge you only generally with 
 an attempt to extort money, and apply for 
 a day's remand to complete the case? Sup- 
 pose, as a suspicious stranger, you can't get 
 bail in this town ? Suppose " 
 
 " Stop a bit," says Mr. Davager ; " Sup- 
 pose I should not be the greenest fool that 
 ever stood in shoes ? Suppose I should not 
 carry the letter about me? Suppose I 
 should have given a certain envelope to a 
 certain frend of mine in a certain place in 
 this town? Suppose the letter should be 
 inside that envelope, directt^d to old Gatliffe, 
 side by side with a copy of the letter, direct- 
 ed to the editor of the local paper ? Suppose 
 my friend should be instructed to open the 
 envelope, and take the letters to their right 
 addresses, if I don't appear to claim them 
 from him this evening? In short, my dear 
 sir, suppose you were born yesterday, and 
 suppose I wasn't?" — says Mr. Davager, and 
 winks at me again. 
 
 He didn't take me by surprise, for I never 
 expected that he had the letter about him. 
 I made a pretence of being very much taken 
 aback, and of being quite ready to give in. 
 We settled our business about delivering the 
 letter and handing over the money, in no 
 time. I was to draw out a document, which 
 he was to sign. He knew the document was 
 stuff and nonsense just as well as 1 did ; and 
 told me I was only proposing it to swell my 
 client's bill. Sharp as he was, he was wrong 
 there. The document was not to be drawn 
 out to gain money from Mr. Frank, but to 
 gain time from Mr. Davager. It strved me 
 as an excuse to put off the payment of the 
 five hundred pounds till three o'clock on the 
 Tuesday afternoon. The Tuesday morning 
 Mr. Davager said he should devote to his 
 
 amusement, and asked me what sights were 
 to be seen in the neighborhood of the town. 
 When I had told him, he pitched his tooth- 
 pick into my grate — yawned — and went out. 
 
 I rang the bell once ; waited till he had 
 passed the window ; and then looked after 
 Tom. There was my jewel of a boy on the 
 opposite side of the street, just setting his 
 top going in the most playful manner pos- 
 sil)le. Mr. Davag(!r walked away up the 
 street, towards the market-place. Tom 
 whipped his top up the street towards the 
 market-place too. 
 
 In a quarter of an hour he came back, 
 with all his evidence collected in a beauti- 
 fully clear and compact state. Mr. Davager 
 had walked to a public house, just outside 
 the town, in a lane leading to the high road. 
 On a bench outside the public-house there 
 sat a man smoking. He said "All right?" 
 and gave a letter to Mr. I)avager, who 
 answered "All right," and walked back to 
 the inn. In the hall he ordered hot rum 
 and water, cigars, slippers, and a fire to be 
 lit in his room. After that, he went up 
 stairs, and Tom came away. 
 
 I now saw my road clear before me — not 
 very far on, but still clear. I had housed 
 the letter, in all probability for that night, 
 at the Gatliffe Arms. After tipping Tom, I 
 gave him directions to play aliout the door 
 of the inn, and refresh himself, when he was 
 tired, at the tart-shop opposite — eating as 
 much as he pleased, on the understanding 
 that he crammed all the time with his eye 
 on the window. If Mr. Davager went out, 
 or Mr. Davager's friend called on him, Tom 
 was to let me know. He was also to take a 
 little note from me to the head chamber- 
 maid — an old friend of mine — asking her to 
 step over to my office, on a private matter 
 of business, as soon as her work was done 
 for that night. After settling these little 
 matters, having half an hour to spare, I 
 turned to and did myself a bloater at the 
 office-fire, and had a drop of gin and water 
 hot, and felt comparatively happy. 
 
 When the head chambermaid came, it 
 turned out, as good luck would have it, that 
 Mr. Davager had offended her. I no sooner 
 mentioned him than she flew into a passion ; 
 and when I added, by way of clinching the 
 matter, that I was retained to defend the 
 interests of a very beautiful and deserving 
 young lady (name not referred to, of course) 
 against the most cruel underhand treachery 
 on the part of Mr. Davager, the head cham- 
 bermaid was ready to go any lengths that 
 she could safely, to serve my cause. In few 
 words, I discovered that Boots was to call 
 Mr. Davager, at eight the next morning, and 
 was to take his clothes down stairs to brush 
 as usual. If Mr. D., had not emptied his 
 own pockets overnight, we arranged that 
 Boots was to forget to empty them for him, 
 and was to bring the clothes down staira 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 
 
 27 
 
 just as he found them. If Mr. D.'s pockets 
 were emptied, then, of course, it would be 
 necessary to transfer the searching process 
 t(j Mr. D.'s room. Under any circumstances, 
 1 was certain of the head chambermaid ; 
 and under any circumstances also, the head 
 chambermaid was certain of Boots. 
 
 [ waited till Tom came home, looking very 
 pufly and bilious about the face; but as to 
 his intellects, if anything, rather sharper 
 than ever. His report was uncommonly 
 short and pleasant. The inn was shutting 
 up ; Mr. Davager was going to bed in rather 
 a drunken condition; Mr. Davager's friend 
 had never appeared. I sent Tom (properly 
 instructed about keeping our man in view 
 all the next morning) to his shake-down be- 
 hind the office desk, where I heard him hic- 
 cupping half the night, as boys will when 
 over-excited and too full of tarts. 
 
 At half-past seven next morning, I slipped 
 quietW into Boot's pantry. Down came the 
 elothes. No pockets in trousers. Waistcoat 
 pockets empty. Coat pockets with some- 
 thing in them. First, handkerchief; second- 
 ly, bunch of keys ; thirdly, cigar-case ; 
 fourthly, pocket-book. Of course I wasn't 
 such a fool as to expect to find a letter there ; 
 but I opened the pocket-book with a certain 
 curiosity, notwithstanding. 
 
 Nothing in the two pockets of the book but 
 some old advertisements cut out of news- 
 papers, a lock of hair tied round with a dirty 
 bit of ribbon, a circular letter about a loan 
 society, and some copies of verses not likely 
 to suit any company that was not of an ex- 
 tremely wicked description. On the leaves of 
 the pocket-book, people's addresses scrawled 
 in pencil, and bets jotted down in red ink. 
 On one leaf, by itself, this queer inscription : 
 " Mem. 5 Along. 4 Across." I under- 
 stood everything but those words and figures; 
 BO of course I copied them out into my own 
 book. Then I waited in the pantry, till Boots 
 had brushed the clothes and had taken them 
 up stairs. His report, when he came down 
 was, that Mr. D. had asked if it was a fine 
 morning. Being told that it was, he had 
 ordered breakfast at nine, and a saddle- 
 horse to be at the door at ten, to take him to 
 Grimwith Abbey — one of the sights in our 
 neighborhood which I had told him of the 
 evening before. 
 
 " I'll be here, coming in by the back way 
 at half-past ten," says I to the head chamber- 
 maid, "to take the responsibility of making 
 Mr. Davager's bed off your hands for this 
 morning only. I want to hire Sam for the 
 morning. Put it down in the order-book 
 that he's to be brought round to my office 
 at ten." 
 
 Sam was a pony, and I'd made up my 
 mind that it would be beneficial to Tom's 
 health, after the tarts, if he took a constitu- 
 tional airing on a nice hard saddle in the 
 direction of Grimwith Abbey. 
 
 "Anything else," says the head chamber- 
 maid. 
 
 " Only ono more favor," says I. " Would 
 my boy Tom be very much in the way 
 if he came, from now till ten, to help with 
 the boots and shoes, and stood at his work 
 close by this window which looks out on the 
 staircase ?" 
 
 " Not a bit," says the head chambermaid. 
 
 " Thank you," says I ; and stepped back 
 to my office directly. 
 
 When I had sent Tom off to help with 
 the boots and shoes, I reviewed the whole 
 case exactly as it stood at that time. There 
 were three things Mr. Davager might do 
 with the letter. He might give it to his 
 friend again before ten — in which case, Tom 
 would most likely see the said friend, on the 
 stairs. He might take it to his friend, or to 
 some other friend, after ten — in which case, 
 Tom was ready to follow him on Sam the 
 pony. And, lastly, he might leave it hidden 
 somewhere in his room at the inn — in which 
 case, I was all ready for him with a 
 search-warrant of my own granting, under 
 favor always of my friend the head cham- 
 bermaid. So far I had my business arrange- 
 ments all gathered up nice and compact in 
 my own hands. Only two things bothered 
 me : the terrible shortness of the time at my 
 disposal, in case I failed in my first experi- 
 ments for getting hold of the letter, and that 
 queer inscription which I had copied out of 
 the pocket-book. 
 
 " Mem. 5 Along. 4 Across." It was the 
 measurement, most likely, of something, and 
 he was afraid of forgetting it ; therefore, it 
 was something important. Query — some- 
 thing about himself! Say "5" '(inches) 
 " along" — he doesn't wear a wig. Say " 5" 
 (feet) "along" — it can't be coat, waistcoat, 
 trowsers, or underclothing. Say " 5" (yards) 
 "along" — it can't be anything about him- 
 self, unless he wears round his body the rope 
 that he's sure to be hanged with one of these 
 days. Then it is not something about him- 
 self. What do I know of that is important 
 to him besides ? I know of nothing but the 
 letter. Can the memorandum be connected 
 with that? Say, yes. What do "5 along" 
 and " 4 across" mean then ? The measure- 
 ment of something he carries about with 
 him ? — or the measurement of something 
 in his room ? I could get pretty satisfac- 
 torily to myself as far as that ; but I could 
 get no further. 
 
 Tom came back to the office, and reported 
 him mounted for his ride. His friend had 
 never appeared. I sent the boy off, with his 
 proper instructions, on Sam's back — wrote 
 an encouraging letter to Mr. Frank to keep 
 him quiet — then slipped into the inn by the 
 back way a little before half-past ten. Th<» 
 head chambermaid gave me a signal when 
 the landing was clear. I got into his room 
 without a soul but her seeing me, and locked 
 
28 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 the door immorliatoly. Tho case was to a 
 certain extent, sinijilificd now. Either Mr. 
 Davager had ridden out with the letter about 
 him, or he had left it in some safe hiding- 
 place in his room. I suspected it to be in 
 bis room, for a reason that will a little 
 astonish you — his trunk, his dressing-case, 
 and all the drawers and cupboards were left 
 open. I knew my customer, and I thought 
 this extraordinary carelessness on his part 
 rather suspicious. 
 
 Mr. Davagcr had taken one of the best 
 bedrooms at the Gatliffe Arms. Floor car- 
 peted all over, walls beautifully papered, 
 lour-poster, and general furniture first-rate. 
 I searched, to begin with, on the usual plan, 
 examining everything in every possible 
 way, and taking more than an hour about 
 it. No discovery. Then I palled out a 
 carpenter's rule which I had brought with 
 me. Was there anything in the room 
 which — either in inches, feet, or yards — an- 
 swered to "5 along" and "4 across?" 
 Nothing. I put the rule back in my pocket 
 — measurement was no good evidently. Was 
 there anything in the room that would count 
 up to 5 one way and 4 another, seeing that 
 nothing would measure up to it? I had got 
 obstinately persuaded by this time that the 
 letter must be in the room — principally be- 
 cause of the trouble I had had in looking after 
 it. And persuading myself of that, I took 
 it into my head next, just as obstinately, 
 that " 5 along" and " 4 across" must be the 
 right clue to find the letter by — principally 
 because I hadn't left myself, after all my 
 searching and thinking, even so much as 
 the vestige of another guide to go by. " 5 
 along" — where could I count five along the 
 room, in any part of it? 
 
 Not on the paper. The pattern there was 
 pillars of trellis work and flowers, enclos- 
 ing a plain green ground — only four pillars 
 along the wall and only two across. The 
 furniture ? There was not five chairs, or 
 five separate pieces of any furniture in the 
 room altogether. The fringes that hung 
 from the cornice of the bed ? Plenty of 
 them at any rate ! Up I jumped on the 
 counterpane, with my penknife in my hand. 
 Every way that " 5 along" and " 4 across" 
 could, be reckoned on those unlucky fringes, 
 I reckoned on them — probed with my pen- 
 knife — scratched with my nails — crushed 
 with my fingers. No use ; not a sign of a 
 letter ; and the time was getting on — oh. 
 Lord J how the time did get on in Mr. 
 Davager's room that morning. 
 
 I jumped down from the bed, so despe- 
 rate at my ill-luck that I hardly cared 
 whether anybody heard me or not. Quite 
 a little cloud of dust arose at my feet as 
 they thumped on the carpet. " IlaJlo !" 
 thought I ; " my friend the head chamber- 
 maid takes it easy here. Nice state for 
 a carpet to be in, in one of the best bed- 
 
 rooms at the Gatliffe Arms." Carpet ! I 
 had been jumping up on the bed, and 
 staring up at the walls, but I had never so 
 much as given a glance down at the carpet. 
 Think of me pretending to be a lawyer, and 
 not knowing how to look low enough ? 
 
 The carpet I It had been a stout article 
 in its time ; had evidently begun in a draw- 
 ing-room ; then descended to a coffee-room ; 
 then gone upstairs altogether to a bedroom. 
 The ground was brown, and pattern was 
 bunches of leaves and roses speckled over 
 the ground at regular distances. I reckoned 
 up the bunches. Ten along the room — eight 
 across it. When I had stepped out five one 
 way and four the other, and was down on my 
 knees on the centre bunch, as true as I sit 
 on this bench, I could hear my own heart 
 beating so loud that it quite frightened me. 
 
 I looked narrowly all over the bunch, and 
 I felt all over it with the ends of my fingers ; 
 and nothing came of that. Then I scraped it 
 over slowly and gently with my nails. My 
 second finger-oail stuck a little at one place. 
 I parted the pile of the carpet over that 
 place, and saw a thin slit, which had been 
 hidden by the pile being smoothed over it — 
 a slit about half an inch long, with a little 
 end of brown thread, exactly the colour of 
 the carpet-ground, sticking out about a quar- 
 ter of an inch from the middle of it. Just 
 as I laid hold of the thread gently, I heard 
 a footstep outside the door. 
 
 It was only the head chambermaid, 
 " Havn't you done yet?" she whispers. 
 
 " Give me two minutes," says I ; " and 
 don't let anybody come near the door — 
 whatever you do don't let anybody startle 
 me again by coming near the door." 
 
 I took a little pull at the thread, and heard 
 something rustle. I took a longer pull, and 
 out came a piece of paper, rolled up tight 
 like those candle-lighters that the ladies 
 make. I unrolled it — and, by George ! gen- 
 tlemen all, there was the letter ! 
 
 The original letter ! — I knew it by the 
 colour of the ink. The letter was worth 
 five hundred pounds to me 1 It was all 
 I could do to keep myself at first from 
 throwing my hat into the air, and hooraying 
 like mad. I had to take a chair and sit 
 quiet in it for a minute or two, before 
 I could cool myself down to my proper 
 business level. I knew that I was safely 
 down again when I found myself pondering 
 how to let Mr. Davager know that he had 
 been done by the innocent country attorney, 
 after all. 
 
 It was not long before a nice little irrita- 
 ting plan occurred to me. I tore a blank 
 leaf out of my pocket-book, wrote on it with 
 my pencil " Change for a five hundred 
 pound note," folded up the paper, tied the 
 thread to it, poked it back into the hiding 
 place, smoothed over the pile of the carpet, 
 and — as everybody in this place guesses 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 
 
 29 
 
 before I can tell them — bolted off to Mr. 
 Frank, lie, in his turn, bolted off to show 
 the letter to the young lady, who first certi- 
 fied to its genuineness, then dropped it into 
 the fire, and then took the initiative for the 
 first time since her marriage engagement, 
 by flinging her arms round his neck, kissing 
 him with all her might, and going into hys- 
 terics in his arms. So at least Mr. Frank 
 told me ; but that's not evidence. It is evi- 
 dence, however, that I saw them married 
 with my own eyes on the Wednesday ; 
 and that while they went off in a carriage 
 for to spend the honeymoon, I went off on 
 my own legs to open a credit at the Town 
 and County Bank with a five hundred pound 
 note in my pocket. 
 
 As to Mr. Davager, I can tell you nothing 
 about him, except what is derived from 
 hearsay evidence, which is always unsatis- 
 factory evidence, even in a lawyer's mouth. 
 
 My boy Tom, although twice kicked off by 
 Sam the pony, never lost hold of the bridle, 
 and kept his man in sight from first to last. 
 He had nothing particular to report, except 
 that on the way out to the Abbey Mr. Dava- 
 ger had stopped at the public-house, had 
 spoken a word or two to his friend of the 
 
 night before, and had handed him what 
 looked like a bit of paper. This was no 
 doubt a clue to the thread that held the let- 
 ter, to be used in case of accidents. In every 
 other respect Mr. D. had ridden out and rid- 
 den in like an ordinary sight-seer. Tom 
 reported him to me as having dismounted at 
 the hotel about two. At half-past I locked 
 my office door, nailed a card under the 
 knocker with " not at home till tn-morrow" 
 written on it, and retired to a friend's house 
 a mile or so out of the town for the rest of 
 the day. 
 
 Mr. Davager left the Gatliffe Arms that 
 night with his best clothes on his back, and 
 with all the valuable contents of liis dressing- 
 case in his pockets. I am not in a condition 
 to state whether he ever went through the 
 form of asking for his bill or not : but I can 
 positively testify that he never paid it, and 
 that the effects left in his bedroom did not 
 pay it either. When I add to these frag- 
 ments of evidence, that he and I have never 
 met (luckily for me), since I jockej-ed him 
 out of his bank note, I have about fulfilled 
 my implied contract as maker of a statement, 
 with the present company as hearers of a 
 statement 
 
 /KA^^'^'^^yv 
 
 THE FIFTH POOR TRAVELLER 
 
 Do you know — the journeyman watch- 
 maker from Geneva began — do you know 
 those long straight lines of French country, 
 over which I have often walked? Do you 
 know those rivers, so long, so uniform in 
 breadth, so dully gray in hue, that in des- 
 pair at their regularity, momentarily libel 
 nature as being only a grand canal commis- 
 sioner after all ? Do you know the long 
 funeral rows of poplars, or dreary parallelo- 
 grams of osiers, that fringe those river 
 banks ; the long white roads, hedgeless, 
 but, oh ! so dismally ditchful ; the long low 
 Btone walls ; the long farmhouses, without a 
 spark of the robust, leafy, cheerful life of 
 the English homsteads ; the long fields, 
 scarcely ever green, but of an ashen tone, 
 wearily furrowed, as though the earth had 
 grown old and was beginning to show the 
 crow's feet; the long interminable gray 
 French landscape ? The sky itself seems 
 longer than it ought to be ; and the clouds 
 stretch away to goodness knows where in 
 long low banks, as if the heavens had been 
 ruled with a parallel. If a vehicle passes 
 you it is only a wofully long diligence — 
 lengthened yellow ugliness long drawn out, 
 with a seemingly endless team of horses, 
 
 and a long, stifling cloud of dust behind it ; 
 a driver for the wheelers with a whip seven 
 times as long as it ought to be ; and a pos- 
 tillion for the leaders with boots long enough 
 for seven-leaguers. His oaths are long ; the 
 horses' manes are long ; their tails are so 
 long that they are obliged to have them tied 
 up with straw. The stages are long, the 
 journey long, the fares long — the whole 
 longitudinal carriage leaves a long melan 
 choly jingle of bells behind it. 
 
 Yes : French scenery is very lengthy ; so 
 I settled in my mind at least as I walked 
 with long strides along the white French 
 road. A longer me — my shadow — walked 
 before me, bending its back and drooping its 
 arms, and angularising its elonijated legs 
 like drowsy compasses. The shadow looked 
 tired : I felt so. I had been oppressed by 
 length all day. I had passed a long proces- 
 sion — some hundreds of boys in gray great 
 coats and red trowsers : soldiers. I had 
 found their guns and bayonets too long; 
 their coats disproportionately lengthy ; the 
 moustaches of their officers, ridiculously 
 elongated. There was no end of them — 
 their rolling drums, baggage waggons, and 
 led horses. I had passed a team of bullocks 
 
30 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 ploughing ; they looked as long as the lane 
 that hath no turning. A long man followed 
 them smoking a long pipe. A wretched pig 
 I saw, too — a long, lean, bristly, lanky-leg- 
 ged monstrosity, without even a curly tail, 
 for his tail was long and pendant; a mis- 
 erable pig, half-snouted greyhound, half- 
 abashed weazel, whole hog, and an eyesore 
 to me. I was a long way from home. I 
 had the spleen, I wanted something short — 
 not to drink, but a short break in the long 
 landscape, a house, a knoll, a clump of trees 
 — anything to relieve this long purgatory. 
 
 Whenever I feel inclined to take a more 
 than ordinarily dismal view of things, I find 
 it expedient to take a pipe of tobacco instead. 
 As I wanted to rest, however, as well as 
 emoke. I had to walk another long mile. 
 When I descried a house, in front thereof 
 was a huge felled tree, and on the tree I sat 
 and li<;hted my pipe. The day was of no 
 particular character whatever ; neither wet 
 nor dry, cold nor hot — neither springy, sum- 
 mery, autumnal, nor wintry. 
 
 The house I was sitting opposite to, might 
 have been one of public entertainment (for 
 it was a cabaret) if there had been any 
 public in the neighborhood to be entertained, 
 which (myself excepted) I considered doubt- 
 ful. It seemed to me as if Bacchus, roving 
 about on the loose, had dropped a stray tub 
 here on the solitary road, and no longer 
 coming that way, the tub itself had gone 
 to decay — had become uuhooped, mouldy, 
 leaky. I declare that, saving a certain fan- 
 ciful resemblance to the barrel on which the 
 god of wine is generally supposed to take 
 horse exercise, the house had no more shape 
 than a lump of cheese that one might dig 
 hap-hazard from a soft double Gloucester. 
 The windows were patches and the doorway 
 had evidently been made subsequently to 
 the erection of the building, and looked like 
 an excrescence as it was. The top of the 
 house had been pelted with mud, thatch, 
 tiles, and slates, rather than roofed ; and a 
 top room jutted out laterally from one of the 
 walls, supported beneath by crazy uprights, 
 like a poor relation clinging to a genteel 
 kinsman nearly as poor. The walls had 
 been plastered once, but the plaster had 
 peeled off in places, and mud and wattles 
 peeped through tike a beggar's bare knee 
 through his torn trowsers. An anomalous 
 wooden ruin, that might have been a barrel 
 in the beginning, then a dog-kennel, then a 
 dust-bin, then a hen-coop, seemed fast ap- 
 proximating (eked out by some rotten pail- 
 ings and half a deal box) to a pigstye : 
 perhaps my enemy the long pig with the 
 pendant tail lived there when he was at 
 home. A lively old birch-broom, senile but 
 twiggy, thriving under a kindly manure of 
 broken bottl(?s and woodashes, was the only 
 apology for trees, hedges, or vegetation gen- 
 erally, visible. If wood was deficient, how- 
 
 ever, there was plenty of water. Behind 
 the house, where it had been apparently 
 raining for some years, a highly respectable 
 puddle, as far as mud and stagnation went, 
 had formed, and on the surface of it drifted 
 a solitary, purposeless, solelcss old shoe, and 
 one dismal duck, which no amount of green 
 peas would have ever persuaded me to eat. 
 There was a chimney to the house, but not 
 in the proper place, of course ; it came out 
 of one of the walls, close to the impromptu 
 pigstye, in the shape of a rusty, battered iron 
 funnel. There had never been anything to 
 speak of done in the way of painting to 
 the house ; only some erratic journeyman 
 painter passing that way had tried his 
 brushes, in red, green, and yellow smudges 
 on the wall ; had commenced dead coloring 
 one of the window sills ; and had then given 
 it up as a bad job. Some pretentious an- 
 nouncements relative to "Good wines and 
 liquors" and " II y a un billard," there had 
 been once above the door, but the rain had 
 washed out some of the letters, and the 
 smoke had obscured others, and the plaster 
 had peeled off from beneath more ; and 
 some, perhaps, the writer had never finished ; 
 so the inscriptions were a mere wandering 
 piece of idiotcy now. If anything were 
 wanted to complete the general wretched- 
 ness of this house of dismal appearance, it 
 would have been found in the presence of a 
 ghostly set of ninepins that Kip Van Winkle 
 might have played with. 
 
 All these things were not calculated to 
 inspire cheerfulness. I continued smoking, 
 however, and thought that, by-and-by, I 
 would enter the cabaret, and see if there 
 were any live people there ; which appeared 
 unlikely. 
 
 All at once, there came out to me from 
 the house a little man. It is not at all de- 
 rogating from his manhood, to state that he 
 was also a little boy, of perhaps eight years 
 old ; but in look, in eye, in weird fur-cap, 
 in pea-coat, blue, canvas trowsers, and sa- 
 bots, he was at least thirty-seven years of 
 age. He had a remarkable way, too, of 
 stroking his chin with his hand. He looked 
 at me long and fully, but without the slight- 
 est rudeness, or intrusive curiosity ; then 
 sitting by my side on the great felled tree, 
 he smoked a mental pipe (so it appeard to 
 me), while I smoked a material one. Once, 
 I think, he softly felt the texture, of my 
 coat ; but I did not turn my head, and pre- 
 tended not to notice. 
 
 We were getting on thus, very sociably 
 together, without saying a word, when, 
 having finished my pipe, I replaced it in 
 my pouch, and began to remove a little of 
 the superfluous dust from my boots. My 
 pulverous appearance was the cue for the 
 little man to address himself to speech. 
 
 " I see," said he, gravely, " you are one 
 of those Poor Travellers whom mamma tells 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 
 
 31 
 
 as we are to take such care of. Attend, 
 attend ; I will do your affair for you in a 
 moment." 
 
 He trotted across to the cabaret, and 
 after a lapse of two or three minutes, re- 
 turned with a tremendous hunch of bread, 
 a cube of cheese — which smelt, as the 
 Americans say, rather loud, but was excel- 
 lently well tasted — and an anomalous sort 
 of vessel, that was neither a jug, a mug, a 
 cup, a glass, nor a pint-pot, but partook of 
 the characteristics of all — full of Macon wine. 
 
 " This is Friday," added the little man, 
 and meagre day, else should you be regaled 
 with sausage — and of Lyons — of which we 
 have as long as that." Saying which, he 
 extended his little arms to perhaps half a 
 yard's distance one from the other. 
 
 I did not care to inform the little man 
 that I was of a persuasion that did not for- 
 i id the eating of sausages on Fridays. I 
 ale the bread and cheese, and drank the 
 wine, all of which were very good and very 
 palatable, very contentedly ; the little maa 
 sitting by, the while, nursing one of his 
 short legs, and talking to himself softly. 
 
 When I had finished, I lighted another 
 pipe, and went in for conversation with the 
 little man. We soon exhausted the ordi- 
 nary topics of conversation, such as the 
 weather, the distance from the last town, 
 and the distance to the next. I found that 
 the little man's forte was interrogatory, and 
 let him have his swing that way. 
 
 "Tou come from a long way?" he asked. 
 
 " A long way," I answered. " From 
 beyond the Sous-prefecture, beyond Nantes, 
 beyond Brest and L'Orient." 
 
 " But from a town always ? You come 
 from a town where there are a great many 
 people, and where they make wheels 1" 
 
 I answered that I came from a large 
 town, and that I had no doubt, though 
 I had no personal experience in the matter, 
 that wheels were made there. 
 
 " And cannot you make wheels?" 
 
 I told him I was not a wheelwright ; 
 I only made the wheels of watches, which 
 were not the wheels he meant. 
 
 '"Because," the little man went on to 
 say, softly, and more to himself than to 
 me, " mamma said he liked to live in 
 towns, where there were many people, and 
 M. le Cure said that wherever wheels were 
 made, he could gain his bread." 
 
 I could not make much of this statement, 
 80 I puffed away at my pipe, and listened. 
 
 " By the way," my small but elderly 
 companion remarked, "would you have any 
 objection to my bringing my sister to you ?" 
 
 The more I saw of so original a family 
 the better, I thought ; so I told him I should 
 be delighted to see his sister. 
 
 He crossed over to the cabaret again, and 
 almost immediately afterwards returned, 
 leading a little maid. 
 
 She seemed about a year younger, or 
 a year older than her brother. I could not 
 tell which. It did not matter which. She 
 was very fair, and her auburn locks were 
 confined beneath a little prim blue cap. 
 Mittens, a striped woollen shirt, a smart 
 white chemisette, blue hose, and trim little 
 sabots, — all these had the little maid. She 
 had a little chain and golden cross ; a pair 
 of scissors hanging by a string to her girdle, 
 a black tabinet apron, and a little silver 
 ring on the forefinger of her left hand. Her 
 eyes were very blue, but they could not see 
 my dusty boots, my pipe, and three days' 
 beard. They could not see the great felled 
 tree, her brother, in his piea-coat, the sky, 
 the sun going down beyond the long straight 
 banks of trees. They had never seen any 
 of these things. The little maid was blind. 
 
 She had known all about me, however, as 
 far as the boots, the pipe, the dust, the 
 bread and cheese, my having come a long 
 way, and not being a wheelwrij^ht, went, 
 long since. At least, she seemed quite au 
 fait on general topics connected with my 
 social standing, or rather sitting, on the 
 tree ; and taking a seat on one side of me, 
 her brother, the little man, on the other, the 
 two little children began to chatter most 
 delightfully. 
 
 Mamma worked in the fields — in her own 
 fields. She had three fields ; fields large as 
 that (distance measured by little maid's 
 arms, after the manner of her brother, in 
 reference to the sausage question). Papa 
 made wheels. They loved him very much, 
 but he beat mamma, and drank wine by 
 cannons. When he was between two wines 
 (that is, drunk), he knocked Lili's head 
 against the wall (Lili was the little man). 
 When M. le Cur6 tried to bring him to a 
 sense of the moral, he laughed at his imse. 
 He was a farcer, was papa. He made 
 beautiful wheels, and earned money like 
 that (arm measurement again), except when 
 he went weddingising (nocer), when he 
 always came back between two wines, and 
 between the two fell to the ground. Papa 
 went away a long time, a very long time 
 ago ; before the white calf at the farm was 
 born. Before Andr6 drew the bad numhier 
 in the conscription, and went away to 
 Africa. Before Lili had his grand malady 
 (little man looked a hundred years old, with 
 the conscious experience of a grand malady. 
 What was it? Elephantiasis, spasmodic 
 neuralgia? Something wonderful, with a 
 long name, I am sure). Papa sold the 
 brown horse, and the great bed in oak, be- 
 fore he went away. He also brised mam- 
 ma's head with a bottle, previous to his de- 
 parture. He was coming back some day. 
 He was sure to come back. M. le Cure said 
 no, and that he was a worth-nothing, but 
 mamma said. Yes, and cried ; though, for 
 my part," concluded the little maid, when 
 
32 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 between herself and brother she had told 
 me all this, " / think that poor papa never 
 will come back, but he has gone away among 
 those Bedouin Turks, who are so m^chants, 
 and that they have eaten him up." 
 
 The little blind fairy made this statement 
 with an air of such positive, yet mild con- 
 viction, crossing her mites of hands in her 
 lap as she did so, that for the moment I 
 would have no more attempted to question 
 the prevalence of cannibalism in Constan- 
 tinople than to deny the existence of the 
 setting sun. 
 
 While these odd little people were thus 
 entertaining me, Heaven knows where ray 
 thoughts were wandering. This strange 
 life they led. The mother away at work, 
 the drunken wheelwright father a fugitive 
 (he must have been an awful ruiEan), and, 
 strangest of all strange phases, that these 
 two little ones should be left to keep a 
 public house ! I thought of all these 
 things, and then my thoughts came back 
 to, and centred themselves in, the weird 
 little tigure of the blind girl beside me. It 
 was but a poor little blind girl, in a blue 
 petticoat and sabots ; yet so exquisitely re- 
 gular were the features, so golden the hair, 
 So rirm, and smooth, and white — not marble, 
 not wax, not ivory, yet partaking of all 
 three, the complexion, so symmetrical every 
 line, and so gloriously harmonious the 
 whole combination of lines, that the little 
 maid might have been taken then and there 
 as she sat, popped in a frame, with " Raifa- 
 elle pinsit." in the corner, and purchased 
 on the nail for five thousand guineas. 
 
 I could not help noticing from time to 
 time, during our conversation, that the little 
 man in the pea-coat turned aside to whisper 
 somewhat mysteriously to his sister, and 
 then looked at me more mysteriously still. 
 He appeared to have something on his mind, 
 and alter a nod of apparent acquiescence 
 on the part of the little blind girl, it soon 
 came out what the something was. 
 
 " My sister and I," said this small person, 
 "hope that you will not be ofi'ended with 
 us ; but would you have any objection to 
 show us your tongue ?" 
 
 This was, emphatically, a startler. Could 
 the little man be a physician, as well as a 
 publican ? I did as he asked me, though I 
 am afraid I looked very foolish, and shut 
 my eyes as I thrust forth the member he 
 desired to inspect. He appeared highly 
 gratified with the sight of my tongue, com- 
 municating the results of his observation 
 thereof to his sister, who clapped her hands, 
 and seemed much pleased. Then he con- 
 descended to explain. 
 
 " You see," said he, " that you to^d us 
 you came from a distant country ; that is 
 well seen, for though you speak French like 
 a little sheep, you do not speak it with the 
 Bame tongue that we do." 
 
 My experience of the courtrmartial scene 
 in Black-eyed Susan, had taught me that it 
 was possible to play the fiddle like an angel; 
 but this was the first time I had ever heard 
 of a grown man talking like a little sheep. 
 I took it as a compliment, however (whether 
 I was right or wrong in doing so is ques- 
 tionable), and waited to hear more. 
 
 " And my sister says that the reason why 
 all strangers from far countries cannot speak 
 as we do, is because they have a dark line 
 right down their tongues. Now you must 
 have a line down your tongue, though I am 
 not tall enough to see it !" 
 
 The creed of this valiant little fellow in 
 respect to lines and tongues had evidently 
 been built long since, upon a rock of ages 
 of loving faith in what his sister had told 
 him. Besides, how do /know? /never saw 
 my tongue except in a looking-glass, and 
 that may have been false. My tongue may 
 have five hundred lines crossing it at every 
 imaginable angle, for aught I know. 
 
 So, we three, oddly assorted trio, went 
 chattering on, till the shadows warned me 
 that twilight was fast approaching, and that 
 I had two miles to walk to the town where 
 I had appointed to sleep. Remembering 
 then, that the little man had " done my 
 afi'air for me," in an early stage of our in- 
 terview in the way of bread and cheese and 
 wine, and not choosing to be really the poor 
 traveller I seemed, I drew out a five-franc 
 piece and profi"ered payment. 
 
 Both the children refused the coin ; and 
 the little maid said gravely, " Mamma said 
 that we were always to take care of poor 
 travellers. What we have given you is pour 
 I'amour de Dieu, — for God's sake. 
 
 I tried to force some trifle on them as a 
 gift, but they would have none of my coin. 
 Seeing then that I looked somewhat disap- 
 pointed, the little man, like a profound 
 diplomatist as he was, smoothed away the 
 diflSculty in a moment. 
 
 " If you like to go as far as you can see to 
 the right, towards the town," he said, " you 
 will find a blind old woman, playing upon a 
 flageolet, and sitting at a cakestall by the 
 way-side. And if you like to buy us some 
 gingerbread : — for three sous she will give 
 you — oh ! like that 1" For the last time in 
 this history he extended his arms in sign of 
 measurement. 
 
 I went as far as I could see, which was 
 not far, and found the blind old woman 
 playing on a flageolet, and not seeing at all. 
 Of her did I purchase gingerbread with 
 brave white almonds in it : following my 
 own notions of measurement, I may hint, in 
 respect to the number of sous worth. 
 
 Bringing it back to the children, I took 
 them up, and kissed them and bade them 
 good-bye. Then I left them to the ginger- 
 bread and the desolate cabaret, until mam- 
 ma should return fi'om the fields, and that 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 
 
 33 
 
 famous domestic institution, the " soupe," 
 of which frequent mention had already 
 been made during our intercourse, should 
 be ready. 
 I have never seen them since ; I shall 
 
 never see them again ; but, if it ever be my 
 lot to be no longer solitary, I pray that I 
 may have a boy and girl, as wise and good, 
 and innocent as I am sure those little chil- 
 dren were. 
 
 ..^/VS/'^^ -^ ^#^^^^w. 
 
 THE SIXTH POOR TRAVELLER 
 
 Was the little widow. She had been sit- 
 ting by herself in the darkest corner of the 
 room all this time ; her pale face often 
 turned anxiously toward the door, and her 
 hollow eyes watching restlessly, as if she 
 expected someone to appear. She was very 
 quiet, very grateful for any little kindness, 
 very meek in the midst of her wildness. 
 There was a strained expression in her eyes, 
 and a certain excited air about her altogetlier, 
 that was very near insanity ; it seemed as if 
 she had once been terrified by some sudden 
 shock, to the verge of madness. 
 
 When her turn came to speak, she began 
 in a low voice — her eyes still glancing to the 
 door — and spoke as if to herself rather than 
 to the rest of us; speaking low but ra- 
 pidly — somewhat like a somnambule re- 
 peating a lesson. 
 
 They advised me not to marry him (she 
 began). They told me he was wild — un- 
 principled — bad; but I did not care for 
 what they said. I loved him and I disbe- 
 lieved them. I never thought about his 
 goodness — I only knew that he was beautiful 
 and gifted beyond all that 1 l^ad ever met 
 with in our narrow society. I loved him, 
 with no passing school-girl fancy, but with 
 my whole heart — my whole soul. I had no 
 life, no joy, no hope without him, and hea- 
 ven would have been no heaven to me if he 
 had not been there. I say all this, simply 
 to show what a madness of devotion mine 
 was. 
 
 My dear mother was very kind to me 
 throughout. She had loved my father, I 
 believe, almost to the same extent ; so that 
 she could sympathise with me even while 
 discouraging. She told me that I was wrong 
 and foolish, and that I should repent ; but I 
 kissed away the painful lines between her 
 eyes, and made her smile when I tried to 
 prove to her that love was better than pru- 
 dence. So we married: not so much with- 
 out the consent as against the wish of my 
 family ; and even that wish withheld in 
 sorrow and in love. I remember all this 
 now, and see the true proportions of every- 
 thing ; then, I was blinded by my passions, 
 and understood nothing. 
 
 Wo went away to our pi'etty, bright home 
 3 
 
 [ in one of the neighborhoods of London, 
 
 • near a park. We lived there for many 
 
 I months — I in a state of intoxication rather 
 than of earthly happiness, and he was 
 happy, too, then, for I am sure he was in- 
 
 '. nocent, and I know he loved me. Oh, 
 
 ( dreams — dreams ! 
 
 I I did not know my husband's profession. 
 
 : lie was always busy and often absent ; but 
 he never told me what he did. There had 
 
 j been no settlements either, when I married, 
 lie said he had a conscientious scruple 
 
 ] against them ; that they were insulting to a 
 man's honor and degrading to any husband. 
 This was one of the reasons why, at home, 
 they did not wish me to marry him. But I 
 was only glad to be able to show him how I 
 trusted him, by meeting his wishes and re- 
 fusing, on my own account, to accept the 
 legal protection of settlements. It was such 
 a pride to me to sacrifice all to him. Thus 
 I knew nothing of his real life — his pursuits 
 or his fortunes. I never asked him any ques- 
 tions, as much from indifference to every- 
 thing but his love as from a wifely blind- 
 ness of trust. When he came home at night, 
 sometimes very gay, singing opera songs 
 and calling me his little Medora, as he used 
 when in a good humor, I was gay too, and 
 grateful. And when he came home moody 
 and irritable — which he used to do, often, 
 after we had been married about three 
 months, once even threatening to strike me, 
 with that fearful glare in his eyes I remem- 
 ber so well, and used to see so often after- 
 wards — then I was patient and silent, and 
 never attempted even to take his hand or 
 kiss his forehead when he bade me be still 
 and not interrupt him. lie was my law, and 
 his approbation the sunshine of my life ; so 
 that my very obedience was selfishness : for 
 my only joy was to see him happy, and my 
 only duty to obey him. 
 
 My sister came to visit us. My husband 
 had seen very little of her before our mai*- 
 riage ; for she had often been from home 
 when he was with us, down at Ilurst Farm 
 — that was the name of my dear mother's 
 place — and I had always fancied they had 
 not liked even the little they had seen of 
 each other. Ellen was never loud or impor- 
 
34 
 
 DICKEXS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 tunate in her opposition. I knew that she 
 did not like the marriage, but she did not 
 interfere. I remember quite well the only 
 time she spoke openly to me on the subject, 
 how she nung herself at my knees, with a 
 passion very rare in her, beseeching me to 
 pause and reflect, as if I had sold myself to 
 my ruin when I promised to be Ilarry's 
 wife. How she praj'ed ! Poor Ellen ! I can 
 see her now, with her heavy, uncurled hair 
 falling on her neck as she knelt half un- 
 dressed, her large eyes full of agony and 
 supplication, like a martyred saint praying. 
 Poor Ellen ! I thought her prejudiced then ; 
 and this unspoken injustice has lain like a 
 heavy crime on my heart ever since ; for I 
 know that I judged her wrongfully, and that 
 I was ungrateful for her love. 
 
 She came to see us. This was about a 
 year and a half after I married. She was 
 more beautiful than ever, but somewhat 
 sterner, as well as sadder. She was tall, 
 strong in person, and dignified in manner. 
 There was a certain manly character in her 
 beauty, as well as in her mind, that made 
 one respect and fear her too a little. I do 
 not mean that she was masculine, or hard, 
 or coarse : she was a true woman in grace 
 and gentleness ; but she was braver than 
 women in general. She had more self-reli- 
 ance, was more resolute and steadfast, and 
 infinitely less impulsive, and was more active 
 and powerful in body. 
 
 My husband was very kind to her. He 
 paid her great attention ; and sometimes I 
 half perceived that he liked her almost bet- 
 ter than he liked me — he used to look at her 
 so often : but with such a strange expression 
 in his eyes ! I never could quite make it 
 out, whether it was love or hate. Certainly, 
 after she came his manner changed towards 
 me. I was not jealous. I did not suspect 
 this change from any small feeling of 
 wounded self-love, or from any envy of my 
 sister ; but I saw it — I felt it in my heart — 
 yet without connecting it with Ellen in any 
 way. I knew that he no longer loved me as 
 be used to do, but I did not think he loved 
 her ; at least not with the same kind of love. 
 I used to be surprised at Ellen's conduct to 
 him. She was more than cold ; she was 
 passionately rude and unkind ; not so much 
 when I was there as when I was away. For 
 I used to hear her voice speaking in those 
 deep indignant tones that are worse to bear 
 than the hardest scream of passion ; and 
 sometimes I used to hear hard words — he 
 speaking at the first soft and pleadingly, 
 often to end in a terrible burst of anger and 
 imprecation. I could not understand why 
 they quarrelled. There was a mystery be- 
 tween them I did not know of; and I did 
 not like to ask them, for I was afraid of 
 them both — as much afraid of Ellen as my 
 husband — and I felt like a reed between 
 them — as if I should have been crushed be- 
 
 neath any storm I might chance to wake up. 
 So, I was silent — suffering alone, and bear- 
 ing a cheerful face so far as I could. 
 
 Ellen wanted me to return home with her. 
 Soon after she came, and soon after I heard 
 the first dispute between them, she urged 
 me to go back to Hurst Farm ; at once, and 
 for a long time. Weak as I am by nature, 
 it has always been a marvel to me since, 
 how strong I was where my love for my 
 husband was concerned. It seemed impos- 
 sible for me to yield to any pressure against 
 him. I believe now that a very angel could 
 not have turned me from him ! 
 
 At last she said to me in a low voice : 
 " Mary, this is madness ! — it is almost sin- 
 ful ! Can you not see — can you not hear ?" 
 And then she stopped, and would say no 
 more, though I urged her to tell me what 
 she meant. For this terrible mystery begun 
 to weigh on me painfully, and, for all that I 
 trembled so much to fathom it, I had begun 
 to feel that any truth would be better than 
 such a life of dread. I seemed to be living 
 among shadows; my very husband and sis- 
 ter not real, for their real lives were hidden 
 from me. But I was too timid to insist on 
 an explanation, and so things went on in 
 their old way. 
 
 In one respect only, changing still more 
 painfully, still more markedly ; in my hus- 
 band's conduct to me. He was like another 
 creature altogether to me now, he was so 
 altered. He seldom spoke to me at all, and 
 he never spoke kindly. All that I did an- 
 noyed him, all that I said irritated him ; and 
 once (the little widow covered her face with 
 her hands and shuddered) he spurned me 
 with his foot and cursed me, one night 
 in our own room, when I knelt weeping be- 
 fore him, supf)licating him for pity's sake to 
 tell me how I had offended him. But I said 
 to myself that he was tired, annoyed, and 
 that it was irritating to see a loving wo- 
 man's tears; and so I excused him, as often- 
 times before, and went on loving him all the 
 same — God forgive me for my idolatry ! 
 
 Things had been very bad of late be- 
 tween Ellen and my husband. But the 
 character of their discord was changed. In- 
 stead of reproaching, they watched each 
 other incessantly. They put me in mind of 
 fencers — my husband on the defensive. 
 
 " Mary," said my sister to me suddenly, 
 coming to the sofa where I was sitting em- 
 broidering my poor baby's cap. '• What 
 does your Harry do in life ? What is his 
 profession ?" 
 
 She fixed her eyes on me earnestly. 
 
 " I do not know, darling," I answered, 
 vaguely. "He has no profession that I 
 know of." 
 
 " But what fortune has he, then ? Did he 
 not tell you what his income was, and how 
 obtained, when he married? To us, he said 
 only that he had so much a year — a thou 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 
 
 35 
 
 eand a year ; and he would Pay no more. 
 But, has he not been more explicit with 
 you ?" 
 
 " No," I answered, considerinfi; ; for, in- 
 deed, I had never thought of this. I had 
 trusted so blindly to him in everything that 
 it would have seemed to me a profound in- 
 sult to have even asked of his aifairs. " No, 
 he never told me anything about his for- 
 tune, Ellen. He gives me money when I 
 want it, and is always generous. He seems 
 to have plenty ; whenever it is asked for, he 
 has it by him, and gives me even more than 
 I require." 
 
 Still her eyes kept looking at me in that 
 strange manner. "And this is all you 
 know ?" 
 
 " Yes — all. What more should I wish to 
 know? Is he not the husband, and has he 
 not absolute right over everything ! I have no 
 business to interfere." The words sound 
 harsher now than they did then, for I spoke 
 lovingly. 
 
 Ellen touched the little cap I held. " Does 
 not this make you anxious ?" she said. " Can 
 you not fear as a mother, even while you 
 love as a wife ?" 
 
 "Fear darling! Why? What should I 
 fear, or whom ? What is there, Ellen, on 
 your heart ?" I then added passionately. 
 " Tell uie at once ; for I know that you have 
 some terrible secret concealed from me ; and 
 I would rather know anything — whatever it 
 may be — than live on, longer, in this kind 
 of suspense and anguish ! It is too much for 
 me to bear, Ellen." 
 
 She took my hands. " Have you strength?" 
 she said, earnestly. " Could you really bear 
 the truth ?" Then seeing my distress, for I 
 had fallen into a kind of hysterical fit — I 
 was very delicate then — she shook her head 
 in despair, and letting my hands fall heavily 
 on my lap, said in undertone, " No, no ! she 
 is too weak — too childish !" Then she 
 went up stairs abruptly ; and I heard her 
 walking about her own room for nearly an 
 hour after, in long steady steps. 
 
 I have often thought that, had she told 
 me then, and taken me to her heart — her 
 strong, brave, noble heart — I could have de- 
 rived courage from it, and could have borne 
 the dreadful truth I was forced to know 
 afterwards. But the strong are so impatient 
 with us ! They leave us too soon — their 
 own strength revolts at our weakness ; so we 
 are often left, broken in this weakness, for 
 want of a little patience and sympathy. 
 
 Ilarry came in, a short time after Ellen 
 had left me. " What has she been saying?" 
 he cried, passionately. His eyes were wild 
 and bloodshot ; his beautiful black hair flung 
 all in disoi"der about his face. 
 
 " Dear Harry, she has said nothing about 
 you," I answei'ed, trembling. " She only 
 asked what was your profession, and how 
 much we had a year. That was all." 
 
 " Why did she ask this? What business 
 was it of hers?" cried Harry, fiercely. " Tell 
 me ;" and he shook me roughly ; " what did 
 you answer her, little fool ?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing;" and I began to cry: it 
 was because he frightened me. " I said, 
 what is true, that I knew nothing of your 
 aff'airs, as indeed what concern is that of 
 mine ? I could say nothing more, Harry." 
 
 " Better that than too much," he mutr 
 tered ; and then he flung me harshly back 
 on the sofa, saying, " Tears and folly and 
 weakness ! The same round — always the 
 same ! Why did I marry a mere pretty doll 
 — a plaything — no wife I" 
 
 And then he seemed to think he had said 
 too much ; for he came to me and kissed me, 
 and said that he loved me. But, for the first 
 time in our married life his kisses did not 
 soothe me, nor did I believe his assurances. 
 
 All that night I heard Ellen walk steadily 
 and unresting through her room. She never 
 slackened her pace, she never stopped, she 
 never hurried ; but, the same slow measured 
 tread went on ; the firm foot, yet light, fall- 
 ing as if to music, her very step the same 
 mixture of manliness and womanhood as her 
 character. 
 
 After this burst of passion Harry's tender- 
 ness to me became unbounded ; as if he 
 wished to make up to me for some wrong. 
 I need not say how soon I forgave him, nor 
 how much I loved him again. All my love 
 came back in one full boundless tide ; and 
 the current of my being set towards him 
 again as before. If he had asked me for my 
 life then, as his mere fancy, to destroy, I 
 would have given it to him. I would have 
 lain down and died, if he had wished to see 
 the flowers grow over my grave. 
 
 My husband and Ellen grew more es- 
 tranged as his affection seemed to return to 
 me. His manner to her was defying ; hers 
 to him contemptuous. I heard her call 
 him villain once, in the garden below the 
 windows ; at which he laughed — his wicked 
 laugh, and said " tell her, and see if she will 
 believe you !" 
 
 I was sitting in the window, working. It 
 was a cold damp day in the late autumn, 
 when those chill fogs of November are just 
 beginning ; those fogs with the frost in 
 them, that steal into one's very heart. It was 
 a day when a visible blight is in the air, 
 when death is abroad everywhere, and 
 sufi"ering and crime. I was alone in the 
 drawing-room. Ellen was up stairs, and my 
 husband, as I believed, in the City. But I 
 have remembered since, that I heard the 
 hall-door softly opened, and a footstep steal 
 (juietly by the drawing room up the stairs. 
 The evening was just beginning to ch)se in — 
 dull, gray, and ghostlike; the dying daylight 
 melting into the long shadows that stalked 
 like wandering ghosts about the fresh made 
 grave of nature. I sat working still, at some 
 
36 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 of those small garments about which I 
 dreamed such fond dreams, and wove such 
 large hopes of happiness ; and as I sat, while 
 the evening fell heavy about me, a myste- 
 rious shadow of evil passed over me, a dread 
 presentiment, a consciousness of ill, that 
 made me tremble, as if in ague — angry at 
 myself though for my folly. But, it was 
 reality. It was no hystetrical sinking of the 
 spirits that I felt ; no mere nervousness or 
 cowardice ; it was something I had never 
 known before ; a knowledge, a presence, 
 a power, a warning word, a spirit's cry, that 
 had swept by me as the fearful evil marched 
 on to its conclusion. 
 
 I heard a faint scream up stairs. It was 
 so faint I could scarcely distinguish it from 
 a sudden rush of wind through an opening 
 door, or the chirp of a mouse behind the 
 wainscot. Presently, I heard the same 
 sound a^ain ; and then a dull muffled noise 
 overhead, as of some one walking heavily, 
 or dragging a heavy weight across the floor. 
 I sat petrified by fear. A nameless agony 
 was upon me that deprived me of all power 
 of action. I thought of Harry and I thought 
 of Ellen, in an inextricable cypher of misery 
 and agony ; but I could not have defined a 
 line in my own mind ; I could not have ex- 
 plained what it was I feai-ed. I only knew 
 that it was sorrow that was to come and sin. 
 I listened, but all was still again ; once only, 
 I thought I heard a low moan, and once a 
 muttering voice — which I know now to have 
 been my husband's, speaking passionately 
 to himself. 
 
 And then his voice swept stormfuUy 
 through the house, crj'ing wildly, " Mary, 
 Mary ! Quick here ! Your sister ! Ellen !" 
 
 I ran up stairs. It seems to me now, 
 that I almost flew. I found Ellen lying on 
 the floor of her own room, just inside the 
 door ; her feet towards the door of my hus- 
 band's study, which was iranip'l'-il-ply op- 
 posite her room. She was faintiu_ ; it least 
 I thought so then. We raised her up between 
 us ; my husband trembling more than I ; 
 and I unfastened her gown, and threw 
 water on her face, and pushed back her 
 hair, but she did not revive. I told Harry to 
 go for a doctor. A horrid thought was steal- 
 ing over me ; but he lingered, as I fancied, 
 unaccountably and cruelly, though I twice 
 asked him to go. Then, I thought that per- 
 haps he was too much overcome ; so I went 
 to him, and kissed him, and said, " She will 
 soon be better, Harry," cheerfully, to cheer 
 him. But I felt in my heart that she was no 
 more. 
 
 At last, after many urgent entreaties, and 
 after the servants had come up, clustering in 
 a frightened way round the bed — but he 
 sent them away again immediately — he put 
 on his hat, and went out, soon returning 
 with a strange man ; not our own doctor. 
 This man Avas rude and coarse, and ordered 
 
 me aside, as I stood bathing my sister's 
 face, and pulled her arm and hand roughly, 
 to see how dead they fell, and stooped down 
 to her iips — I thought he touched them even 
 — all in a violent and insolent way, that 
 shocked me and bewildered me. My hus- 
 band stood in the shadow, ghastly pale, 
 but not interfering. 
 
 It was too true, what the strange man had 
 said so coarsely. She was dead. Yes ; the 
 creature that an hour ago had been so full 
 of life, so beautiful, so resolute, so young, 
 was now a stiffening corpse, inanimate and 
 dead, without life and without hope. Oh ! 
 that word had set my brain on fire ? Dead I 
 here, in my house, under my roof — dead so 
 mysteriously, so strangely — why ? How ? 
 It was a fearful dream, it was no truth that 
 lay there. I was in a nightmare ; I was not 
 sane ; and thinking how ghastly it all was, 
 I fainted softly on the bed, no one knowing, 
 till some time after, that I had fallen, and 
 was not praying. When I recovered I was 
 in my own room, alone. Crawling feebly 
 to my sister's door, I found that she had 
 been washed and dressed, and was now laid 
 out on her bed. It struck me that all had 
 been done in strange haste : Harry telling 
 me the servants had done it while I fainted. 
 I knew afterwards that he had told them 
 that it was I, and that I would have no 
 help. The mystery of it all was soon to be 
 unravelled. 
 
 One thing I was decided on — to watch by 
 my sister this night. It was in vain that my 
 husband opposed me ; in vain that he coaxed 
 me by his caresses, or tried to terrify me 
 with angry threats. Something of my sister's 
 nature seemed to have passed into me ; and 
 unless he had positively prevented me by 
 force, no other means would have had any 
 e2"ect. He gave way to me at last — angrily 
 — and the night came on and found me sit- 
 ting by the bedside watching my dear sister. 
 
 How beautiful she looked !. Her face, 
 still with the gentle mark of sorrow on it 
 that it had in life, looked so grand ! She 
 was so great, so pure ; she was like a goddess 
 sleeping ; she was not like a mere woman of 
 this earth. She did not seem to be dead ; 
 there was life about her yet, for there was 
 still the look of power and of human sympa- 
 thy that she used to have when alive. The 
 soul was there still, and love and knowledge. 
 
 By degrees a strange feeling of her 
 living presence in the room came over me. 
 Alone in the still midnight, with no sound, 
 no person near me, it seemed as if I had 
 leisure and power to pass into the world be 
 yond the grave. I felt my sister near me ; 
 I felt the passing of her life about me, as 
 when one sleeps, but still is conscious that 
 another life is weaving in with ours, it 
 seemed as if her breath fell warm on my 
 face ; as if her shadowy arms held me in 
 their clasp ; as if her eyes were looking 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 
 
 37 
 
 through the darkness at me ; as if I held 
 her hands in mine, and her long hair floated 
 round my forehead. And then to shake oif 
 these fancies, and convince myself that she 
 was really dead, I looked again and again at 
 her lying there ; a marble corpse, ice-cold, 
 with the lips set and rigid, and the death 
 band beneath her chin. There she was, 
 stiff in her white shroud, the sno\vy linen 
 pressing so lightly on her ; no life within, no 
 warmth about her, and all my fancies were 
 vain dreams. Then I buried my face in my 
 hands, and wept as if my heart was break- 
 ing. And when I turned away my eyes 
 from her, the presence came around me 
 again. So long as I watched her it was not 
 there : I saw the corpse only ; but when I 
 shut this out from me, then it seemed as if a 
 barrier had been removed, and that my 
 sister floated near me again. 
 
 I iiad been praying, sitting thus in these 
 alternate feelings of her spiritual presence 
 and her bodily death, when, raising my head 
 and looking towards the farther corner of 
 the room, I saw, standing at some little dis- 
 tance, my sister Ellen. I saw her distinctly, 
 as distinctly as you may see that red fire 
 bhize. Sadly and lovingly her dark eyes 
 li)oked at me, sadly her gentle lips smiled, 
 and by look and gesture too she showed me 
 tiiat she wished to speak to me. Strange, I 
 was not frightened. It was so natural to 
 see her there, that for the moment I forgot 
 tliat she was dead. 
 Ellen," I said, " what is it ?" 
 
 The figure smiled. It came nearer. Oh ! 
 do not say it was fancy ! I saw it advance ; 
 it came glidingly ! I remembered afterwards 
 that it did not walk — but it came forward — 
 to the light, and stood not ten paces from 
 me. It looked at me still, in the same sad 
 gentle way, and somehow — I do not know 
 whether with the hand or by the turning of 
 the head — it showed me the throat, where 
 were the distinct marks of two powerful 
 hands. And then it pointed to its heart ; 
 and looking, I saw the broad stain of blood 
 above it. And then I heard her voice — I 
 swear I was not mad — I heard it, I say to 
 you distinctly — whisper softly, " Mary \" and 
 tlien itsaid, still more audibly, " Murdered !" 
 
 And then the figure vanished, and sud- 
 denlv the whole room was vacant. That one 
 dread word had sounded as if forced out by 
 the pressure of some strong agony — like a 
 man revealing his life's secret when dying. 
 And when it had been spoken, or rather 
 wailed forth, there was a sudden sweep and 
 chilly rush through the air ; and the life, the 
 Bi)ul, the presence fled. I was alone again 
 with Death. The mission had been fulfilled ; 
 the warning had been given ; and then my 
 eister passed away, — for her work with earth 
 was done. L_-— _^^_^_^ 
 
 Brave anocalm as tne strongest man that 
 ever fought on a battle field, I stood up beside 
 
 my sister's body. I unfastened her last dress, 
 and threw it back from her chest and shoul- 
 ders ; I raised her head and took off the 
 bandage from round her face ; and then I 
 saw deep black bruises on her throat, the 
 marks of hands that had grappled her from 
 behind, and that had strangled her. And 
 then I looked further, and I saw a small 
 wound below the left breast, about which 
 hung two or three clots of blood, that had 
 oozed up, despite all care and knowledge in 
 her manner of murder. I knew then she 
 had first been suffocated, to prevent her 
 screams, and then stabbed where the wound 
 would bleed inwardly, and show no sign to 
 the mere bystander. 
 
 I covered her up carefully again. I laid 
 the pillow smooth and straight, and laid the 
 heavy head gently down. I drew the shroud 
 close above the dreadful mark of murder 
 And then — still as calm and resolute as 1 
 had been ever since the revelation had come 
 to me — I left the room, and passed into my 
 husband's study. It was on me to discover 
 all the truth. 
 
 His writing-table was locked. Where my 
 strength came from, I know not ; but, with a •• 
 chisel that was lying on the table, I pried 
 the drawer and broke the lock. I opened 
 it. There was a long and slender dagger 
 lying there, red with blood ; a handful of 
 woman's hair rudely severed from the head, 
 lay near it. It was my sister's hair ! — that 
 wavy silken uncurled auburn hair that I had 
 alwaj'S loved and admired so much ! And 
 near to these again, were stamps and dies, 
 and moulds, and plates, and handwritings 
 with facsimiles beneath, and banker's 
 cheques, and a heap of leaden coin, and 
 piles of incomplete bank-notes ; and all the 
 evidences of a coiner's and a forger's trade, 
 — the suspicion of which had caused those 
 bitter quarrellings between poor Ellen and 
 my husband — the knowledge of which had 
 caused her death. 
 
 With these things I saw also a letter ad- 
 dressed to Ellen in my husband's hand- 
 writing. It was an unfinished letter, as if 
 it had displeased him, and he had made 
 another copy. It began with these words — 
 no fear that I should forget them ; they are 
 burnt into my brain — " I never really loved 
 her, Ellen ; she pleased me, only as a doll 
 would please a ehild ; and I married her 
 from pity, not from love. You, Ellen, you 
 alone could fill my heart ; you alone are mv 
 
 fit helpmate. Fly with me Ellen ' 
 
 Here, the letter was left unfinished ; but it 
 gave me enough to explain all the meaning 
 of the first weeks of my sister's stay here, 
 and why she had called him villain, and 
 why he had told her that she might tell me, 
 and that I would not believe. 
 
 I saw it all now. 1 turned my head, to 
 see my husband standing a kw paces behind 
 me. Good Heaven ! I have often thought, 
 
38 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 was that man the same man I had loved so 
 long and fondly ? 
 
 The strength of horror, not of courage, up- 
 held me. I knew he meant to kill me, but 
 that did not alarm me ; I only dreaded lest 
 his hand should touch me. It was not 
 death, it was he I shrank from. I believe 
 if he had touched me then, I should have 
 fallen dead at his feet. I stretched out my 
 arms in horror, to thrust him back, uttering 
 a piercing shi-iek ; and while he made an 
 effort to seize me, overreaching himself in 
 the madness of his fury, I rushed by him, 
 shrieking still, and so fled away into the 
 darkness, where I lived, oh ! for many many 
 mouths 1 
 
 When I woke again, I found that my poor 
 baby had died, and that my husband had 
 gone none knew where. But the fear of his 
 return haunted me. I could get no rest day 
 or night for dread of him ; and I felt going 
 mad with the one hard thought for ever 
 pitilessly pursuing me — that I should fall 
 again into his hands. I put on widow's 
 weeds — for indeed am I too truly widowed ! 
 — and then I began wandering about ; 
 wandering in poverty and privation, ex- 
 pecting every moment to meet him face 
 to face ; wandering about, so that I may 
 escape the more easily when the moment 
 does come. 
 
 THE SEVENTH POOR TRAVELLER' 
 
 We were all yet looking at the Widow, 
 after her frightened voice had died away, 
 when the Book-Pedlar, apparently afraid of 
 being forgotten, asked what did we think 
 of his giving us a Legend to wind up with ? 
 We all said (except the Lawyer, who wanted 
 a description of the murderer to send to the 
 Police Hue and Cry, and who was with great 
 diflficulty nudged to silence by the united 
 efforts of the company) that we thought we 
 should like it. So, the Book-Pedlar started 
 off at score, thus : 
 
 Girt round with rugged mountains 
 
 The fair Lake Constance lies ! 
 In her blue heart reflected. 
 
 Shine back the starry skies ; 
 And watching each white cloudlet 
 
 Float silently and slow. 
 You think a piece of heaven 
 
 Lies on our earth below ! 
 
 Midnight is there : and silence 
 
 Enthroned in Heaven, looks down 
 Upon her own calm mirror, 
 
 Upon a sleeping town : 
 For Bregenz, that quaint city 
 
 Upon the Tyrol shore, 
 Has stood upon Lake Constance, 
 
 A thousand years and more. 
 
 Her battlements and towers. 
 
 Upon their rocky steep. 
 Have cast their trembling shadow 
 
 For ages on the deep : 
 Mountain, and lake, and valley, 
 
 A sacred legend know. 
 Of how the town was saved one night. 
 
 Three hundred years ago. 
 
 Far from her home and kindred, 
 A Tyrol maid had fled. 
 
 To serve in the Swiss valleys, 
 
 And toil for daily bread ; 
 And every year that fleeted 
 
 So silently and fast, 
 Seemed to bear farther from her 
 
 The memory of the Past. 
 
 She served kind, gentle masters. 
 
 Nor asked for rest or change ; 
 Her friends seemed no more new ones. 
 
 Their speech seemed no more strange ; 
 And when she led her cattle 
 
 To pasture every day. 
 She ceased to look and wonder 
 
 On which side Bregenz lay 
 
 She spoke no more of Bregenz, 
 
 With longing and with tears ; 
 Her Tyrol home seemed faded 
 
 In a deep mist of years. 
 She needed not the rumors 
 
 Of Austrian war and strife ; 
 Each day she rose contented. 
 
 To the calm toils of life. 
 
 Yet when her master's children 
 
 Would clustering round her stand, 
 She sang them the old ballads 
 
 Of her own native land ; 
 Ani when at morn and evening 
 
 She knelt before God's throne, 
 The accents of her childhood 
 
 Rose to her lips alone 
 
 And so she dwelt ; the valley 
 
 More peaceful year by year ; 
 Yet suddenly strange portents, 
 
 Of some great deed seemed near. 
 The golden corn was bending 
 
 Upon its fragile stalk. 
 While farmers, heedless of their fields. 
 
 Paced up and down in talk. 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 
 
 39 
 
 The men seemed stern and altered, 
 
 With looks cast on the ground ; 
 With anxious faces, one by one, 
 
 The women gathered round ; 
 All talk of flax, or spinning, 
 
 Or work, was put away ; 
 The very children seemed afraid 
 
 To go alone to play. 
 
 One day, out in the meadow, 
 
 With strangers from the town. 
 Some secret plan discussing. 
 
 The men walked up and down. 
 Yet, now and then seemed watching, 
 
 A strange uncertain gleam, 
 That looked like lances 'mid the trees, 
 
 That stood below the stream. 
 
 At eve they all assembled. 
 
 All care and doubt were fled ; 
 With jovial laugh they feasted, 
 
 The board was nobly spread, 
 The elder of the village 
 
 Rose up, his glass in hand, 
 And cried, " We drink the downfall 
 
 " Of an accursed land ! 
 
 " The night is growing darker, 
 
 " Ere one more day is flown, 
 " Bregenz, our foemcn's stronghold 
 
 " Bregenz shall be our own !" 
 The women shrank in terror 
 
 (Yet Pride, too, had her part), 
 But one poor Tyrol maiden 
 
 Felt death within her heart 
 
 Before her, stood fair Bregenz, 
 
 Once more her towers arose ; 
 What were the friends beside her ] 
 
 Only her country's foes ! 
 The faces of her kinsfolk. 
 
 The days of childhood flown, 
 The echoes of her mountains. 
 
 Reclaimed her as their own ! 
 
 Nothing she heard around her, 
 
 (Though shouts rang forth again) 
 Gone were the green Swiss valleys, 
 
 The pasture, and the plain ; 
 Before her eyes one vision. 
 
 And in her heart one cry. 
 That said, " Go forth, save Bregenz, 
 
 And then, if need be, die !" 
 
 With trembling haste and breathless, 
 
 With noiseless step, she sped ; 
 Horses and weary cattle 
 
 Were standing in the shed. 
 She loosed the strong white charger, 
 
 That fed from out her hand ; 
 She mounted, and she turned his head 
 
 Towards her native land. 
 
 Out — out into the darkness — 
 Faster, and still more fast ; 
 
 The smooth grass flies behind her, 
 The chestnut wood is past ; 
 
 She looks up ; clouds are heavy ; 
 
 Why is her steed so slow 1 
 Scarcely the wind beside them. 
 
 Can pass them as they go. 
 
 " Faster !" she cries, " O faster !" 
 
 Eleven the church-bells chime ; 
 " O God," she cries, " help Bregenz, 
 
 And bring me there in time !" 
 But louder than bells' ringing, 
 
 Or lowing of the kine. 
 Grows nearer in the midnight 
 
 The rushing of the Rhine. 
 
 She strives to pierce the blackness, 
 
 And looser throws the rein ; 
 Her steed must breast the waters 
 
 That dash above his mane. 
 How gallantly, how nobly, 
 
 He struggles through the foam 
 And see — in the far distance. 
 
 Shine out the lights of home ! 
 
 Shall not the roaring waters 
 
 Their headlong gallop check 1 
 The steed draws back in terror, 
 
 She leans above his neck 
 To watch the flowing darkness. 
 
 The bank is high and steep. 
 One pause — he staggers forward. 
 
 And plunges in the deep. 
 
 Up the steep bank he bears her. 
 
 And now, they rush again 
 Towards the heights of Bregenz, 
 
 That tower above the plain. 
 They reach the gate of Bregenz, 
 
 Just as the midnight rings. 
 And out come serf and soldier 
 
 To meet the news she brings. 
 
 Bregenz is saved ! Ere daylight 
 
 Her battlements are manned ; 
 Defiance greets the army 
 
 That marches on the land. 
 And if to deeds heroic 
 
 Should endless fame be paid. 
 Bregenz does well to honor 
 
 The noble Tyrol maid. 
 
 Three hundred years are vanished. 
 
 And yet upon the hill 
 An old stone gateway rises, 
 
 To do her honor still. 
 And there, when Bregenz women 
 
 Sit spinning in the shade. 
 They see in quaint old carving 
 
 The charger and the Maid. 
 
 And when, to guard old Bregenz, 
 
 By gateway, street, and tower. 
 The warder paces all night long. 
 
 And calls each passing hour ; 
 " Nine," " ten," " eleven," he cries aloud. 
 
 And then (O crown of Fame !) 
 When midnight pauses in the skies. 
 
 He calls the maiden's name ! 
 
THE ROAD. 
 
 The stories being all finished, and the 
 Wassail too, wo broke up as the Cathedral- 
 bell struck Twelve. I did not take leave of 
 my Travellers that night ; for, it had come 
 into my head to reappear in conjunction 
 with some hot coffee, at seven in the morn- 
 ing. 
 
 As I passed along the High Street, I 
 heard the Waits at a distance, and struck 
 off to find them. They vrere playing near 
 one of the old gates of the city, at the corner 
 of a wonderfull}' quaint row of red-brick tene- 
 ments, which the clarionet obligingly in- 
 formed me were inhabited by the Minor- 
 Canons. They had odd little porches over 
 the doors, like sounding-boards over old pul- 
 pits ; and I thought I should like to see one 
 of the Minor-Canons come out upon his top 
 step, and favor us with a little Christmas 
 discourse about the poor scholars of Ro- 
 chester ; taking for his text the words of 
 his Master, relative to the devouring of 
 Widows' houses. 
 
 The clarionet was so communicative, and 
 my inclinations were (as they generally are), 
 of so vagabond a tendency, that I accompa- 
 nied the Waits across an open green called 
 the Vines, and assisted — in the French sense 
 — at the performance of two waltzes, two 
 polkas, and three Irish melodies, before I 
 thought of my inn any more. However, I 
 returned to it then, and found a fiddle in the 
 kitchen, and Ben, the wall-eyed young man, 
 and two chambermaids, circling round the 
 great deal table with the utmost animation. 
 
 I had a very bad night. It cannot have 
 been owing to the turkey, or the beef — and 
 the Wassail is out of the question — but, in 
 every endeavor that I made to get to sleep, 
 I failed most dismally. Now, I was at Ba- 
 dajos with a fiddle ; now, haunted by the 
 widow's murdered sister. Now, I was riding 
 on a little blind girl to save my native town 
 from sack and ruin. Now, I was expostula- 
 ting with the dead mother of the unconscious 
 little sailor-boy ; now, dealing in diamonds 
 in Sky Fair; now, for life or death hiding 
 mince-pies under bed-room carpets. For all 
 this, I was never asleep; and, in whatsoever 
 unreasonable direction my mind rambled, 
 the effigy of Master Richard Watts perpetu- 
 ally embarrassed it. 
 
 In a word, I only got out of the worship- 
 ful Master Richard Watts's way, by getting 
 out of bed in the dark at six o'clock, and 
 tumbling, as my custom is, into all the cold 
 water that could be accumulated for the 
 (4U) 
 
 purpose. The outer air was dull and cold 
 enough in the street, when I came down 
 there ; and the one candle in our supper- 
 room at Watts's Charity looked as pale in 
 the burning, as if it had had a bad night 
 too. But, my Travellers had all slept 
 soundly, and they took to the hot coffee, and 
 the piles of bread and butter which Ben had 
 arranged like deals in a timber-yard, aa 
 kindly as I could desire. 
 
 While it was yet scarcely daylight, we all 
 came out into the street together, and there 
 shook hands. The widow took the little 
 sailor towards Chatham, where he was to 
 find a steamboat for Sheerness ; the lawyer, 
 with an extremely knowing look, went his 
 own way, without committing himself by 
 announcing his intentions ; two more struck 
 off by the cathedral and old castle for Maid- 
 stone ; and the book-pedlar accompanied me 
 over the bridge. As for me, I was going to 
 walk, by Cobham Woods, as far upon my 
 way to London as I fancied. 
 
 When I came to the stile and footpath by 
 which I was to diverge from the main-road, 
 I bade farewell to my last remaining Poor 
 Traveller, and pursued my way alone. And 
 now, the mist began to rise in the most 
 beautiful manner, and the sun to shine : and 
 as I went on through the bracing air, see- 
 ing the hoar frost sparkle everywhere, I felt 
 as if all Nature shared in the joy of the great 
 Birthday, 
 
 Going through the woods, the softness of 
 my tread upon the mossy ground and among 
 the brown leaves, enhanced the Christmas 
 sacredness by which I felt surrounded. As 
 the whitened stems environed me, I thought 
 how the Founder of the time had never 
 raised his benignant hand, save to bless and 
 heal, except in the case of one unconscious 
 tree. By Cobham Hall, I came to the vil- 
 lage, and the churchyard where the dead 
 had been quietly buried, " in the sure and 
 certain hope" which Christmas time in- 
 spired. What children could I see at play, 
 and not be loving of, recalling who had 
 loved them ! No garden that I passed, was 
 out of unison with the day, for I remember- 
 ed that the tomb was in a garden, and that 
 " she supposing him to be the gardener," 
 had said, " Sir, if thou have borne him 
 hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and 
 I will take him away," In time, the distant 
 river with the ships, came full in view, and 
 with it pictures of the poor fishermen mend- 
 ing their nets, who arose and followed him 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 
 
 41 
 
 — of the teaching of the people from a ship 
 pushed off a little way from shore, by reason 
 of the multitude — of a majestic figure walk- 
 ing on the water, in the loneliness of night. 
 My very shadow on the ground was eloquent 
 of Christmas ; for, did not the people lay their 
 sick where the mere shadows of the men 
 who had heard and seen him, might fall as 
 they passed along ? 
 
 Thus, Christmas begirt me, far and near, 
 until I had come to Blackheath, and had 
 walked down the long vista of gnarled old 
 
 trees in Greenwich Park, and was being 
 steam-rattled, through the mists now closing 
 in once more, towards the lights of London. 
 Brightly they shone, but not so brightly as 
 my own fire and the brighter faces around 
 it, when we came together to celebrate the 
 day. And there I told of worthy Master 
 Richard Watts, and of my supper with 
 the Six Poor Travellers who were neither 
 Rogues nor Proctors, and from that hour 
 to this, I have never seen one of them 
 again. 
 
NINE 
 
 NEW STORIES BY THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 
 
 •-•^rfN/S^^ -^ ^^^'^rf^^- 
 
 THE SCHOOLBOY'S STORY. 
 
 Beixg rather young at present — I am 
 getting on in years, but still I am rather 
 young — I have no particular adventures of 
 my own to fall Ijack upon. It wouldn't 
 much interest anybody here, I suppose, to 
 know what a screw the Reverend is, or what 
 a griffin she is, or how they do stick it into 
 parents — particularly hair-cutting and med- 
 ical attendance. One of our fellows was 
 charged in his half's account twelve and 
 six-pence for two pills — tolerably profitable 
 at six and threepence a-piece, I should think 
 — and he never took them either, but put 
 them up the sleeve of his jacket. 
 
 As to the beef, it's shameful. It's not 
 beef. Regular beef is't veins. You can chew 
 regular beef. Besides which, there's gravy 
 to regular beef, and you never see a drop to 
 ours. Another of our fellows went home 
 ill, and heard the family doctor tell his 
 father that he couldn't account for his com- 
 plaint unless it was the beer. Of course it 
 was the beer, and well it might be ! 
 J However, beef and Old Cheeseman are two 
 uiflerent things. So is beer. It was Old 
 Cheeseman I meant to tell about ; not the 
 manner in which our fellows get their con- 
 stitutions destroyed fot the sake of profit 
 
 most he remembered about it. He never 
 went home for the holidays. His accounta 
 (he never learnt any extras) were sent to a 
 Bank, and the Bank paid them ; and he had 
 a brown suit twice a year, and went into 
 boots at twelve. They were always too big 
 for him, too. 
 
 / In the Midsummer holidays, some of our 
 tellows who lived within walking distance, 
 used to come back and climb the trees outside 
 the playground wall, on purpose to look at 
 Old Cheeseman reading there by himself. 
 He was always as mild as the tea — and that's 
 pretty mild, I should hope ! — so when they 
 whistled to him, he looked up and nodded ; 
 and when they said " Halloa Old Cheeseman, 
 what have you had for dinner?" he said 
 " Boiled mutton ;" and when they said 
 " An't it solitary, Old Cheeseman ?" he said 
 " It is a little dull sometimes ;" and then 
 they said "Well, good bye, Old Cheeseman !" 
 and climbed down again. Of course it was 
 imposing on Old Cheeseman to give him 
 nothing but boiled mutton through a whole 
 Vacation, but that was just like the system. 
 When they didn't give him boiled mutton 
 they gave him rice pudding, pretending it 
 was a treat. And saved the butcher. 
 
 Why, look at the pie-crust alone. There'rj' So Old Cheeseman went on. The holidays 
 no flakiness in it. It's solid — like damp brought him into other trouble besides the 
 lead. Then our fellows get nightmares, and loneliness ; because when the fellows began 
 are bolstered for calling out and waking to come back, not wanting to, he was always 
 other fellows. Who can wonder ! 1 glad to see them: which was aggravating 
 
 Old Cheeseman one night waked in his I when they were not at all glad to see him, 
 sleep, put his hat on over his night-cap. got | and so he got his head knocked against walls, 
 hold of a fishing-rod and a cricket-bat, and and that was the way his nose bled. But he 
 •went down into the parlor, where they I was a favorite in general. Once, a subscrip- 
 naturally thought from his appearance he | tion was raised for him ; and, to keep up his 
 was a Ghost. Why, he never would have I spirits, he was presented before the holidays 
 
 done that, if his meals had been wholesome 
 When we all begin to walk in our sleeps, I 
 suppose they'll be sorry for it. 
 
 Old Cheeseman wasn't second Latin Mas- 
 ter then ; he was a fellow himself. He was 
 
 with two white mice, a rabbit, a pigeon, and 
 a beautiful puppy. Old Cheeseman cried 
 about it, especially soon afterwards, when 
 they all ate one another. 
 
 Of course Old Cheeseman used to be called 
 
 first brought there, very small, in a post- by the names of all sorts of cheeses. Double 
 chaise, by a woman who was always taking Glo'sterman, Family Cheshireman, Dutch- 
 snuff and shaking him — and that was the man, North Wiltshireman, and all that 
 
 (43) 
 
44 
 
 DIClvEXS' XEW STORIES. 
 
 But he never minded it. And I don't mean 
 to say he was old in point of 3"ears, because 
 he wasn't, only he was called, from the first. 
 Old Cheeseman. ; x' 
 
 At last. Old Chy^eseman was made second 
 Latin Master. He was brnujilit in one morn- 
 ing at the beginning of a new half, and pre- 
 sented to the school in that capacity as " Mr. 
 Cheeseman." Then our fellows all agreed 
 that Old Cheeseman was a spy, and a de- 
 serter, who had gone over to the enemy's 
 camp, and sold himself for gold. It was no 
 excuse for him tliat he had sold himself for 
 very little gold — two pound ten a quarter, 
 and his washing, as was reported. It was 
 decided by a Parliament which sat about it, 
 that Old Cheeseman's mercenary motives 
 could alone l)e taken into account, and that 
 he had " coined our blood f<jr drachmas." 
 The Parliament took the expression out of 
 the quarrel scene between Brutus and Cas- 
 sius. 
 
 When it was settled in this strong way 
 tliat Old Cheeseman was a tremendous trai- 
 tor, who had wormed himself Into our fellows' 
 secrets on purpose to get himself into favor 
 by giving up everything he knew, all cour- 
 ageous fellows were invited to come forward 
 and enrol themselves in a Society for making 
 a set against him. The President of the 
 Society was First boy, named Bob Tarter. 
 Ilis father was in the "West Indies, and he 
 owned, himself, that his father was worth 
 millions. lie had great power among our 
 fellows, and he Avrote a parody, beginning, 
 
 " Who made believe to be so meek 
 That we could hardly hear him speak, 
 Yet turned out an Informinir Sneak ? 
 Old Cheeseman." 
 
 — and on in that way through more than a 
 dozen verses, which he used to go and sing, 
 every morning, close by the new master's 
 desk. He trained one of the low boys too, 
 a rosy cheeked little Brass who didn't care 
 what he did, to go up to him with his Latin 
 Grammar one morning, and say it so: — 
 Kominaficus jyronomiaiun — Old Cheeseman, 
 raro exprimitiir — was never suspected, nisi 
 distinctionis — of being an informer, au em- 
 phasis gratia — until he proved one. Ut — 
 for instance, Vos damnastis — when he sold 
 the boys. Quasi — as though, diVa^ — he should 
 say, PretcBrea nemo — I'm a Judas ! All this 
 
 f reduced a great effect on Old Cheeseman. 
 le had neyer had much hair ; but what he 
 had, began to get thinner and thinner every 
 day. He grew paler and more worn ; and 
 sometimes of an evening he was seen sitting 
 at his desk with a precious long snuff to his 
 candle, and his hands before his face, crying. 
 But no member of the Society could pity 
 him, even if he felt inclined, because, the 
 President said it was Old Cheeseman's con- 
 science. 
 
 So Old Cheeseman went on, and didn't he 
 
 lead a miserable life ! Of course the Rev 
 erend turned up his nose at him, and of 
 course she did — because both of them always 
 do at all the masters, but he suffered from 
 the fellows most, and he suffered from them 
 constantly. lie never told about it, that the 
 society could find out ; but he got no credit 
 for that, because the President said it was 
 Old Cheeseman's cowardice. 
 
 He had only one friend in the world, and 
 that one was almost as powerless as he was, 
 for it was only Jane. Jane was a sort of 
 wardrobe-woman to our fellows, and took 
 care of the boxes. She came, at first, I 
 believe, as a kind of apprentice, some of 
 our fellows say from a Charity, but / don't 
 know, and after her time was out, had 
 stopped at so much a year. So little a year, 
 perhaps I ought to say, for it is far more 
 likely. However, she had put some pounds 
 in the Savings Bank, and she was a very 
 nice young woman. She was not quite 
 pretty ; but she had a very frank, honest, 
 bright face, and all our fellows were fond 
 of her. She was uncommonly neat and 
 cheerful, and uncommonly comfortable and 
 kind. And if anything was the matter with 
 a fellow's mother, he always went and 
 showed the letter to Jane. 
 
 Jane was Old Cheeseman's friend. The 
 more the Soelety went against him, the 
 more she stood by him. She used to give 
 him a good-humored look out of her still- 
 room window, sometimes, that seemed to 
 set him up for the day. She used to pass out 
 of the orchard and the kitchen-garden (al- 
 ways kept locked, I believe you Ij throutrh 
 the play-ground, when she might have gone 
 the other way, only to give a turn of her 
 head, as much as to say, " Keep up your 
 spirits !" to Old Cheeseman. His slip "of a 
 room was so fresh and orderly, that it was 
 well known who looked after it while he 
 was at his desk ; and when our fellows saw 
 a smoking hot dumpling on his plate at 
 dinner, they knew with indignation who 
 had sent it up. 
 
 Under these circumstances, the Society 
 resolved, after a quantity of meeting and 
 debating, that Jane should be requested to 
 cut Old Cheeseman dead ; and that if she 
 refused, she must be sent to Coventry her- 
 self. So a deputation, headed by the Presi- 
 dent, was appointed to wait on Jane, and 
 inform her of the vote the Society had been 
 under the painful necessity of passing. She 
 was very much respected for all her good 
 qualities, and there was a story of her hav- 
 ing once waylaid the Reverend in his own 
 study, and got a fellow off from severe pun- 
 ishment, of her own kind comfortable heart. 
 So the deputation didn't much like the job. 
 However, they went up, and the President 
 told Jane all about it. Upon which Jane 
 turned very red, burst into tears, Informed 
 the President and deputation, in a way not 
 
NINE NEW STORIES BY THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 
 
 45 
 
 at all like her usual Tvay, that they were a 
 parcel of malicious young savages, and 
 turned the whole respected body out of the 
 room. Consequently, it was entered in the 
 Society's book (kept in astronomical cypher, 
 for fear of detection), that all communica- 
 tion with Jane was interdicted ; and the 
 President addressed the members on this 
 convincing instance of Old Cheeseman's 
 undermining. 
 
 But Jane was true to Old Cheesemau as 
 Old Cheeseman was false to our fellows — 
 in their opinion at all events — and steadily 
 continued to be his only friend. It was a 
 great exasperation to the Society, because 
 Jane was as much a loss to them as she was 
 a gain to him; and being more inveterate 
 against him than ever, they treated him 
 worse than ever. At last, one morning, his 
 desk stood empty, his room was peeped into 
 and found to be vacant, and a whisper went 
 about among the pale faces of our fellows that 
 Old Cheeseman, unable to bear it any longer, 
 had got up early and drowned himself. 
 
 The mysterious looks of the other masters 
 after breakfast, and the evident fact that Old 
 Cheeseman was not expected, confirmed the 
 Society in this opinion. Some began to dis- 
 cuss whether the President was liable to 
 hanging or only transportation for life, and 
 the President's face showed a great anxiety 
 to know which. However, he said that a 
 jury of his countrymen should lind him 
 game ; and that in his address he should put 
 it to them to lay their hands upon their 
 hearts, and say whether they, as Britons, 
 approved of Informers, and how they thought 
 they would like it themselves. Some of the 
 Society considered that ho had better run 
 away until he found a Forest, where he 
 might change clothes with a woodcutter, and 
 stain his face with blackberries ; but the 
 majority believed that if he stood his ground, 
 his father — belonging, as he did, to the 
 West Indies, and being worth millions — 
 could buy him off. 
 
 All our fellows' hearts beat fast when the 
 Reverend came in, and made a sort of a 
 Roman, or a Field Marshal, of himself with 
 the ruler ; as he always did before delivering 
 an address. But their fears were nothing 
 to their astonishment when he came out 
 with the story that Old Cheeseman, " so long 
 our respected friend and fellow-pilgrim in 
 the pleasant plains of knowledge," he called 
 him — yes ! I dare say ! Much of that ! — 
 was the orphan child of a disinherited young 
 lady who had married against her father's 
 wish, and whose young husband had died, 
 and who had died of sorrow herself, and 
 whose unfortunate baby (Old Cheeseman) 
 had been brought up at the cost of a grand- 
 father who would never consent to see it, 
 baby, boy, or man : which grandfather was 
 now dead, and serve him right — that's mi/ 
 putting in — and which grandfather's largo 
 
 property, there being no will, was now, and 
 all of a sudden and for ever. Old Cheese- 
 man's ! Our so long respected friend and 
 fellow-pilgrim in the pleasant plains of 
 knowledge, the Reverend wound up a lot 
 of bothering quotations by saying, would 
 " come among us once more" that day fort- 
 night, when he desired to take leave of us 
 himself in a more particular manner. With 
 these words, he stared severely round at 
 our fellows, and went solemnly out. 
 
 There was precious consternation among 
 the members of the Society now. Lots of 
 them wanted to resign, and lots more began 
 to try to make out tiiat they had never be- 
 longed to it. However, the President stuck 
 up, and said tliat they must stand or fall 
 together, and that if a breach was made it 
 should be over his body — which was meant 
 to encourage the Society : but it didn't. 
 The President further said, he would con- 
 sider the position in which they stood, and 
 would give them his best opinion and advii^e 
 in a few days. This was eagerly looked for, 
 as he knew a good deal of the world on ac- 
 count of his father's being in the West 
 Indies. 
 
 After days and days of hard thinking, 
 and drawing armies all over his slate, the 
 President called our fellows together, and 
 made the matter clear. He said it was plain 
 that when Old Cheeseman came on the ap- 
 pointed day, his first revenge would be to 
 impeach the Society, and have it flogged all 
 round. After witnessing with joy the tor- 
 ture of his enemies, and gloating over the 
 cries which agony would extort from them, 
 the probability was that he would invite the 
 Reverend, on pretence of conversation, into 
 a private room — say the parlor into which 
 parents were shown, where the two great 
 globes were which were never used — and 
 would there reproach him with the various 
 frauds and oppressions he had endured at 
 his hands. At the close of his observations, 
 he would make a signal to a Prize-tighter 
 concealed in the passage, who would then 
 appear and pitch into the Reverend till he 
 was left insensible. Old Cheeseman would 
 then make Jane a present of from five to 
 ten pounds, and would leave the establish- 
 ment in fiendish triumph. 
 
 The President explained that against the 
 parlor part, or the Jane part, of these 
 arrangements he had nothing to say ; but, 
 on the part of the Society, he counselled 
 deadly resistance. With this view he re- 
 commended that all available desks should 
 be tilled with stones, and that the firs; word 
 of the complaint should be the signal to 
 every fellow to let fly at Old Cheeseman. 
 The bold advice put the Society in better 
 spirits, and was unanimously taken. A 
 post about Old Cheeseman's size was put 
 up in the playground, and all our fellcwa 
 practised at it till it was dented all over. 
 
4b 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 "When the day came, and places were 
 called, every fellow eat down in a tremble. 
 There had been much discussing and dis- 
 puting as to how Old Cheeseman would 
 come ; but it was the general opinion that 
 he would appear in a sort of a triumphal 
 car drawn by four horses, with two livery 
 servants in front, and the Prize-fighter in 
 disguise up behind. So all our fellows sat 
 listening for the sound of wheels. But no 
 wheels were heard, for Old Cheeseman 
 walked after all, and came into the school 
 without any preparation. Pretty much as 
 he used to be, only dressed in black. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the Reverend, pre- 
 senting him, " our so long respected friend 
 and fellow-pilgrim in the pleasant plains of 
 knowledge, is desirous to offer a word or 
 two. Attention, gentlemen, one and all !" 
 
 Every fellow stole his hand into his desk, 
 and looked at the President. The President 
 was all ready, and taking aim at Old Cheese- 
 man with his eyes. 
 
 What did Old Cheeseman then, but walk 
 up to his old desk, look round him with a 
 queer smile as if there was a tear in his eye, 
 and began in a quavering mild voice, " My 
 dear companions and old friends I" 
 
 Every fellow's hand came out of his desk, 
 and the President suddenly began to cry. 
 
 " My dear companions and old friends," 
 said Old Cheeseman, " you have heard of 
 my good fortune. I have passed so many 
 years under this roof — my entire life so far, 
 I may say — that I hope you have been glad 
 to hear of it for my sake. I could never 
 enj(ty it without exchanging congratulations 
 with you. If we have ever misunderstood 
 one another at all, pray my dear boys let us 
 forgive and forget. I have a great tender- 
 :toss for you, and I am sure you return it. 
 I want, iu the fullness of a grateful heart, to 
 shake hands with you every one. I have 
 come back to do it, if you please, my dear 
 boys." 
 
 Since the President had begun to cry, 
 several other fellows had broken out here 
 and there ; but now, when Old Cheeseman 
 began with him as first boy, laid his left 
 hand affectionately on his shoulder and gave 
 him his right ; and when the President said 
 " Indeed I don't deserve it, sir ; upon my 
 honor I don't ;" there was sobbing and cry- 
 ing all over the school. Every other fellow 
 said he didn't deserve it, much in the same 
 way ; but Old Cheeseman, not minding that 
 a bit, went cheerfully round to every boy, 
 and wound up with every master — finishing 
 off the Reverend last. 
 
 Then a snivelling little chap in a corner, 
 ■who was always under some punishment or 
 other, set up a shrill cry of " Success to Old 
 Cheeseman ! Hooray !" The Reverend 
 glared upon him, and said "Mr. Cheeseman, 
 Sir." But, Old Cheeseman protesting that 
 he liked his old name a great deal better 
 
 than his new one, all our fellows took up the 
 cry ; and, for I don't know how many 
 minutes, there was such a thundering of 
 feet and hands, and such a roaring of Old 
 Cheeseman, as never was heard. 
 
 After that, there was a spread in the 
 dining room of the most magnificent kind. 
 Fowls,' tongues, preserves, fruits, confection 
 eries, jellies, neguses, barley-sugar temples, 
 trifles, crackers — eat all you can and pocket 
 what you like — all at Old Cheeseman's ex- 
 pense. After that, speeches, whole holiday, 
 double and treble sets of all manners of 
 games, donkeys, pony-chaises and drive 
 yourself, dinner for all the masters at the 
 Seven Bells, (twenty pounds a-head our 
 fellows estimated it at,) an annual holiday 
 and feast fixed for that day every year, and 
 another on Old Cheeseman's birthday — 
 Reverend bound down before the fellows to 
 allow it, so that he could never back out — 
 all at Old Cheeseman's expense. 
 
 And didn't our fellows go down in a body 
 and cheer outside the Seven Bells ? no ! 
 
 But there's something else besides. Don't 
 look at the next story-teller, for there's more 
 yet. Next day, it was resolved that the 
 Society should make it up with Jane, and 
 then be dissolved. What do you think of 
 Jane being gone, though ! "AVhat? Gone 
 for ever ?" said our fellows, with long faces. 
 "Yes, to be sure," was all the answer they 
 could get. None of the people about the 
 house would say anything more. At length, 
 the first boy took upon himself to ask the 
 Reverend whether our old friend Jane was 
 really gone? The Reverend (he has got a 
 daughter at home — turn-up nose, and red) 
 replied severely, " Yes sir, Miss Pitt is 
 gone." The idea of calling Jane Miss Pitt! 
 Some said she had been sent away in dis- 
 grace for taking money from Old Chet^seman ; 
 others said she had gone into Old Cheese- 
 man's service at a rise of ten pounds a j'ear. 
 All that our fellows knew, was, she was 
 gone. 
 
 It was two or three months afterwards, 
 when, one afternoon, an open carriage stop- 
 ped at the cricket-field, just outside bounds, 
 with a lady and gentleman in it, who looked 
 at the game a long time and stood up to see 
 it played. Nobody thought much about 
 them, until the same little snivelling chap 
 came in, against all rules, from the post 
 where he was Scout, and said, " it's Jane !" 
 Both Elevens forgot the game directly, and 
 ran crowding round the carriage. It was 
 Janel In such a bonnet! And if you'll 
 believe me, Jane was married to Old Cheese- 
 man. 
 
 It soon became quite a regular thing when 
 oitr fellows were hard at it in the play- 
 ground, to see a carriage at the low part of 
 the waU where it joins the high part, and a 
 lady and gentleman standing up in it, look- 
 ing over. The gentleman was always Old 
 
NINE NEW STORIES BY THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 
 
 Cheeseman, and the lady was always 
 Jane. 
 
 The first time I ever saw them, I saw 
 them in that way. There had been a good 
 many changes among our fellows then, and 
 it had turned out that Bob Tarter's father 
 wasn't worth millions ! He wasn't worth 
 anything. Bob had gone for a soldier, and 
 Old Cheeseman had purchased his discharge. 
 But that's not the carriage. The carriage 
 stopped, and all our fellows stopped aa soon 
 as it was seen. 
 
 " So you have never sent me to Coventry 
 after all !" said the lady, laughing as our 
 fellows swarmed up the wall to shake hands 
 with her, "Are you never going to do it?" 
 
 " Never ! never ! never!" on all sides. 
 
 I didn't understand what she meant then, 
 but of course I do now. I was very much 
 pleased with her face though, and with her 
 good way, and I couldn't help looking at 
 her — and at him too — with all our fellows 
 clustering so joyfully about them. 
 
 They soon took notice of me as a new boy, 
 so I thought I might as well swarm up the 
 wall myself, and shake hands with them as 
 the rest did. I was quite as glad to see them 
 
 as the rest were, and was quite as familiar 
 with them in a moment. 
 
 " Only a fortnight now," said Old Cheese- 
 man, " to the holidays. Who stops? Any- 
 body ?" 
 
 A good many fingers pointed at me, and 
 a good many voices cried, "He does!" 
 For it was the year when you were all away, 
 and rather low I was about it, I can tell you. 
 
 " Oh !" said Old Cheeseman. " But it's 
 solitary here in the holiday time. He had 
 better come to us." 
 
 So I went to their delightful house, and 
 was as happy as I could possibly be. They 
 understand how to conduct themselves to- 
 wards boys, they do. When they take a boy 
 to the play, for instance, they do take him. 
 They don't go in after it's begun, or come 
 out before it's over. They know how to 
 bring a boy up, too. Look at their own ! 
 Though he is very little as yet, what a capi- 
 tal boy he is ! Why, my next favorite to 
 Mrs. Cheeseman and Old Cheeseman, is 
 young Cheeseman. 
 
 So, now I have told you all I know about 
 Old Cheeseman. And it's not much after 
 all, I am afraid. Is it 
 
 ■~»><VN/^^^'*>/V\<M~~-~ 
 
 THE OLD LADY'S STOEY 
 
 I HATE never told you my secret, my dear 
 —nieces. However, this Christmas, which 
 may well be the last to an old woman, I will 
 give the whole story ; fur though it is a 
 strange story, and a sad one. it is true ; and 
 what sin there was in it I trust I may have 
 expiated by my tears and my repentance. 
 Perhaps the last expiation of all is this pain- 
 ful confession. 
 
 We were very young at the time, Lucy 
 and I, and the neighbors said we were pretty. 
 So we were, I believe, though entirely difier- 
 ent ; for Lucy was quiet, and fair, and I was 
 full of life and spirits ; wild beyond any 
 power of control, and reckless. I was the 
 elder by two years ; but more fit to be in 
 leading strings myself than to guide or 
 govern my sister. But she was so good, so 
 quiet, and so wise, that she needed no one's 
 guidance ; for if advice was to be given, it 
 was she who gave it, not I ; and I never 
 knew her judgment or perception fail. She 
 was the darling of the house. My mother 
 had died soon after Lucy was born. A 
 picture in the dining-room of her, in spite 
 of all the difference v^f dress, was exactly 
 like Lucy ; and, as Lucy was now seventeen 
 and my mother had been only eighteen 
 
 when it was taken, there was no discrepancy 
 of years. 
 
 One Allhallow's eve a party of us — all 
 young girls, not one of us twenty years of 
 age — were trying our fortunes round the 
 drawing-room fire : throwmg nuts into the 
 brightest blaze, to hear if mythic " He" 's 
 loved any of us, and in what proportion ; or 
 pouring hot lead into water, to find cradles 
 and rings, or purses and cofiins : or breaking 
 the whites of eggs into tumblers half full of 
 water, and then drawing up the white into 
 pictures of the future — the prettiest experi- 
 ment of all. I remember Lucy could only 
 make a recumbent figure of hers, like a 
 marble monument in miniature : and I, a 
 maze of masks and skulls and things that 
 looked like dancing apes or imps, and vapory 
 lines that did not require much imagination 
 to fashion into ghosts or spirits ; for they 
 were clearly human in the outline, but thin 
 and vapory. And we all laughed a great 
 deal, and tea.sod one another, and were as 
 full of fun and mischief, and innocence and 
 thoughtlessness, as a nest of young birds. 
 
 There was a certain room at the other end 
 of our rambling old manor-house, which 
 was said to be haunted, and which my father 
 
48 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 had therefore discontinued as a dwelling- 
 room, 80 that we children might not be 
 frightened by foolish servants ; and he had 
 made it into a lumber-place — a kind of 
 ground-floor granary — where no one had 
 any business. Well, it was proposed that 
 one of us should go into this room alone, 
 lock the door, stand before the glass, pare 
 and eat an apple very deliberately, looking 
 tixedly in the glass all the time ; and then, 
 if the mind never once wandered, the future 
 husband would be clearly shown in the glass. 
 As I was always the foolhardy girl of every 
 party, and was, moreover, vei-y desirous of 
 seeing that apocryphal individual, my future 
 husband, (whose non-appearance I used to 
 wonder at and bewail in secret) I was glad 
 enough to make the trial, notwithstanding 
 the entreaties of some of the more timid. 
 Lucy, above all, clung to me, and besought 
 me earnestly not to go — at last, almost with 
 tears. But my pride of courage, and my 
 curiosity, and a certain nameless feeling of 
 attraction, were too strong for me. Ilaughed 
 Lucy and her abettors into silence ; uttered 
 half a dozen bravadoes ; and taking up a 
 bed-room candle, passed through the long 
 silent passages, to the cold, dark, deserted 
 room — my heart beating with excitement, 
 my foolish head dizzy with hope and faith. 
 The church-clock chimed a quarter past 
 twelve as I opened the door. 
 
 It was an awful night. The windows 
 shook, as if every instant they would burst 
 in with some strong man's hand on the bars, 
 and his shoulder against the frames ; and 
 the trees howled and shrieked, as if each 
 branch were sentient and in pain. The ivy 
 beat against the window, sometimes with 
 fury, and sometimes with the leaves slowly 
 scraping against the glass, and drawing out 
 long shrill sounds, like spirits crying to each 
 other. In the room itself it was worse. 
 Rats had made it their refuge for many 
 years, and they rushed behind the wainscot 
 and down inside the walls, bringing with 
 them showers of lime and dust, which rattled 
 like chains, or sounded like men's feet hur- 
 rying to and fro ; and every now and then, a 
 cry broke through the room, one could not 
 tell from where or from what, but a cry, dis- 
 tinct and human ; heavy blows seemed to be 
 struck on the floor, which cracked like part- 
 ing ice beneath my feet, and loud knockings 
 shook the walls. Yet in this tumult, I was 
 not afraid. I reasoned on each new sound 
 very calmly — and said, " Those are rats," or 
 " those are leaves," and " birds in the chim- 
 ney," or " owls in the ivy," as each new 
 howl or scream struck my ear. And I was 
 not in the least frightened or disturbed ; it 
 all seemed natural and familiar. I placed 
 the candle on a table in the midst of the 
 room, where an old broken mirror stood ; 
 and, looking steadily into the glass (having 
 first wiped off the dust), I began to eat Eve's 
 
 forbidden fruit, wishing intently, as I had 
 been bidden, for the apparition of my future 
 husband. 
 
 In about ten minutes I heard a dull, vague, 
 unearthly sound ; felt, not heard. It was a,8 
 if countless wings rushed by, and email low 
 voices whispering too ; as if a crowd, a mut 
 titude of life was about me ; as if shadowy 
 faces crushed up against me, and eyes and 
 hands, and sneering lips, all mocked me. I 
 was suffocated. The air was so heavy, so 
 filled with life, that I could not breathe. I 
 was pressed on from all sides, and could not 
 turn nor move without parting thickening 
 vapors. I heard my own name, I can swear 
 to that to-day ! I heard it repeated through 
 the room ; and then bursts of laughter fol- 
 lowed, and the wings rustled and fluttered, 
 and the whispering voices mocked and chat- 
 tered, and the heavy air, so filled with life, 
 hung heavier and thicker, and the Things 
 pressed up to me closer, and checked the 
 breath on my lips with the clammy breath 
 from theirs. 
 
 I was not alarmed. I was not excited ; 
 but I was fascinated and spell-bound ; yet 
 with every sense seeming to possess ten times 
 its natural power. I still went on looking in 
 the glass, still earnestly desiring an appari- 
 tion, when suddenly I saw a man's face 
 peering over my shoulder in the glass. Giris, 
 I could draw that ftice to this hour ! The 
 low forehead, with the short curling hair, 
 black as jet, growing down in a sharp point ; 
 the dark eyes, beneath thick eye-brows, 
 burning with a peculiar light ; the nose and 
 the dilating nostrils ; the thin lips, curling 
 into a smile, I see them all plainly before 
 me now. And — 0, the smile that it was ! — 
 the mockery and sneer, the derision, the 
 sarcasm, the contempt, the victory that were 
 in it ! even then it struck into me a sense of 
 submission. The eyes looked full into mine ; 
 those eyes and mine fastened on each other ; 
 and, as I ended my task, the church clock 
 chimed the half hour ; and, suddenly re- 
 leased, as if from a spell, I turned round, 
 expecting to see a living man standing be- 
 side me. But I met only the chill air coming 
 in from the loose window, and the solitude 
 of the dark night. The Life had gone : the 
 wings had rushed away ; the voices had dieu 
 out, and I was alone ; with the rats behind 
 the wainscot, the owls hooting in the ivy, 
 and the wind howling through the trees. 
 
 Convinced that either some trick had been 
 played me, or that some one was concealed 
 in the room, I searched every corner of it. 
 I lifted lids of boxes filled with the dust of 
 ages and with rotting paper lying like 
 bleaching skin. I took down the chimney- 
 board, and soot and ashes flew up in clouds. 
 1 opened dim old closets, where all manner 
 of foul insects had made their homes, and 
 where daylight had not entered for genera- 
 tions ; but 1 found nothing. Satisfied that 
 
NINE NEW STORIES BY THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 
 
 49 
 
 nothing human was in the room, and that 
 no one could have been there to-night, nor 
 for many months, if not years, and still 
 nerved to a state of desperato courage, I 
 went back to the drawing-room. But, as I 
 left that room I felt that something flowed 
 out with me ; and, all through the long pas- 
 sages, I retained the sensation that this 
 something was behind me. My steps were 
 heavy, the consciousness of pursuit having 
 paralysed not quickened me ; for I knew 
 that when I left that haunted room I had not 
 left it alone. As I opened the drawing-room 
 door, the tihizing fire and the strong lamp- 
 light burstinu; out upon me with a peculiar 
 expression of cheerfulness and welcome, I 
 heard a laugh close at my elbow, and felt a 
 hot blast across my neck. I started back, 
 but the laugh died away, and all I saw were 
 two points of light, fiery and flaming, that 
 somehow fashioned themselves into eyes be- 
 neath their heavy brows, and looked at me 
 meaningly through the darkness. 
 
 They all wanted to know what I had seen ; 
 but I refused to say a word ; not liking to 
 tell a falsehood then, and not liking to ex- 
 pose myself to ridicule. For I felt that what 
 I had seen was true, and that no sophistry 
 and DO argument, no reasoning and no ridi- 
 cule, could skake my belief in it. My sweet 
 Lucy came up to me, seeing me look so pale 
 and wild, threw her arms around my neck, 
 and leaned forward to kiss me. As she bent 
 her head, I felt the same warm blast rush 
 over my lips, and my sister, cried, " Why, 
 Lizzie, your lips burn like fire !" 
 
 And so they did, and for long after. The 
 Presence was with me still, never leaving 
 me day nor night : by my pillow, its whisper- 
 ing voice often waking me from wild dreams ; 
 by my side in the broad sunlight ; by my 
 side in the still moonlight : never absent, 
 busy at my brain, busy at my heart — a form 
 ever banded to me. It flitted like a cold 
 cloud between my sweet sister's eyes and 
 mine, and dimmed them so that I could 
 scarcely see their beauty. It drowned my 
 father's voice, and his words fell confused 
 and indistinct. 
 
 Not long after, a stranger came into our 
 neighborhood. He bought Green Howe, a 
 deserted old property by the river side, 
 where no one had lived for many, many 
 years ; not since the young bride, Mrs. 
 Braithwaite, had been found in the river 
 one morning, entangled among the dank 
 weeds and dripping alders, strangled and 
 drowned, and her husband dead — none knew 
 how — lying by the chapel door. The place 
 had had a bad name ever since, and no one 
 would live there. However, it was said tliat 
 a stranger, who had been long in the East, 
 a Mr. Felix, had now bought it, and that he 
 was coming to reside there. And, true 
 enough, one day the whole of our little town 
 of Thornhill was in a state of excitement; 
 4 
 
 for a traveling carriage and four, followed 
 by another full of servants — Hindoos, or 
 Lascars, or Negroes; dark-colored, strange- 
 looking people — passed through, and Mr. 
 Felix took possession of Green Howe. 
 
 My father called on him after a time ; and 
 I, as the mistress of the house, went with 
 him. Green Howe had been changed, as if 
 by magic, and we both said so together, as 
 we entered the iron gates that led up the 
 broad walk. The ruined garden was one 
 mass of plants, fresh and green, many of 
 them quite new to me ; and the shrubbery, 
 which had been a wilderness, was restored 
 to order. The house looked larger than be- 
 fore, now that it was so beautifully deco- 
 llated ; and the broken trellis-work, which 
 used to hang dangling among the ivy, was 
 matted with creeping roses, and jasmine, 
 which left on me the impression of having 
 been in flower, which was impossiljle. It 
 was a fairy palace ; and we could scarcely 
 believe that this was the deserted, ill-omened 
 Green Ilowe. The foreio;n servants, too, in 
 Eastern dresses, covered with rings, and 
 necklaces, and ear rings, the foreign smells 
 of sandal-wood, and camphor, and musk ; tho 
 curtains that hung everywhere in place of 
 doors, some of velvet, and some of cloth of 
 gold ; the air of luxury, such as I, a simple 
 country girl, had never seen before, made 
 such a powerful impression on me that I felt 
 as if carried away to some unknown region. 
 As we entered, Mr. Felix came to meet us ; 
 and, drawing aside a heavy curtain rliat 
 seemed all of g(jld and fire — for the flame- 
 colored flowers danced and quivered on the 
 gold — he led us into an inner room, where 
 the darkened light, the atmosphere heavy 
 with perfumes, the statues, the birds like 
 living jewels, the magnificence of stufl's, and 
 the luxuriousness of arrangement overpow- 
 ered me. I felt as if I had sunk into a 
 lethargy in which I heard imly the rich 
 voice, and saw only the form of our stranger 
 host. 
 
 He was certainly very handsome ; tall, 
 dark, yet pale as marble : his very lips were 
 pale ; with eyes that were extremely bright, 
 but which had an expression behind them 
 that subdued me. His manners were grace- 
 ful. He was very cordial to us, and made 
 us stay a long time, taking us through his 
 grounds to see his improvements, and ]ioint- 
 ing out here and there further alterations to 
 be made, all with such a disregard for local 
 difficulties, and for cost, that, had he been 
 one of the princes of the genii he could not 
 have talked more royally. He was more 
 than merely attentive to me ; speaking to me 
 often and in a lower voice, bending down 
 near to me, and looking at me with eyes that 
 thrilled through every nerve and fibre. I 
 saw that my father was uneas}- ; and when 
 we left, I asked him how he liked our new 
 neighbor. He said, " Not much, Lizzie,'- 
 
50 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 with a ^rave and almost disploased look, as 
 if hi! liad probed tho weakness I was scarcoly 
 conscious of myself. I thougiit at the time 
 that he was harsh. 
 
 However, as there was nothinoj positively 
 to object to in Mr. Felix, my father's impulse 
 of distrust could not well be indulged witii- 
 out rudeness ; and my dear father was too 
 thorougiilya gentleman ever to be rude even 
 to his enemy. We therefore saw a great 
 deal of tho stranger, who established himself 
 in our house on the most familiar footing, 
 and forced on my father and Lucy an inti- 
 macy they both disliked but could not avoid. 
 For it was forced with such consummate skill 
 and tact, that there was nothing which the 
 most rigid could object to. 
 
 I gradually became an altered being under 
 his influence. In one thing only a happier 
 — in the loss of the voice and the form which 
 had haunted me. Since I had known Felix 
 this terror had gone. The reality had ab- 
 sorbed the shadow. But in nothing else 
 was this strange man's influence over me 
 beneficial. I remember that I used to hate 
 myself for my excessive irritability of tem- 
 per when I was away from him. Everything 
 at home displeased me. Everything seemed 
 60 small and mean, and old and poor after 
 the lordly glory of that house ; and the very 
 caresses of my family and the olden school- 
 day friends were irksome and hateful to me. 
 All except my Lucy lost its charm ; and to 
 her I was faithful as ever ; to her I never 
 changed. But her influence seemed to war 
 with his wonderfully. When with him I 
 felt borne away in a torrent. His words fell 
 upon me mysterious and thrilling, and he 
 gave me fleeting glimpses into worlds which 
 had never opened themselves to me before ; 
 glimpses seen and gone like the Arabian 
 gardens. 
 
 When I came back to my sweet sister, her 
 pure eyes and the holy light that lay in 
 them, her gentle voice speaking of the sacred 
 things of heaven and the earnest things of 
 life, seemed to me like a former existence : 
 a state I had lived in years ago. But this 
 divided influence nearly killed me; it seemed 
 to part my very soul and wrench my being 
 in twain ; and this more than all the rest, 
 made me sad beyond anything people be- 
 lieved possible in one so gay and reckless as 
 I had been. 
 
 My father's dislike to Felix increased 
 daily ; and Lucy, who had never been known 
 to use a harsh word in her life, from the 
 first refused to believe a thought of good in 
 him, or to allow him one single claim to 
 praise. She used to cling to me in a wild, 
 beseeching way, and entreat me with pray- 
 ers, such as a mother might have poured out 
 before an erring child, to stop in time, and 
 to return to those who loved me. " For 
 your soul is lost from among us, Lizzie," 
 she used to say ; " and nothing but a frame 
 
 remains of the full life of love you once 
 gave us!" But one word, one look, from 
 Felix was enough to make me forget every 
 tear and every prayer of her who, until now, 
 had been my idol and my law. 
 
 At last my dear father commanded me 
 not to see Felix again. I felt as if I should 
 have died. In vain I wept and prayed. In 
 vain I gave full license to my thoughts, and 
 suffered words to pour from my lips which 
 ought never to have crept into my heart. In 
 vain ; my father was inexorable. 
 
 I was in the drawing-room. Suddenly, 
 noiselessly, Felix was beside me. He had 
 not entered by the door which was dirertly 
 in front of me ; and the window was closed. 
 I never could understand this sudden ap- 
 pearance ; for I am cert«un that he had not 
 been concealed. 
 
 " Your f\ither has spoken of me, Lizzie?" 
 he said, with a singular smile. I was silent. 
 " And has forbidden you to see me 
 again?" he continued. 
 
 " Yes," I answered impelled to speak by 
 something stronger than my will. 
 " And you intend to obey him ?" 
 " No," I said again, in the same manner, 
 as if I had been talking in a dream. 
 
 He smiled again. Who was he so like when 
 he smiled? I could not remember, and yet" 
 I knew that he was like some one I had seea 
 — a face that hovered outside my memory, 
 on the horizon, and never floated near 
 enough to be distinctly realized. 
 
 " You are right, Lizzie," he then said ; 
 " there are ties which are stronger than 
 a father's commands; ties which no man 
 has the right, and no man has the power io 
 break. Meet me to-morrow at noon in tho 
 Low Lane ; we will speak further." 
 
 He did not say this in any supplicating, 
 nor in any loving manner ; it was simply a 
 command, unaccompanied by one tender 
 word or look. He had never said he loved 
 me — never ; it seemed to be too well under- 
 stood between us to need assurances. 
 
 I answered, "yes, "burying my face in 
 my hands, in shame at this my first act of 
 disobedience to my father ; and when I 
 raised my head, he was gone. Gone as he 
 had entered, without a footfall sounding 
 ever so lightly. 
 
 I met him the next day, and it was not the 
 only time that I did so. Day after day 
 I stole at his command from the house, 
 to walk with him in the Low Lane — :t{ie 
 lane which the country people said, was 
 haunted, and which was consequently al- 
 ways deserted. And there we used to walk 
 or sit under the blighted elm tree for hours ; 
 he talking, but I not understanding all he 
 said : for there was a tone of grandeur and 
 of mystery in his words, that overpowered 
 without enlightening me, and that left my 
 spirit dazzled rather than convinced. I 
 had to give reas ns at home fur my long 
 
NINE NEW STORIES BY THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 
 
 51 
 
 absences, and he bade me say that I had 
 been with old Dame Todd, the blind widow 
 of Thornhill Rise, and that I had been 
 readino; the Bible to her. And I obeyed, 
 although, while I said it, I felt Lucy's eyes 
 fixed plaintively on mine, and heard her 
 murmur a prayer that I might be forgiven. 
 
 Lucy grew ill. As the flowers and the 
 summer sun came on, her spirit faded more 
 rapidly away. I have known since, that it 
 was grief more than malady which was killing 
 her. The look of nameless suffering which 
 used to be in her f\ice, has haunted me 
 through life with undying sorrow. It was 
 suffering that I, who ought to have rather died 
 for her, had caused. But not even her illness 
 stayed me. In the intervals, I nursed her 
 tenderly and lovingly as before ; but for 
 hours and hours I left her — all through the 
 long days of summer — to walk in the Low 
 Lane, and to sit in my world of poetry and 
 fire. When I came back my sister was 
 often weeping, and I knew that it was for me 
 — I, who once would have given my life to 
 save her from one hour of sorrow. Then I 
 would fling myself on my knees beside her. 
 •in an agony of shame and repentance, and 
 promise better things of the morrow, and 
 vow strong efforts against the power and 
 the spell that were on me. But the morrow 
 subjected me to the same unhallowed fasci- 
 nation, the same faithlessness. 
 
 At last Felix told me that I must come 
 with him ; that I must leave my home, and 
 take part in his life ; that I belonged to him 
 and to him only, and that I could not break 
 the tablet of a fate ordained: that I was his 
 destiny, and he mine, and that I must fulfil 
 the law which the stars had written in the 
 sky. I fought against this. I spoke of my 
 father's anger, and of my sister's illness. I 
 prayed to him for pity, not to force this on 
 nie. and knelt in the shadows of the autumn 
 sunset to ask from him forbearance. 
 
 I (lid not yield this day. nor the next, nor 
 for many days;. At last he conquered. 
 When I said " Yes," he kissed the scarf I 
 wore round my neck. Until then he had 
 never touched even my hand with his lips. 
 I consented to leave my sister, who I well 
 knew was dying: I consented to leave my 
 father, whose whole life had been one act of 
 love and care for his children ; and to bring 
 a stain on our name, unstained until then. 
 I consented to leave those who loved me, all 
 I loved, for a stranger. 
 
 All was prepared; the harrying clouds. 
 lead colored, and the howling wind, the fit 
 companions in nature with the evil and the 
 despair of my soul. Lucy was worse to-day ; 
 but though I felt going to my death in leav- 
 ing her, I could not resist. Had hia voice 
 called me to the scaffold, I must have gone. 
 It was the last day of October, and at mid- 
 night when I was to leave the house. I had 
 kissed my sleeping sister, who was dreaming 
 
 in her sleep and cried, and grasped my 
 hand, called aloud, " Lizzie, Lizzie I Come 
 back I" But the spell was on me, and I left 
 her ; and still her dreaming voice called out, 
 ckoking with sobs, " Xot there 1 not there, 
 Lizzie I Come back t( me !" 
 
 I was to leave the he use by the large, old, 
 haunted room that I hstve spoken of before ; 
 Felix waiting for me outside. And, a little 
 after twelve o'clock, I opened the door to 
 pass through. This time the chill, and the 
 damp, and the darkness unnerved me. The 
 broken mirror was in the middle of the 
 room, as before, and, in passing it, I me- 
 chanically raised my eyes. Then I remem- 
 bered that it was Allhallow's eve, the 
 anniversary of the apparition of last year. 
 As I looked, the room, which had been so 
 deadly still, became filled with the sound I 
 had heard before. The rushing of large 
 wings, and the crowd of whispering voices 
 flowed like a river round me ; and again, 
 glaring into my eyes, was the same face in 
 the glass that I had seen before, the sneering 
 smile, even more triumphant, the blighting 
 stare of the fiery eyes, the low brow and the 
 coal-black hair, and the look of mockery. 
 All were there ; and all I had seen before 
 and since ; for it was Felix who was gazing 
 at me from the glass. When I turned to 
 speak to him, the room was empty. Not a 
 living creature was there ; only a low laugh, 
 and the far-ofl" voices whispering, and the 
 wings. And then a hand tapped on the 
 window, and the voice of Felix cried from 
 outside, " Come Lizzie, come !" 
 
 I staggered, rather than walked, to the 
 window ; and, as I was close to it — my hand 
 raised to open it — there stood between me 
 and it a pale figure clothed in white; her 
 face more pale than the linen round it. 
 Her hair hung down on her breast, and her 
 blue eyes looked earnestly and mournfully 
 inio mine. She was silent, and yet it seertied 
 as if a volume of love and of entreaty flowed 
 from her lips; as if I heard words of death- 
 less afl'ection. It was Lucy ; standing there 
 in this bitter midnight cold — giving her life 
 to save me, Felix called to me again, im- 
 patiently ; and as he called, the figure 
 turned, and beckoned me ; beckoning me 
 gently, lovingly, beseechingly ; and then 
 slowly faded away. The chime of the half- 
 hour sounded ; and, I fled from the room to 
 my sister. I found her lying dead on the 
 floor ; her hair hanging over her breast, and 
 one hand stretched out as if in supplication. 
 
 The next day Felix disappeared; he and 
 his whole retinue ; and Green Howe fell into 
 ruins again. No one knew where he went, 
 as no one knew from whence he came. 
 And to this day I sometimes doubt whether 
 or not he was a clever adventurer, who had 
 heard of my father's wealth ; and who, see- 
 ing my weak and imaginative character, 
 had acted on it for his own purposes. All 
 
52 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 that I do know is that my sister's spirit 
 saved me from ruin ; and that she died to 
 save me. She had seen and known all, and 
 gave herself for my salvation down to the 
 last and supreme effort she made to rescue 
 me. She died at that hour of half-past 
 twelve ; and at half-past twelve, as I live 
 before you all, she appeared to me and re- 
 called me. 
 
 And this is the reason why I never mar- 
 
 ried, and why I pass Allhallow's eve in 
 prayer by my sister's grave. I have told 
 you to-night this story of mine, because I 
 feel that I shall not live over another last 
 night of October, but before the next white 
 Christmas roses come out like winter stars 
 on the earth, I shall be at peace in the grave. 
 Not in the grave ; let me rather hope with 
 my blessed sister in Heaven 1 
 
 WV\/^^'<^1< 
 
 OVER THE WAY'S STORY. 
 
 Once upon a time, before I retired from 
 mercantile pursuits and came to live over 
 the way, I lived, for many years, in Ursine 
 Lane. 
 
 Ursine Lane is a very rich, narrow, dark, 
 dirty, straggling lane in the great city of 
 London (said by some to be itself as rich, as 
 dark, and as dirty.) Ursine Lane leads 
 from Cheapside into Thames Street, facing 
 Sir John Pigg's wharf; but whether Ursine 
 Lane be above or below Bow Church, I shall 
 not tell you. Neither, whether its name be 
 derived from a bear-garden, (which was in 
 great vogue in its environs in Queen Bess's 
 time,) or from an Ursuline Nunnery which 
 flourished in its vicinity, before big, bad 
 King Harry sent nuns to spin, or to do 
 anything else they could. Ursine Lane it 
 was before the great fire of London, and 
 Ursine Lane it is now. 
 
 The houses in Ursine Lane are very old, 
 very inconvenient, and very dilapidated ; 
 and I don't think another great fire (all the 
 houses being well insured, depend upon it) 
 would do the neighborhood any harm, in 
 clearing the rubbishing old lane away. Num- 
 ber four tumbled in, and across the road on 
 to number sixteen, a few years ago ; and 
 since then Ursine Lane has been provided 
 with a species of roofing in the shape of 
 great wooden beams to shore up its opposite 
 sides. The district surveyor shakes his head 
 very much at Ursine Lane, and resides as 
 far from it as he can. The cats of the 
 neighborhood find great delectation in the 
 shoring beams, using them, in the night 
 season, as rialtos and bridges, not of sighs, 
 but of miauws ; but foot passengers look 
 wistfully and somewhat fearfully upwards 
 at the wooden defences. Yet Ursine Lane 
 remains. To be sure, if you were to pull it 
 down, you would have to remove the old 
 church of St. Nicholas Bearcroft, where the 
 bells ring every Friday night, in conformity 
 with a bequest of Master Miniver Squirrel!, 
 furrier, obiit sixteen hundred and eighty- 
 
 four, piously to commemorate his escape 
 from the paws of a grizzly bear while travel- 
 ling in the wilds of Muscovy. You would 
 have to demolish the brave gilt lion and the 
 brave gilt unicorn at the extremity of the 
 churchwarden's pew, who (saving their 
 gender) with the clerk, the sexton, and two 
 or three deaf old shopkeepers and their 
 wives, are pretty nearly all the dearly be- 
 loved brethren whom the Reverend Tremaine 
 Popples, M. A., can gather together as a 
 congregation. Worse than all, if Ursine 
 Lane were to come down — the pump must 
 come down, the old established, constitu- 
 tional, vested, endowed pump ; built, so 
 tradition runs, over a fountain blessed by 
 the great St. Ursula herself. So Ursine Lane 
 remains. 
 
 At a certain period of the world's history, 
 it may have been yesterday, it may have 
 been yesterday twenty years, there dwelt in 
 this dismal avenue, a Beast. Everybody 
 called him a Beast. He was a Manchester 
 warehouseman. Now it is not at all neces- 
 sary for a Manchester warehouseman — or, 
 indeed, for any warehouseman — to be a beast 
 or a brute, or anything disagreeable. Quite 
 the contrary. For instance, next door to 
 the Beast's were the counting-houses and 
 warerooms of Tapperly and Grigg, also 
 Manchester warehousemen, as merry, light- 
 hearted, good-humored young fellows as you 
 would wish to see. Tapperly was somewhat 
 of a sporting character, rode away every 
 afternoon on a high-stepping brown mare, 
 and lounged regularly about the entrance to 
 " Tats" whether he booked any bets or not. 
 As for Grigg, he was the Coryphaeus of all 
 the middle class soirees, dancing academies 
 and subscription balls in London, and it 
 was a moving sight to see him in his famous 
 Crusader costume at a Drury Lane Bal- 
 Masque. Nor was old Sir William Watch 
 (of the firm of Watch, Watch and Rover, 
 Manchester warehousemen) at the corner, 
 who was fined so many thousand pounds for 
 
NINE NEW STORIES BY THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 
 
 emuggling once upon a time, at all beastlike 
 or brutish. He was a white-headed, charita- 
 ble jolly old gentleman, fond of old port and 
 old songs and old clerks and porters, and his 
 Cheque-book was as open as his heart. 
 Lacteal, Flewitt, and Company, again, on 
 the other side of the Beast's domicile, the 
 great dealers in gauzes and ribbons, were 
 mild, placable, pious men, the beloved of 
 Clapham. But the Beast was a Beast and 
 no mistake. Everybody said he was ; and 
 what everybody says, must be true. His 
 name was Braddleseroggs. 
 
 Barnard Braddleseroggs. He was the 
 head, the trunk and the tail of the firm. 
 N'o Co., no son, no nephew, no brothers : 
 B. Braddlescroggs glared at you from either 
 door-jamb. His warerooms were extensive, 
 gloomy, dark, and crowded. So were his 
 counting-houses, which were mostly under- 
 ground and candle-lit. He loved to keep his 
 sut)ordinates in these dark dens, where he 
 could rush in upon them suddenly, and 
 growl at them. You came wandering through 
 these subterraneans upon wan men, pent up 
 among parasols and cartons of gay ribbons ; 
 upon pale lads in spectacles registering silks 
 and merinos by the light of flickering, strong 
 smelling tallow candles in rusty sconces. 
 There was no counting-house community ; 
 no desk-fellowship : the clerks were isolated 
 — dammed up in steep little pulpits, rele- 
 gated behind walls of cotton goods, consign- 
 (?d to the inpace of bales of tarlatan and 
 barege. The Beast was everywhere. He 
 prowled about continually. He lurked in 
 holes and corners. He reprimanded clerks 
 on staircases, and discharged porters in dark 
 entries. His deep, harsh, grating voice 
 could ever be heard growling during the 
 hours of business, somewhere, like a sullen 
 earthquake. His stern Wellington boots 
 continually creaked. His numerous keys 
 rattled gaoler-fashion. His very watch, 
 when wound up, made a savage gnashing 
 noise, as though the works were in torment. 
 He was a Beast. 
 
 Tall, square, sinewy, and muscular in 
 person ; large and angular in features ; with 
 a puissant, rebellious head of gray hair that 
 would have defied all the brushing, comb- 
 ing, and greasing of the Burlington Arcade ; 
 with black bushy eyebrows nearly meeting 
 on his forehead ; with a horseshoe frown be- 
 tween his eyes ; with stubbly whiskers, like 
 horse-hair spikes, rather indented in his 
 cheekbones than growing on his cheeks ; 
 with a large, stiff shirt collar and frill de- 
 fending his face like chevatix-de-frise ; with 
 large, coarse, bony hands plunged in his 
 trousers pockets ; with a great seal and rib- 
 bons and the savage ticking watch I have 
 mentioned, — such was Barnard Braddle- 
 ..uroggs. From the ears and nostrils of such 
 men you see small hairs growing, indomita- 
 ble by tweezers ; signs of inflexibility of 
 
 53 
 
 purpose, and stern virility. Their joints 
 crack as they walk. His did. 
 
 Very rich, as his father, old Simon Brad- 
 dleseroggs, had been before him, B. Brad- 
 dlescroggs was not an avaricious man. He 
 had never been known to lend or advance a 
 penny to the necessitous ; but he paid his 
 clerks and servants liberal salaries. This 
 was a little unaccountable in the Boast, but 
 it was said they did not hate him the less. 
 He gave largely to stern charities, such as 
 dragged sinners to repentance, or adminis- 
 tered eleemosynarv food, education and 
 blows (in a progressively liberal proportion) 
 to orphan children. He was a visiting jus- 
 tice to strict gaols, and was supposed not to 
 have quite made up his mind as to what 
 system of prison discipline was the best, un- 
 remitting corporal punishment, or continu- 
 ous solitary confinement. He apprenticed 
 boys to hard trades, or assisted them to 
 emigrate to inclement climates. He was a 
 member of a rigid persuasion, and one in 
 high authority, and had half built a chapel 
 at his own expense ; but everybody said 
 that few people thanked him, or were grate- 
 ful to him for his generosity. He was such 
 a Beast. He bit the orphan's nose oif, and 
 bullied the widow. He gave alms as one 
 who pelts a dog with marrow-bones, hurting 
 him while he feeds him. Those in his em- 
 ployment who embezzled or robbed him, 
 were it of but a penny piece, he mercilessly 
 prosecuted to conviction. Everybody had 
 observed it. He sued all debtors, opposed 
 all insolvents, and strove to bring all bank- 
 rupts within the meaning of the penal 
 clauses. Everybody knew it. The mer- 
 chants and brokers, his compeers, fell away 
 from him on 'Change; his correspondents 
 opened his hard, fierce letters with palpita- 
 ting hearts ; his clerks cowered before him ; 
 his maid servants passed him (when they 
 had courage to pass him at all) with fear 
 and trembling. The waiters at the " Cock" 
 in Threadneedle Street, where he took a 
 fiery bowl of Mulligatawney soup for lunch, 
 daily, didn't like him. At his club at the 
 West End he had a bow-window and a 
 pile of newspapers all to himself, dined by 
 himself, drank by himself, growled to him- 
 self. 
 
 There had been a Mrs. Braddleseroggs ; 
 a delicate, blue-eyed little woman out of 
 Devonshire, who had been Beauty to the 
 Beast. She died early. Her husband was 
 not reported to have beaten her, or starved 
 her, or verbally ill-treated her, but simply 
 to have frightened her to death. Everybody 
 said so. She could never take those mild 
 blue eyes of hers off her terrible husband, 
 and died, looking at him timorously. One 
 son had been born to B. B. at her demise. 
 He grew up a pale, fair-haired, frightened 
 lad, with his mother's eyes. The Beast 
 had treated him (everybody was indignant 
 
54 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 at it) from his earliest years with unvarying 
 and consistent severity ; and at fourteen he 
 was removed from the school of the rigid 
 persuasion, where he had received his 
 drei\ry commercial education, to his father's 
 rigider, drearier establishment in Ursine 
 Lane. lie had a department to himself 
 there, and a tallow candle to himself. 
 
 The clerks, some twelve in number, all 
 dined and slept in the house. They had a 
 dismal dormitory over some stables in Griz- 
 zly Bnildin^^s, at the back of Ursine Lane ; 
 and dined in a dingy, uncarpeted room at 
 the top of the building — on one unvarying 
 bill of fare of beef, mutton, and potatoes — 
 plenty of it, though, for the Beast never 
 stinted them ; which was remarkable in such 
 a Beast. The domestic arrangements were 
 superintended by a housekeeper — a tall, 
 melancholy, middle-aged lady, supposed to 
 hiive been once in affluent circumstances. 
 She had been very good-looking, too, once, 
 but had something the matter with her spine, 
 and not unfrequently fell down stairs, or 
 up stairs, in fits of syncope. When the Beast 
 had no one else to abuse and maltreat, he 
 would go up stairs and abuse Mrs. Plim- 
 niets, and threaten her with dismissal and 
 inevitable starvation. Business hours con- 
 cluded at eight nightly, and from that hour 
 to ten p. M., the clerks were permitted to 
 walk where they listed — but exclusion and 
 expulsion were the never failing result of a 
 moment's unpunctuality in returning home. 
 The porters slept out of the house, and the 
 clerks looked at them almost as superior 
 beings, as men of strange experiences and 
 knowledge of life — men who had been pre- 
 sent at orgies prolonged beyond midnight, 
 men who had remained in the galleries 
 of theatres till the performances were con- 
 cluded. 
 
 Of the dozen clerks who kept the books of 
 Barnard Braddlescroggs (save that grim au- 
 riferous banker's pass-book of his) and regis- 
 tered his wares, I have to deal with but two. 
 My business lies only with blue-eyed, pale- 
 faced William Braddlescroggs, and with 
 John Simcox the corresponding clerk. 
 
 Simcox among his fellow clerks, Mr. Sim- 
 cox among the porters. Jack Simcox among 
 bis intimates at the " Admiral Benbow" 
 near Camberwell Gate, " you Simcox," with 
 his growling chief. A gray-haired, smiling, 
 red-faced simpleton was Simcox ; kind of 
 heart, simple of mind, affectionate of dispo- 
 sition, confiding of nature, infirm of purpose, 
 convivial of habits. lie was fifty years in 
 age, and fifteen in wisdom. He had been at 
 the top of the ladder once — a rich man at 
 least by paternal inheritance, with a car- 
 riage and horses and lands ; but when he 
 tumbled (which he did at five-and-twenty, 
 very quickly and right to the bottom), he 
 never managed to rise again. The dupe of 
 every shallow knave ; the victim in every 
 
 egregious scheme ; an excellent arithmeti- 
 cian, yet quite unable to put two and two 
 together in a business sense ; he had never J 
 even had strength of character to be his own I 
 enemy ; he had always found such a multi- 
 plicity of friends ready to do the inimical 
 for him. If you let him alone he would do 
 well enough. He would not lose his money 
 till you cheated him out of it ; he would not 
 get drunk himself, but would allow you to 
 make him so, with the most charming wil- 
 lingness and equanimity. There are many 
 Simcoxes in the world, and more rogues 
 always ready to prey upon them : yet though 
 I[should like to hang the rogues, I should not 
 like to see the breed of Simcox quite extinct. 
 
 John Simcox had a salary of one hundred 
 and twenty pounds a year. If I were writing 
 fiction instead of sober (though veiled) truth, 
 I should picture him to you as a victim with 
 some two score of sovereigns per annum. 
 No ; he had a hundred and tv,'enty of those 
 yellow tokens annually, for the Beast never 
 stinted in this respect either, which was 
 again remarkable in such a Beast. One 
 hundred and twenty golden sovereigns an- 
 nually, had John Simcox ; and they were 
 of about as much use to him as one hundred 
 and twenty penny pieces. When a man has 
 a quarter's salary amounting to twent}-- 
 seven pounds, receivable next Thursday, 
 and out of that has a score of three pounds 
 due at the " Admiral Benbow," and has 
 promised to (and will) lend ten pounds to a 
 friend, and has borrowed five more of an- 
 other friend himself, which he means to 
 pay ; and has besides his little rent to meet, 
 and his little butcher and his little grocer 
 and his little tailor, it is not very difiicult to 
 imagine how the man may be considerably 
 embarrassed in satisfying all these demands 
 out of the capital. But, when the adminis- 
 trator of the capital happens to be (as Sim- 
 cox was) a man without the slightest com- 
 mand of himself or his money, you will have 
 no difiiculty in forming a conviction that the 
 end of Simcox's quarter-days were worse 
 than their commencement. 
 
 Nor will you be surprised that " execu- 
 tions" in Simcox's little house in Carolina- 
 terrace, Albany-road, Camberwell, were of 
 frequent occurrence ; that writs against him 
 were always "out," .and the brokers always 
 "in." That he was as well known in tiie 
 county court as the judge. That orders for 
 payment were always coming due and never 
 being paid. His creditors never arrested 
 him, however. If they did so, they knew he 
 would lose his situation ; so the poor man 
 went on from week to week, and from month 
 to month, borrowing here and borrowing 
 there, obtaining small advances from loan 
 societies held at public-houses, robbing 
 Peter to pay Paul — always in a muddle, in 
 short ; but still smoking his nightly pipes, 
 and drinking his nightly glasses, and sing- 
 
NINE NEW STORIES BY THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 
 
 55 
 
 ing his nightly songs ; the latter with im- 
 mense applause at the " Admiral Benbow." 
 
 I don't think Sinicox's worldly position 
 was at all improved by his having married 
 (in very early life, and direct from the finish- 
 ing establishment of the Misses Gimp, at 
 Hammersmith) a young lady highly accom- 
 plished in the useful and productive arts of 
 tambourwork and Poonah painting ; but of 
 all domestic or household duties consider- 
 ably more ignorant than a Zooloo Kaffir. 
 "When Simcox had run through his money, 
 an operation he performed with astonishing 
 celerity, Mrs. Simcox, finding herself with 
 three daughters of tender age and a ruined 
 husband, took refuge in a flood of tears ; 
 subsequently met the crisis of misfortune 
 with a nervous fever ; and ultimately sub- 
 Bided into permanent ill, health, curl papers, 
 and shoes down at heel. 
 
 When the events took place herein narra- 
 ted, the three daughters of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Simcox were all grown up. Madeline, aged 
 twenty-two, was a young lady of surprising 
 altitude, with shoulders of great breadth and 
 sharpness of outline, with very large black 
 eyes and very large black ringlets, attributes 
 of which she was consciously proud, but 
 with a nose approaching to — what shall I 
 say? — the snub. Chemists' assistants had 
 addressed acrostics to her; and the young 
 man at the circulating library was supposed 
 to be madly in love with her. Helena, 
 daughter number two, aged twenty, was 
 also tall, had also black eyes, black ringlets, 
 white resplendent shoulders, was the be- 
 loved of apothecaries, and the Laura of 
 Petrarehs in the linen drapery-lino. These 
 young ladies were both acknowledged, re- 
 cognized, established as beauties in the 
 Camberwellian district. They dressed, some- 
 bow, in the brightest and most variegated 
 colors ; they had, somehow, the prettiest of 
 bonnets, the tightest of gloves, the neatest 
 of kid boots. Their sabbatical entrance to 
 the parish church always created a sensa- 
 tion. The chemist's assistant kissed his 
 hand as they passed ; the young man at the 
 circulating library laid down his book and 
 sighed ; passing young ladies envied and 
 disparaged ; passing young gentlemen ad- 
 mired and aspired ; yet, some how, Miss 
 Madeline would be twenty-three next birth- 
 day, and Miss Helena twenty-one, and no 
 swain had yet declared himself in explicit 
 terms ; no one had said, " I have a hundred 
 a year with a prospect of an advance : take 
 it, my heart, and hand." Old Muggers, 
 indeed, the tailor of Acacia Cottages, the 
 friend, creditor, and boon companion of Sim- 
 cox, had intimated, in his cups, at the 
 " Admiral Benbow," his willingness to mar- 
 ry either of the young ladies ; but his ma^ 
 trimonial proposals generally vanished with 
 his inebriety ; and he was besides known to 
 be a dreadfully wicked old man, addicted to 
 
 drinking, smoking, and snuff-taking. As a 
 climax of villany, he was supposed to have 
 two wives already, alive and resident in 
 different parts of the provinces. 
 
 And daughter number three — have I for- 
 gotten her ? Not by any means. Was she 
 a beauty ? No. In the opinion of her sis- 
 ters, Camberwell, and of the chemist's as- 
 sistant, she was not a beauty. She had 
 dark eyes ; but they were neither brilliant 
 nor piercing. She had dark hair ; but wore 
 it in no long or resplendent ringlets. She 
 was an ordinary girl " a plain little thing" 
 (according to the Camberwell opinion) ; 
 there was " nothing about her" in the eyes 
 of the chemist's assistant. 
 
 This young person (Bessy byname), from 
 the earliest periods of authentic record to 
 the mature age of sixteen, had occupied, in 
 .the Simcox household, an analogous position 
 to that of the celebrated Cinderella. She 
 did not exactly sit in the chimney corner 
 among the ashes ; but she lighted the tire, 
 waited upon, dressed, and was otherwise the 
 humble and willing drudge of her accom- 
 plished relatives. She diil not exactly dress 
 in rags ; but she trotted about the house and 
 neighborhood in a shabliy brown merino 
 frock, which she had wniuUy outgrown, a 
 lamentable old beaver bonnet, and a faded 
 Paisley shawl which held a sort of middle 
 rank in appearance, between a duster and a 
 pocket-handkerchief well to do in the world. 
 As a child, she was punished for the things 
 she did not do, and doubly punished for 
 those she did do. As a girl, she ran of er- 
 rands, fetched the beer, lighted the fire (as I 
 have said), read the sentimental novels to 
 mamma as she lay upon the sofa, and ac- 
 companied her sisters on the pianoforte 
 when they rehearsed those famous songs 
 and duets 'with which they did terrific exe- 
 cution in the Camberwell circles. 
 
 Honest Simcox, like a stupid, undiscern- 
 ing, shiftless man as he was, did not enter- 
 tain the domestic or Camberwell opinion 
 concerning Bessy. He maintained that siie 
 had more sense in her little finger than her 
 sisters put together (with his wife into the 
 bargain, the honest fellow thought, I dare 
 swear, though he did not dare to say so). 
 He called her his little darling, his little 
 Mentor, his willing, patient Betsy-petsy, 
 with other foolish and weak-minded ex- 
 pressions of endearment. What else could 
 you expect of a red-nosed warehouseman's 
 clerk who fuddled himself nightly at the 
 "Admiral Benbow!" Profoundly submis- 
 sive to his wife in most instances, he had 
 frequently presumed, during Bessy's nonage, 
 to differ from Mrs. Simcox as to the amount 
 of whipping meted out to his youngest 
 daughter for childish delinquencies, and 
 had once even dared to interfere when his 
 lady undertook to inflict that punishment 
 for'a fault the child had never committed, 
 
56 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 and to " stay justice in its mid career." 
 So in process of time the alliance between 
 the snubbed, neglected little girl and her 
 father became of so close a nature as to be 
 almost recognised and permitted by the 
 rest of the family. Bessy was reckoned 
 among the rest of the low company with 
 whom the degraded Simcox chose to asso- 
 ciate. She was allowed to pull off his 
 muddy boots, to prepare his dinner, to fill 
 his pipe and mix his grog when he muddled 
 himself at home ; and to lead him home, 
 shambling, from the " Admiral Benbow," 
 when he performed that operation abroad. 
 Notably of late times she had been commis- 
 sioned to fetch her papa home from Ursine 
 Lane on the eventful quarter-day ; and the 
 meek, guiding-help of Bessy had often 
 saved that infirm old fellow from many 
 a dark and dangerous pitfall. The child 
 would wait patiently outside the doors of 
 public-houses wliile her father boozed with- 
 in ; she would lead him away gently but 
 firmly from his riotous companions, or, 
 meeting them and taking them aside, would 
 plead passionately, tearfully, that they 
 would not make papa tipsy to-night. Simie 
 of the disreputable personages with whom 
 she was brought into such strange contact 
 were quite subdued and abashed by her 
 earnest, artless luuks and speech. Jack 
 Fliiuks himself, formerly of the Stock Ex- 
 change, now principally of the bar of the 
 " Bag o'Nails," the very worst, most dissi- 
 pated and most reckless of Simcox's asso- 
 ciates, forebore drinking with Bessy's fa- 
 ther for one whole week, and actually re- 
 turned, in a private and mysterious manner, 
 to Bessy, two half-crowns he had borrowed 
 of him ! So useful was this filial surveil- 
 lance found to be by the other branches of 
 his family that the quarter-day functions 
 of our plain little Bessy were gradually 
 extended, and became next of weekly and 
 afterwards of diurnal occurrence. It was 
 good to see this girl arrayed in the forlorn 
 beaver bonnet and the faded Paisley shawl, 
 with her mild, beaming, ordinary, little 
 countenance, arrive at about a quarter to 
 eight, at the Thames Street corner of Ursine 
 Lane, and there wait patiently until her 
 father's ofiicial duties were over. She be- 
 came almost as well known in the neighbor- 
 hood as St. Nicholas Bearward, or as the 
 famous sanctified pump itself. The fellow- 
 ship porters from Sir John Pigg's wharf 
 touched their caps to her; the majestic 
 beadle of St. Nicholas (a cunning man, 
 omnipotent over the fire escape, king of the 
 keys of the engine-house, and supposed to 
 know where the fire-plug was, much better 
 than the turncock) spoke her kindly ; all 
 the clerks in Braddlescrogg's house knew 
 her, nodded to her, smiled at her, and pri- 
 vately expressed their mutual opinions as 
 to what a beast Braddlescroggs was, not to 
 
 ask that dear little girl in, and let her rest 
 herself, or sit by the fire in winter. The 
 pot-boy of the " Bear and Ragged Staff," in 
 his evening excursions with the supper 
 beer, grew quite enamored (in his silent, 
 sheepish fashion) of this affectionate daugh- 
 ter, and would, I dare say, had he dared, 
 have offered her refreshment from his beer- 
 can ; nay, even the majestic wealthy Mr. 
 Drum, the wholesale grocer and provision 
 merchant, who stood all day with his hands 
 in his pockets, under his own gibbet-like 
 crane, a very Jack Ketch of West India 
 produce, had addressed cheering and be- 
 nevolent words to her from the depths of 
 his double chin ; had conferred figs upoQ 
 her ; had pressed her to enter his saccha- 
 rine smelling warehouse, and rest herself 
 upon a barrel of prime navy mess beef. 
 
 When the Beast of Ursine Lane met Bessy 
 Simcox, he either scowled at her, or made 
 her sarcastic bows, and asked her at what 
 pot-house her father was about to get drunk 
 that night, and whether he had taught Iter to 
 drink gin, too ? Sometimes he growled forth 
 his determination to have no " bits of girls" 
 hanging about his " place :" sometimes he 
 told her she would not have to come many 
 times more, for that he was determined on 
 discharging that " drunken old dog," her 
 papa. In the majority of instances, how- 
 ever, he passed her without any other notice 
 than a scowl, and a savage rattle of the 
 keys and silver in his pockets. The little 
 maiden trembled fearfully when she saw 
 him, and had quiet fits of weeping (in 
 which a corner of the Paisley shawl was 
 brought into frequent requisition) over 
 against the pump, when he had spoken to 
 her. There was a lad called William Brad- 
 dlescroggs, with blue eyes and fxir hair, who 
 blushed very violently whenever he saw 
 Bessy, and had once been bold enough to 
 tell her that it was a fine evening. In this 
 flagrant crime he was then and there detected 
 by his father, who drove him back into the 
 warehouse. 
 
 " As this is quarter-day, my Bessy," was 
 the remark of John Simcox to his daughter, 
 one twenty-eighth of March, " as this is 
 quarter-day, I think, my child, that I will 
 take one glass of ale." 
 
 It was about half-past eight, I think, and 
 Bessy and her papa were traversing the 
 large thoroughfare known as the New Kent 
 Road. There is in that vicinity, as you are 
 aware, that stunning Champagne Ale House, 
 known as the " Leather Bottle." Into that 
 stunning ale house did John Simcox enter, 
 leaving his little Bessy outside, with fifteen 
 pounds, the balance of what he had already 
 expended of his quarter's salary. The night 
 was very lowering, and rain appeared to be 
 imminent. It came down, presently, in big, 
 pattering drops, but John had promised not 
 to be long. ■ 
 
NINE NEW STORIES BY THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 
 
 57 
 
 "Why should I tell, in extenso, the humilia- 
 ting tale of how John Simcox got tipsy that 
 night ? How he forced all the money, pound 
 by pound, from his little daughter? How, 
 when after immense labor and trouble, he 
 had at last been brought to his own street 
 duor, he suddenly started off at an unknown 
 tangent (running hard and straight) and 
 disappeared. How his daughter wandered 
 about, weeping, in the pouring rain, seeking 
 him ; how, at two o'clock in the morning, a 
 doleful party arrived at a little house in 
 Camberwell — a very moist policeman, a 
 weeping, shivering, drenched little girl over 
 whom tlie municipal had in pity thrown his 
 oilskin cape, and a penniless, hatless, drunk- 
 en man, all covered with mud, utterly sod- 
 den, wretched, and degraded. Drop the 
 curtain, for pity's sake. 
 
 The first impulse of Mrs. Simcox, after 
 duly loading her besotted husband with re- 
 proaches, was to beat Bessy. The anger of 
 this matron, generally so gently languid, 
 was something fearful to view. An enraged 
 sheep is frantic. She was frustrated, how- 
 ever, in her benevolent intention, first by 
 the policeman, afterwards by Bessy herself, 
 who, wet, fatigued, and miserable (but in 
 an artful and designing manner, no doubt), 
 first contrived to faint away, and next day 
 chose to fall into a high fever. 
 
 In this fever — in the access thereof — she 
 lay three long weeks. In a lamentable state 
 of languor she lay many long weeks more. 
 The brokers were in again. The parlor 
 carpet was taken up and sent to the pawn- 
 broker's. There were no invalid comforts in 
 the house ; no broth, nor chicken to make 
 it, no arrowroot, no sago, no port wine, 
 no anything to speak of, that was really 
 wanted. 
 
 Stay, I am wrong. There were plenty of 
 doctors ; there was plenty of doctor's stuff. 
 The chemists, apothecaries, and medical 
 practitioners of the neighborhood, treated 
 the Simcox family, and the little sick daugh- 
 ter, in particular, in a liberal and considerate 
 manner. Not one charged a penny, and all 
 were unremitting in attention. Kind-hearted 
 Mr. Sphoon, of Walworth, sent in — so to 
 Bpeak — a hamper of quinine. Young Tuck- 
 ett, close by, who had just passed the Hall 
 and College, and opened his shop, offered to 
 do anything for Bessy. He would have 
 dissected her, even, I am sure. Great Doc- 
 tor Bibby came from Camberwell Grove, in 
 his own carriage, with his own footman with 
 the black worsted tags on his shoulder, and 
 majestically ordered change of air, and red 
 Port wine for Bessy Simcox. A majestic 
 man was Dr. Bibby, and a portly, and a 
 deep-voiced and a rich. His boots creaked, 
 and his carriage-springs oscillated ; but he 
 left a sovereign on the Simcox mantlepiece, 
 for all that. 
 
 So there was something of those things 
 
 needful in the little house at Camberwell. 
 There was, besides, a certain nurse, active, 
 devoted, patient, soothing, and gentle. Not 
 Mrs. Simcox, who still lay on the sofa, now 
 reading the sentimental novels, now moan- 
 ing over the family difficulties. Not the 
 Misses Simcox, who, though they did tend 
 their sister, did it very fretfully and cross- 
 grainedly, and unanimously declared that 
 the child made herself out to be a great deal 
 worse than she really was. This nurse had 
 rather a red nose, and a tremulous hand. 
 He came home earlier from the City now ; 
 but he never stopped at the stunning Cham- 
 pagne Ale House. He had not been to the 
 " Admiral Benbow" for seven weeks. He 
 sat by his daughter's pillow ; he read to her ; 
 he carried her in his arms like a child as she 
 was ; he wept over the injury he had done 
 her ; he promised, and meant, and prayed 
 for, amendment. 
 
 But what were the attentions of the doc- 
 tors, the hamper of quinine, the sovereign 
 on the mantlepiece, even, after all ? They 
 were but drops in the great muddled ocean 
 of the Simcox embarrassments. A sove- 
 reign would not take Bessy to Malvern or 
 Ventnor ; the quinine would not give her 
 red Port wine and change of air. The nurse 
 grew desperate. There was no money to be 
 borrowed, none to be obtained from the 
 pawnbroker, none to be received until next 
 quarter-day — before which, another month 
 must elapse. Should he attempt to obtain a 
 small advance of money from the Beast him- 
 self — the terrible Braddlescroggs? Should 
 he offer him two hundred per cent, interest; 
 should he fall down on his knees before him ; 
 should he write him a supplicatory letter ; 
 should he ? 
 
 One evening, Simcox came home from the 
 ofBce, with many smiles upon his face. He 
 had borrowed the money after many diffi- 
 culties, from the chief clerk. Ten pounds. 
 He would have to pay very heavy interest 
 for it, but never mind. Mrs. Simcox should 
 take Bessy to Ventnor for a fortnight or 
 three weeks. Quarter day would soon come 
 round. Soon come round. Now and then 
 his family remarked, that the many smiles 
 dropped from their papa's countenance like 
 a mask, and that, underneath he wore a look 
 rather haggard, rather weary, rather terri- 
 ble ; but then, you see, he would have to pay 
 such a heavy interest for the ten pound*. 
 Mrs. Simcox was delighted at the prospect 
 of her country trip ; poor Bessy smiled and 
 thanked her papa ; and the two Miss Sim- 
 coxes, who had their own private conviction 
 that an excursion to the sea-side was the 
 very thing for them ; to air their beauty as 
 it were, and not for that designing bit of a 
 thing, Bessy, with her pale face, the two 
 Miss Simcoxes, I say, went to bed in a huff. 
 
 To the pleasant Island of Wight in the 
 British Channel, and the county of Hamp- 
 
58 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 shire, did the little convalescent from Cam- 
 berwell and her parent proceed. Bessy 
 gathered shells and sea weed, and bouji;lit 
 sand pictures on cardboard by the Under- 
 cliff, and sand in bottles, and saw the don- 
 key at Carisl)roke Castle, and wondered at 
 Little St. liawroncc Church, and the maf^ni- 
 ficent 3'achtini!; dandies at Cowes and Hyde, 
 until her pale face grew quite rosy, and her 
 dark eyes had something of a sparkle in 
 them. Iler mamma lay on the sofa as 
 usual, exhausted the stock of sentimental 
 novels in the Ventnor circulating library, 
 var^'ing these home occupations occasionally 
 by taking exercise in a wheel-chair, and 
 *' nagging" at Bessy. The pair came back 
 to London together, and were at the little 
 mansion at Caniberwell about a week before 
 quarter-da3^ The peccant Simcox had been 
 exemplarily abstemious during their ab- 
 sence; but his daughters had not been able 
 to avoid remarking that he was silent, re- 
 served, and anxious looking. You see he 
 had to pay such heavy interest for the ten 
 pounds he had borrowed of the chief clerk. 
 
 Three days before quarter-day, it was ten 
 minutes to eight p. m., and Bessy Simcox 
 was waiting for her father. She was confi- 
 dent, hopeful, cheerful now; she thanked 
 God for her illness and the change it had 
 •wrought in her dear papa. Ten minutes to 
 eight, and a hot summer's evening. She 
 was watching the lamp-lighter going round 
 ■with his ladder and his little glimmering 
 lantern, when she was accosted by one of 
 Mr. Braddlescrogg's porters. He was an 
 ugly, forbidding man, with a vicious-looking 
 fur cap (such as porters of workhouses and 
 wicked skippers of colliers wear), and had 
 never before saluted or spoken to her. She 
 began to tremble violently when John Ma- 
 lingerer (a special favorite of the Beast's, if 
 he could have favored any one, and sup- 
 posed to be a porter after his own heart), 
 addressed her. 
 
 " Hi !" said the porter, " you're wanted," 
 
 " Me— wanted?" Where? By whom?" 
 stammered Bessy. 
 
 " Counting house — Governor — Bisness," 
 replied John Malingerer, in short growling 
 periods. 
 
 Bessy followed him, still trembling. The 
 porter walked before her, looming like the 
 genius of Misfortune. He led her through 
 dingy wareroom after wareroom, counting 
 house after counting house, where the clerks 
 all were silent and subdued. He led her at 
 last into a dingy sanctum, dimly lighted by 
 one shaded lamp. In this safe there were 
 piles of dingy papers and more dingy led- 
 gers ; with great piles of accounts on hooks 
 in the wail, with their long iron necks and 
 ■white bodies, like ghosts of dead bills -who 
 had hanged themselves ; a huge iron safe 
 throwing hideous shadows against the wall, 
 and three silent men. 
 
 That is to say : 
 
 John Simcox, white, trembling and with 
 wild eyes. 
 
 The Beast, neither more nor less a Beast 
 than he usually was. 
 
 A tall man with a very sharp shirt collar, 
 great coat, a black stock ; very thin iron 
 gray hair ; a face which looked as if it had 
 once been full of wrinkles and furrows which 
 had been half ironed out; very peculiar and 
 very heavy boots, brown Berlin gloves, and 
 a demeanor which confirmed you immedi- 
 ately in a conviction that were you to strike 
 at him violently with a sledge hammer, his 
 frame would give forth in response no fleshy 
 " thud," but a hard metallic ring. 
 
 The Beast was standing up : his back 
 against a tall desk on spectral legs, his 
 hands in his pockets. So also, standing, in 
 a corner, was Simcox. So also, not exactly 
 anywhere but somewhere, somehow, and 
 about Simcox, and about Bessy, and par- 
 ticularly about the door, and the iron safe, 
 in which he seemed to take absorbing in- 
 terest, was the tall man in the peculia. 
 boots. 
 
 " Come here, my girl," said the grating 
 voice of Barnard Braddlescroggs the Beasi 
 
 My girl came there, to the foot of a table, 
 as she was desired. She heard the grating 
 voice ; she heard, much louder, the beating 
 of her own heart ; she heard, loudest of all, 
 a dreadful voice crying within her, crying 
 over and over again that papa had borrowed 
 ten pounds, and that he would have to pay 
 very heavy interest for it, and that quarter 
 day would soon come round, soon come 
 round. 
 
 " This person's name is Lurcher," pur- 
 sued the Beast. 
 
 The person coughed. The cough struck 
 on the girl's heart like a knell. One. 
 
 " He is an oflicer." 
 
 An oflicer of what? Of the Household 
 Brigade; of the yeomanry cavalry ; of the 
 Sherifl" of Middlesex's battalion, a custom 
 house officer, a naval oflicer, a relieving 
 officer? But Bessy knew in a moment. Slie 
 might have known it at first from the pecu- 
 liar boots the officer wore — boots sueh as no 
 other officer, or man, or woman can wear. 
 But her own heart told her. It said [ilainly : 
 " This is a police officer, and he has come to 
 take your father into custody." 
 
 It was all told directly. Oh Bessy, Bessy ! 
 The ten pounds borrowed from the chief 
 clerk, for which he would have to pay such 
 heavy interest. The ten pounds were bor- 
 rowed from the Petty Cash. The miserable 
 Simcox's account was fifteen pounds defi- 
 cient ; he had promised to refund the money 
 on quarter day ; he had begged and prayed 
 for time ; the Beast was inexorable, and 
 Lurcher, the officer, was there to take him 
 to prison for emljezzlement. 
 
 " You daughter of this man," said the 
 
NINE NEW STORIES BY THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 
 
 50 
 
 Beast, " you must go home without him. 
 You tell his -wife and the rest of his people, 
 that I have locked him up, and that I'll 
 transport him, for robbery." 
 
 " Robbery, no, sir," cried poor Simcox 
 from the corner. " Before God, no ! It was 
 only for " 
 
 " Silence 1" said the Beast. " I'll prose- 
 cute you, I'll transport you, I'll hang you. 
 By G — , I'll reform you, sumehow." *' Girl," 
 he continued, turning to Bessy. " Go home. 
 Stop 1 I'll send a clerk with you to see if 
 there are any of my g^ods at home. I dare 
 Bay there are, and you'll move 'em to-night. 
 You wont though. I'll have a search war- 
 rant. I'll put you all in gaol. I'll trans- 
 port you all. Come here, one of you fellows 
 in the office" (this with a roar) "and go 
 ■with this girl to Camberwell. Lurcher, take 
 the rascal away." 
 
 What was poor Bessy to do ? What could 
 she do but fall down on her knees, clasping 
 those stern knees before her? What could 
 she do, but amid sobs and broken articula- 
 tion say that it was all her fault ? That it 
 was for her, her dear papa had taken the 
 money. That for her use it had been spent. 
 What could she do but implore the Beast, 
 for the love of heaven, for the love of his 
 own son, fur the love of his dead father and 
 mother, to spare the object of his wrath, to 
 send her to prison, to take all they had, to 
 show them mercy, as he hoped mercy to be 
 shown tu him hereafter. 
 
 She did all this and more. It was good, 
 though pitiful, to see the child on her knees 
 in her mean dress, with her streaming eyes, 
 and her poor hair all hanging about her 
 eyes, and to hear her artless, yet passionate 
 supplications. The Beast moved nor muscle 
 nor face ; but it is upon record that Mr. 
 Lurcher, after creaking about on the pecu- 
 liar boots for some seconds, turned aside in- 
 to the shadow of the iron safe, and blew his 
 uose. 
 
 " Lurcher," observed the Beast, " wait a 
 moment before I give this man into your 
 charge." 
 
 Mr. Lurcher bent some portion of his 
 body between his occiput and his spine, 
 and, considering himself temporarily re- 
 lieved from the custody of his prisoner, 
 threw the whole force of his contemplative 
 energies into the iron safe, in which, as a 
 subject, he appeared immediately to bury 
 himself. 
 
 " Come here 1" was the monosyllabic com- 
 mand of the Beast ; addressed both to father 
 and daughter. He led them into yet an 
 inner sanctum, a sort of cupboard, full of 
 books and papers, where there was a dread- 
 ful screw copying press, like an instrument 
 of torture in the Inquisition. 
 
 "I will spare your father, child, and re- 
 tain him in his situation," continued the 
 Beast, without ever taking his hands from 
 
 his pockets, or altering an inflection of his 
 voice, "on these, and these conditions only. 
 My housekeeper is old and blind, and I 
 shall soon turn her adrift, and let her go to 
 the workhouse — everybody says so, I be- 
 lieve. The short time she will remain, she 
 will be able to instruct you in as much as I 
 shall require of you. You will have to keep 
 this house for me and my clerks, and you 
 must never quit it save once in six weeks, 
 for six hours at a time ; and I expect you to 
 adhere to this engagement for two years. 
 All communication between you and vour 
 family, save during your hours of liberty, I 
 strictly prohibit. You will have twenty 
 pounds a year as wages, half of which can 
 go to augment your father's salary. At the 
 same time I shall require from him a writ- 
 ten acknowledgment that he has embezzled 
 my monies ; and if you quit my service I 
 shall use it against him, ruin him, and im- 
 prison him. Make up your mind quickly, 
 for the policeman is waiting." 
 
 What was poor Bessy to do ? To part 
 from her dear father, never to see him save 
 at intervals, and then only for a short time ; 
 to know that he was in the same house, and 
 not be able to run and embrace him. All 
 this was hard, very hard, but what would n(jt 
 Bessy do to save her father from ruin and 
 disgrace, and a prison ? She Avould havo 
 laid down her life for him, she would have 
 cheerfully consented never to see him again 
 — till the great day comes when we shall 
 all meet to part no more. She consented ; 
 Mr. Lurcher was privately spoken to and 
 dismissed; the Beast subsided into his 
 usual taciturnity ; Bessy led her stricken, 
 broken, trembling parent home. They 
 passed through the long, dingy warerooms, 
 the clerks whispering and looking as they 
 passed. 
 
 Bessy's wardrobe was not sufficiently vo- 
 luminous to occasion the expenditure of any 
 very great time in packing. It was soon 
 put up, in a very small shabby black box, 
 studded with brass nails — many of th<>ni 
 deficient. This, with Bessy herself, arrived 
 at nine o'clock the next morning, as pt-r 
 agreement, at the Cheapside corner of Ur- 
 sine Lane, where one of Mr. Braddlo- 
 scrogg's porters was in waiting, who brought 
 Bessy and her box to the dismal Manches- 
 ter warehouse owned by the Beast of Ursine 
 Lane. 
 
 And here, in the top floor of this lugubrious 
 mansion, lived, for two long years, Bessy 
 Simcox. At stated periods she saw her fam- 
 ily for a few hours, and then went back to 
 her prison-house. She carved the beef uni 
 mutton for the hungry clerks, she mended 
 their linen, she gave out candles, she calcu- 
 lated washing bills. The old, old story of 
 Beauty and the Beast was being done over 
 again in Ursine Lane, Chea{)side. Bessy 
 ripened into a Beauty, iu this dismal hot- 
 
60 
 
 DICKE.;S' NEW STORIES. 
 
 house ; and the Beast was, as I have told 
 ^MU lie alwius was. lit-auty dwelt in no fairy 
 {lalace ; surrounded by no rose hushes, no 
 sweet-suielling <:;ardens, no invisible hands 
 to wait on her at supper. It was all liard, 
 stern, uncompromisinj:; nvility. Slie liad to 
 deal with an imperious, eullen. brutal mas- 
 ter. Everybody knew it. She dealt with 
 him as Uessy had the art of dealing with 
 every one. Slie bore with him meekly, 
 gently, patiently. Slie strove to win bis 
 forbearance, his respect. She won them 
 both, and more — his love. 
 
 Yes, his love! Dim't be afraid; the Beast 
 iifver changed to Prince Azor. lie never 
 lay among the rose bushes sick to death, and 
 threatening to die unless Beauty married 
 him. But at the end of the two years, when 
 th'Mr contract was at an end, and when its 
 fulfilment had given him time to know 
 Bessy well, and to save the father through 
 the child, he besought Bessy to remain with 
 him in the same capacity, offering her muni- 
 ficent terms and any degree of liberty she 
 required as regarded communication with 
 her family. Bessy stayed. She stayed two 
 years : she stayed three ; she stays there 
 uow, to witness if I lie. 
 
 Not ahme however. It occurred to Wil- 
 liam B., junior — the lad with the blue eyes 
 and fair hair — to grow up to be a tall young 
 man, and to fall violently in love with the 
 pr.'tty little housekeeper. It occurred to his 
 father, instead of smiting him on the hip 
 
 immediately, or eating him up alive in wild 
 be<ist fashion, to tell him he was a very sen- 
 sible fellow, and to incite Bessy (we must 
 call her Beauty now) to encourage his ad- 
 dresses, which indeed, dear little puss ! she 
 was nothing loth to do. So Beauty wae 
 married. Not to the Bea';t. but to the Beast's 
 son ; and Beauty and William and the Beast 
 all removed to a pretty house in the prettiest 
 country near London, where they live to this 
 day, again to witness if I lie. 
 
 The Beast is a Beast no longer. Every- 
 body admits that he is not a beast now; 
 some few are even doubtful whether he ever 
 teas a Beast. He carries on the Ursine Lane 
 business (in partnership with his son) still, 
 and is a very rough- headed and rough-voiced 
 old man. But the rough kernel and rough 
 integument are worn away from his heart, 
 and he is genial and jovial among his depen- 
 dants. Charitable in secret, he had always 
 been, even in his most brutish times ; and 
 you are not to believe (for Braddlescroggs 
 talked nonsense sometimes and he knew it) 
 that the old housekeeper, when she became 
 blind or bedridden, was sent adrift or to the 
 workhouse ; that old John Simcox was not 
 allowed sufficient funds for his pipe and his 
 glass (in strict moderation) at the Admiral 
 Benbow ; or that the two Misses Simcox, 
 when they married at last (after superhu- 
 man exertions), went dowerless. No. The 
 Beast remembered, and was generous to 
 them all. 
 
 p^'^^^^f**^ 
 
 THE ANGEL'S STORY. 
 
 Through the blue and frosty heavens, 
 Christmas stars were shining bright ; 
 
 The glistening lamps of the great City 
 Ahuos-t matched their gleaming light ; 
 
 And the winter snow was lying. 
 
 And the winter winds were sighing, 
 Long ago one Christmas night. 
 
 V^Tiile from every tower and steeple. 
 Pealing bells were sounding clear, 
 
 (Never with such tones of gladness. 
 Save when Christmas time is near) 
 
 Many a one that night was merry, 
 Who had toiled through all the year, 
 
 That night saw old wrongs forgiven, 
 Friends, long parted, reconcile; 
 
 Voices, all unused to laughter. 
 Eyes that had forgot to smile. 
 
 Anxious hearts that feared the morrow. 
 Freed from all their cares awhile. 
 
 Rich and poor felt the same blessing 
 From the gracious season fall ; 
 
 Joy and plenty in the cottage. 
 Peace and feasting in the hall ; 
 
 And the voices of the children 
 Ringing clear above it all ! 
 
 Yet one house was dim and darkened* 
 Gloom, and sickness, and despair 
 
 Abiding in the gilded chamber. 
 Climbing up the marble stair, 
 
 Stilling even the voice of mourning — - 
 For a child lay dying there. 
 
 Silken curtains fell around him. 
 Velvet carpets hushed the tread, 
 
 Many costly toys were lying. 
 All unheeded, by his bed; 
 
 And his tangled golden ringlets 
 Were on downy pillows spread. 
 
NINE NEW STORIES BY THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 
 
 61 
 
 All the skill of the great City 
 To save that little life was vain ; 
 
 That little thread from being broken ; 
 
 That fatal word froni being spoken; 
 Nay, his very mother's pain, 
 
 And the mighty love within her, 
 Could not give him health again. 
 
 And she knelt there still beside him, 
 She alone with strength to smile, 
 
 And to promise he should sufl'er 
 No more in a little while, 
 
 And with murmur'd song and story 
 The long weary hours beguile. 
 
 Suddenly an unseen Presence 
 
 Checked these constant mourning cries. 
 Stilled the little heart's quick fluttering, 
 
 Raised the blue and wondering eyes, 
 Fixed on some mysterious vision, 
 
 With a startled sweet surprise. 
 
 For a radiant angel hovered 
 
 Smiling o'er the little bed ; 
 White his raiment, from his shoulders 
 
 Snowy dove-like pinions spread, 
 And a starlike light was shining 
 
 In a Glory round his head. 
 
 While, with tender love, the angel. 
 
 Leaning o'er the httle nest, 
 In his arms the sick child folding, 
 
 Laid him gently on his breast. 
 Sobs and wailings from the mother. 
 
 And her darling was at rest. 
 
 So the angel, slowly rising. 
 
 Spread his wings ; and, through the air, 
 Bore the pretty child, and held him 
 
 On his heart with loving care, 
 A red branch of blooming roses 
 
 Placing softly by him there. 
 
 While the child thus clinging, floated 
 Towards the mansions of the Blest, 
 
 Gazing from his shining guardian 
 To the flowers upon his breast. 
 
 Thus the angel spake, still smiling 
 On the little heavenly guest : 
 
 " Know, O little one ! that Heaven 
 Does no earthly thing disdain ; 
 
 Man's poor joys find there an echo 
 Just as surely as his pain : 
 
 Love, on earth so feebly striving, 
 Lives divine in Heaven again ! 
 
 " Once, in yonder town below us, 
 
 In a poor and narrow street, 
 Dwelt a httle sickly orphan ; 
 
 Gentle aid, or pity sweet. 
 Never in life's rugge*! pathway 
 
 Guided his poor tottering feet, 
 
 " All the striving anxious forethought 
 That should only come with age. 
 
 Weighed upon his baby spirit. 
 
 Showed him soon life's sternest page ; 
 
 Grim Want was his nurse, and Sorrow 
 Was his only heritage ! 
 
 " All too weak for childish pastimes 
 
 Drearily the hours sped ; 
 On his hands so small and trembling 
 
 Leaning his poor aching head, 
 Or, through dark and painful hours 
 
 Lying sleepless on no bed, 
 
 " Dreaming strange and longing fancies 
 
 Of cool forests far away ; 
 Dreams of rosy happy children, 
 
 Laughing merrily at play ; 
 Coming home through green lanes, bearing 
 
 Trailing branches of white May 
 
 " Scarce a glimpse of the blue heavens 
 Gleamed above the narrow street. 
 
 And the sultry air of Summer 
 
 (That you called so warm and sweet,) 
 
 Fevered the poor Orphan, dwelling 
 In the crowded alley's heat. 
 
 "One bright day, with feeble footsteps 
 Slowly forth he dared to crawl. 
 
 Through the crowded city's pathways, 
 Till he reached a garden wall ; 
 
 Where 'mid princely halls and mansions 
 Stood the lordliest of all. 
 
 " There were trees with giant branches, 
 Velvet glades where shadows hide ; 
 
 There were sparkling fountains glancing, 
 Flowers whose rich luxuriant pride 
 
 Wafted a breath of precious perfume 
 To the child who stood outside, 
 
 "He against the gate of iron 
 
 Pressed his wan and wistful face, 
 
 Gazing with an awe-struck pleasure 
 At the glories of the place ; 
 
 Never had his fail est day-dream 
 
 Shone with hall such wondrous grace. 
 
 " You were playing in that garden 
 
 Throwing blossoms in the air, 
 And laughing when the petals floated 
 
 Dovinward on your golden hair ; 
 And the fond eyes watching o'er you. 
 And the splendor spread before you. 
 
 Told a House's Hope was there. 
 
 " When your servants, tired of seeing 
 His pale face and want of woe. 
 
 Turning to the ragged Orphan, 
 Gave him coin, and bade him go, 
 
 Down his cheeks ho thin and wasted. 
 Bitter tears began to flow. 
 
 " But that look of childish sorrow 
 On your tender young heart feh. 
 
 And you plucked the reddest roses 
 From the tree you loved so well, 
 
 Passing them through the stern grating. 
 With the gentle word, ' Farewell !' 
 
 " Dazzled by the fragrant treasure 
 And the gentle voice he heard 
 
 In the poor forlorn I)oy's spirit, 
 Joy the sleeping Seraph stirred • 
 
 In his hand he clasped the flowers. 
 In his heart the loving wonl. 
 
62 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 « So he crept to his poor garret, 
 Poor no more, but rich and bright ; 
 
 For the holy dreams of childhood — 
 
 Love, and Rest, and Hope, and Light — 
 
 Floated round the Orphan's pillow 
 Through the starry summer night. 
 
 " Day dawned, yet the vision lasted ; 
 All too weak to rise he lay ; 
 
 Did he dream that none spoke harshly- 
 All were strangely kind that day ? 
 
 Yes ; he thought his treasured roses 
 Must have charmed all ills away. 
 
 "And he smiled, though they were fading ; 
 
 One by one their leaves were shed ; 
 • Such blight things could never perish, 
 
 They would bloom again,' he said. 
 When the next day's sun had risen, 
 
 Child and flowers both were dead. 
 
 " Know, dear little one ! our Father 
 Does no gentle deed disdain ; 
 
 And in hearts that beat in heaven. 
 Still all tender thoughts remain i 
 
 Love on the cold earth remaining 
 Lives divine and pure again !" 
 
 Thus the angel ceased, and gently 
 O'er his little burthen leant ; 
 
 While the child gazed from the shining 
 Loving eyes that o'er him bent, 
 
 To the blooming roses by him. 
 
 Wondering what that mystery meant 
 
 Then the radiant angel answered, 
 And with holy meaning smiled : 
 
 "Ere your tender, loving spirit 
 Sin and the hard world defiled, 
 
 Mercy gave me leave to seek you : 
 I was once that little child!" 
 
 »>>^ys»^'^^#^A » ' " . 
 
 THE SQUIRE'S STORY. 
 
 In the year seventeen hundred and sixty- 
 nine, the little town of Barford was thrown 
 into a state of great excitement by the in- 
 telligence that a gentleman (and "quite the 
 gentleman," said the landlord of the George 
 Inn), had been looking at Mr. Clavering's 
 old house. This house was neither in the 
 town nor in the country. It stood on the 
 outskirts of Barford, on the road-side leading 
 to Derby. The last occupant had been a 
 Mr. Clavering — a Northumberland gentle- 
 man of good family — who had come to live 
 in Barford when he was but a younger son; 
 but when some elder branches of the family 
 died, he had returned to take possession of 
 the family estate. The house of which I 
 speak was called the White House, from its 
 being covered with a grayish kind of stucco. 
 It had a good garden to the back, and Mr. 
 Clavering had built capital stables, with 
 what were then considered the latest im- 
 prove-ments. The point of good stabling 
 was expected to let the house, as it was in a 
 hunting county ; otherwise it had few re- 
 commeniations. There were many bed- 
 rooms ; some entered through others, even 
 to the number of five, leading one beyond 
 the other ; several sitting-rooms of the small 
 and poky kind, wainscotted round with 
 wood, and then painted a heavy slate color ; 
 one good dining-room, and a drawing-room 
 over it, both looking into the garden, with 
 pleasant bow-windows. 
 
 Such was the accommodation offered by 
 the White House. It did not seem to be 
 very tempting to strangers, though the good 
 people of Barford rather piqued themselves 
 
 on it, as the largest house in the town ; and 
 as a house in which "townspeople" and 
 " county people" had often met at Mr. 
 Clavering's friendly dinners. To appreciate 
 this circumstance of pleasant recollection, 
 you should have lived some years in a little 
 country town, surrounded by gentlemen's 
 seats. You would then understand how a 
 bow or a courtesy from a member of a county 
 family elevates the individuals who receive 
 it almost as much, in their own eyes, as the 
 pair of blue garters fringed with silver did 
 Mr. Bickerstaff's ward. They trip lightly 
 on air for a whole day afterwards. Now 
 Mr. Clavering was gone, where could town 
 and county mingle ? 
 
 I mention these things that you may have 
 an idea of the desirability of the letting of 
 the White House in the Barfordites' imagi- 
 nation ; and to make the mixture thick and 
 slab, you must add for yourselves the bustle, 
 the mystery, and the importance which 
 every little event either causes or assumes 
 in a small town ; and then, perhaps, it will 
 be no wonder to you that twenty ragged 
 little urchins accompanied " the gentleman" 
 aforesaid to the door of the White House ; 
 and that, although he was above an hour 
 inspecting it under the auspices of Mr, 
 Jones, the agent's clerk, thirty more ha- 
 joined themselves on to the M'ondering crowd 
 before his exit, and awaited such crumbs of 
 intelligence as they could gather before they 
 were threatened or whipped out of hearing 
 distance. Presently out came " the gentle- 
 man" and the lawyer's clerk. The latter 
 was speaking as he followed the former over 
 
NINE NEW STORIES BY THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 
 
 63 
 
 the threshold. The gentleman was tall, 
 well-dressed, handsome; but there was a 
 Binister, cold look in his quick-glancing, 
 light blue eye, which a keen observer might 
 not have liked. There were no keen ob- 
 servers among the boys, and ill-conditioned 
 gaping girls. But they stood too near ; in- 
 conveniently close ; and the gentleman, 
 lifting up his right hand, in which he carried 
 a short riding whip, dealt one or two sharp 
 blows to the nearest, with a look of savage 
 enjoyment on his face as they moved away 
 whimpering and crying. An instant after, 
 his expression of countenance had changed. 
 
 "Here !" said he, drawing out a handful 
 of money, partly silver, partly copper, and 
 throwing it into the midst of them. " Scram- 
 ble for it ! fight it out, my lads ! come this 
 afternoon, at three, to the George, and I'll 
 throw you out some more." So the boys 
 hurrahed for him as he walked off with the 
 agent's clerk. lie chuckled to himself, as 
 over a pleasant thought. " I'll have some 
 fun with those lads," he said ; " I'll teach 'em 
 to come prowling and prying about me. I'll 
 tell you what I'll do. I'll make the money 
 Ko hot in the fire shovel that it shall burn 
 their fingers. You come and see the faces 
 and the howling. 
 
 " I shall be very glad if you will dine with 
 me at two ; and by that time I may have 
 made up my mind about the house." 
 
 Mr. Jones, the agent's clerk, agreed to 
 come to the George at two, but, somehow, 
 he had a distaste for his entertainer. Mr. 
 Jones would not like to have said, even to 
 himself, that a man with a purse full of 
 money, who kept many horses, and spoke 
 familiarly of noblemen — above all, who 
 thought of taking the White House — could 
 be anything but a gentleman ; but still the 
 uneasy wonder as to who this Mr. Robinson 
 Higgins could be, filled the clerk's mind 
 long after Mr. Higgins, Mr. Iliggins's ser- 
 vants, and Mr. Iliggins's stud, had taken 
 possession of the White House. 
 
 The White House was re-stuccoed (this 
 time of a pale yellow color), and put into 
 thorough repair by the accommodating and 
 delighted landlord ; while his tenant seemed 
 inclined to spend any amount of money on 
 internal decorations, which were showy and 
 effective in their character, enough to make 
 the White House a nine days' wonder to the 
 good people of Barford. The slate-colored 
 paints became pink, and were picked out 
 with gold ; the oldfashioncd bannisters were 
 replaced by newly gilt ones ; but above all, 
 the stables were a sight to be seen. Since 
 the days of the Roman Emperor never was 
 there such provision made for the care, the 
 comfort, and the health of horses. But 
 every one said it was no wonder, when they 
 were led through Barford, covered up to 
 their eyes, but curving their arched and 
 delicate necks, and prancing with short high 
 
 steps, in repressed eagerness. Only one 
 groom came with them ; yet they required 
 the care of three men. Mr. Higgins, how- 
 ever, preferred engaging two lads out of 
 Barford ; and Barford highly approved of his 
 preference. Not only was it kind and 
 thoughtful to give employment to the loung- 
 ing lads themselves, but they were receiving 
 such a training in Mr. Higgins's stables as 
 might fit them for Doncaster or Newmarket. 
 The district of Derbyshire in which Barford 
 was situated, was too close to Leicestershire 
 not to support a hunt and a pack of hounds. 
 The master of the hounds was a certain Sir 
 Harry Manley, who was aut a huntsman aut 
 nullus. He measured a man by the " length 
 of his fork," not by the expression of his 
 countenance, or the shape of his head. But 
 as Sir Harry was wont to observe, there was 
 such a thing as too long a fork, so his ap- 
 probation was withheld until ho had seen a 
 man on horseback ; and if his scat tliere was 
 square and easy, his hand light, and his 
 courage good, Sir Harry hailed him as a 
 brother. 
 
 Mr. Higgins attended the first meet of the 
 season, not as a subscriber but as an ama- 
 teur. The Barford huntsmen piqued them- 
 selves on their bold riding ; and their 
 knowledge of the country came by nature ; 
 yet this new strange man, whom nobody 
 knew, was in at the death, sitting on his 
 horse, both well breathed and calm, without 
 a hair turned on the sleek skin of the latter, 
 supremely addressing the old huntsman as 
 he hacked off the tail of the fox ; and he, the 
 old man, who was testy even under Sir 
 Harry's slightest rebuke, and flew out on 
 any other member of the hunt that dared to 
 utter a word against his sixty years' experi- 
 ence as stable-boy, groom, poacher, and 
 what not; he, old Isaac Wormeley, was 
 meekly listening to the wisdom of this 
 stranger, only now and then giving one of 
 his quick, up-turning, cunning glances, not 
 unlike the sharp o'er-canny looks of the poor 
 deceased Reynard, round whom the hounds 
 were howling, unadmonished by the short 
 whip, which was now tucked into Worme- 
 ley's well-worn pocket. When Sir Harry 
 rode into the copse — full of dead brushwood 
 and wet tangled grass — and was followed by 
 the members of the hunt, as one by one they 
 cantered past, Mr. Higgins took off his cap 
 and bowed — half deferentially, half inso- 
 lently — with a lurking smile in the corner 
 of his eye at the discomfited looks of one or 
 two of the laggards. "A famous run, sir," 
 said Sir Harry. " The first time you have 
 hunted in our country, but I hope we shall 
 see you often." 
 
 " I hope to become a member of the hunt, 
 sir," said Mr. Higgins. 
 
 " Most happy — proud, I'm sure, to receive 
 so daring a rider among us. You took the 
 Cropper-gate, I fancy ; while some of oui 
 
64 
 
 DjlCkens' new stories. 
 
 friends hero" — scowling at one or two cow- 
 ards by way of finishing his speech. "Allow 
 me to introduce myself — master of the 
 hounds" — he fumbled in his waistcoat pocket 
 for the card on which his name was formally 
 inscribed. " Some of our friends here are 
 kind enough to come home with me to din- 
 ner ; might I ask for the honor ?" 
 
 " My name is Iliggins," replied the stran- 
 ger bowing, low. " I am only lately come 
 to occupy the White House at Barford, and 
 I have not as yet presented my letters of 
 introduction." 
 
 " Hang it !" replied Sir Harry ; " a man 
 with a seat like yours, and that good brush 
 in your hand, might ride up to any door in 
 the county (I'm a Leicestershire man), and 
 be a welcome guest. 3Ir. Higgins, I shall 
 be proud to become better acquainted with 
 you over my dinner table." 
 
 Mr. Iliggins knew pretty well how to im- 
 prove the acquaintance thus began. He 
 could sing a good song, tell a good story, 
 and was well up in practical jokes; with 
 plenty of that keen worldly sense, which 
 seems like an instinct in some men, and 
 which in this case taught him on whom he 
 might play off such jokes, with impunity 
 from their resentment, and with a security 
 of applause from the more boisterous, vehe- 
 ment or prosperous. At the end of twelve 
 months Mr. Robinson Iliggins was, out-and- 
 out, the most popular member of Barford 
 hunt ; had beaten all the others by a couple 
 of lengths, as his first patron. Sir Harry 
 observed one evening when they were just 
 leaving the dinner-table of an old hunting 
 squire in the neighborhood. 
 
 " Because, you know," said Squire Hearn, 
 holding Sir Harry by the button — " I mean, 
 you see, this young spark is looking sweet 
 upon Catherine ; and she's a good girl, and 
 will have ten thousand pounds down the day 
 she's married, by her mother's will ; and — 
 excuse me, Sir Harry — but I should not 
 like my girl to throw herself away." 
 
 Though Sir Harry had a long ride before 
 him, and but the early and short light of a 
 new moon to take it in, his kind heart was 
 so much touched by Squire Hearn's trem- 
 bling, tearful anxiety, that he stopped, and 
 turned back into the dining-room to say, 
 with more asseverations than I care to give. 
 
 " My good Squire, I may say, I know that 
 man pretty well by this time ; and a better 
 fellow never existed. If I had twenty daugh- 
 ters, he should have the pick of them." 
 
 Squire Hearn never thought of asking 
 the grounds for his old friend's opinion of 
 Mr. Higgins ; it had been given with too 
 much earnestness for any doubts to cross 
 the old man's mind as to the possibility of 
 its not being well founded. Mr. Hearn was 
 not a doubter or a thinker, or suspicious by 
 nature ; it was simply his love for Catherine, 
 his only child, that prompted his anxiety in 
 
 this case ; and after what Sir Harry had 
 said, the old man could totter with an easy 
 mind, though not with very steady legs, 
 into the drawing-room, where his bonny 
 blushing daughter Catherine and Mr. Hig- 
 gins stood close together on the hearth-rug 
 — he wispering, she listening with downcast 
 eyes. She looked so happy, so like her dead 
 mother had looked when the Squire was a 
 young man, that all his thought was how to 
 please her most. His son and heir was 
 about to be married, and bring his wife to 
 live with the Squire ; Barford and the White 
 House were not distant an hour's ride ; and, 
 even as these thoughts passed his mind, he 
 asked Mr. Higgins if he could not stay all 
 night — the young moon was already set — the 
 roads would be dark — and Catherine looked 
 up with a pretty anxiety, which however, 
 had not much doubt in it, for the answer. 
 
 With every encouragement of this kind 
 from the old Squire, it took everbody rather 
 by surprise when one morning it was 
 discovered that Miss Catherine Hearn was 
 missing; and when, according to the usual 
 fashion, in such cases, a note was found, 
 saying that she had eloped with " the man 
 of her heart," and gone to Gretna Green, no 
 one could imagine why she could not quietly 
 have stopped at home, and married in the 
 parish church. She had always been a ro- 
 mantic, sentimental girl ; very pretty and 
 very affectionate, and very much spoiled, 
 and very much wanting in common sense. 
 Her indulgent father was deeply hurt at this 
 want of confidence in his never-varying 
 affection ; but when his son came, hot with 
 indignation from the Baronet's (his future 
 father-in-law's house, where every form of 
 law and ceremony was to accompany his 
 own impending marriage), Squire Hearn 
 pleaded the cause of the young couple with 
 imploring cogency, and protested that it was 
 a piece of spirit in his daughter, which he 
 admired and was proud of. However, it 
 ended with Mr. Nathaniel Hearn's declaring 
 that he and his wife would have nothing to 
 do with his sister and her husband. "Wait 
 till you have seen him, Nat !" said the old 
 Squire, trembling with his distressful anti- 
 cipations of family discord, " He's an excuse 
 for any girl. Only ask Sir Harry's opiniim 
 of him." " Confound Sir Harry ! So that 
 a man sits his horse well, Sir Harry cares 
 nothing about anything else. Who is this 
 man — this fellow ? Where does he come 
 from ? What are his means ? Who are his 
 family?" 
 
 " He comes from the south — Surrey or 
 Somersetshire, I forget which ; and he pays 
 his way well and liberally. There's not a 
 tradesman in Barford but says he cares no 
 more for money than for water ; he spends 
 like a prince, Nat. I don't know who his 
 family are, but he seals with a coat of arms 
 which may tell you if you want to know — 
 
NINE NEW STORIES BY THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 
 
 65 
 
 and he goes regularly to collect his rents 
 from his estates in the south. Oh, Nat! if 
 you would but be friendly, I should be as 
 well pleased with Kitty's marriage as any 
 father in the country." 
 
 Mr. Nathaniel Hearn gloomed, and mut- 
 tered an oath or two to himself. The poor 
 old father was reaping the consequences of 
 his weak indulgence to his two children. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Nathaniel Ilearn kept apart 
 from Catherine and her husband ; and 
 Squire Ilearn durst never ask them to Levi- 
 son Ilall, though it was his own house. 
 Indeed, he stole away as if he were a culprit 
 whenever he went to visit the White House ; 
 and if he passed a night there, he was fain 
 to equivocate when he returned home the 
 next day ; an equivocation which was well 
 interpreted by the surly, proud Nathaniel. 
 But the younger Mr. and Mrs. Ilearn were 
 the only people who did not visit at the 
 White House. Mr. and Mrs. Higgins were 
 decidedly more popular than their brother 
 and sister-in-law. She made a very pretty 
 sweet-tempered hostess, and her education 
 had not been such as to make her intolerant 
 of any want of refinement in the associates 
 who gathered round her husband. She had 
 gentle smiles for townspeople as well as 
 (Njuntry people ; and unconsciously played 
 an admirable second in her husband's 
 project of making himself universally 
 popular. 
 
 But there is some one to make ill-natured 
 remarks, and draw ill-natured conclusions 
 from very simple premises, in every place ; 
 and in Barford this bird of ill omen was a 
 Miss Pratt. She did not hunt — so Mr. Hig- 
 gins's admirable riding did not call out her 
 admiration. She did not drink — so the well- 
 selected wines so lavishly dispensed among 
 his guests, could never mollify Miss Pratt. 
 She could not bear comic songs, or buffo 
 stories — so, in that way, her approbation was 
 impregnable. And these three secrets of 
 popularity constituted Mr. Iliggins's great 
 charm. Miss Pratt sat and watched. Her 
 face looked immoveably grave at the end of 
 any of Mr. Iliggins's best stories ; but there 
 was a keen, needle-like glance of her un- 
 winking little eyes, which Mr. Higgins felt 
 rather than saw, and which made him shiver, 
 even on a hot day, when it fell upon him. 
 Miss Pratt was a dissenter, and, to propiti- 
 ate this female Mordecai, Mr. Higgins asked 
 the dissenting minister whose services she 
 attended to dinner; kept himself and his 
 company in good order; gave a handsome 
 donation to the poor of the chapel. All in 
 vain — Miss Pratt stirred not a muscle more 
 of her face towards graciousness ; and Mr. 
 Higgins was conscious that, in spite of all 
 his open efforts to captivate Mr. Davis, there 
 was a secret influence on the other side, 
 throwing in doubts and suspicions, and evil 
 interpretations of all he said or did. Miss 
 5 
 
 Pratt, the little plain old maid, living on 
 eighty pounds a year, was the thorn in the 
 popular Mr. Iliggins's side, although she had 
 never spoken one uncivil word to him ; in- 
 deed, on the contrary, had treated him with 
 a stiff and elaborate civility. 
 
 The thorn — the grief to Mrs. Higgins was 
 this. They had no children ! Oh ! how she 
 would stand and envy the careless busy 
 motion of half-a-dozen children ; and then, 
 when observed, move on with a deep, deep 
 sigh of yearning regret. But it was as well. 
 
 It was noticed that Mr. Higgins was re- 
 markably careful of his health. He ate, 
 drank, took exercise, rested, by some secret 
 rules of his own ; occasionally bursting into 
 an excess, it is true, but only on rare occa- 
 sions — such as when he returned fnjm 
 visiting his estates in the south, and collect- 
 ing his rents. That unusual exertion and 
 fatigue — for there were no stage coaclies 
 within forty miles of Barford, and he, like 
 most country gentlemen of that day, would 
 have preferred riding if there had been— 
 seemed to require some strange excess to 
 compensate for it ; and rumors went through 
 the town, that he shut himself up, and 
 drank enormously for some days after his 
 return. But no one was admitted to these 
 orgies. 
 
 One day — they remembered it well after- 
 wards — the hounds met not far from the 
 town ; and the fox was found in a part of 
 the wild heath, which was beginning to be 
 enclosed Vjy a few of the more wealthy 
 towns-people, who were desirous of building 
 themselves houses rather more in the coun- 
 try than those they had hitherto lived in. 
 Among these the principal was a Mr. Dud- 
 geon, the attorney of Barford, and the agent 
 for all the county families about. The firm 
 of Dudgeon had managed the leases, the 
 marriage settlements, and the wills, of the 
 neighborhood for generations. Mr. Dud- 
 geon's father had the responsibility of 
 collecting the land-owner's rents just as the 
 present Mr. Dudgeon had at the time of 
 which I speak : and as his son and his son's 
 son have done since. Their business was 
 an hereditary estate to them ; and with 
 something of the old feudal feeling, was 
 mixed a kind of proud humility at their 
 position towards the squires whose family 
 secrets they had mastered, and the myste- 
 ries of whose fortunes and estates were 
 better known to the Messrs. Dudgeon than 
 to themselves. 
 
 Mr. John Dudgeon had built himself a 
 house on Wildbury Health ; a mere cottage, 
 as he called it ; but though only two stories 
 high, it spread out far and wide, and work- 
 people from Derby had been sent for on pur- 
 pose to make the inside as complete as 
 possible. The gardens too were exquisite 
 in arrangement, if not very extensive ; and 
 not a flower was grown in them but of the 
 
66 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 rarest species. It must have been some- 
 what of a mortification to the owner of this 
 dainty place when, on the day of which I 
 epeaii, the fox, after a long race, during 
 which he had described a circle of many 
 miles, took refuge in the garden ; but Mr. 
 Dudgeon put a good face on the matter when 
 a gentleman hunter, with the careless in- 
 solence of the squires of those days and that 
 place, rode across the velvet lawn, and tap- 
 
 t)rng at the window of the dining-room with 
 lis whip handle, asked permission — no ! 
 tliat is not it — rather informed Mr. Dudgeon 
 of their intention — to enter his garden in a 
 body, and have the fox unearthed. Mr. 
 Dudgeon compelled himself to smile assent, 
 with the grace of a masculine Griselda ; and 
 then he hastily gave orders to have all that 
 the house afforded of provision set out for 
 luncheon, guessing rightly enough that a six 
 hours' run would give even homely fare an 
 acceptable welcome. He bore without win- 
 cing the entrance of the dirty boots into his 
 exquisitely clean rooms ; he only felt grate- 
 ful for the care with which Mr. Iliggins 
 strode about, laboriously and noiselessly 
 moving on the tips of his toes, as he recon- 
 noitred the rooms with a curious eye. 
 
 " I'm going to build a house myself, 
 Dudgeon ; and, upon my word, I don't think 
 I could take a better model than yours." 
 
 " Oh ! my poor cottage would be too small 
 to afford any hints for such a house as you 
 would wish to build, Mr. Higgins," replied 
 Mr. Dudgeon, gently rubbing his hands 
 nevertheless at the compliment. 
 
 " Not at all ! Let me see. You have 
 dining-room, drawing-room" — he hesitated, 
 and Mr. Dudgeon filled up the blank as he 
 expected. 
 
 " Four sitting-rooms and the bed-rooms. 
 But allow me to show you over the house. 
 I confess I took some pains in arranging it, 
 and, though far smaller than what you 
 would require, it may, nevertheless, afford 
 you some hints." 
 
 So they left the eating gentlemen with 
 their mouths and their plates quite full, and 
 the scent of the fox overpowering that of 
 the hasty rasher of ham ; and they carefully 
 inspected all the ground-floor rooms. Then 
 Mr. Dudgeon said ; 
 
 " If you are not tired, Mr. Higgins — it is 
 rather my hobby, so you must pull me up if 
 you are — we will go up stairs, and I will 
 show you my sanctum." 
 
 Mr. Dudgeon's sanctum was the centre 
 room, over tne porch, which formed a bal- 
 cony, and which was carefully filled with 
 choice flowers in pots. Inside, there were 
 all kinds of elegant contrivances for hiding 
 the real strength of all the boxes and chests 
 required by the particular nature of ]Mr. 
 Dudgeon's business ; for although his office 
 ?»as in Barford, he kept (as he informed Mr. 
 Aiggins) what was the most valuable here, 
 
 as being safer than an office which was 
 locked up and left every night. But, as 
 Mr. Iliggins reminded him with a sly poke in 
 the side, when next they met, his own house 
 was not over secure. A fortnight after the 
 gentlemen of the Barford hunt lunched there, 
 Mr. Dudgeon's strong-box, in his sanctum 
 up stairs, with the mysterious spring b<ilt to 
 the window invented by himself, and the 
 secret of which was only known to the in 
 ventor and a few of his most intimate friends, 
 to whum he had proudly shown it ; — this 
 strong-box, containing the collected Christ- 
 mas rents of half a dozen landlords, (there 
 was then no bank nearer than Derby,) was 
 rifled ; and the secretly rich Mr. Dudgeou 
 had to stop his agent in his purchases of 
 paintings by Flemish artists, because the 
 money was required to make good the miss- 
 ing rents. 
 
 The Dogberries and Verges of those days 
 were quite incapable of obtaining any clue 
 to the robber or robbers ; and though one »r 
 two vagrants were taken up and brought 
 before Mr. Dunover and Mr. Iliggins, the 
 magistrates who usually attended in the 
 court room at Barford, there was no evidence 
 brought against them, and after a couple of 
 nights' durance in the lock-ups they were 
 set at liberty. But it became a standing 
 joke with Mr. Higgins to ask Mr. Dudgeon, 
 from time to time, whether he could re- 
 commend him a place of safety for his 
 valuables ; or, if he had made any more in- 
 ventions lately for securing houses from 
 robbers. 
 
 About two years after this time — about 
 seven years after Mr. Higgins had been 
 married — one Tuesday evening, Mr. Davis 
 was sitting reading the news in the coffee- 
 room of the George Inn. He belonged to a 
 club of gentlemen who met there occasion- 
 ally to play at whist, to read what few news- 
 papers and magazines were published in 
 those days, to chat about the market at 
 Derby, and prices all over the country. This 
 Tuesday night it was a black frost ; and few 
 people were in the room. Mr. Davis was 
 anxious to finish an article in the "Gentle- 
 man's Magazine;" indeed, he was making 
 extracts from it, intending to answer it, and 
 yet unable with his small income to pur- 
 chase a copy. So he staid late ; it was past 
 nine, and at ten o'clock the room was closed. 
 But while he wrote, Mr. Higgins came in. 
 He was pale and haggard with cold; Mr. 
 Davis, who had had for some time sole pos- 
 session of the fire, moved politely on one 
 side, and handed to the new comer the sole 
 London newspaper which the room afforded. 
 Mr. Iliggins accepted it, and made some re- 
 mark on the intense coldness of the weather ; 
 but Mr. Davis was too full of his article, 
 and intended reply, to fall into conversation 
 readily. Mr. Iliggins hitched his chair 
 nearer to the fire, and put his feet on the 
 
NINE NE^Y STORIES BY THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 
 
 67 
 
 fender, giving an audible shudder. He put 
 the newspaper on one end of the table near 
 him, and sat gazing into the red embers of 
 the fire, crouching down over them as if his 
 very marrow were chilled. At length he 
 said : 
 
 " There is no account of the murder at 
 Bath in that paper V Mr. Davis, who had 
 finished taking his notes, and was preparing 
 to go, stopped short, and asked : 
 
 " Has there been a murder at Bath ? No ! 
 I have not seen anything of it — who was 
 murdered ?" 
 
 " Oh ! it was a shocking, terrible murder!" 
 said Mr. Higgins, not raising his look from 
 the tire, but gazing on, his eyes dilated till 
 the whites were seen all round them. " A 
 tt-rrible, terrible murder! I wonder what 
 will become of the murderer? I can fancy 
 the red glowing centre of that fire — look and 
 see how infinitely distant it seems, and how 
 the distance magnifies it into something 
 awful and unquenchable." 
 
 " My dear sir, you are feverish ; how you 
 shake and shiver!" said Mr. Davis, think- 
 ing privately that his companion had symp- 
 toms of fever, and that he was wandering in 
 his mind. 
 
 " Oh, no I" said Mr. Higgins. " I am not 
 feverish. It is the night which is so cold." 
 And for a time he talked with Mr. Davis 
 about the article in the " Gentleman's Ma- 
 gazine," for he was rather a reader himself, 
 and could take more interest in Mr. Davis's 
 pursuits than most of the people at Barford. 
 At length it drew near to ten, and Mr. Davis 
 rose up to go home to his lodgings. 
 
 " No, Davis, don't go. I want you here. 
 We will have a bottle of port together, and 
 that will put Saunders in good humor. I 
 want to tell you about this murder," he 
 continued, dropping his voice, and speaking 
 hoarse and low. "She was an old woman, 
 and he killed her, sitting reading her Bible 
 by her own fireside !" He looked at Mr. 
 Davis with a strange searching gaze, as if 
 trying to find some sympathy in the horror 
 which the idea presented to him. 
 
 " Who do you mean, my dear sir? What 
 is this murder you are so full of? No one 
 has been murdered here." 
 
 " No, you fool ! I tell you it was in Bath !" 
 said Mr. Higgins, with sudden passion ; and 
 then calming himself to most velvet smooth- 
 ness of manner, he laid his hand on Mr. 
 Davis's knee, there, as they sat by the fire, 
 and gently detaining him, began the narra- 
 tion of the crime he was so full of; but his 
 voice and manner were constrained to a 
 stony quietude ; he never looked in Mr. 
 Davis's face ; once or twice, as Mr. Davis 
 remembered afterwards, his grip tightened 
 like a compressing vice. 
 
 " She lived in a small house in a quiet 
 old-fashioned street, she and her maid. Peo- 
 ple suid she was a good old woman ; but for 
 
 all that she hoarded and hoarded, and never 
 gave tothe poor. Mr. Davis, it is wicked 
 not to give to the poor — wicked— wicked, is 
 it not ? I always give to the poor, for once I 
 read in the Bible that ' Charity covereth a 
 multitude of sins.' The wicked old woman 
 never gave, but hoarded her money, and 
 saved, and saved. Some one heard of it; I 
 say she threw a temptation in his way, and 
 God will punish her for it. And this man — 
 or it might be a woman, who knows ? — and 
 this person — heard also that she went to 
 church in the mornings, and her maid in the 
 afternoons ; and so — while the maid was at 
 church, and the street and the house quite 
 still, and the darkness of a winter afternoon 
 coming on — she was nodding over the Bible 
 — and that, mark you ! is a sin, and one that 
 God will avenge sooner or later ; and a step 
 came in the dusk up the stair, and that per- 
 son I told you of, stood in the room. At 
 first he — no ! At first, it is supposed — for, 
 you understand, all this is mere guess work, 
 it is supposed that he asked her civilly 
 enough to give him her money, or tell him 
 where it was ; but the old miser defied him, 
 and would not ask for mercy and give up 
 her keys, even when he threatened her, but 
 looked him in the face as if he had been a 
 baby — Oh, God ! Mr. Davis, I once dreamt 
 when I was a little innocent boy that I 
 should commit a crime like this, and I 
 wakened up crying ; and my mother com- 
 forted me — that is the reason I tremble so 
 now, that and the cold, for it is very, very 
 cold !" 
 
 " But did he murder the old lady?" asked 
 Mr. Davis. " I beg your pardon, sir, but I 
 am interested by your story." 
 
 " Yes ! he cut her throat ; and there she 
 lies yet in her quiet little parlor, with her 
 face upturned and all ghastly white, in the 
 middle of a pool of blood. Mr. Davis, this 
 wine is no better than water; I must have 
 some brandy I" 
 
 Mr. Davis was horror-struck by the story, 
 which seemed to have fascinated him as 
 much as it had done his companion. 
 
 " Have they got any clue to the mur- 
 derer?" said he. Mr. Higgins drank down 
 half a tumbler of raw brandy before he an- 
 swered. 
 
 " ^0 ! no clue whatever. They will never 
 be able to discover him, and 1 should not 
 wonder — Mr. Davis — I should not wunder if 
 he repented after all, and did bitter penance 
 for his crime ; and if so — will there be mercy 
 for him at the last day?" 
 
 " God knows," said Mr. Davis with so 
 lemnity. " It is an awful story," continued 
 he, rousing himself: "I hardly like to leave 
 this warm light room and go out into the 
 darkness after hearing it. But it must be 
 done," buttoning on his great coat — " 1 can 
 only say I hope and trust they will find out 
 the murderer, and hang him. If you'll tak« 
 
68 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 my advice, ynu'U liivve a bed warmed, and 
 drink a ti-cacle-pusset juwt the last thing ; 
 and, it' you'll alluw me, I'll send you my 
 answer U) I'hilologus before it goes up to old 
 Urban." 
 
 The next morning Mr. Davis went to call 
 on Miss Pratt, wlio was not very well ; and 
 by way of being agreeable and entertaining, 
 he related to her all he had heard the night 
 before about the murder in Bath, and really 
 be made a very pretty connected story out 
 of it, and interested Miss Pratt very much 
 in the fate of the old lady — partly because 
 of a similarity in their situations ; for she 
 also hoarded money, and had but one ser- 
 vant, and stopped at home alone on Sunday 
 afternoons to allow her servant to go to 
 church. 
 
 '' And vrhen did all this happen ?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " I don't know if Mr. Higgins named the 
 day ; and yet I think it must have been on 
 this very last Sunday." 
 
 *' And to-day is Wednesday. Ill news 
 travels fast. 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Higgins thought it might have 
 been in the London newspaper." 
 
 " That it could never be. Where did Mr. 
 Higgins learn all about it ?" 
 
 " I don't know, I did not ask ; I think 
 he only came home yesterday : he had 
 been south to collect his rents, somebody 
 said." 
 
 Miss Pratt grunted. She used to vent 
 her dislike and suspicions of Mr. Higgins 
 in a grunt whenever his name was men- 
 tioned. 
 
 " Well, I shan't see you for some days. 
 Godfrey Merton has asked me to go and 
 stay with him and his sister ; and I think it 
 will do me good. Besides," added she, 
 "these winter evenings; and these mur- 
 derers at large in the country; I don't quite 
 like living with only Peggy to call to in case 
 of need." 
 
 Miss Pratt went to stay with her cousin, 
 Mr. Merton. He was an active magistrate, 
 and enjoyed his reputation as such. One 
 day he came in, having just received his 
 letters. 
 
 •' Bad account of the morals of your little 
 town here, Jessy !" said he, touching one of 
 the letters. " You've either a murderer 
 among you, or some friend of a murderer. 
 Here's a poor old lady at Bath had her throat 
 cut last Sunday week ; and I've a lettor from 
 the Home Office, asking to lend them ' my 
 very efficient aid,' as they are pleased to call 
 it, towards finding out the culprit. It seems 
 he must have been thirsty, and of a com- 
 fortable jolly turn ; for before going to his 
 horrid work he tapped a barrel of ginger 
 wine the old lady had set by to work ; and 
 he wrapped the spigot round with a piece 
 of a letter taken out of his pocket, as may 
 be supposed ; and this piece of a letter was 
 
 found afterwards ; there are only these let- 
 ters on the outside, ' ?i3, Esq., -arford, -eg- 
 zvorth,' which some one has ingeniously 
 made out to mean Barford, near Kegworth. 
 On the other side there is some allusion to 
 a race-horse, I conjecture though the name 
 is singular enough : ' Church-and-King-and- 
 down-with-the-Kump.' "' 
 
 Miss Pratt caught at this name imme- 
 diately ; it had hurt her feelings as a dis- 
 senter only a few months ago, and she re- 
 membered it well. 
 
 " Mr. Nat Hearn has — or had (as I am 
 speaking In the witness-box, as it were, I 
 must take care of my tenses), a horse with 
 that ridiculous name." 
 
 " Mr. Nat Hearn," repeated Mr. Merton, 
 making a note of the intelligence ; then he 
 recurred to his letter from the Home Office 
 again. 
 
 " There is also a piece of a small key, 
 broken in the futile attempt to open a desk 
 — well, well. Nothing more of conse- 
 quence. The letter is what we must rely 
 upon." 
 
 "Mr. Davis said that Mr. Higgins told 
 him" — Miss Pratt began. 
 
 " Higgins !" exclaimed Mr. Merton, " ns. 
 Is it Higgins, the blustering fellow that ran 
 away with Nat Ilearn's sister?" 
 
 "Yes!" said Miss Pratt. " But though 
 he has never been a favorite of mine — " 
 
 " ns" repeated Mr. Merton. It is too hor- 
 rible to think of ; a member of the hunt — 
 kind old Squire Ilearn's son-in-law ! AVho 
 else have you in Barford with names that 
 end in ns ?" 
 
 " There's Jackson, and Iligginson, and 
 Blenkinsop, and Davis and Jones, Cousin ! 
 One thing strikes me — how did Mr. Hig- 
 gins know all about it to tell Mr. Davis on 
 Tuesday what had happened on Sunday 
 afternoon ?" 
 
 There is no need to add much more. 
 Those curious in the lives of the*highway- 
 men may find the name of Higgins as con- 
 spicuous among those annals as that of 
 Claude Duval. Kate Hearn's husband col- 
 lected his rents on the highway, like many 
 other " gentlemen" of the day ; but having 
 been unlucky in one or two of his adven- 
 tures, and hearing exaggerated accounts 
 of the hoarded wealth of the- old lady at 
 Bath, he was led on from robbery to mur- 
 der, and was hung for his crime at Derby, 
 in seventeen hundred and seventy-five. 
 
 He had not been an unkind husband ; 
 and his poor wife took lodgings in Derby 
 to be near him in his last moments ; hia 
 awful last moments. Her old father went 
 with her everywhere but into her husband's 
 cell ; and wrung her heart by constantly 
 accusing himself of having promoted her 
 marriage with a man of whom he knew so 
 little. He abdicated his squireship in fa- 
 vor of his son Nathaniel. Nat was pros- 
 
NINE NEW STORIES BY THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 
 
 60 
 
 perous, and the helpless silly father could 
 be of no use to him ; but to his widowed 
 daughter the foolish fond old man was all 
 in all; her knight, her protector, her com- 
 panion, her most faithful loving companion. 
 Only he ever declined assuming the office 
 of her counsellor-^shaking his head sadly, 
 and saying — 
 
 " Ah ! Kate, Kate ! if I had had more 
 wisdom to have advised thee better, thou 
 need'st not have been an exile here in 
 Brussels, shrinking from the sight of every 
 English person as if they knew thy story." 
 
 I saw the White House not a month ago ; 
 it was to let, perhaps for the twentieth time 
 since Mr. Higgins occupied it ; but still the 
 tradition goes in Barford that once upon a 
 time a highwayman lived there, and amassed 
 untold treasures ; and that the ill-gotten 
 wealth yet remains walled up in some un- 
 known concealed chamber ; but in what 
 part of the house no one knows. 
 
 Will any of you become tenants and try 
 to find out this mysterious closet? I can 
 furnish the exact address to any applicant 
 who wishes for it. 
 
 •«^^v/^^ -^ ##^S/S(V«.. 
 
 UNCLE GEORGE'S STOHY. 
 
 We had devoted the morning before my 
 wedding-day to the arrangement of those 
 trtiublej^ome, delightful, endless little af- 
 fairs, which the world says must be set in 
 order on such occasions ; and late in the 
 afternoon, we walked down, Charlotte and 
 myself, to take a last bachelor and maiden 
 peep at the home which, next day, was to be 
 ours in partnership. Goody Barnes, al- 
 ready installed as our cook and house- 
 keeper, stood at the door, read}' to receive 
 us as we crossed the market-place to in- 
 spect our cottage for the twentieth time, — 
 cottage by courtesy, — next door to my fa- 
 ther's mansiiin, by far the best and hand- 
 somest in the place. It was some distance 
 from Charkitte's house, where she and her 
 widowed mother lived ; — all the way down 
 the lime-tree avenue, then over the breezy 
 common, besides traversing the principal 
 and only street, which terminated in the 
 village market-place. 
 
 The front of our house was quakerlike, 
 in point of neatness and humility. But 
 enter ! It is not hard to display good taste 
 when the banker's book puts no veto on the 
 choice gems of furniture, which give the 
 finishing touch to the whole. Then pass 
 through, and bestow a glance upon our 
 living rooms, looking down upon that great- 
 est of luxuries, a terraced garden, com- 
 manding the country — and not a little of 
 that country mine already, — the farm which 
 my father had given me, to keep me quiet 
 and contented at home. For the closing 
 perspective of our view, there was the sea, 
 like a bright blue rampart rising before us. 
 White-sailed vessels, or self-willed steamers, 
 flitted to and fro for our amusement. 
 
 We tripped down the terrace-steps, and 
 of course looked in upon the little artificial 
 grotto to the right, wiiich I had caused to 
 be lined throughout with foreign shells and 
 
 glittering spars, — more gifts from my ever- 
 bountiful father. Cherlotte and I went 
 laughingly along the straight gravel walk, 
 flanked on each side with a regiment of 
 dahlias ; that led us to the little gate, open- 
 ing to give us admission to my fother's own 
 pleasure-ground and orchard. 
 
 The dear old man was rejoiced to receive 
 us. A daughter was what he so long had 
 wished for. We hardly knew whether to 
 smile, or weep for joy, as we all sat together 
 on the same rustic bench, overshadowed by 
 the tulip-tree, which some one said my fa- 
 ther had himself brought from North Ame- 
 rica. But of the means by which he became 
 possessed of many of his choicest treasures, 
 he never breathed a syllable to me. Ilia 
 father, I very well knew, was nothing more 
 than a homely farmer, cultivating no great 
 extent of not too productive sea-side land ; 
 but Charlotte's lace dress, which she was to 
 wear to-morrow — again another present irom 
 him — was, her mother proudly pronounced, 
 valuable and handsome enough for a princess. 
 
 Charlotte half whispered, half said aloud, 
 that she had no fear now that Richard Le- 
 roy, her boisterous admirer, would dare to 
 attempt his reported threat to carry her oflF 
 to the continent in his cutter. Richard's 
 name made my fixther frown, so we said no 
 more ; we lapsed again into that dreamy 
 state of silent enjoyment, which was the 
 best expression of our happiness. 
 
 Leroy's father was called a farmer; but 
 on our portion of the English coast there 
 are many things that are well understood 
 rather than clearly and distinctly expressed ; 
 and no one had ever enlightened my igno- 
 rance. My father was on speaking terms 
 with him, that was all ; courteous, but dis- 
 tant; half timid, half mysterious. He dis- 
 couraged my childish intimacy with Rich- 
 ard ; yet be did not go so far as to forbid it. 
 
ro 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES, 
 
 Once, when I urged him to allow me to 
 accompany youn>5 Lero_v in his boat, to fish 
 in the Channel one calm and bright sum- 
 mer morning, he peremptorily answered, 
 " No ! I do not wish you to learn to be a 
 smuggler." But then, he instantly checked 
 himself, and afterwards was more anxious 
 and kind to me than ever. Still Richard 
 and I continued playfellows until we gi-ew 
 up, and botli admired Charlotte. He would 
 have made a formal proposal for her hand, 
 if the marked discouragement of her family 
 had not shut out every opportunity. This 
 touched his pride, and once made him de- 
 clare, in an off-hand way, that it would cost 
 him but very little trouble to land such a 
 light cargo as that, some pleasant evening, 
 iu France, or even on one of the Azore 
 Islands, if orange groves and orange blos- 
 soms were what my lady cared about. It 
 is wonderful how far, and how swiftly, 
 heedless words do fly when once they are 
 uttered. Such speeches did not close the 
 breach, but, instead, laid the first founda- 
 tion for one of those confirmed estrange- 
 ments which village neighborhoods only 
 know. The repugnance manifested by Char- 
 lotte's friends was partly caused by the 
 mystery which hung to Richard's ample 
 means. The choice was unhesitatingly made 
 in my favor. In consequence, as a sort of 
 rejected candidate, Richard Leroy really 
 did lie, amongst us, under an unexpressed 
 and indefinite ban, which was by no means 
 likely to be removed by the roystering soorn- 
 ful air of superiority with which he mostly 
 spoke of, looked at, and treated us. 
 
 Charlotte and I took leave of my father 
 on that gray September evening with the 
 full conviction that every blessing was in 
 store for us which afi'ection and wealth had 
 the power to procure. Over the green, and 
 up the lime-tree avenue, and then, good- 
 night, my lady-love ? Good-night, thus part- 
 ing, for the very last time. To-morrow — 
 ah ! think of to-morrow. The quarters of 
 tlie church clock strike half-past nine. 
 Good-night, dear mother-in-law. And, once 
 more, good-night, Charlotte ! 
 
 It was somewhat early to leave ; but my 
 father's plans required it. He desired that 
 we should be married, not at the church of 
 the village where we all resided, but at 
 one distant a short walk, in which he took 
 a peculiar interest — where he had selected 
 the spot for a family burial-place, and where 
 he wished the family registers to be kept. 
 It was a secluded hamlet ; and my father 
 had simply made the request that I would 
 lodge for awhile at a farm-house there, in 
 order that the wedding might be performed 
 at the place he fixed his heart upon. My 
 duty and my interest were to obey. 
 
 "Good night, Charlotte," had not long 
 been uttered, before I was fairly on the way 
 to my temporary home. Our village, and 
 
 its few scattered lights, were soon left be« 
 hind, and I then was upon the open down, 
 walking on with a springing step. On one 
 side was spread the English Channel : and 
 from time to time I could mark the appear- 
 ance of the light at Cape Grinez, on the 
 French coast opposite. There it was, coming 
 and going, flashing out and dv^ing away, 
 with never-ceasing coquetry. The cliff lay 
 between my path and the sea. There was 
 no danger ; for, although the moon was not 
 up, it was bright starlight. I knew every 
 inch of the way as well as I did my father's 
 garden walks. In September, however, 
 mists will rise ; and, as I approached the 
 valley, there came the offspring of the pretty 
 stream which ran through it, something like 
 a light cloud running along the ground be- 
 fore the wind. Is there a night fog coming 
 on ? Perhaps there may be. If so, better 
 steer quite clear of the cliff, by means of a 
 gentle circuit inland. It is quite impossible 
 to miss the valley ; and, once in the valley- 
 it is equally difficult to miss the hamlet, 
 Richard Leroy has been frequently back- 
 ward and forward the last few evenings : it 
 would be strange if we should chance to 
 meet here, and on such an occasion. 
 
 On, and still on, cheerily. In a few 
 minutes more I shall reach the farm, and 
 then, to pass one more solitary night is 
 almost a pleasurable delay, a refinement in 
 happiness. I could sing and dance for joy. 
 Yes, dance all alone, on this elastic turf! 
 There: just one foolish caper ; just one 
 
 Good God ! is this not the shock of an 
 earthquake ? I hasten to advance another 
 step, but the ground beneath me quivers 
 and sinks. I grasp at the side of the yawn- 
 ing pitfall, but grasp in vain, Down, down, 
 down, I f\ill headlong. 
 
 When my senses returned, and I could 
 look about me, the moon had risen, and was 
 shining in at the treacherous hole through 
 which I had fallen. A glance was only too 
 suflScient to explain my position. Why had 
 I always so foolishly refused to allow the 
 farmer to meet me half way, and accompany 
 me to his house every evening; knowing, 
 as I did know, how the chalk and limestone 
 of ihe district had been undermined in cata- 
 combs, sinuous and secret, for wells, flint, 
 manure, building materials, and other pur- 
 poses ? My poor father and Charlotte ! 
 
 Patience. It can hardly be possible that 
 now, on the eve of marriage, I am suddenly 
 doomed to a lingering death. The night 
 must be passed here, and daylight will show 
 some means of escape. I will lie down on 
 this heap of earth that fell under me. 
 
 Amidst despairing thoughts, and a hideous 
 waking nightmare, daylight slowly came. 
 
 The waning moon had not revealed the 
 extremity of my despair; but now it was 
 clearly visible that I had fallen double the 
 height I supposed. But for the turf which 
 
NINE NEW STORIES BY THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 
 
 71 
 
 had fallen under me, I must have been killed 
 on the spot. The hole was too large for me 
 to creep up, by pressing against it with my 
 back and knees ; and there were no friendly 
 knobs or protuberances visible up its smooth 
 sides. The chasm increased in diameter as 
 it descended, like an inverted funnel. I 
 might possibly climb up a wall ; but could I 
 creep along a ceiling. 
 
 I shouted as I lay ; no one answered. I 
 shouted again — and again. Then I thought 
 that too much shouting would exhaust my 
 strength, and unfit me for the task of mount- 
 ing. I measured with my eye the distances 
 from stratum to stratum of each well-marked 
 layer of chalk. And then, the successive 
 beds of flint — they gave me the greatest 
 hopes. If foot-holes could only be cut ! 
 Though the feat was difiicult, it might be 
 practicable. The attempt must be made. 
 
 I arose, stiff and bruised. No matter. 
 The first layer of flints was not more than 
 seven or eight feet overhead. Those once 
 reached, I could secure a footing, and obtain 
 a first starting-place for escape. I tried to 
 climb to them with my feet and hands. 
 Impossible ! the crumbling wall would not 
 support half my weight. As fast as I at- 
 tempted to get handhold or footing, it fell in 
 fragments to the ground. 
 
 But, a better thought — to dig it away, and 
 make a mound so high that, by standing on 
 it. I could manage to reach the flint with my 
 hands. I had my knife to help me ; and, 
 after much hard work, my object was ac- 
 complished and I got within reach of the 
 shelf. 
 
 My hands had firm hold of the horizontal 
 flint. They were cut Mith clinging; but I 
 found that, by raising myself, and then 
 thrusting my feet into the chalk and marl, 
 I could support myself with one hand only, 
 leaving the other free to work. I did work ; 
 clearing away the chalk above the flint, so 
 as to give me greater standing-room. At 
 last, I thought I might venture upon the 
 ledge itself. By a supreme effort, I reached 
 the shelf; but moisture had made the chalk 
 unctuous and slippery to the baffled grasp. 
 It was in vain to think of mounting higher, 
 with no point of support, no firm footing. 
 A desperate leap acoss the chasm afforded 
 not the slightest hope ; because, even if suc- 
 cessful, I could not for one moment maintain 
 the advantage gained. I was determined to 
 remain on the ledge of flint. Another mo- 
 ment, and a rattling on the floor soon taught 
 my powerlessness. Down sunk the chalk 
 beneath my weight ; and the stony table fell 
 from its fixture, only just failing to crush 
 me under it. Stunned and cut, and bruised, 
 I spent some time prostrated by half-con- 
 ecious but acute sensations of misery. Sleep, 
 which as yet I had not felt, began to steal 
 over me, but could gain no mastery. With 
 each moment of incipient unconsciousness, 
 
 Charlotte was presented to me, first, in her 
 wedding-dress ; next, on our terrace, beckon- 
 ing me gaily from the garden below : then, 
 we were walking arm-in-arm in smiling con- 
 versation ; or seated happily together in my 
 father's library. But the full consciousness 
 which rapidly succeeded presented each mo- 
 ment the hideous truth. It was now broad 
 day ; and I realised Charlotte's sufferings. 
 I beheld her awaiting me in her bridal dress ; 
 now hastening to the window, and straining 
 her sight over the valley, in the hope of my 
 approach ; now stricken down by despair at 
 my absence. My father, too, whose life had 
 been always bound up in mine!. These 
 fimcies destroyed my power of thought. I 
 felt wild and frenzied. I raved and shouted, 
 and then listened, knowing no answer could 
 come. 
 
 But an answer did come: a maddening 
 answer. The sound of bells, dull, dead, and 
 in my hideous well-hole, just distinguishaMe. 
 They rang out my marriage-peal. Why 
 was I not buried alive when I first fell? 
 
 I could have drunk blood, in my thirst, 
 had it been offered to me. Die I must, I 
 felt full well : but let me not die with my 
 mouth in flame? Tlien came the struggle 
 of sleep ; and then fitful, tantalizing dreams. 
 Charlotte appeared to me plucking grapes, 
 and dropping them playfully into my 
 mouth ; or catching water in the hollow of 
 her hand, from the little cascade in our 
 grotto, and I drank. But hark! drip, drip, 
 and again drip ! Is this madness still ? No 
 There must be water oozing somewhere out 
 of the sides of this detested hole. Where 
 the treacherous wall is slimiest, where the 
 green patches are brightest and widest 
 spread on the clammy sides of my living 
 sepulchre, there will be the spot to dig and 
 to search. 
 
 Again the knife. Every blow gives a 
 more dead and hollow sound. The chalk 
 dislodged is certainly not moister ; but the 
 blade sticks fast into wood — the wood of a 
 cask ; something slowly begins to trickle 
 down. It is brandy! 
 
 Brandy ! shall I taste it ? Yet, why not? 
 I did ; and soon for a time remembered 
 nothing. 
 
 I retained a vivid and excited conscious- 
 ness up to one precise moment, which might 
 liave been marked by a stop-watch, and tlien 
 all outward things were shut out, as sud- 
 denly as if a lamp had been extinguished. 
 A long and utter blank succeeded. I have 
 no further recollection either of the duration 
 of time, or of any bodily suffering. Had I 
 died by alcoholic poison — and it is a miracle 
 the brandy did not kill me — then would 
 have been the end of my actual and con 
 scions existence. My senses were dead. 
 If what happened afterwards had occurred 
 at that time, there would have beer no story 
 for you to listen to. 
 
72 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 Once more, a burning thirst. Hunger 
 had entirely passed away. I looked up, and 
 all was dark ; not even the stars or the 
 cloudy sky were to be seen at the opening 
 of my cavern. A shower of earth and heavy 
 stones fell upon me as I lay. I still was 
 barely awake and conscious, and a groan 
 was the only evidence which escaped me 
 that I had again recovered the use of my 
 senses. 
 
 "Halloa! What's that down there?" 
 said a voice, whoso tone was familiar to me. 
 I uttered a faint but frantic cry. 
 
 I heard a moment's whispering, and the 
 hollow echo of departing footsteps, and then 
 all was still again. The voice overhead 
 once more addressed me. 
 
 " Courage, George ; keep up your spirits ! 
 In two minutes I will come and haul you. 
 Don't you know me ?" 
 
 I then did know that it could be no other 
 than my old rival, Richard Leroy. Before 
 I could collect my thoughts, a light glim- 
 mered against one side of the well ; and then, 
 in the direction opposite the fallen table of 
 flint, and just over it, Richard appeared, 
 with a lantern in one hand, and a rope tied 
 to a stick across it in the other. 
 
 " Have you strength enough left to sit 
 upon this, and to hold by the rope while I 
 haul you up ?" 
 
 " I think I have," I said. I got the stick 
 under me, and held by the rope to keep 
 steady on my seat. Richard planted his 
 feet firmly on the edge of his standing-place, 
 and hauled me up. By a sleight of hand 
 and an effort of strength, in which I was too 
 weak to render him the least assistance, he 
 landed me at the mouth of a subterranean 
 gallery opening into the well. I could just 
 see, on looking back, that if I had only 
 maintained my position on the ledge of flint, 
 and improved it a little, I might, by a daring 
 and vigorous leap, have sprung to the en- 
 trance of this very gallery. But those ideas 
 were now useless. I was so thoroughly 
 worn out that I could scarcely stand, and an 
 ©nti-eaty for water preceded even my ex- 
 pression of thanks. 
 
 " You shall drink your fill in one instant, 
 and I am heartily glad to have helped you ; 
 but first let me mention one thing. It is 
 understood that yoa keep my secret. You 
 cannot leave this place — unless I blindfold 
 you, which would be an insult — without 
 learning the way to return to it ; and, of 
 
 course, what you see along the galleries are 
 to you nothing but shadows and dreams. 
 Have I your promise ? 
 
 I was unable to make any other reply 
 than to seize his hand, and burst into tears. 
 How I got from the caverns to the face of 
 the cliff, how thence to the beach, the seclu- 
 ded hamlet, and the sleeping village, does 
 really seem to my memory like a vision. 
 On the way across the downs, Leroy stopped 
 once or twice, more for the sake of resting 
 my aching limbs, than of taking breath or 
 repose himself. During those intervals, he 
 quietly remarked to me how prejudiced and 
 unfair we had all of us been to him ; that as 
 for Charlotte, he considered her as a child, 
 a little sister, almost even as a baby play- 
 thing. She was not the woman for him; 
 he, for his part, liked a girl with a little 
 more of the devil about her. No doubt he 
 could have carried her off; and no doubt she 
 would have loved him desperately a fort- 
 night afterwards. But, when he had once 
 got her, what should he have done with 
 such a blue-eyed milk-and-water angel as 
 that ! Nothing serious to annoy us had 
 ever entered his head. And my father 
 ought not quite to forget the source of his 
 own fortune, and hold himself aloof from 
 his equals; although he might be lying 
 quiet in harbor at present. Really, it was 
 a joke, that, instead of eloping with the 
 bride, he should be bringing home the 
 eloped bridegroom ! 
 
 I fainted when he carried me into my 
 father's house, and I remembered no more 
 tlian his temporary adieu. But afterwards, 
 all went on slowly and surely. My father 
 and Richard became good friends, and the 
 old gentleman acquired such influence over 
 him, that Leroy's " pleasure trips" soon be- 
 came rare, and finally ceased altogether. At 
 the last run, he brought a foreign wife over 
 with him, and nothing besides — a Dutch 
 woman of great beauty and accomplish- 
 ments ; who, as he said, was as fitting 
 a helpmate for him, as Charlotte, he ac- 
 knowledged, was for me. He also took 
 a neighboring parish church and its appur- 
 tenances into favor, and settled down as a 
 landsman within a few miles of us. And, 
 if our families continue to go on in the 
 friendly way they have done for the last few 
 years, it seems likely that a Richard may 
 conduct a Charlotte, to enter their namei 
 together in a favorite register book. 
 
THE COLONEL'S STORY. 
 
 Until I was fifteen I lived at home with 
 my widowed mother and two sisters. My 
 mother was the widow of an officer, who was 
 killed in one of the battles with Ilyder Ali, 
 and enjoyed a pension from the Indian Gov- 
 ernment. I was the youngest ; and soon 
 after my fifteenth birthday she died sud- 
 denly. My sisters went to India on the in- 
 vitation of a distant relation of my mother ; 
 and I was sent to school, where I was very 
 unhappy. You will, therefore, easily im- 
 agine with what pleasure I received a visit 
 from a handsome jovial old gentleman, who 
 told me that he was my father's elder half- 
 brother ; that they had been separated by a 
 quarrel early in life, but that now, being a 
 ^•idower and childless, he had found me out, 
 ind determined to adopt me. 
 
 The truth was, the old man loved com. 
 pany ; and that as his chief income — a large 
 one — was derived from a mine, near which 
 he lived, in a very remote part of the coun- 
 try, he was well pleased to have a young 
 .iompanion who looked like a gentleman, and 
 could be useful as carver, cellar-keeper, and 
 secretary. 
 
 Installed in his house, a room was assigned 
 to me, and I had a servant, and a couple of 
 excellent horses. He made me understand 
 that I need give myself no further anxiety 
 on the subject of my future, that I might 
 abandon the idea of proceeding to India in 
 the Company's service, where a cadetship 
 had been secured to me ; and that so long as 
 I conformed to his ways, it was no matter 
 whether I studied or not ; in fact, it was no 
 natter what I did. 
 
 Some time after becoming thus settled at 
 Beechgrove Hall, my uncle's attacks of gout, 
 in spite of the generous living he adopted as 
 % precaution, became so severe, that he was 
 inaMe to stir out except in a wheeled chair, 
 ^nd it was with difficulty that he was lifted 
 Ofcasionally into his carriage. The conse- 
 ijuence was, that to me all his business 
 naturally fell, and although he grumbled at 
 losing my society and attention, he was 
 obliged to send me to London to watch the 
 progress of a canal bill, in which he was 
 deeply interested. It was my first visit to 
 London. I was well provided with intro- 
 ductions and with funds. My uncle's busi- 
 ness occupied me in the morning, for I 
 dreaded his displeasure too much to neglect 
 it; but in the evenings I plunged into every 
 amusement, with all the keen zest of novelty 
 and youth. 
 
 I cannot say that up to that period I had 
 never been in love. My uncle had twice 
 seriously warned me that if I made a fool of 
 myself for anything less than a large for- 
 tune, he would never forgive me. " If, Sir," 
 he said, when, on the second occasion, he 
 saw me blush and tremble — for I was too 
 proud and too self-willed to bear patiently 
 such control — "If, Sir, you like to make an 
 ass of yourself for a pretty face, like Miss 
 Willington, with her three brothers and five 
 sisters, half of whom you'd have to keep, 
 you may do it with your own money ; you 
 shall not do it with mine." 
 
 I told my only confidant, Dr. Creeleigh, of 
 this ; he answered me, " You have only 
 about a hundred and twenty a year of your 
 own from the estate ynu inherited from your 
 father, and you are living with your horses 
 and dogs at the rate of five hundred a year. 
 How would you like to see your wife and 
 children dressed and housed like the curate 
 — poor Mr. Serge. Your uncle can't live 
 for ever." The argument was enough for 
 me, who had only found Clara Willington 
 the best partner in a country dance. My 
 time was not come. 
 
 My lodgings in London wore in a large, 
 old-fashioned house in Westminster — for- 
 merly the residence of a nobleman — which 
 was a perfect caravanserai, in the number 
 and variety of its inmates. The best rooms 
 were let to Members of Parliament and per- 
 sons like myself; but, in the upper floor, 
 many persons of humbler means but genteel 
 pretensions had rooms. Here, I frequently 
 met on the stairs, carrying a roll of music, 
 a tall, elegant female figure, dressed in black, 
 and closely veiled ; sometimes, when I had 
 to step on one side, a slight bow was ex- 
 changed, but for several weeks that was all. 
 At length my curiosity was piqued ; the 
 neat ankles, a small white hand, a lark curl 
 peeping out of the veil, made me anxious to 
 know more. 
 
 Enquiries discreetly applied to Mrs. Gough, 
 the housekeeper, told me enough to make me 
 wish to know still more. Her name was 
 Laura Delacourt ; not more than twenty or 
 twenty-two years of ago ; she had lived four 
 years previously with her husband in the 
 best apartments in the house in great luxury 
 for one winter. Mr. Delacourt was a French- 
 man and a gambler ; very handsome, and 
 very dissipated ; it seemed as if it was her 
 fortune they were spending. Mrs. Gough 
 said it was enough to make one's heart break 
 
 (73) 
 
74 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 to see that young pretty creature sittinji; up 
 in her ball dress when her husband had sent 
 her home alone, and remained to play until 
 daylight. They went away, and nothing 
 more was heard of them until just before 
 my arrival. About that time Ma<lame Dela- 
 court became very humble, had taken a 
 room on the third floor : had only men- 
 tioned her husband to say he was dead, and 
 now apparently lived by giving music les- 
 sons. 
 
 It would be too long a story to tell how, 
 by making the old housekeeper my ambas- 
 sador, by anonymous presents of fruit and 
 game, by offering to take music lessons, and 
 by professing to require large quantities of 
 music copied, I made first the acquaintance, 
 and then became the intimate friend of 
 Madame Delacourt. While keeping me at 
 a freezing distance, and insisting on always 
 having present at our interviews a half-ser- 
 vant, half-companion, of that indescribable 
 age, figure, and appearance that is only 
 grown in France, she step by step confided 
 to me her history. An English girl, born 
 in France, the daughter of a war prisoner 
 at Verdun, married to the very handsome 
 Monsieur Delacourt, at sixteen, by a mother 
 who was herself anxious to make a second 
 marriage. In twelve months, Monsieur De- 
 lacourt had expended her small fortune, and 
 deserted her for an opera dancer of twice 
 her age. 
 
 All this, told with a charming accent in 
 melancholy tones — she looking on me sadly 
 with a fiice which for expression, I have 
 never seen equalled — produced an impres- 
 sion which those only can understand who 
 have been themselves young and in love. 
 
 For weeks this went on, without one sign 
 of encouragement on her part, except that 
 she allowed me to sit with her in the even- 
 ings, while her honne faddled at some inter- 
 minable work, and she sang — ! how di- 
 vinely- ! She would receive no presents direct- 
 ly from me ; but I sent them anonymously, 
 end dresses and furniture and costly trifles 
 and books reached her daily. I spoke at last ; 
 and then she stopped me with a cold faint 
 smile, saying, " Cease ! I must not listen to 
 you." She pleaded her too recent widow- 
 hood, but I persevered ; and, after a time, 
 conquered. 
 
 She knew my small fortune and large ex- 
 pectations ; she knew that our marriage must 
 be a secret ; but she was willing to live any- 
 where, and was well content to quit a life in 
 which she had known so much trouble. 
 
 Before the session ended we were married 
 in an obscure church in the City, with no one 
 present but the clerk and the pew-opener. 
 We spent a few following days at a small 
 inn, in a fishing village. Then I had to 
 leave town and carry out the plan I had 
 proposed. I left my wife in lodgings, under 
 au assumed name, at a town within forty 
 
 miles of our residence. I had some tlra« 
 previously persuaded my uncle to lot me 
 take a lease from Lord Mardall of some 
 untouched mineral ground, on very favorable 
 terms, in a wild, thinly-peopled district 
 which was only visited by the gentry for 
 field sports. This afforded me an excuse 
 for being away from home one or two days 
 every week. 
 
 Not far from the mines was the remains 
 of a forest, and coverts abounding in game. 
 In a little sloping dell, one of Lord Mardall's 
 ancestors had built a small shooting-lodge, 
 and one of the keepers in charge had planted 
 there fruit trees and ornamental trees, for 
 which he had a taste, being the son of a 
 gardener. On this wild nest, miles away 
 from any other residence, I had fixed my 
 mind. It was half in ruins, and there was 
 no difficulty in obtaining possession. With 
 money and workmen at my command, very 
 soon a garden smiled, and a fountain bub- 
 bled at Orchard Spring ; roses and climbing 
 plants covered the steep hill side, and the 
 small stone cottage was made, at a slight 
 expense, a wonder of comfort. The cage 
 being ready I brought my bird there. The 
 first months were all joy, all happiness. 
 My uncle only complained that I had lost 
 my jovial spirits. 
 
 I counted every day until the day when I 
 could mount my horse and set off for the 
 new mines. Five and twenty miles to ride 
 over a rough mountain road ; two fords to 
 cross, often swelled by winter rains ; but 
 day or night, moonlight or dark. I dashed 
 along, pressing too often my willing horse 
 with loose rein up and down steep hills ; all 
 lost in love and anxious thought I rode, 
 until in the distance the plashing sound of 
 the mountain torrent rolling over our gar- 
 den cascade, told me I was near my darlings 
 
 My horse's footsteps were heard, and be- 
 fore I had passed the avenue the door flew 
 open, the bright fire blazed out. and Laura 
 came forward to receive me in her arms. 
 
 I had begged her to get everything she 
 might require from London, and have it 
 sent, to avoid all suspicion, to the nearest 
 port, and then brought by her own servant, 
 a country clown, with a horse and cart ; and 
 I had given her a cheque book, signed in 
 blank. After a time I saw signs of extravar 
 gance ; in furniture, in dress, but especially 
 in jewels. I remonstrated gently, and was 
 met first with tears, then sullen fits. I 
 learned that Laura had a temper for which 
 I was quite unprepared. 
 
 The ice was ])roken ; no more pleasant 
 holidays at Orchard Spring. The girl, onco 
 so humble, now assumed a haughty, jealous 
 air ; every word was a cause of offence ; I 
 never came when wanted, or stayed as long 
 as I was required: half my time was spent 
 in scenes of reproach, of tears, hysterics, lar 
 mentations ; peace was only to be purchased 
 
NINE NEW STORIES BI THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 
 
 75 
 
 by some costly present. Our maid servant, 
 a simple country {^irl, stood amazed ; the 
 meek angel had become a tigress. I loved 
 her still, but feared her ; yet even love began 
 to fail before so much violence. A dread- 
 ful idea began slowly to intrude itself into 
 my mind. Was she tired of me? Was the 
 story of her life true ? Had she ever loved 
 me? The next time that I made up my 
 lianker's book, I was shocked to find that, 
 in the short time since my last remonstrance, 
 Laura had drawn a large sum of money. I 
 list no time in galloping to Orchard vSpring. 
 She was absent. Where was she? No one 
 knew. Severe cross-examination brought 
 out that she had been away two days ; I 
 Lad not been expected that week. I thought 
 I should have choked. 
 
 In the midst I heard the steps of her 
 horse. She came in and confronted me. 
 Looking most beautiful and most demonia- 
 cal, she defied me ; she threat-ened to expose 
 me to my uncle ; declared she had never 
 lived me, but had taken me for a home. 
 At length her frenzy rose to such a height, 
 that she struck me. Then all the violent 
 pent-up rage of my heart broke out. I 
 know not what passed, until I found myself 
 galloping furiously across the mountain 
 ridge that divided the county. Obliged to 
 slacken my pace in passing through a ford, 
 some one spoke to me; how I answered I 
 know not. Whatever it was, it was a mad 
 answer. 
 
 I listened to nothing, and pressed on my 
 weary steed until just before reaching the 
 moorland, when, descending into a water- 
 curse, he fell on his head, throwing me 
 over with such force, that for some time I 
 lay senseless. I came to mj-self to find my 
 poor horse standing over me dead lame. I 
 ipd him on to the inn door, and knocked. It 
 was midnight, and I was readily admitted. 
 The landlord, when he saw me, started back 
 with an exclamation of horror. My face 
 and shirt were covered with blood. 
 
 Worn-out, bruised, and exhausted by fa- 
 tigue and passion, I slept. I was rudely 
 awakened, and found myself in tlie custody 
 of two constables. Two mounted game- 
 keepers, and Lord Mardell had followed and 
 traced me to the inn. 
 
 '•On what charge?" I asked amazed. 
 
 " For murder," said Lord Mardall. 
 
 " The lady at Orchard Spring," said one 
 »)f the gamekeepers. 
 
 I was examined before magistrates ; but 
 Was unable to give any coherent answers ; 
 and was committed to the county jail. My 
 uncle remitted me a sum of money for my 
 defence, and desired never to see me again. 
 
 I will give you the description of my trial 
 from the newspapers. 
 
 The prisoner had clandestinely married a 
 lady of great beauty and unknown family, 
 probably in station beneath himself, and 
 
 had placed her under an assumed name in 
 a lonely cottage. After a season of affection, 
 quarrels had broken out, which, as would be 
 proved by the servant, had constantly in 
 creased in violence. On the last occasion 
 when the unfortunate victim was seen alive 
 by her servant, a quarrel of a most fearful 
 description had commenced. It was some- 
 thing about money. The servant had been 
 so much alarmed, that she had left the cot- 
 tage and gone down to her mother's, a mile 
 away over the hill, where she had previously 
 been ordered to go to obtain some poultry. 
 From something that passed, her mother 
 would not allow her to return. It would 
 then be proved that Lord Mardall, attracted 
 by the howling of a dog, when out shooting 
 the next morning, had entered the open 
 door of the cottage, and had there found the 
 prisoner's wife dead, with a severe fracture 
 of the skull. The prisoner had been pur- 
 sued, from some information as to his usual 
 course, and found asleep in the chimney- 
 corner of the Moor Iim, his clothes and shirt 
 deeply stained with blood. It could 1)6 
 proved that he had washed his face and 
 hands immediately on entering, and attri 
 buted the blood to the fall from his horse. 
 But on examination no cuts were found on 
 his person sufficient to cause such an effu- 
 sion of blood. 
 
 But when Lord Mardall was called, he 
 deposed to two facts which produced a great 
 impression in fixvor of the prisoner. lie saw 
 the body at five o'clock, and it was scarcely 
 cold. He had found in one of the victim's 
 hands a lock of hair, which she had evi- 
 dently torn from her assailant in her strus- 
 gles ; which had been desperate. He had 
 sealed it up, and never let it out of his pos- 
 session. The nails of her other hand were 
 broken, and were marked with blood. She 
 had no rings on either of her hands, thouirh 
 she was in the habit of wearing a gre.it 
 number; there were marks of rings, and c>f 
 one which seemed to have Iioimi violentlv 
 torn off. A packet of plate had been found 
 on the kitchen table, a knife, and a loaf 
 marked with blood. 
 
 Counsel wore not allowed to speak for the 
 defence in those days, and the prisoner was 
 not in a condition to speak on the evidence 
 against him. Witnesses for the defeni-e 
 were called, who proved that the lady wore 
 frequently certain peculiar bracelets. The 
 prisoner, who seemed stupified by his emo- 
 tions, declined to say anything; but bin 
 counsel asked the maid-servant, and also the 
 fixrmer who occasionally si>Id meat to Or- 
 chard Spring, if they should know the rings 
 and bracelets if they saw them. 
 
 He then called Richard Perkins, jailor of 
 the county prison, and asked him these 
 questions : 
 
 " Had you any prisoner committed about 
 the same time as the prisoner at the bar?" 
 
76 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 " I liad a man called Ilay-makinj]; Dick, 
 for horse-stoalint;, tlie day after the dis- 
 covery of the imiider." 
 
 " Was it a valuable horse?" 
 
 "No: it was a mare, blind of one eye, 
 very old, and witli a large fen spavin I 
 knew her well ; used to drive her in the f^oal 
 cart ; but when warm, she was faster than 
 anything about." 
 
 " Do you suppose Ilay-making Dick took 
 the mare to sell ?" 
 
 " Certainly not. She would not fetch a 
 crown except to those that knew her. No 
 doul)t he had been up to some mischief, and 
 wanted to get out of the county, only luckily 
 he rode against the blacksmith that owned 
 the mare and was taken." 
 
 The judge thougiit these questions irrele- 
 vant ; but, after some conversation, permit- 
 ted tlie examination to go on. 
 
 " Has Perkins searched the prisoner, and 
 has he found anything of value ?" 
 
 The gaoler produced two bracelets, four 
 rings — one a diamond hoop, one a seal ring 
 — and a canvass wheat-bag containing gold, 
 with several French coins. On one of the 
 bracelets was engraved " Charles to Laura," 
 and a date. In answer to another question, 
 he had found several severe scratches on 
 Dick's face, made apparently by nails, which 
 he declared had been done in an up and 
 down tight at Broad-green Fair. Also a 
 severe raw scar on his left temple, as if hair 
 had been pulled out. 
 
 At this stage of the proceedings, by order 
 of the judge, the prisoner Dick was brought 
 up. The lock of hair taken by Lord Mar- 
 
 dall from the murdered lady's hand wag 
 compared with Dick's head. It matched 
 exactly, although Dick's hair had been cut 
 short and washed. Then Mr. Monley gave 
 evidence, that when he met the prisoner, on 
 the niglit of the murder, immediately after 
 lie had left the cottage, there certainly was 
 no blood on his face or dress. The landlord 
 of the Moon Inn was called, and deposed, 
 that he found the corn, placed before the 
 prisoner's horse, uneaten and much stained 
 with blood. On examining the horse's 
 tongue, he saw that it had been half-bitten 
 off in the f:\ll the animal had suffered. No 
 doubt the blood had dripped over the young 
 Sijuire. 
 
 It was a bright moonlight night shining 
 in the prisoner's face. 
 
 The judge summed up for an acquittal, 
 and the jury gave a verdict of Not Guilty, 
 without leaving the box. 
 
 A week after, Ilay-making Dick made an 
 attempt to break out of prison, in which he 
 knocked out tfie brains of a turnkey with 
 his irons. lie was tried and condemned fur 
 tins, and when hope of escape was gone, he 
 called a fixvorite turnkey to him and said, 
 " Bill I killed the Frenchwoman. I knew she 
 always had plenty of money and jewels, and 
 I watched my opportunity to get 'em." 
 
 Thus ends the newspaper reports. My 
 uncle died of gout in his stomach on the "-^ 
 day of the trial, and died almost insolvent. 
 By Lord Mardall's influence I received an 
 appointment from the East India Company, 
 and afterwards a commission in their irre 
 gular service. 
 
 ■*<^^A^^•^1*>*/^'v~~. 
 
 THE SCHOLAR'S STORY. 
 
 I PERCETVE a general fear on the part of 
 this pleasant company, that I am going to 
 burst into black-letter, and beguile the time 
 by being as dry as ashes. No, there is no 
 such fear, you can assure me ? I am glad 
 to hear it; but I thought there was. 
 
 At any rate, both to relieve your minds 
 and to place myself beyond suspicion, I will 
 Bay at once that my story is a ballad. It 
 was taken down, as I am going to repeat it, 
 seventy-one years ago, by the mother of the 
 person who communicated it to M. Ville- 
 marque when he was making his collection 
 of Breton Ballads. It is slightly confirmed 
 by the chronicles and Ecclesiastical Acts of 
 the time ; but no more of them or you really 
 will suspect me. It runs, according to my 
 version, thus. 
 
 Sole child of her house, a lovely maid. 
 In the lordly halls of Rohan played. 
 
 Played till thirteen, when her sire was bent 
 To see her wed ; and she gave consent. 
 
 And many a lord of high degree 
 Came suing her chosen knight to be; 
 
 But amongst them all there pleased her none 
 Save the noble Count Mathieu alone ; 
 
 Lord of the Castle of Tongoli, 
 A princely knight of Italy. 
 
 To him so courteous, true and brave, 
 Her heart the maiden freely gave. 
 
 Three years since the day they first were wed 
 In peace and in bliss away had sped, 
 
NINE NEW STORIES BY THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 
 
 77 
 
 When tidings came on the winds? abroad, 
 That all were to take the cross of God. 
 
 Then spake the Count, like a nohle knight: 
 " Aye first in birth should be first in fight ! 
 
 " And since to this Paynini war I must, 
 Dear cousin, I leave thee here in trust. 
 
 "My wife and my child I leave m ihce ; 
 Guard them, good clerk, as thy life for me !" 
 
 Early next morn, from his castle gate, 
 
 A.S rode forth the knight in bannered state, 
 
 Down the marble steps, all full of fears, 
 The lady hied her with moans and tears — 
 
 The loving, sweet lady, sobbing wild — 
 And laid on her breast her baby child. 
 
 She ran to her lord with breathless speed, 
 As backward he reigned his fiery steed ; 
 
 She caught and she clasped him round the knee ; 
 She wept and she prayed him piteously : 
 
 " Oh stay with me, stay ! my lord, my love ! 
 Go not, I beg, by the saints above ; 
 
 " Leave me not here alone, I pray. 
 To weep on your babv's face alway !" 
 
 The knight was touched with ner sad despair. 
 And fondly gazed on her face so fair ; 
 
 And stretched out his hand, and stooping low. 
 Raised her up straight to his saddle-bow ; 
 
 And held her pressed to his bosom then, 
 And kissed her o'er and o'er agen. 
 
 " Come, dry these tears, my little Joan; 
 A single year will soon be flown !" 
 
 His baby dear in his arms he took. 
 
 And looked on him with a proud, fond look : 
 
 " My boy, when thou'rt a man," said he. 
 Wilt ride to the wars along with me 1" 
 
 Then away he spurred across the plain, 
 And old and young they wept amain : 
 
 Both rich and poor, wept every one ; 
 But that same clerk — ah ! he wept none. 
 
 The treacherous clerk one morning tide. 
 With artful speeches the lady plied : 
 
 " Lo ! ended now is that single year. 
 And ended too is the war I hear ; 
 
 " But yet, thy lord to return to thee. 
 Would seem in no tiasie ai a-" U> l^e. 
 
 " Now, ask of your heart, my lady dear. 
 
 Is there no other might please it here "^ 
 
 ■' Xeed wives still keep themselves unwed, 
 
 E'en though their husbands should not be dead V 
 
 " Silence ! thou wretched clerk !" cried she, 
 
 " Thy heart is filled full of sin, I see. 
 
 " When my lord returns, if I whisper him, 
 
 Thou know'st he'll tear thee limb from limb !" 
 
 As soon as the clerk thus answered she 
 
 He stole to the kennel secretly. 
 
 He called to the hound so swift and true, 
 The hound that his lord loved best, he knew 
 
 It came to his call — leapt up in play ; 
 One gash in the throat, and dead it lay. 
 
 As trickled the blood from out the throat. 
 He dipped in that red ink and wrote : 
 
 A letter he wrote with a liar's heed, 
 
 And sent it straight to the camp with speed. 
 
 And these were the words the letter bore : 
 " Dear lord your wife she is fretting sore, 
 
 " Fretting and grieving, your wife so dear. 
 For a sad mischance befallen here. 
 
 " Chasing the doe on the mountain-side, 
 Thy beautiful greyhound burst and died." 
 
 The Count so guileless then answer made, 
 And thus to his faithless cousin said : 
 
 " Now bid my own little wife, I pray. 
 To fret not for this mischance one day. 
 
 " My hound is dead — well ! money have 1 
 Another, when I come back, to buy- 
 
 " Yet she'd better not hunt agen. 
 For hunters are oft but wildish men." 
 
 The miscreant clerk once more he came. 
 
 As she wept in her bower, to the peerless dame 
 
 " O lady, with weeping night and day. 
 Your beauty is fading fast away." 
 
 " And what care I though it fading be. 
 When my own dear lord comes not to me !" 
 
 " Thy own dear lord has. I fancy, wed 
 Another ere this, or else he's dead. 
 
 " The Moorish maidens though dark are fair 
 And gold in plenty have got to spare ; 
 
 " The Moorish chiefs on the battle plain 
 Thousands as valiant as he have slain 
 
 « If he's wed another — Oh curse, not fret; 
 Or, if he's dead — why straight forget !" 
 
 "If he's wed another I'll die," she said ; 
 " And I'll die likewise, if he be dead !" 
 
 " In case one chances to lose the key. 
 No need for burning the box, I see. 
 
 " Twere wiser, if I might speak my mmd, 
 A new and a better key to find." 
 
 " Now hold, thou wretched clerk, thy tongue, 
 'Tis foul with lewdness — more rotten than dung." 
 
 As soon as the clerk thus answered she. 
 He stole to the stable secretly. 
 He looked at his lord's own favorite steed. 
 Unmatched for beauty, for strength and speed ; 
 White as an egg, and more smooth to touch 
 Light as a bird, and for fire none such ; 
 On nought had she fed since she was born. 
 Save fine chopped heath and the best of corru 
 Awhile the bonny white mare he eyed. 
 Then struck his dirk in her velvet side ; 
 
DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 And when the bonny white mare lay tlead, 
 Again to the Count he wrote and said : 
 
 " Of a fresh mischance I now send word, 
 But let it not vex thee much, dear lord ; 
 
 •' Hasting back from a revel last night, 
 My lady rode on thy favorite white — 
 
 "So hotly rode, it stumbled and fell. 
 And broke both legs, as I grieve to tell." 
 
 The Count Uicn answered, " Ah ! woe is me 
 My bonny white marc no more to see 1 
 
 " My mare she has killed; my hound killed too ; 
 Good cousin, now give her counsel true. 
 
 « Yet scold her not either ; but say from me, 
 To no more revels at night must she. 
 
 " Not horses' legs alone, I fear. 
 
 But wifely vows may be broken there !" 
 
 The clerk a few days let pass and then 
 Back to the charge returned agen. 
 
 " Lady, now yield, or you die !" said he : 
 « Choose which you will — choose speedily !" 
 
 " Ten thousand deaths would I rather die. 
 Than shame upon me my God should cry !" 
 
 The clerk when he saw he nought might gain, 
 No more could his smothered wrath contain ; 
 
 So soon as those words had left her tongue. 
 His dagger right at her head he flung. 
 
 But swift her white angel, hovering nigh, 
 Turned it aside as it flashed her by. 
 
 The lady straight to her chamber flew, 
 And bolt and bar behind her drew. 
 
 The clerk his dagger snatched up and shook, 
 And grinned with angry ban-dog's look. 
 
 Down the broad stairs in his rage came he, 
 Two steps at a time, two steps and three. 
 
 Then on to the nurse's room he crept. 
 Where softly the winsome baby slept — 
 
 Softly, and sweetly, and all alone ; 
 
 One arm from the silken cradle thrown — 
 
 One little round arm just o'er it laid, 
 Folded the other beneath his head ; 
 
 His little white breast ah ! hush ? be still ! 
 
 Poor mother, go now and weep your fill ! 
 
 Away to his room the clerk then sped. 
 And wrote a letter in black and red ; 
 
 In haste, post haste, to the Count wrote he ; 
 " There be need, dear lord, sore need of thee ! 
 
 " Oh speed now, speed to thy castle back. 
 For all runs riot, and runs to wrack. 
 
 « Thy hound is killed, and thy mare is killed, 
 But not for these with grief I'm filled, 
 
 « Nor is it for these that thou wilt care ; 
 Thy darling is dead ! thy son, thy heir ! 
 
 " The sow she seized and devoured him all, 
 While thy wife was dancing at the ball ; 
 
 " Dancing there with the miller gay. 
 Her young gallant, as the people say." 
 
 That letter came to the valiant knight. 
 Hastening home from the Paynim fight ; 
 
 With trumpet sound, from the Eastern straa.r 
 Hastening home to his own dear land. 
 
 So soon as he read the missive through, 
 Fearful to see his anger grew. 
 
 The scroll in his mailed hand be took. 
 And crumpled it up with furious look ; 
 
 To bits with his teeth he tore the sheet, 
 And spat them out at his horse's feet. 
 
 " Now quick to Brittany, quick, my men. 
 The homes that you love to see again ! 
 
 "Thou loitering squire ! ride yet more qiiick. 
 Or my lance shall teach thee how to prick !" 
 
 But when he stood at his castle gate, 
 Three lordly blows he struck it straight ; 
 
 Three angry blows he struck thereon, 
 Which made them tremble every one. 
 
 The clerk he heard, and down he hied, 
 And opened at once the portal wide, 
 
 " Oh cursed cousin, that this should be ! 
 Did I not trust my wife to thee V 
 
 His spear down the traitor's throat he drove, 
 Till out at his back the red point clove. 
 
 Then up he rushed to the bridal bower. 
 Where drooped his lady like some pale flowei; 
 
 And ere she could speak a single word, 
 She fell at his feet beneath his sword. 
 
 " O holy priest ! now tell to me 
 What didst thou up at the castle see V 
 
 " I saw a grief and a terror more 
 Than ever I saw on earth before. 
 
 " I saw a martyr give up her breath. 
 And her slayer sorrowing e'en to death." 
 
 " O holy priest ! now tell to me 
 
 What didst thou down at the crossway see ^" 
 
 " I saw a corpse that all mangled lay. 
 And the dogs and ravens made their prev " 
 
 " O holy priest ! now tell to me 
 
 What didst thou next in the churchyard se«^ '" 
 
 " By a new-made grave, in soft moonlight, 
 I saw a fair lady clothed in white ; 
 
 " Nursing a little child on her knee — 
 A dark red wound on his breast had he. 
 
 " A noble hound lay couched at her right, 
 A steed at her left of bonniest white ; 
 
NINE NEW STORIES BY THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 
 
 79 
 
 •* The first a gash in his throat had wide, 
 And this as deep a stab in tiis side. 
 
 " They raised their heads to the lady's knee, 
 And they licked their soft hands tenderly, 
 
 ' She gently patted their necks, the while 
 Suiiiing, though stilly, a fair sweet smile. 
 
 " The child, as it fain its love would speak, 
 Caressed and fondled its mother's cheek, 
 
 " But down went the moon then silently. 
 And my eyes no more their forms could sec ; 
 
 « But I heard a bird from out the skies 
 Warbling a song of Paradise !" 
 
 >MVS/\*#1'^<**V^''~' 
 
 NOBODY'S STORY. 
 
 He lived on the bank of a mighty river, 
 broad and deep, which was always silently 
 rolling on to a vast undiscovered ocean. It 
 had rolled on, ever since the world began. It 
 had changed its course sometimes, and 
 turned into new channels, leaving its old 
 ■ways dry and barren ; but it had ever been 
 upon the flow, and ever was to flow until 
 Time shall be no more. Against its strong, 
 unfathomable stream, nothing made head. 
 No living creature, no flower, no leaf, no 
 particle of animate or inanimate existence, 
 ever strayed back from the undiscovered 
 ocean. The tide of the river set resistlessly 
 towards it ; and the tide never stopped, 
 any more than the earth stops in its circling 
 round the sun. 
 
 He lived in a busy place, and he worked 
 very hard to live. He had no hope of ever 
 being rich enough to live a month without 
 hard work, but he was quite content, God 
 knows, to labor with a cheerful will. lie 
 was one of an immense family, all of whose 
 Bons and daughters gained their daily bread 
 by daily work, prolonged from their rising 
 up betimes until their lying down at night. 
 Beyond this destiny he had no prospect, 
 and he sought none. 
 
 There was over-much drumming, trum- 
 peting, and speechmaking, in the neighbor- 
 hood where he dwelt ; but he had nothing 
 to do with that. Such clash and uproar 
 came from the Bigwig family, at the unac- 
 countable proceedings of which race he 
 marvelled much. They set up the strongest 
 statues, in iron, marble, bronze, and brass, 
 before his door ; and darkened his house 
 with the legs and tails of uncouth images 
 of horses. He wondered what it all meant, 
 smiled in a rough good-humored way he 
 had, and kept at his hard work. 
 
 The Bigwig family (composed of all the 
 noisiest) had undertaken to save him the 
 trouble of thinking for himsolf, and to 
 manage him and his aflfairs. " AVhy truly," 
 said he, " I have little time upon my 
 hands ; and if you will be so good as to 
 take care of me in return for the money I 
 pay over" — for the Bigwig fomily were not 
 above his money — "I shall be relieved and 
 
 much obliged, considering that you know 
 best." Hence the drumming, trumpeting, 
 and speechmaking, and the ugly images of 
 horses which he was expected to fall down 
 and worship. 
 
 " I don't understand all this," said he, 
 rubbing his furrowed brow confusedly. 
 " But it 7ias a meaning, maybe, if I could 
 find it out." 
 
 " It means," returned the Bigwig family, 
 suspecting something of what he said, 
 " honor and glory in the highest, to the 
 highest merit." 
 
 " Oh !" said he. And he was glad to hear 
 that. 
 
 But, when he looked among the images in 
 iron, marble, bronze, and brass, he failed to 
 find a rather meritorious countryman of his, 
 once the son of a Warwickshire wool-dealer, 
 or any single countryman whomsoever, of 
 that kind. He could find none of the men 
 whose knowledge had rescued him and his 
 children from terrific and disfiguring dis- 
 ease, whose boldness has raised his fore- 
 fathers from the condition of serfs, whose 
 wise fancy had opened a new and high ex- 
 istence to the humblest, whose skill had 
 filled the working man's world with accu- 
 mulated wonders. Whereas, he did find 
 others whom he knew no good of, and even 
 others whom he knew much ill of. 
 
 "Humph!" said he. "I don't quite un- 
 derstand it." 
 
 So, he went home, and sat down by his fire- 
 side to get it out of his mind. 
 
 Now, his flrc-side was a bare one, all 
 hemmed in by blackened streets ; but it 
 was a precious place to him. His children, 
 stunted in their growth, bore traces of un- 
 wholesome nurture ; but they had beauty in 
 his sight. Above all other things, it was 
 an earnest desire of this man's soul that his 
 children should be taught. " If I am some- 
 times misled," said he, " for want of know- 
 ledge, at least let them know better, and 
 avoid my mistakes. If it is hard to me to 
 reap the harvest of pleasure and instruction 
 that is stored in books, let it be easier to 
 them." 
 
 But the Bigwig family broke into violent 
 
80 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 family quarrels concerning what it was law- 
 ful to teach to this man's children. Some 
 of the family insisted on such a thing being 
 primary and indispensable above all other 
 things ; and others of the family insisted on 
 8uch another thing being primary and in- 
 dispensable above all other things ; and the 
 Bigwig fimily, rent into factions, wrote 
 pamphlets, held convocations, delivered 
 charges, orations, and all varieties of dis- 
 courses; impounded one another in courts 
 Lay and courts Ecclesiastical ; threw dirt, 
 exchanged pummelings, and fell together by 
 the ears in unintelligible animosity. Mean- 
 while, this man, in his short evening 
 snatches at his fire-side, saw the demon 
 Ignorance arise there, and take his children 
 to itself, lie saw his daughter perverted 
 into a heavy, slatternly drudge; he saw his 
 son go moping down the ways of low sensu- 
 ality, to brutality and crime ; he saw the 
 dawning light of intelligence in the eyes of 
 his babies so changing into cunning and 
 suspicion, that he could have rather wished 
 them idiots. 
 
 "I don't understand this any the better," 
 said he ; "' but I think it cannot be right. 
 Nay, by the clouded Heaven above me, I 
 protest against this as my wrong !" 
 
 Becoming peaceable again (for his passion 
 was usually short-lived, and his nature kind), 
 he looked about him on his Sundays and holi- 
 days, and he saw how much monotony and 
 weariness there was, and thence how drunk- 
 enness arose with all its train of ruin. Then 
 he appealed to the Bigwig family, and said, 
 " We are a laboring people, and I have a 
 glimmering suspicion in me that laboring 
 people of whatever condition were made — 
 by a higher intelligence than yours, as I 
 poorly understand it — to be in need of men- 
 tal refreshment and recreation. See what 
 we fall into, when we rest without it. Come ! 
 Amuse me harmlessly, show me something, 
 give me an escape !" 
 
 But here the Bigwig family fell into a 
 state of uproar absolutely deafening. When 
 some few voices were faintly heard, pro- 
 posing to show him the wonders of the world, 
 the greatness of creation, the mighty changes 
 of time, the workings of nature and the 
 beauties of art — to show him these things, 
 that is to say, at any period of his life when 
 he could look upon them — there arose 
 among the Bigwigs such roaring and raving, 
 such pulpiting and petitioning, such maun- 
 dering and memorialising, such name-calling 
 and dirt-throwing, such a shrill wind of par- 
 liamentary questioning and feeble replying 
 — where " I dare not" waited on " I would" 
 — that the poor fellow stood aghast, staring 
 wildly around. 
 
 " Have I provoked all this," said he, with 
 his hands to his aifrighted ears, " by what 
 was meant to bo an innocent request, plainly 
 arising out my familiar experience, and the 
 
 common knowledge of all men who choose 
 to open their eyes ? I don't understand, and 
 I am not understood. What is to come of 
 such things?" 
 
 He was bending over his work, often ask- 
 ing himself the question, when the news 
 began to spread that a pestilence had ap- 
 peared among the laborers, and was slaying 
 them by thousands. Going forth to look 
 about him, he soon found this to be true. 
 The dying and the dead were mingled in the 
 close and tainted houses among which his 
 life was passed. New poison was distilled 
 into the always murky, always sickening 
 air. The robust and the weak, old age and 
 infancy, the father and the mother, all were 
 stricken down alike. 
 
 What means of fight had he? He re- 
 mained where he was, and saw those who 
 were dearest to him die. A kind preacher 
 came to him, and would have said some 
 prayers to soften his heart in his gloom, but 
 he replied: 
 
 " what avails it, missionary, to come to 
 me, a man condemned to i*esidence in this 
 foetid place, where every sense becomes 
 a torment, and where every minute of my 
 numbered days is new mire added to the 
 heap under which I lie oppressed ! But 
 give me my first glimpse of Heaven, through 
 a little of its light and air ; give me pure 
 water ; help me to be clean ; lighten this 
 heavy atmosphere and heavy life, in which 
 our spirits sink, and we become the indiffer- 
 ent and callous creatures you too often see 
 us ; gently and kindly take the bodies of 
 those who die among us, out of the small 
 room where we grow to be so familiar with 
 the awful change that even its sanctity is 
 lost to us; and. Teacher, then I will hear — 
 none know better than you, how willingly 
 — of Him whose thoughts were so much with 
 the poor, and who had compassion for all 
 human sorrow !" 
 
 He was at his work again, solitary and 
 sad, when his Master came and stood near 
 to him, dressed in black. He, also, had 
 suffered heavily. His young wife, his beau- 
 tiful and good young wife, was dead ; so, 
 too, his only child. 
 
 " Master, 'tis hard to bear — I know it — 
 but be comforted. I would give you com- 
 fort, if I could. 
 
 The Master thanked him from his heart, 
 but said he, " you laboring men ! The ca- 
 lamity began among you. If you had but 
 lived more healthily and decently, I should 
 not be the widowed and bereft mourner that 
 I am this day." 
 
 " Master," returned the other, shaking 
 his head, " I have begun to understand a 
 little that most calamities will come from 
 us, as this one did, and that none will stop 
 at our poor doors, until we are united with 
 that great squabbling family yonder, to dc 
 the things that are right. We cannot live 
 
NINE NEW STORIES BY THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 
 
 81 
 
 nealthily and decently, unless they who 
 undertook to manage us provide the means. 
 We cannot be instructed, unless they will 
 teach us ; we cannot be rationally amused, 
 unless they will amuse us ; we cannot but 
 have some false gods of our own, while they 
 eet up so many of theirs in all the public 
 places. The evil consequences of imperfect 
 instruction, the evil consequences of per- 
 nicious neglect, the evil consequences of 
 unnatural restraint and the denial of hu- 
 manizing enjoyments, will all come from us, 
 and none of them will stop with us. They 
 will spread far and wide. They always 
 do ; they always have done — just like the 
 pestilence. I understand so much, I think, 
 at last." 
 
 But the Master said again, " you labor- 
 ing men ! how seldom do we ever hear 
 of you, except in connection with some 
 trouble !" 
 
 " Master," he replied, " I am Nobody, and 
 little likely to be heard of (nor yet much 
 wanted to be heard of perhaps), except when 
 there is some trouble. But it never begins 
 with me, and it can never end with me. 
 As sure as Death, it comes down to me, and 
 it goes up from me." 
 
 There was so much reason in what he 
 said, that the Bigwig family, getting wind 
 of it, and being horribly frightened by the 
 late desolation, resolved to unite with him 
 to do the things that were right — at all 
 events, so far as the said things were asso- 
 ciated with the direct prevention, humanly 
 6 
 
 speaking, of another pestilence. But, as 
 their fear wore off, which it soon began to 
 do, they resumed their falling out among 
 themselves, and did nothing. Consequently 
 the scourge appeared again — low down as 
 before, and spread avengingly upward aa 
 before, and carried off vast numbers of the 
 brawlers. But not a man among them ever 
 admitted, if in the least degree he ever per- 
 ceived, that he had anything to do with it. 
 
 So Nobody lived and died in the old, old, 
 old way ; and this, in the main, is the whole 
 of Nobody's story. 
 
 Had he no name, you ask? Perhaps it 
 was Legion. It matters little what his 
 name was. Let us call him Legion. 
 
 If you were ever in the Belgian villages 
 near the field of Waterloo, you will have 
 seen, in some quiet little church, a monu- 
 ment erected by faithful companions in arms 
 to the memory of Colonel A, Major B, Cap- 
 tains C, D and E, Lieutenants F and 6, 
 Ensigns H, I and J, seven non-commissioned 
 officers, and one hundred and thirty rank 
 and file, who fell in the discharge of their 
 duty on the memorable day. The story of 
 Nobody is the story of the rank and file of 
 the earth. They bear their share of the 
 battle ; they have their part in the victory ; 
 they fall ; they leave no name but in the 
 mass. The march of the proudest of us 
 leads to the dusty way by which they go. 
 0! Let us think of them this year at the 
 Christmas fire, and not forget them when it 
 is burnt out. 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "Now, what I want is, Facts. Teach these 
 boys and girls nothing but Facts. Facts alone 
 are wanted in life. Plant nothing else, and 
 root out everything else. You can only form 
 the minds of reasoning animals upon Facts: 
 nothing else will ever be of any service to 
 them. This is the principle on which I bring 
 up my own children, and this is the principle 
 on which I bring up these children. Stick to 
 Facts, sir!" 
 
 The scene was a plain, bare, monotonous 
 vault of a school-room, and the speaker's 
 square fore finger emphasised his observations 
 by underscoring every sentence with a line 
 on the schoolmaster's sleeve. The emphasis 
 was helped by the speaker's square wall of a 
 forehead, which had his eyebrows for its base, 
 while his eyes found commodious cellarage in 
 two dark caves, overshadowed by the wall. — 
 The emphasis was helped by the speaker's 
 mouth, which was wide, thin, and hard set. 
 The emphasis was helped by the speaker's 
 voice, which was inflexible, dry, and dictato- 
 rial. The emphasis was helped by the speak- 
 er's hair, which bristled on the skirts of his 
 bald head, a plantation of firs to keep the wind 
 from its shining surface, all covered with knobs, 
 like the crust ot a plum pie, as if the head 
 had scarcely warehouse room for the hard facts 
 stored inside. The speaker's obstinate car- 
 riage, square coat, square legs, square should- 
 ers — nay, his very neckcloth, trained to take 
 him by the throat with an unaccommodating 
 grasp, like a stubborn fact, as it was, — all help- 
 ed the emphasis. 
 
 "In this life, we want nothing but Facts, sir; 
 nothing but Facts !"' 
 
 The speaker and the schoolmaster, and the 
 third grown person present, all backed a little, 
 and swept with their eyes the inclined plane 
 of little vessels then and there arranged in 
 order, ready to have imperial gallons ot facts 
 poured into them until ihey were full to the 
 brim. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 Thomas Oradgrind, sir. A man of reali- 
 ties. A man of facts and calculations. A 
 man who proceeds upon the principle that 
 two and two are four, and nothing over, and 
 who is not to be talked int > alhnviiig for any- 
 thing over. Thomas (iradgrind. sir — peremp- 
 torily Thomas — Thomas Gradgrind. With a 
 rule and a pair of scales, and the muhiplica- 
 tion table always in his pocket, sir, ready to 
 
 weigh and measure any parcel of human na- 
 ture, and tell you exactly what it comes to. It 
 is a mere question of figures, a case of simple 
 arithmetic. You might hope to get some other 
 nonsensical belief into the head of George Grad- 
 grind, or Augustus Gradgrind, or John Grad- 
 grind, or Joseph Gradgrind, (all suppositious, 
 non-existent persons,) but into the head of 
 Thomas Gradgrind — no, sir. 
 
 In such terms Mr. Gradgrind always men- 
 tally introduced himself, whether to his private 
 circle of acquaintance, or to the public in gene- 
 ral. In such terms, no doubt, substituting 
 the words "boys and girls," for ".^ir," Thomas 
 Gradgrind now presented Thomas Gradgrind 
 to the little pitchers before him, who were to 
 be filled so full of facts. 
 
 Indeed, as he eagerly sparkled at them from 
 the cellarage before mentioned, he seemed a 
 kind of cannon loaded to the muzzle with facts, 
 and prepared to blow them clean out of the 
 regions of childhood at one discharge. He 
 seemed a galvanising apparatus, too, charged 
 with a grim mechanical substitute for the ten- 
 der young imaginations that were to be storm- 
 ed away. 
 
 "Girl number twenty," said Mr. Grad/rind, 
 squarely pointing with his square forefinger, 
 "i don't know that girl. Who is that girl ?" 
 
 "Sissy Jupe, sir," explained number twenty, 
 blushing, standing up, and curtseying. 
 
 "Sissy is not a name," said Mr. Gradgrind. 
 "Don't call yourself Sissy. Call yourself Ce- 
 cilia." 
 
 "It's father as calls me Sissy, sir," returned 
 the young girl in a trembling voice, and with 
 another curtsey. 
 
 "Then he has no business to do it," said 
 Mr. Gradgrind. "Tell him he mustn't, Cecilia 
 Jupe. Lee me see. What is your father?" 
 
 "He belongs to the horse-riding, if you 
 please, sir." 
 
 Mr. Gradgrind frowned, and waved oflFthe ob- 
 jectionable calling with his hand. 
 
 "We don't want to know anything about that 
 here. You mustn't tell us about that, here. 
 Your father breaks horses, don't he?'' 
 
 "If you please sir, when they can get any to 
 break, they do break horses in the ring, sir." 
 
 "You mustn't tell us about the ring here. 
 Very well, then. Describe your father as a 
 hor.sebreaker. He doctors sick horses, I dare 
 say?'' 
 
 "Oh yes, sir." 
 
 "Very well, then. He is a veterinary sur- 
 geon, a farrier and horsebreaker. Give me ycui 
 definition of a hoise." 
 
84 
 
 DICKEXS' NEAV STORIES 
 
 (Sissy Jupe thrown into the greatest alarm 
 by this demand.) 
 
 '"Girl number twenty unable to define a 
 horse!" said Mr. Gradjrriad, fur the general 
 behoof of all the little pitchers. "Girl number 
 twenty possessed of no facts in reference to one 
 of the commonest of animals! Some boy's de- 
 finition of a horse. Bitzer, yours." 
 
 The square fiuger, moving here and there, 
 lighted suddenly on Bitzer, perhaps because 
 he chanced to sit in the same ray of sunlight 
 ■which, dartincr in at one of the bare windows 
 of the itiiensely whitewashed room, irradiated 
 Sissy. For, the boys and girls sat on the face 
 of the inclined plane in two compact bodies, 
 divided up the centre by a narrow interval; 
 and Sissy, being at the corner of a row on the 
 sunny side, came in for the beginning of a 
 sunbeam, of which Bitzer, being at the 
 corner of a row on the other side, a few 
 rows in advance, caught the end. But, 
 whereas the girl was so dark-eyed and dark- 
 haired, that she seemed to receive a deeper 
 and more lustrous color from the sun when it 
 shone upon her, the boy was so light-eyed and 
 light-haired that the selfsame rays appeared 
 to draw out of him what little colour he ever 
 possessed. His cold eyes would hardly have 
 been eyes, but for the short ends of lashes 
 •which, by bringing them into immediate con- 
 trast with something paler than themselves, 
 expressed their form. His short-cropped 
 hair might have been a mere continuation of 
 the sandy freckles on his forehead and face. 
 
 His skin was so unwholesomely deficient in 
 the natural tinge, that he looked as though, if 
 he (vere cut, he would bleed white. 
 
 "Bitzer," said Thomas Gradgrind. "Your 
 definition of a horse." 
 
 "Quadruped. Graminivorous. Forty teeth, 
 namely : twenty-four grinders, four eye-teeth, 
 and twelve incisive. Sheds coat in the spring; 
 in marshy countries, sheds hoofs, too. Hoots 
 hard, but requiring to be shod with iron. Age 
 known by marks in mouth." Thus (and much 
 more) Bitzer. 
 
 "Now girl number twenty," said Mr. Grad- 
 grind. "You know what a horse is." 
 
 She curtseyed again, and would have blushed 
 deeper, if she could have blushed deeper than 
 she had blushed all this time. Bitzer, after 
 rapidly blinking at Thomas Gradgrind with 
 both eyes at once, and so catching the light 
 upon his quivering ends of lashes that they 
 looked like the antennte of busy insects, put 
 his knuckles to his freckled forehead, and sat 
 down again. 
 
 The third gentleman now stepped forth. A 
 mighty man at cutting and drying, he was; a 
 government officer ; in his way (and in most 
 other people's too), a professed pugilist; alwa\s 
 in training, always with a system to force 
 down the general throat like a bolus, alwajs 
 to be heard of at the bar of his little Public- 
 office, ready to fight all England. To con- 
 tinue in fistic phraseology, he had a genius 
 for coming up to the scratch, wherever and 
 
 whatever it was, and proving himscif an ugly 
 customer. He would go in and damage any 
 subject whatever with his right, follow up 
 with his left, stop, exchange, counter, bore 
 his opponent (he always fought all Eiig 
 land) to the ropes, and fall upon him neatly. 
 He was certain to knock the wind out of com- 
 mon sense, and render that unlucky adversary 
 deaf to the call of time. And he had it in 
 charge from high authority to bring about the 
 great public office Millenium, when Commis 
 sioners should reign upou earth. 
 
 "Very well," said this gentleman, briskly 
 smiling, and folding his arms. "That's a 
 horse. Now, let me ask you, girls and boys. 
 Would you paper a room with i-epreseutatioua 
 of horses?" 
 
 After a pause, one half of the children 
 cried in chorus, "Yes, sir!" Upon which 
 the ether half, seeing in the gentleman's face 
 that Yes was wrong, cried out in chorus 
 "No, sir I" — as the custom is in these exami- 
 nations. 
 
 "Of course. No. Why wouldn't you?" 
 
 A pause. One corpulent slow boy, with a 
 wheezy manner of breathing, ventured the 
 answer, Because he wouldn't paper a rcomtit 
 all, but would paint it. 
 
 "You must paper it," said the gentleman, 
 rather warmly. 
 
 "You must paper it," said Thomas Grad- 
 grind, "whether you like it or not. Don't tell 
 us you wouldn't paper it. What do you mean, 
 boy?" 
 
 "I'll explain to you, then," said the gentle- 
 man, after another and a dismal pause, "why 
 yuu wouldn't paper a room with representa- 
 tions of horses. Do you ever see horses walk- 
 ing up and down the sides of rooms in reality — 
 in fact? Do you?" 
 
 "Yes, sir?" from one half. "No sirl" fior... 
 the other. 
 
 "Of course no," said the gentleman with 
 an indignant look at the wrong half. "Why, 
 then, you are not to see anywhere, what you 
 don't see in fact; you are not to haveany where, 
 what you don't have in fact. What is called 
 Taste, is only another name for Fact." 
 
 Thomas Gradgrind nodded his approbation. 
 
 "This is a new principle, a discovery, a 
 great discovery," said the gentleman. "Now, 
 I'll try you again. Suppose you were going 
 to carpet a room. Would you use a carpet 
 having a representation of flowers upon it?" 
 
 There being a general conviction by this 
 time that "No, sir," was always the right 
 answer to this gentleman, the chorus of No 
 was very strong. Only a few feeble straggkn 
 said Yes; among them Sissy Jupe. 
 
 "Girl nuruber twenty," said the gentleman, 
 smiling in the calm strength of knowledge. 
 
 Sissy blushed, and stood up. 
 
 "So you would carpet your room — or your 
 husband's room, if you were a grown woman, 
 and had a husband — with representations (»! 
 flowers, would you?" said the gentleman. 
 "Why would you?'' 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 85 
 
 "If you please, sir, I am very fond of flow- 
 ers," returned the girl. 
 
 "And is that why you would put tables and 
 chairs upon them, and have people walking 
 over them with heavy boots?" 
 
 *'It wouldn't hurt them, sir. They wouldn't 
 crush and wither, if you please, sir. They 
 would be the pictures of what was very pretty 
 and pleasant, and I would fancy " 
 
 "Ay, ay, ay! But you musn't fancy," cried 
 the gentleman, quite elated "ly coming so hap- 
 pily to his point. "That's iti You are never 
 to fancy." 
 
 "You are not, Mary Jupe," Thomas Grad- 
 grind solemnly repeated, "to do anything of 
 that kind." 
 
 "Fact, fact, fact!" said the gentleman. And 
 "Fact, fact, fact!" repeated Thomas Grad- 
 grind 
 
 " You are to be in all things regulated and 
 governed," said the gentleman, " by fact. 
 We hope to have, before long, a board of fact, 
 composed cf commissioners of fact, who will 
 force the people to be a people of fact, and 
 of nothing but fact. You must discard the 
 word Fancy altogether. You have nothing to 
 do with it. You are not to have, in any object 
 of use or ornamsnt, what would be a contra- 
 diction in fact. You don't walk upon flowers 
 in fact; you cannot be allowed to walk upon 
 fluwers i'n carpets. You don't find that fo- 
 reign birds and butterflies come and perch 
 u|jou your crockery ; you cannot be permitted 
 to paint foreign birds and butterflies upon 
 your crockery. You never meet with quad- 
 rujjeds going up and down walls; you must 
 not have quadrupeds represented upon walls. 
 You must use," said the gentleman, "for all 
 these purposes, combinations and modifications 
 (ill primary colors) of mathematical figures 
 ^vh^ch are susceptible of pru»f and demonstra- 
 tion. This is the new discovery. This is fact. 
 This is taste." 
 
 The girl curtseyed, and sat down. She was 
 vei'y young, and she looked as if she were 
 frightened Ijy the matter of fact prospect the 
 wurld aftbrJed." 
 
 "Now, if Mr. M'Choakumchild," said the 
 gt^ntleman, "will proceed to give his first 
 lesson here, Mr. Gradgr nd, 1 shall be happy, 
 ai your request, to observe his mode of pro- 
 cedure." 
 
 Mr. Gradgrind was much obliged. "Mr. 
 M'Choakumchild, we only wait tor you." 
 
 "oo Mr. M'Choakumchild began in his best 
 manner. He and some one humlred and forty 
 other schoolmasters, had been lately turned 
 at the same time, in the same factory, on the 
 same principles, like so many pianotorte legs. 
 lie had been put through an immense variety 
 of paces, and had answered volumes of head 
 breaking questions. Orthography, etymology, 
 syntax, and prosody, biography, astronom>, 
 geography, and general cosmographj, the 
 sciences of compound proponion, algebra, 
 land surveying and levelling, vocal music, and 
 drawing from models, were all at the ends 
 
 of his ten chilled fingers. He had worked his 
 stoney way into Her Majesty's most Honor- 
 able Privy Council's Schedule B, and had 
 taken the bloom off" the higher branches of 
 mathematics and physical science, French, 
 German, Latin, and Greek. He knew all 
 about all the Water Sheds of all the World 
 (whatever they are,) and all the histories of 
 all the peoples, and all the names of all the 
 rivers and mountains, and all the prodtictions, 
 manners and customs of all the countries, and 
 all their boundaries and bearings on the two 
 and thirty points of the compass. Ah, rather 
 overdone, xM'Choakumchild. If he had only 
 learnt a little less, how infinitely better he 
 might have taught much more I 
 
 He went to work in this } reparatory lesson, 
 not unlike Morgiana in the Forty Thieves : 
 looking into all the vessels ranged before him, 
 one after another, to see what they contained. 
 Say, good M'Choakumchild. When from thy 
 boiling store, thou shalt fill each jar brim 
 full by and by, dost thou think that thou wilt 
 always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking 
 within — or sometimes ouly maim him and dis- 
 tort him! 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Mr. Gradgrind walked homeward froHi 
 the school, in a state of considerable satis- 
 faction. It was his school, and he intended it 
 to be a model. He intended every child in it 
 to be a model — just as the young Gradgrinds 
 were all models. 
 
 There were five young Gradgrinds, and they 
 were models every one. They had been lec- 
 tured at, from their tenderest years; coursed, 
 like little hares. Almost as soon as they could 
 run alone, they had been made to run to the 
 lecture-room. The first object with which 
 they had an association, or of which they had 
 a remembrance, was a large black-board with 
 a dry Ogre chalking ghastly white figures 
 on it. 
 
 Not that they knew, by name or nature, any- 
 thingabout an Ogre. Fact forbid ! I only use 
 the word to express a monster in a lecturing 
 castle, with Heaven knows how many heads 
 manipulated into one, taking childhood cap- 
 tive, and dragging it into gloomy statistical dens 
 by the hair. 
 
 No little Gradgrind had ever seen a face 
 in the moon; it was up in the moon before 
 it could speak distinctly. No little Grad- 
 grind hud ever learnt the silly jiugle, Twinkle 
 twinkle, little star; how I wonder what vou 
 are; it had never known wonder on the 
 subject, having at five years old dissected the 
 Great Bear like a Professor Owen, and driven 
 Charles's Wain like a locomotive engine- 
 driver. No little Gradgrind had ever associ- 
 ated a cow in a field with that famous cow with 
 the crumpled horn who tossed the dog who 
 worried the cat who killed the rat who ate the 
 malt, or with that yet more famous cow who 
 swallowed Tom Thuuib ; it had never heard of 
 
86 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 these celebrities, and had only been introduced 
 to a cow as a graminivorous runiiuating qua- 
 druped with several stomachs. 
 
 To his matter of i'act home, which was 
 called Stone Lodge, Mr. Gradgriiid directi-d 
 his steps. He had virtually retired from the 
 wholesale hardware trade before he built 
 Stone Lodge, and was now looking about for 
 a suitable opportunity of making an arithmeti- 
 cal figure in Parliament. Stone Lodge was 
 situated on a moor within a mile or two of a 
 great town — called Coketowu in the present 
 faithful guide-book. 
 
 A very regular feature on the face of the 
 country. Stone Lodge was. Not the least dis- 
 guise toned down or shaded off that un- 
 compromising fact in the landscape. A great 
 square liouse, with a heavy portico darkening 
 the principal windows, as its master's heavy 
 brows overshadowed his eyes. A calculated, 
 cast up, balanced and proved house. Six 
 windows on this side of the door, six on that 
 side; a total of twelve in this wing, a total of 
 twelve in the other wing; four and twenty car- 
 ried over to the back. A lawn and garden and 
 an infant avenue, all ruled straight like a bota- 
 nical account-book. Gas and, ventilation, 
 drainage and water-service, all of the priniest 
 quality. Iron clamps and girders, fireproof 
 from top to bottom; mechanical lifts for the 
 housemaids, with all their brushes and brooms; 
 everything that heart could desire. 
 
 Everything? Well I suppose so. The 
 little Gradgrinds had cabinets in various de- 
 partments of science too. They had a little 
 conchological cabinet, and alittle metallurgical 
 cabinet, and a little mineralogical cabinet; and 
 the specimens were all arranged and labelled; 
 and the bits of stone and ore looked as thouo-h 
 they might have been broken from their parent 
 substances by those tremendously hard instru- 
 ments, their own names ; and, to paraphrase 
 the idle legend of Peter Piper, who had never 
 found his way into their nursery, if the little 
 greedy Gradgrinds grasped at more than this, 
 what was it tor good gracious goodness sake, 
 that the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at 1 
 
 Their father walked on in a hopeful and 
 satisfied frame of mind. He was an affectionate 
 father, after his manner; but he would proba- 
 bly have described himself (if he had been 
 put, like Sissy Jupe, upon a definition) as ''an 
 eminently practical" father. He had a par- 
 ticular pride in the phrase eminently practi- 
 cal, which was considered to have a special 
 application to him. Whatsoever the public 
 meeting held in Coketown, and whatsoever 
 the subject of such meeting, some Coketowner 
 was sure to seize the occasion of alluding 
 to his eminently practical friend Gradgrind. 
 This always pleased the eminently practical 
 friend. He knew it to be his due, but his due 
 ■was acceptable. 
 
 He had reached the neutral ground upon 
 the outskirts of the town, which was neither 
 town nor country, and }el was either spoiled, 
 when his ears were invaded by the sound of 
 
 music. The clashing and banging band at- 
 tached to the horse-riding establish meni 
 which had there set up its rest in a wooden 
 paviUon, was in full bray. A flag, floating 
 from the summit of the temple, proc'aimed 
 to mankind that it was "Sleary's Horse- 
 riding"' which claimed their sallrages. Sleary 
 himself, a stout modern statue with a 
 money-box at its eibow, in an ecclesias- 
 tical niche of early Gothic architecture, 
 took the money. Miss Josephine Sleary, as 
 some very lon^ and very narrow strips ol 
 printed bills announced, was then inaugura- 
 tingthe entertainments with her graceful eques- 
 trian Tyrolean flower-act. Among the other 
 pleasing but always strictly moral wonders 
 which must be seen to be believed, Signor 
 Jupe was that aferuoon to "elucidate the di- 
 verting accomplishments of his highly train- 
 ed performing dog Merrylegs." He was also 
 to exhibit " his astounding feat of throwing 
 seventy-five hundred weight in rapid succes- 
 sion backhanded over his head, thus forming a 
 fountain of solid iron in mid air, a feat never 
 before attempted in this or any other coun 
 try; and which, having elicited such rapturous 
 plaudits from enthusiastic throngs, it cannot 
 be withdrawn." The same Signor Jupe was 
 to " enliven the varied performances at fre- 
 quent intervals with his chaste Shaksperean 
 quips and retorts." Lastly, he was to wind 
 them up by appearing in his favorite character 
 of Mr. William Button, of Tooley street, in 
 "the highly novel and laughable hippocome- 
 dietta of The Tailor's Journey to Brentford.'' 
 
 Thomas Gradgrind took no heed of these 
 trivialities of course, but passed on as a prac- 
 tical man ought to pass on, either brushing the 
 noisy insects from his thoughts, or consigning 
 them to the House of Correction. But, the 
 turning of the road took him by the back of the 
 booth, and at the back of the booth a number 
 of children were congregated in a number ol 
 stealthy attitudes, striving to peep in at the 
 hidden glories of the place. 
 
 This brought him to a stop. "Now, to 
 think of these vagabonds," said he, "attracting 
 the young rabble from a model school!" 
 
 A space of stunted grass and dry rubbish 
 being between him and the young rabble, he 
 took hia eyeglass out of his waistcoat to look 
 for any child he knew by name, and might 
 order off. Phenomenon almost incredible 
 though distinctly seen, what did he then be- 
 hold but his own metallurgical Louisa peep- 
 ing with all her might through a hole in a 
 deal board, and his own mathematical Thomas 
 abasing himself on the ground to catch but a 
 hoof of the graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower 
 act 1 
 
 Dumb with amazement, Mr. Gradgrind 
 crossed to the spot where his family was thus 
 disgraced, laid his hand upon each erritg 
 child, and said : 
 
 "Louisa!! Thomas!!" 
 Both rose, red and disconcerted. But, Louisa 
 looked at her father with more boldness than 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 87 
 
 Thomas did. Indeed, Thomas did not look at 
 him, but gave himself up to be taken home like 
 a machine. 
 
 "In the name of wonder, idleness, and fol- 
 ly!" said Mr. Gradgrind, leading each away 
 by a hand ; "what do you do here?" 
 
 "Wanted to see what it was like," returned 
 Louisa shortly. 
 
 "What it was like ?" 
 
 "Yes, father." 
 
 There was an air of jaded sullehness in 
 them both, and particularly in the girl; yet, 
 struggling through the dissatisfaction of her 
 face, there was a light with nothing to rest 
 upon, a fire with nothing to burn, a starved 
 imagination keeping life in itself somehow, 
 which brightened its expression. Not with 
 the brightness natural to cheerful youth, but 
 with uncertain; eager doubtl'ul flashes, which 
 had something painful in them, analogous to 
 the changes of a blind face groping its way. 
 
 She was a child now, of fifteen or sixteen ; 
 but at no distant day would seem to become a 
 woman all at once. Her father thought so as 
 he looked at her. She was pretty. Would 
 have been self-willed (he thought in his emi- 
 nently practical way) but for her bringingup. 
 
 "Thomas, though I have the fact before me, 
 I find it difficult to believe that you, with your 
 education and resources, should have brought 
 your sister to a scene like this." 
 
 "I brought /a'm, father," said Louisa, quickly. 
 "I asked him to come." 
 
 "I am sorry to hear it. I am very sorry, in- 
 deed, to hear it. It makes Thomas no better, 
 and it makes you worse, Louisa." 
 
 She looked at her father again, but no tear 
 fell down her cheek. 
 
 "You! Thomas and yon, to whom the circle 
 of the sciences is open, Thomas and you who 
 may be said to be replete with facts, Thomas 
 and you who have been trained to mathemati- 
 cal exactness, Thomas and you here!" cried 
 Mr. Gradgrind. "In this degraded position! 
 I am amazed." 
 
 "I was tired, father. I have been tired a 
 long time," said Louisa. 
 
 "Tired? Of what?" asked the astonished 
 father. 
 
 "I don't know of what— of everything I 
 think." 
 
 "Say not another word," returned Mr. Grad- 
 grind. "You are childish. I will hear no 
 more." He did not speak again until they 
 had walked some half-a-mile in silence, when 
 he gravely broke out with : "What would 
 your best friends say, Louisa ? Do you attach 
 no value to their good opinion ? What would 
 Mr. Bounderby say ?" 
 
 At the mention of this name, his daughter 
 stole a look at him, remarkable for its intense 
 and searching character. He saw nothing of 
 it, for before he looked at her she had again 
 cast down her eyes!" 
 
 "VV^hat," he repeated presently, "would Mr. 
 Bou':derby say?" All the way to Stone Lodge, 
 as with grave indignation he led the two de- 
 
 linquents home, he repeated at intervals, 
 "What would Mr. Bounderby say?" — as if Mr 
 Bounderby had been Mrs. Grundy. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Not being Mrs. Grundy, who was Mr. Boun- 
 derby? 
 
 Why, Mr. Bounderby was as near being Mr. 
 Gradgrind's bosom friend as a man perfectly 
 devoid of sentiment can approach that spiritual 
 relationship towards another man perfectly de- 
 void of sentiment. So near was Mr. Bounder- 
 by — or, if the reader should prefer it, so far olf. 
 
 He was a rich man : banker, merchant, 
 manufacturer, and what not. A big, loud 
 man, with a stare and a metallic laugh. A 
 man made out of a coarse material, which 
 seemed to have been stretched to make so 
 much of him. A man with a great puffed 
 head and forehead, swelled veins in his tem- 
 ples, and such a strained skin to his face that 
 it seemed to hold his eyes open and lift his 
 eyebrows up. A man with a pervading ap- 
 pearance on him of being inflated like a bal- 
 loon, and ready to start. A man who could 
 never sufficiently vaunt himself a selfmade 
 man. A man who was always proclaiming, 
 through that brassy speaking-trumpet of a 
 voice of his, his old ignorance and his old 
 poverty. A man who was the Bully of hu- 
 mility. 
 
 A year or two younger than his eminently 
 practical friend, Mr. Bounderby looked older ; 
 his seven or eight and forty might have had 
 the seven or eight added to it again, without 
 surprising anybody. He had not much hair. 
 One might have fancied he had talked it off; 
 and that what was left, all standing up in dis- 
 order, was in that condition from being con- 
 stantly blown about by his windy boastfulness. 
 
 In the formal drawing room of Stone 
 Lodge, standing on the hearth-rug, warming 
 himself before the fire, Mr. Bounderby de- 
 livered some observations to Mrs. Gradgrind 
 on the circumstance of its being his birthday. 
 He stood before the fire, partly because it was 
 a cool spring afternoon, though the sun shone 
 partly because the shade of fetone Lodge was 
 always haunted by the ghost of damp mor 
 tar; partly because he thus took up a com 
 manding position, from which to subdue Mrs 
 Gradgrind. 
 
 "I hadn't a shoe to my foot. As to a stock 
 ing, I didn't know such a thing by name. I 
 passed the day in a ditch, and the night in a 
 pigsty. That's the way I spent my tenth birth- 
 day. Not that a ditch was new to me, for I 
 was born in a ditch." 
 
 Mrs. Gradgrind, a little, thin, white, pink- 
 eyed bundle of shawls, of surpassing feebleness, 
 mental and bodily ; who was always taking 
 physic without any effect, and who, whenever 
 she showed a symptom of coming to lile, was 
 invariably stunned by some weighty piece of 
 fact tumbling on her ; Mrs. Gradgrind hoped 
 it was a dry ditch ? 
 
88 
 
 DICKEXS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 "No I As wet as a sop. A foot of water in 
 it;" said Mr. Bounderby. 
 
 " Enough to give a baby cold," Mrs. Grad- 
 grind considered. 
 
 "Cold? I was born with inflammation of 
 the lungs, and of everything else, I believe, 
 that was capable of inilamination," returned 
 Mr. Bounderby. "For years, ma'am, I was 
 one of the most miserable little wretches ever 
 seen. I was so sickly, that I was always 
 moaning and groaning. I was so ragged and 
 dirty, that you wouldn't have touched me with 
 a pair of tongs." 
 
 Mrs. Gradgrind faintly looked at the tongs, 
 as the most appropriate thing her imbecility 
 could think of doiug. 
 
 " How I fought through it, I don't know," 
 said Bounderby. " I was determined, I sup- 
 
 f)Ose. I have been a determined character in 
 ater life, and I suppose I was then. Here I 
 am, Mrs. Gradgrind, anyhow, and nobody to 
 thank for my being here but myself." 
 
 Mrs. Gradgrind meekly and weakly hoped 
 that his mother — 
 
 ".Vy mother? Bolted, ma'am!" said Boun- 
 derby. 
 
 Mrs. Gradgrind, stunned as usual, collapsed 
 and gave it up. 
 
 "My mother left me to my grandmother," 
 said Bounderby; "and, according to the best 
 of my remembrance, my grandmother was 
 the wickedest and the worst old woman that 
 ever lived. If I got a little pair of shoes by 
 any chance, she would take 'em off and sell 
 'em for drink. Why, I have known that 
 grandmother of mine lie in her bed and drink 
 her fourteen glasses of liquor before break- 
 fast!" 
 
 Mrs. Gradgrind, weakly smiling, and giving 
 no other sign of vitality, looked (as she always 
 did) like an indifferently executed transparency 
 of a small female figure, without enough light 
 behind it. 
 
 "She kept a chandler's shop," pursued 
 Bounderby, "and kept me in an egg-box. 
 That was the cot of my infancy; an old egg- 
 box. As soon as I was big enough to run 
 away, of course I ran away. Then I became 
 a youug vagabond; and instead of one old 
 woman knocking me about and starving me, 
 everybody of all ages knocked me about and 
 starved me. They were right; they had no 
 business to do anything else. I was a nui- 
 sance, an incumbrance, and a pest. I know 
 that, very well." 
 
 His pride in having at any time of his life 
 achieved such a great social distinction as to 
 be a nuisance, an incumbrance aud a pest, 
 was only to be satisfied by three sonorous lepe- 
 titions of the boiist. 
 
 "I was to pull through it, I supjiose, Mrs. 
 Gradgrind. Whether I was to do ii or not, 
 ma'am, 1 ilid it. I pulled through it, thou.i^h 
 nobody threw me out a rope. Vagiiboud, 
 erranii-boy, vagabond, laborer, porter, clerk, 
 chief manager, small partner, Josiah Bound- 
 erby of Coketown. Thoseare the antecedents, 
 
 and the culmination. Josiah Bounderby 
 of Coketown learnt his letters from the ouisidt- s 
 of the shops, Mrs. Gradgrind, and was first able 
 to tell the lime upon a dial-plate, from studying 
 the steeple clock of St. Giles' Lhurch, London, 
 under the direction of a drunken cripplp, who 
 was a convicted thief and an incorngitile va- 
 grant. Tell Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, 
 of your district schools, and your model schools, 
 and your training schools, and your whole ket- 
 tle-offish of schools; and Josiah Bounderby of 
 Coketown tells you plainly, all right, all cor- 
 rect — he hadn't such advantages — but let us 
 have hard-headed, solid fisted people — the edu- 
 cation that made him won't do for everybody, 
 he knows well — such and such his education 
 was, however, and you may force him to swal- 
 low boiling fat, but you shall never force him 
 to suppress the facts of his life." 
 
 Being heated when he arrived at this 
 climax, Josiah Bounderby of Coketown stopped. 
 He stopped just as his eminently practical 
 friend, still accompanied by the two youug 
 culprits, entered the room. His eminently 
 practical friend, on seeing him, stopped also, 
 and gave Louisa a reproachful look that 
 plainly said, "Behold your Bounderby!" 
 
 "Well!" blustered Mr. Bounderby, "what's 
 the matter? What is young Thomas in the 
 dumps about?" 
 
 He spoke of young Thomas, but he looked 
 at Louisa. 
 
 "We were peeping at the circus," muttered 
 Louisa haughtily, without lifting up her eyes, 
 " and father caught us." 
 
 "And Mrs. Gradgrind," said her husband 
 in a lofty manner, "I should as soon have 
 expected to find my children reading poetry." 
 
 "Dear me," whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind. 
 "How can you, Louisa and Thomas! 1 won- 
 der at you. I declare you're enough to make 
 one regret ever having had a family at all. I 
 have a great mind to say I wish I hadn't. 
 Tiien what would you have done, I should like 
 to know." 
 
 Mr. Gradgrind did not seem favorably im- 
 pressed by these cogent remarks. He frowuid 
 impatiently. 
 
 "As if, with my head in its present throb- 
 bing state, you couldn't go and look at the 
 shells and minerals and things provided for 
 you, instead of circuses!" said Mrs. Graa- 
 griad. "You know, as well as 1 do, no youug 
 people have circus masters, or keep circuses 
 in cabinets, or attend lectures about circuses. 
 What can you possibly want to know of cir- 
 cuses then? I am sure you have enough to 
 do, if that's what you want. With my head in 
 its present state, I couldn't remember the mere 
 names of half the facts you have got to attend 
 to." 
 
 '•That's the reason 1" pouted Louisa. 
 
 "Don't tell me that's the reason, because it 
 can be nothing of the sort," said Mrs. Grad 
 grind. "Go and be somethingological direct 
 h." Mrs. Gradgrind was not a scientific cha- 
 racter, and usually dismissed her children to 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 89 
 
 their studies with this general injunction to 
 choose their pursuit. 
 
 In truth, Mrs. Gradgrind's stock of facts in 
 general was woefully defective, but Mr. Grad- 
 grind in raising her to her high matrimonial 
 position had been influenced by two reasons. 
 Firstly, she was most satisfactory as a ques- 
 tion of figures; and, secondly, she had "no 
 nonsense" about her. By nonsense he meant 
 fancy; and truly it is probable she was as free 
 from any alloy of that nature, as any human 
 being not arrived at the perfection of an abso- 
 lute idiot, ever was. 
 
 The simple circumstance of being left alone 
 with her husband and Mr. Bounderby, was 
 sufficient to stun this admirable lady again, 
 without collision between herself and any 
 other fact. So, she once more died away, and 
 nobody minded her. 
 
 "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, drawing 
 a cliair to the fireside, "you are always so 
 interested in my young people — particularly 
 in Louisa — that 1 make no apology for saying 
 to you, I am very much vexed by this dis- 
 covery. I have systematically devoted myself 
 (as you know) to the education of the reason 
 of my family. The reason is (as you know) 
 the only faculty to which education should be 
 addressed. And yet, Bounderby, it would ap- 
 pear from this unexpected circumstance of 
 to-day, though in itself a trifling one, as if 
 something had crept into Thomas's and 
 Louisa's minds which is — or rather, which is 
 not — I don't know that I can express myself 
 better than by saying — which has never been 
 intended to be developed, and in which their 
 reason has no part." 
 
 "There certainly is no reason in looking 
 with interest at a parcel of vagabonds," re- 
 turned Bounderby. "When I was a vagabond 
 myself, noboily looked with any interest at me; 
 I know that." 
 
 "Then comes the question," said the emi- 
 nently practical father, with his eyes on the 
 fire, "in what has this vulgar curiosity its 
 rise?" 
 
 "I'll tell you in what. In idle imagination." 
 
 "I hope not," said the eminently practical; 
 "I confess, however, that the misgiving hati 
 crossed me on my way home." 
 
 "In idle imagination, Gradgrind," repeated 
 Bounderby. "A very bad thing for anybody, 
 but a cursed bad thing for a girl like Louisa. 
 I should ask Mrs. Gradgrind's pardon forstrong 
 expressions, but that she knows very well I am 
 not a refined character. Whoever expects re- 
 finement in me, will be disappointed. I hadn't 
 a refined bringing up." 
 
 "Whether," said Mr. Gradgrind, pondering 
 with his hands in his pockets, and his cavern 
 ous eyes on the fire, "whether any instructor 
 or servant can have suggested anything ? 
 Whether Louisa or Thomas can have been 
 reading anything? Whether, in spite of all 
 precaiftious, any idle story book can have got 
 into the house ? Because, in minds that have 
 been practically formed by rule and line, from 
 
 the cradle upwards, this is so curious, so in- 
 comprehensible." 
 
 "btop a bitl" cried Bounderby, who all thig 
 time had been standing, as before, on the 
 hearth, bursting at the very furniture of the 
 room with explosive humility. "You have one 
 of those strollers' children in the school." 
 
 "Cecilia Jupe, by name," said Mr. Grad- 
 grind, with something of a stricken look at his 
 friend. 
 
 "Now, stop a bit!" cried Bounderby again. 
 "How did she come there?" 
 
 "Why, the fact is, I saw the girl myself for 
 the first time, only just now. She specially 
 applied here at the house to be admitted, as 
 not regularly belonging to our town, and 
 — yes, you are right, Bounderby, you are 
 right." 
 
 "Nowstopabit!"cried Bounderby, once more. 
 "Louisa saw her when she came?" 
 
 "Louisa certainly did see her, for f-he men- 
 tioned the application tome. But Louisa saw 
 her, I have no doubt, in Mrs. Gradgrind's 
 presence." 
 
 "Pray, Mrs. Gradgrind," said Bounderby, 
 "what passed?" 
 
 "Oh, my poor health!" returned Mrs. Grnd- 
 grind. "The girl wanted to come to the school. 
 and Mr. Gradgrind wanted girls to come to the 
 school, and Louisa and Thomas both said that 
 the girl wanted to come, and, that Mr. Grad- 
 grind wanted girls to come, and how was it 
 possible to contradict them when such was the 
 fact!" 
 
 "Now I tell you what, Gradgrind!" said Mr. 
 Bounderby. "Turn this girl to the right-about, 
 and there's an end of it." 
 
 "I am much of your opinion." 
 
 "Do it at once," said Bounderby, "has al- 
 ways been my motto from a child. When I 
 thought I would run away from my egg-box 
 and my grandmother, I did it at once. Do 
 you the same. Do this at once !" 
 
 "Are you walking?" asked his friend. "I 
 have the father's address. Perhaps you would 
 not mind walkin ' to town with me ?" 
 
 "Not the least in the world," said Mr. Boun- 
 derby, "as long as you do it at once !" 
 
 So, Mr. Bounderby threw on his hat — he 
 always threw it on, as expressing a man who 
 had been far too busily employed in making 
 himself, to acquire any fashion of wearing his 
 hat — and with his hands in his pockets saun- 
 tered out into the hall. "I never wear gloves," 
 it was his custom to say. "I didn't climb up 
 the ladder in them. Shouldn't be so high up, 
 if I had." 
 
 Being left to saunter in the hall a minute 
 or two while Mr. Gradgrind went up stairs 
 for the address, he opened the door of the 
 children's study and looked into that serene 
 floor clothed apartment, which, notwithstanfl- 
 ing its book-cases, and its cabinets, and its 
 variety of learned and philosophical appli- 
 ances, had much of the genial asjjcct of a 
 room devoted to hair-cutting. Louisa lan- 
 guidly leaned upon the window, looking out. 
 
90 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 without looking at .any thing, while young 
 Thomas stood sniffling revengefully at the fire. 
 Adam Smith and Malthus, two younger Grad- 
 griuds, were out at a lecture in custody; and 
 little Jane, after manufacturing a good deal of 
 moist pipe-clay on ber face with slate pencil 
 and tears, had fallen asleep over vulgar frac- 
 tions. 
 
 "It's all right now, Louisa; it's all right, 
 young Thomas," said Mr. Bouaderby; "you 
 won't do so any more. I'll answer for it's be- 
 ing all over with falTier. Well, Louisa, that's 
 worth a kiss, isn't it?" 
 
 "You can take one, Mr, Bounderby," re- 
 turned Louisa, when she had coldly paused, 
 and slowly walked across the room, and un- 
 graciously raised her cheek towards him, with 
 her face turned away. 
 
 "Always my pet; ain't you, Louisa?" said 
 Mr. Bounderby. "Good bye, Louisa!" 
 
 He went his way, but she stood on the same 
 spot, rubbing the cheek he had kissed, with 
 her handkerchief, until it was burning red. 
 She was still doing this, five minutes after- 
 wards. 
 
 "What are you about. Loo?" her brother 
 sulkily remonstrated. "You'll rub a hole in 
 your face." 
 
 "You may cut the piece out with your pen- 
 knife if you like, Tom. I wouldn't cry!" 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Coketown, to which Messrs. Bounderby and 
 Gradgrind now walked, was a triumph of 
 fact; it had no greater taint of fancy in it 
 than Mrs. Gradgrind herself. Let us strike 
 the key-note, Coketown, before pursuing our 
 tune. 
 
 It was a town of red brick, or of brick that 
 would have been red if the smoke and ashes 
 had allowed it; but, as matters stood, it was a 
 town of unnatural red and black like the 
 painted face of a savage. It was a town of 
 machin ry and tall chimneys, out of which 
 interminable «erppnts of .smoke trailed them- 
 selves for ever and ever, and never got 
 uncoiled. It had a black canal in it, and 
 a river that ran purple with ill-smelling dye, 
 and vast piles of building full of windows 
 where there was a rattling and a trembling all 
 day long, and where the piston of the steam 
 engine worked monotonously up and down, 
 like the head of an elephant in a state of me- 
 lancholy macness. It contained several large 
 streets all very like one another, and many 
 small streets still more like one another, in- 
 habited by people equally like one another, 
 who all went in and out at the same hours, 
 with the same sound upon the same pavements, 
 to do the same work, and to whom every day 
 was the same as yesterday and te-raorrow, 
 and every year the counterpart of the last and 
 the next. 
 
 These attributes of Coketown were in the 
 main inseparable from the work by which it 
 was sustained; against them were to be set otf, 
 
 comforts of life which found their way all over 
 the world, and elegances of life which made 
 we will not ask how much of the fine lady, 
 who could scarcely bear to hear the place men- 
 tioned. The rest of its features were volun- 
 tary, and they were these. 
 
 You saw nothing in Coketown but what 
 was severely useful. If the members of a 
 religious persuasion built a chapel there- • 
 as the members of eighteen religious per- 
 suasions had done — they made it a pious 
 warehouse, of red brick, with sometimes (but 
 this only in highly ornamented examples) a 
 bell in a birdcage on the top of it. The 
 solitary exception was the New Church; a 
 stuccoed edifice with a square steeple over 
 the door, terminating in four stunted pin- 
 nacles like florid wooden legs. All the 
 public inscriptions in the town were painted 
 alike, in severe characters of black and white. 
 The jail might have been the infirmary, the 
 infirmary might have been the jail, the town- 
 hall might have been either, or both, or 
 anything else, for anything that appeared 
 to the contrary in the graces of their con- 
 struction. Fact, fact, fact, everywhere in 
 the material aspect of the town ; fact, 
 fact, fact, everywhere in the immaterial. — 
 The M'Choakumchild school was all fact, and 
 the school of design was all fiict, and the 
 relations between master and man were all 
 fact, and everything was fact between the 
 lying-in hospital and the cemetery, and what 
 you couldn't state in figures, or show to be 
 purchasable in the cheapest market and 
 saleable in the dearest, was not, and never 
 should be, world without end. Amen. 
 
 A town so sacred to fact, and so triumphant 
 in its assertion, of course got on well? Why 
 no, not quite well. No? Dear mel 
 
 No. Coketown did not come out of its 
 own furnaces, in all respects like gold that 
 had stood the fire. First, the perplexing 
 mystery of the place was, Who belonged to 
 the eighteen denominations? Because, who- 
 ever did, the laboring people did not. It was 
 very strange to walk through the streets on 
 a Sunday morning, and note how few of them 
 the barbarous jangling of bells that was driv- 
 ing the sick and nervous mad, called away 
 from their own quarter, from their own close 
 rooms, from the corners of their own streets, 
 where they lounged listlessly, gazing at all the 
 church and chapel going, as at a thing with 
 which they had no manner of concern. Nor 
 was it merely the stranger who noticed 
 this, because there was a native organization 
 in Coketown itself, whose members were to be 
 heard of in the House of Commons every session 
 indignantly petitioning for acts of parliament 
 that should make these people religious by 
 main force. Then, came the Teetotal Society, 
 who complained that these same people would 
 get drunk, and showed in tabular statements 
 that they did get drunk, and proved at tea 
 parties that no inducement, human or Divine 
 (except a medal,) would induce them to forego 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 91 
 
 tteir ciistom of getting drunk. Then, came 
 the chemist and druggist, with other tabular 
 statemeuts, showing that when they didn't 
 get drunk, they took opium. Then, came the 
 experienced chaplain of the jail, with more 
 tabular statements, confirming all the pre- 
 vious tabular statements, and showing that 
 the same people ivotild resort to low haunts, 
 hidden from the public eye, where they heard 
 low singing and saw low dancing, and mayhap 
 joined in it; and where A. B., aged twenty- 
 four next birth-day, and committed tor eighteen 
 months' solitary, had himself said (not that 
 he had ever shown himself particularly 
 worthy of belief) his ruin began, as he 
 was perfectly sure and confident that other- 
 wise he would have been a tip-top moral 
 specimen. Then, came Mr. Gradgrmd and 
 Mr. Bounderby, the two gentlemen at this 
 present moment walking through Coketown, 
 and both eminently practical, who could, 
 ou occasion, furnish more tabular state 
 ments derived from their own personal 
 experience, and illustrated by cases they had 
 known and seen, from which it clearly 
 appeared — in short it was the only clear 
 thing in the case — that these sime people 
 were a bad lot altogether, gentlemen; that 
 do what you would for them they were never 
 thankful lor it, gentlemen; that they were 
 restless, gentlemen ; that they never knew 
 what they wanted; that they lived upon the 
 best, and bought fresh butter, and insisted on 
 Mocha coffee, and rejected all but prime parts 
 of meat, and yet were eternally dissatisfied 
 and unmanageable. In short, it wasthe moral 
 of the old nursery fable : 
 
 There was an old woman, and what do you think ? 
 She lived upon nothin;^ but victuals and drink ; 
 Victuals and drink were the whole of her diet, 
 And yet this old woman would never be quiet. 
 
 Is it possible, I wonder, that there was 
 any analogy between the case of the Coketown 
 population and the case of the little Grad- 
 grinds? Surely, none of us in our sober 
 senses and acquainted with figures, are to be 
 told at this time of day that one of the 
 foremost elements in the existence of the Coke- 
 town working people had been for scores of 
 years delibrately set at naught? That there 
 was any Fancy in them demanding to be 
 brought into healthy existence instead of strug- 
 gling on in convulsions? That exactly in the 
 ratio as they worked long and monotonously, 
 the craving grew within them for some physi- 
 cal relief — some relaxation, encouraging good 
 humor and good spirits, and giving them a vent 
 — some holiday, though it were but for an 
 honest dance to a stirring band of music 
 — some occasional light pie in which even 
 M'Choakumchild had no finger — which craving 
 must and would be satisfied aright, or must and 
 would inevitably go wrong, until the laws of the 
 Creation were repealed? 
 
 "This man lives at Pod's End, and I don't 
 quite know Pod's End," said Mr. Gradgrind. 
 "Which is it, Bounderby?" 
 
 Mr. Bounderby know it was somewhere 
 down town, but knew no more respecting it. 
 So they stopped for a moment, looking about. 
 
 Almost as they did so, there came running 
 round the corner of the street, at a tpiick pacf, 
 and with a frightened look, a trir! whom Mr. 
 GradL-'rind recognised. "Halloa!" said he. 
 ''Stop! Where are you going? Stop!" Girl 
 number twenty stojjped then, palpitating, and 
 madi> him a curtsey. 
 
 "Why are vou tpaiu<r about the streets." 
 said Mr. Gradgrinil, " in this improper man- 
 ner?" 
 
 "I was — I was run after, sir," the girl pant- 
 ed, "and I wanted to get away." 
 
 "Run after?" repeated Mr. Gradgrind. — 
 "Who would run after //oi/.?" 
 
 The question was unexpectedly and sud- 
 denly answered for her, by the colorless boy, 
 Bitzer, who came round the corner with such 
 blind speed and so little anticipating a stop- 
 page on the pavement, that he brought himself 
 up against Mr. Gradgrind's waistcoat, and re- 
 bounded into the road. 
 
 "What do you mean, boy?" said Mr. Grad- 
 grind. "What are you doing? How dare 
 you dash against — everybody — in this man- 
 ner?" 
 
 Bitzer picked up his cap, which the con- 
 cussion had knocked oS", and backing, and 
 knuckling his forehead, pleaded that it was an 
 accident. 
 
 "Was this boy running after you, Jupe?" 
 asked Mr. Gradgrind. 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the girl reluctantly. 
 
 'No, I wasn't, sir!" cried Bitzer. "Not till 
 she run away from me. But the horse riders 
 never mind what they say, sir; they're famous 
 for it. You know the horse-riders ar? famous 
 for never minding what they say," addressing 
 Sissy. "It's as well known in the town as — 
 please, sir, as the multiplication table isn't 
 known to the horse-riders." Bitzer tried Mr. 
 Bounderby with this. 
 
 "He frightened me so," said the girl, "with 
 his cruel faces !" 
 
 "Oh!" cried Bitzer. "Oh I An't you one of 
 the rest? An't you a horse-rider? I never look- 
 ed at her, sir. I asked her if she would know 
 how to define a horse to-morrow, and offered 
 to tell her again, and she ran away, and I ran 
 after her, sir, that she might know how to 
 answer when she was asked. You wouldn't 
 have thought of saying such mischief if you 
 hadn't been a horse-rider!" 
 
 "Her calling seems to be pretty well known 
 among 'em," observed Mr. Bounderby. "You'd 
 have had the whole school peeping in a row, 
 in a week." 
 
 "Truly, I think so," returned his friend. 
 "Bitzer, turn you about and take yourself 
 home. Jupe, stay here a moment. Let me 
 hear of your running in this manner any more, 
 boy, and you will hear of mo through the mas- 
 ter of the school. You understand what 1 
 mean. Go along." 
 
 The boy stopped in his rapid blinking, 
 
V2 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 knuckled his forehead again, glanced at Sissy, 
 turned about, and retreated. 
 
 "Now, girl," said Mr. Gradgrind, "take this 
 gentleman and me to your father's; we are 
 going there. What have you got in that bot- 
 tle you are carrying?" 
 
 "Gin ?'' said Mr. Bounderby. 
 
 "Dear, no sir! It's the nine oils." 
 
 "The what?" cried Mr. Bounder'oy. 
 
 "The nine oils, sir. To rub iather with." 
 
 Then, said Mr. Bounderby, with a loud, short 
 laugh, '-what the devil do you rub your lather 
 •with nine oils for?" 
 
 "It's what our people always use, sir, when 
 they get auy hurts in the ring," replied the 
 girl, looking over her shoulder, to assure her- 
 self that her pursuer was gone. " They bruise 
 themselves very bad sometimes." 
 
 " Serve 'era right," said Mr. Bounderby, 
 " for being idle." She glanced up at his face 
 with mingled astonishment and dread. 
 
 " By George I" said Mr. Bounderby, *' when 
 T was four or five years younger than you, I 
 had worse bruises upon me than ten oils, 
 twenty oils, forty oils, would have rubbed off. 
 I didn't get 'em by posture making, but by 
 being banged about. There was no rope-dan- 
 cing for me ; I danced on the bare ground and 
 was larruped with the rope." 
 
 Mr. Gradgrind, though hard enough, was 
 by no means so rough a man as Mr. Boun- 
 derby. His character was not unkind, all 
 things considered ; it might have been a posl- 
 tivelykindoneindeed ifhe had only madea good 
 round mistake in the arithmetic that balanced 
 it, years ago. H^e said, in what he meant 
 for a re-assuring tone, as they t irned down a 
 narrow road, "And this is Pod's End; is it, 
 Jupe ?" 
 
 "This is it, sir, and — if you wouldn't mind, 
 sir — this is the house." 
 
 She stopped, at twilight, at the door of a 
 mean little public house, with dim red 
 lights in it. As haggard and as shabby, as if, 
 for want of custom, it had itself taken to drink- 
 ing, and had gone the way all drunkards go, 
 and was very near the end of it. 
 
 "It's only crossing the bar, sir, and up the 
 stairs, if you wouldn't mind, and waiting there 
 for a moment till I get a candle. If you should 
 hear a dog, sir, it's only Merrylegs, and he 
 only barks." 
 
 "Merrylegs and nine oils, eh!" said Mr. 
 Bounderby, entering last with his metallic 
 laugh. "Pretty well this, for a self made man!" 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The name o* the public hoube was the 
 
 Pegasus's Arms. 1 h ■. Pegasus's legs mighi 
 have been mjie to the purpose: but, under- 
 neath the wjif<e I hjrse upou the sign-board, 
 the Pegasus's Am s vas i scribed iu Roman 
 letters. Beneath iha' inscrip ion again, in a 
 flowing scioU^ ilie painter bad touched off the 
 lines: 
 
 Good malt makes good beer, 
 Walk in, ainl thej'il draw it here, 
 Good wine- makes good brandy, 
 Give us a call, and you'll find it handy. 
 
 Framed and glaz d upon the wall behind 
 the dinj/\ little bar, was anoiher Pepasus — a 
 theatrical one — with real gauze let in fur his 
 wings, golden stars stuck on all over him, and 
 his ethereal harness made of red silk. 
 
 As it had grown too dusky without, to see 
 the sign^ and as it had not grown light enough 
 vviihiu to see the picture, Mr. Gradgriud and 
 Mr. Bounderby received no offence f'rcjm these 
 idealities. They followed the girl up some 
 steep corner-stairs without meeting any one, 
 and stopped iu the dark while she went on 
 for a caudle. They expected every moment 
 to hear Merrylegs give tongue, but the highly- 
 trained performing dog had not barked when 
 the girl and the candle appeared together. 
 
 "Father is not in our room, sir," she said, 
 with a face of great surprise, "if you wouldn't 
 mind walking in, I'll find him directly." 
 
 They walked in; and Sissy, having set two 
 chairs for them, sped away with a quick light 
 step. It was a mean, shabbily furnished 
 room, ynth a bed in it. The white nightcap, 
 embQllished with two peacock's feathers and 
 a pigtail bolt upright, in which Signer Jupe 
 had that very afternoon eulivened the varied 
 performances with his chaste Shaksperian 
 quips and retorts, hung upon a nail; but no 
 other portion of his wardrobe, or other token 
 of himself or his pursuits, was to be seen any- 
 where. As to Merrylegs, that respectable 
 ancestor of the highly-trained animal, who 
 went aboard the ark, might have been acci- 
 dentally shut out of it, for any sign of a dog 
 that was manifest to eye or ear in the Pegasus'a 
 Arms. 
 
 They heard the doors of rooms above, 
 opening and shutting as Sissy went from one 
 to another in quest of her father; and presently 
 they heard voices expressing surprise. She 
 came bounding down again in a great hurry, 
 opened a battered and mangey old4iair-trunk, 
 found it empty, and looked round with her 
 hands clasped and her face full of terror. 
 
 "Father must have gone down to the Booth, 
 sir. I don't know why he should go there, 
 but he must be there ; I'll bring him in a 
 minute !"' She was gone directly, without her 
 bonnet; with h^r longr, dark, childish hair 
 strentnlu-^^ behind her. 
 
 "What does she mean!" said Mr. Grad- 
 grind. "Back in a minute ? It's more than a 
 mile off." 
 
 Before Mr. Bounderby could reply, a young 
 man appeared at the door, and introducing 
 himself with the words, "By your leaves, gen- 
 tlemen !'' walked in with his hands in his 
 pockets. His face, close-shaven, thin, and 
 sallow, was shaded by a great quantity of dark 
 hair brushed into a roll all round his head, 
 and parted up the centre. His legs were very 
 robust, but shorter than legs of good propor- 
 tions should have been. His chest and back 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 93 
 
 were as much too broad, as his legs were too 
 short. He was dressed in a Newmarket coat 
 and tight-titting trousers; wore a shawl round 
 his neck; smelt of lamp-oil, straw, orunge-peel, 
 horses' provender, and sawdust; and iocjked a 
 mo.st remarkable sort of Centaur, com]iounded 
 of the stable and the playdiouse. Wliere the 
 one began, and the other ended, nobody could 
 have told witii any precision. This gentleman 
 was mentioned in the bills of the day as Mr. E. 
 \V. B. Childers, so justly celebrated for his 
 daring vatiltiug act as the Wild Huntsman of 
 the North American Prairies; in which popular 
 performance, a diminutive boy witli an old 
 face, who now accompanied him, assisted as 
 his infant son : being carried upside down 
 over his father's shoulder, by one foot, and 
 held by the crown of his head, heels upwards, 
 iu the palm of his father's hand, according 
 to the violent paternal manner in which 
 wild huntsmen may be observed to lun- 
 dle their offspring. Made up with curls, 
 wreaths, wings, white bismuth, and carmine, 
 this hopeful young person soared into so 
 pleasing a Cupid as to constitute the chief 
 delight of the maternal part of the spectators; 
 but, in private, where his characteristics were 
 a precocious cutaway coat and an extremely 
 grutf voice, he became of the Turf, turfy. 
 
 "By your leaves, gentlemen," said Mr. E. 
 W. B. Childers, glancing round the room. "It 
 was you, 1 believe, that were wishing to see 
 J upe ?" 
 
 "It was," said Mr. Gradgrind. "His daughter 
 has gone to fetch him, but J can't wait ; there- 
 fore, if you please, 1 will leave a message for 
 him with you." 
 
 "You see, my friend," Mr. Bounderby put 
 iu, "we are the kind of people who know the 
 value of time, and you are the kind of people 
 who don't know the value of time." 
 
 "I have not," retorted Mr. Childers, after 
 surveying him from head to foot, "the honor 
 of knowing you; — but if you mean that you 
 can make more money of your time than T can 
 of mine, 1 should judge from your appearance, 
 that you are about right." 
 
 "And when you have made it, you can keep 
 it too, I should think," said Cupid. 
 
 "Kidderminster, stow that !" said Mr. 
 Chililers. (Master Kidderminster was Cupid's 
 mortal name.) 
 
 "Whai does he come here cheeking us for, 
 then ?" cried Master Kidderminster, showing 
 a very irascible temperament. "If you want 
 to cheek us, pay your ochre at the doors and 
 take it out." 
 
 "Kidderminster," said Mr. Childers, raising 
 his voice, "stow that I — Sir," to Mr. Gradgrind, 
 "1 was addressing myself to you. You may 
 or you may not be aware (for perhaps you 
 have not been much in the audience), that 
 J upe has missed his tip very often, lately." 
 
 " Has — what has he missed ?" asked Mr. 
 Gradgrind, glancing at the potent- Bounderby 
 for assistance. 
 
 " Missed his tip." 
 
 "Offered at the Garters four times last 
 night, and never done 'em once," said Master 
 Kidderminster. "Missed his tip at the banners, 
 too, arul was loose in his ponging." 
 
 " I'idn't do what he ought to do. Was 
 shnrt in his leaps and bad in his tumbling," 
 Mr. Childers interpreted. 
 
 "Oh!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is tip, is 
 
 \vr 
 
 " In a general way that's missing his tip," 
 Mr. E. W. li. Childers answered. 
 
 " Nine-oils, Merrylegs, missing tips, garters, 
 banners, and Ponging, eh!" ejaculated 
 B(nuiderby with his laugh of laughs. "Queer 
 sort of company too, for a man who has raised 
 himself." 
 
 " Lower yourself, then," retorted Cupid. 
 " Oh Lord ! If you've raised youTself so high 
 as all that comes to, let yourself down a bit." 
 
 "This is a very obtrusive lad!" said Mr. 
 Gradgrind, turning, and knitting his brows on 
 him. 
 
 " We'd have had a young gentleman to 
 meet you, if we had known you were coming," 
 retorted Master Kiuderminster, nothing 
 abashed. " It's a pity you don't have a be- 
 speak, being so particular. You're on tlie 
 Tight- Jeff, ain't you ?'' 
 
 " What does this unmannerly boy mean," 
 asked Mr. Gradgi'ind, eyeing him iuasort of 
 desperation, "by 'light- Jeff?" 
 
 " There I Get out, get out !" said Mr. 
 Childers, thrusting his young friend Ir.mi the 
 room, rather in the prairie manner. "Tight- 
 Jeff or Slack-Jeff, it don't much signify; it's 
 ordy tight rope and slack-rope. You wer<5 
 going to give me a message for Jupe ?" 
 
 " Yes, 1 was." 
 
 "Ttion," continued Mr. Childers, quicklv, 
 "my opinion is, he will never receive it. L>o 
 you know much of him?" 
 
 "I never saw the man in my life." 
 
 " 1 doubt if you ever xvill see him now. It's 
 pretty plain to me, he is off." 
 
 " Uo you mean that he has deserted his 
 daughter ?" 
 
 " Ay I I mean," said Mr. Childers, with a 
 nod, " that he has cut. He was goosed last 
 night, he was goosed the night before last, he 
 was goosed to-day. He has lately got in the 
 way of being always goosed, and he can't 
 stand it." 
 
 " Why has he been — so very much — Goosed?" 
 asked Mr. Gradgrind, forcing the word out of 
 himself, with great solemnity and reluctance 
 
 " His joints are turning stiff, and lie is 
 getting used up," said Childers. "That's about 
 the size of it. He has his points as a Cacklcr 
 still, but he can't get a living out of them." 
 
 "A Cackler ?" Bounderby repeated. "Here 
 we go again 1" 
 
 "A speaker, if the gentleman likes it better," 
 said Mr. E. W. B. Childers, superciliously 
 throwing the interpretation over his shoulder, 
 and accompanying it with a shake of his long 
 hair — which all shook at once. "Now, it's a 
 remarkable fact, sir, that it cut that mau deep 
 
94 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 er, to know that his dauirhter knew of his 
 beinjf goosed, than to jro throuj^di wiih it.'" 
 
 "(iood!" interrupted Mr. Bounderhy. "This 
 is good, Grad^'rind! A man so fund of ins 
 daughter, that he runs away from her! Tliis 
 is devilish goodl Ha! lia ! Now, I'll tell you 
 what, young man. I haven't always occupied 
 my present station of life. I kuoA- what the.'^e 
 things are You may be astonished to hear 
 it, but my mother ran a ay from i/(e." 
 
 E. W. B. Childers replied pointedly, that he 
 was not at all astonished to hear it. 
 
 " Very well," said Bounderby. " I was 
 born in a ditch, and my mother ran away 
 from me. Do I excuse her for it? No. Have 
 I ever excused her for it? Not I. What do 
 I call her for it? I call her probably the very 
 worst woman that ever lived in the world, 
 except my drunken grandmother. There's 
 no family pride about me, there's uo imagina- 
 tive sentimental humbug about me. I call a 
 spade a spade; and I call the mother of Josiah 
 Bounderby of Coketown, without any fear or 
 any favor, what I should call her if she had 
 been the mother of Dick Jones of VVapping. 
 So, with this man. He is a runaway rogue 
 and a vagabond, that's what he is, in English." 
 
 " It's all the same to me what he is or 
 what he is not, whether in English or 
 whether in French," retorted Mr. E. W. 
 B. Childers, facin/ about. " I am telling 
 your friend what's the fact ; if you don't 
 like to hear it, you can avail yourself of 
 the open air. You give it mouth enough, 
 you do ; but give it mouth in your own 
 building at least," remonstrated E. W. B. 
 willi stern irony. "Don't give it mouth 
 in this building, till you're called upon. 
 You have got some building of your own, 
 1 dare say, now?'' 
 
 " Perhaps so," replied Mr. Bounderby, 
 r.ittling his money and laughing. 
 
 " Then give it mouth in your own building, 
 will you; if you please ?" said Childers. 
 " Because this isn't a strong building, and 
 too much of you might bring it down I" 
 
 Eyeing Mr. Bounderby from head to foot 
 airain, he turned from him, as from a man 
 finally disposed of, to Mr. Gradgrind. 
 
 " Jupe sent his daughter out on an errand 
 not an hour ago, and then was seen to slip 
 out himself, with his hat over his eyes and a 
 bundle tied up in a handkerchief under his arm. 
 She will never believe it of him; buc he has cut 
 away and left her." 
 
 "Pfay," said Mr. Gradgrind, "why will she 
 never believe it of him?" 
 
 "Becaiise those two were one. Because they 
 were uever asunder. Because, up to this time, 
 he seemed to dote upon her," said Childers, 
 taking a step or two to look into the empty 
 trunk. Both Mr. Childers and Master Kidder- 
 minster walked in a curious manner; with their 
 legs wider apart than the general run of men, 
 and with a very knowing assumption of being 
 BtifFin the knees. This walk was common to 
 fill the male members of bleary's company, and 
 
 was understood to pxpress, that they were al- 
 ways on horseback. 
 
 '•l*oor Sissy! He had better have apprenticed 
 her," said Childers, giving his hair another 
 shake, as he looked up from the empty hox. 
 "Now, he leaves her without anything to take 
 to." 
 
 "It is creditable to you who have never been 
 apprenticed, to express that opinion," returned 
 Mr. Gradgrind, appruvingly. 
 
 "/ never apprenticed ? I was apprenticed 
 when I was seven year old. Did the canvass, 
 mure or less, every day of my life, till I was 
 out of my time," said Childers. Seeing Mr. 
 Gradgrind at a loss, he explained very clearly 
 by circular muiion of his hand, and by the 
 rapid interjections, "Hi! hi! hi!" uttered as 
 stimulants to a suppositious horse, that doing 
 the canvass was synonymous with riding round 
 the ring. 
 
 *'Uh i You mean that?' said Mr. Gradgrind, 
 rather resentfully, as having been defrauded 
 of his good opinion. "I was not aware of its 
 being the custom to apprentice young persons 
 to " 
 
 " Idleness," Mr. Bounderby put in with a 
 loud laugh. "No, by the Lord Harry 1 Nor I i" 
 
 " Her father always had it in his head, " 
 resumed Childers, feignnig unconsciousness 
 of Mr. Bounderby's existence, "that she was 
 to be taught the deuce-and-all of education. 
 How it got into his head, I can't say ; 1 can 
 only say that it never got out. He has been 
 picking up a bit of reading for her, here — and 
 a bit of writing for her, there — and a bit of 
 cyphering for her, somewhere else — these 
 seven years. If she had been apprenticed, she 
 would have been doing the garlands in an in- 
 dependent way by this time." 
 
 Mr. E. W. Childers took one of his hands 
 out of his pockets, stroked his face and chin, 
 and looked, with a good deal of doubt and a 
 little hope, at Mr. Gradgrind. From the first 
 he had sought to conciliate that gentleman, 
 for the sake of the deserted girl. 
 
 "When Sissy got into the school here," he 
 pur^ued, "her father was as pleased as Punch. 
 I couldn't altogether make out why, myself, 
 as we were not stationary here, being but 
 comers and goers anywhere. I suppose, how- 
 ever, he had this move in his mind — he was 
 always half cracked — and then considered her 
 provided for. If you should happen to have 
 looked in to-night, for the purpose of telling 
 him that you were going to do her any little 
 service," said Mr. Childers, stroking his face 
 again and repeating his look, "it would be 
 very fortunate and well timed; vert/ fortunate 
 and well-timed." 
 
 "On the contrary," returned Mr. Gradgrind, 
 "I came to teil him that her connexions made 
 her not an object for the school, and that she 
 must not attend any more. Still, if her father 
 really h s left her, without any connivance on 
 her part — Bounderby, let me have a word with 
 you." 
 
 Upon this. Mr. Childers politely betook him- 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 95 
 
 self, with his equestrian walk, to the landing 
 outside the door, and there stood stroking his 
 face and softly whistling. While thus enga- 
 ged, he overheard such phrases in Mr. Bound- 
 erby's voice, as "No. I say no. I advise you 
 not. I say by no means." While, from Mr. 
 Gradgrind, he heard in his much lower tone 
 the words, "But even as an example to Louisa, 
 of what this pursuit which has been the sub- 
 ject of a vulgar curiosity, leads to and ends in. 
 Thiak of it, Bounderby, in that point of view." 
 
 Meanwhile, the various members of Sleary's 
 company gradually gathered togrether from 
 the upper regions, where they were quartered, 
 and, trom standing about, talking in low 
 voices to one another and to Mr. Childers, 
 gradually insinuated themselves and him into 
 the room. There were two or three handsome 
 young women among them, with their two or 
 three husbands, and their two or three 
 mothers, and their eight or nine little chil- 
 dren, who did the fairy business when requir- 
 ed. The father of one of the families was in 
 the habit of balancing the father of another of 
 the families on the top of a great pole; the fa- 
 ther of a third family often made a pyramid 
 of both those fathers, with Master Kidder- 
 minster for the apex, and himself for the 
 base; all the fathers could dance upon roll- 
 ing casks, stand upon bottles, catch knives and 
 balls, twirl hand-basins, ride upon anything, 
 jump over everything, and stick at nothing. 
 All the mothers could (and did) dance, upon 
 the slack wire and the tight rope, and perform 
 rapid acts on bare-backed steeds; none of them 
 were at all particular in respect of showing 
 their legs ; and one of them, alone in a Greek 
 chariot, drove six in hand into every town 
 they came to. They all assumed to be mighty 
 rakish and knowing, they were not very tidy 
 in their private dresses, they were not at all 
 orderly in their domestic arrangements, and 
 the combined literature of the whole company 
 would have produced but a poor letter on any 
 subject. Yet there was a remarkable gentle- 
 ness and childishness about these people, a 
 special inaptitude for any kind of sharp 
 practice, and an untiring readiness to help 
 and pity one another, deserving, often of as 
 much respect, and always of as much generous 
 construction, as the every-day virtues of any 
 class of people in the world. 
 
 Last of all appeared Mr. Sleary ; a stout 
 man as already mentioned, with one fixed eye 
 and one loose eye, a voice (if it can be called 
 so) like the efforts of a broken old pair of 
 bellows, a flabby surface, and a muddled head 
 which was never sober and never drunk. 
 
 "Thquirel" said Mr. Sleary, who was trou- 
 bled with asthma, and whose breath came far 
 too thick and heavy for the letter s, "Your 
 thervant! Thilh ith a bad piethe of bithnith, 
 thith ith. You've heard of my Clown and 
 hith dog being thuppolhed to have morrithed?'' 
 
 He addressed Mr. Gradgrind, who answered 
 "Yes.-' 
 
 "Well Thquire," he returned, taking oflF his 
 
 hat, and rubbing the lining with his pocket- 
 handkerchief, which he kept inside it for the 
 purpose. "Ith it your iutentioulh to do any- 
 thing for the poor girl, Thquire?" 
 
 "I shall have something to propose to her 
 when she comes back," said Mr. Gradgrind. 
 
 "Glad to hear it, Thquire. Not that I want 
 to get rid of the child, any more than I want to 
 thtand in her way. I'm willing to take her 
 prentith, though at her age iih late. My 
 voithe ith a little hulhky, Thquire, and not eat by 
 heard by them ath don't know me; but if 
 you'd been chilled and heated, heated and 
 chilled, chilled and heated, in the ring when 
 you wath young, ath often ath I have been, 
 your voithe would'nt have lathled out, Thquire, 
 no more than mine." 
 
 "1 dare say not," said Mr. Gradgrind. 
 
 "What thall it be, Thquire, while you wait? 
 Thall it be Therry? Give it a name, Thquire!'' 
 said Mr. Sleary, with hospitable ease. 
 
 "Nothing for me, I thank you," said Mr. 
 Gradgrind. 
 
 "Don't thay nothing, Thquire. What doth 
 your friend thay? If you haven't took your 
 feed yet, have a glath of bitterth." 
 
 Here his daughter Josephine — a prrtty 
 fair-haired girl of eighteen, who had been 
 tied on a horse at two years old, and had 
 made a will at twelve, which she always 
 carried about with her, expressive of her 
 dying desire to be drawn to the srrave by the 
 two piebald ponies — cried " Faiht-r, hush I 
 she has come back 1" Then came Sissy Jupe, 
 running into the room as she had run uui of 
 it. And when she saw them all assembled, 
 and saw their looks, and saw no father there, 
 she broke into a most deplorable cry, and took 
 refuge on the bosom of the most accomplished 
 tight-rope lady (herself in the family way,) 
 who knelt down on the floor to nurse her, and 
 to weep over her. 
 
 "Ith an infernal thame, upon my thoul it 
 ith," said Sleary. 
 
 " my dear father, my good kind father, 
 where are you gone? You are gone to fc-y 
 to do me some good, I know 1 You are go«e 
 away for my sake, I am sure. And how 
 miserable and helpless you will be without 
 me, poor, poor father, until you come back !'' 
 It was so pathetic to hear her saying many 
 things of this kind, with her face turned 
 upward, and her arms stretched out as if she 
 were trying to stop his departing shadow and 
 embrace it, that no one spoke a word until 
 Mr. Bounderby (growing impatient) took the 
 case in hand. 
 
 "Now, good people all," said he, "this is 
 wanton waste of time. Let the girl understand 
 the fact. Let her take it from me, if you like, 
 who have been run away from, myself. Here, 
 what 's your name 1 Your father has abscond 
 ed — deserted you — and you must n't expect ta 
 see hiin again as long as you live." 
 
 They cared so little for })hiin Fuct, these 
 people, and were in that advanced state of 
 degeneracy on the subject, that instead of be 
 
96 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 ing impressed by the speaker's strong common 
 sense, they took it in extraordinary dudgeon. 
 The men muttered "Shame !" and the women 
 *' Brute 1 " and Sleary, in some haste, commu- 
 nicated the following hint, apart to Mr. Boun- 
 derby. 
 
 "I tell you what, Thquire. To thpeak plain 
 to you, my opinion ith that you had better 
 cut it thort, and drop it. They're a very good 
 natiir'd people, my people, but they're accuth- 
 tomed to be quick in their movementh ; and 
 if you don't act upon my advithe, I'm damned 
 if I don't believe they'll pith you out o' the 
 winder." 
 
 Mr. Bounderby being restrained by this mild 
 suggestion, Mr. Gradgrind found an opening 
 for his eminently practical exposition of the 
 subject. 
 
 "It is of no moment," said he, "whether this 
 person is to be expected back at any time, or 
 the contrary. He is gone away, and there is no 
 
 f)resent expectation of his return. That, I be- 
 leve, is agreed on all hands." 
 
 "Thath agreed, Thquire. Thtick to that I" 
 From Sleary. 
 
 "Well then. I, who came here to inform 
 the father of the poor girl, Jupe, that she 
 could not be received at the school any more, 
 in consequence of there being practical objec- 
 tions, into which I need not enter, to the re- 
 ception there of the children of persons so em- 
 ployed, am prepared in these altered circum- 
 stances to make a proposal. I am willing to 
 take charge of you, Jupe, and to educate you, 
 and provide for you. The only condition 
 (over and above your good behavior) I make 
 IS, that you decide now, at once, whether to 
 accompany me or remain here. Also, that if 
 you accompany me now, it is understood that 
 you communicate no more with any of your 
 friends, who are here present. These obser- 
 vations comprise the whole of the case." 
 
 "At the thame time," said Sleary, "I mutht 
 put in my word, Thquire, tho that both thides 
 of the banner may be equally theen. If you 
 like, Thethilia, to be preutitht, you know the 
 natur of the work, and you know your com- 
 panionth. Emma Gordon, in whothe lap 
 you're a lyin' at prethent, would be a mother 
 to you, and Joth'phine would be a thithter to 
 you. I don't pretend to be of the angel breed 
 mythelf, and I don't thay but what, when you 
 mith'd your tip, you'd find me cut up rough, 
 and thwear an oath or two at you. but what 
 I thay, Thquire, ith, that good tempered or 
 bad tempered, 1 never did a horihe a injury 
 yet, no more than thwearing at him went, and 
 that I don't expect I thall begin otherwithe at 
 my time of litis, with a rider. I never wath 
 muth of a Cackler, Thquire, and I have thed 
 my thay." 
 
 The latter part of this speech was addressed 
 to Mr. Gradgrind, who received it with a grave 
 inclination ot) his head, and thtn remarked: 
 
 'The only observation I will make to you, 
 Jupe, in the way of influencing your decision, 
 ia, that it is highly desirable to have a sound. 
 
 practical education, and that even your father 
 himself (from what I understand) appears, on 
 your behalf, to have known and felt that 
 much." 
 
 The last words had a visible effect upon her. 
 She stopped in her wild crying, a little de- 
 tached herself from Emma Gordon, and turned 
 her face full upon her patron. The whole 
 company perceived the force of the chance, 
 and drew a long breath together, that plainly 
 said, "she will go !" 
 
 "Be sure you know your own mind, Jupe," 
 Mr. Gradgrind cautioned her ; "I say no more. 
 Be sure you know your own mind !" 
 
 "When father comes back," cried the girl, 
 bursting into tears again after a minute's 
 silence, "how will he ever find me if I go 
 away !" 
 
 "You may be quite at ease," said Mr. Grad- 
 grind, calmly ; he worked out the whole mat- 
 ter like a sum ; "you may be quite at ease, 
 Jupe, on that score. In such a case, your 
 father, I apprehend, must find out Mr. " 
 
 "Thleary. Thath my name, Thquire. Not 
 athamed of it. Known all over England, and 
 alwayth paythe ith way." 
 
 "Must find out Mr. Sleary, who would then 
 let him know where you went. I should have 
 no power of keeping you against his wish, and 
 he would have no dithculty, at any time, in 
 finding Mr. Thomas Gradgrind of Coketown. 
 I am well known." 
 
 "Well known," assented Mr. Sleary, rolling 
 his loose eye. "You're one of the thort, 
 Thquire, that keepth a prethious thight of 
 money out of the houthe. But never mind 
 that at prethent." 
 
 There was another silence; and then she 
 exclaimed, sobbing with her hands before her 
 face, "Oh give me my clothes, give me my 
 clothes, and let me go away before I break 
 my hearti" 
 
 The women sadly bestirred themselves to 
 get the clothes together — it was toon done, 
 for they were not many — and to pack them 
 in a basket which had often travelled with 
 them. Sissy sat all the time, upon the ground, 
 still sobbing and covering her eyes. Mr. 
 Gradgrind and his friend Bounderby stood 
 near the door, ready to take her away. Mr. 
 Sleary stood in the middle of the room, with 
 the male members of the company about him, 
 exactly as he would have stood in the centre 
 of the ring dnring his daughter Josephine's per- 
 formance. He wanted nothing but his whip. 
 
 The basket packed in silence, they brought 
 her bonnet to her, and smoothed her disordered 
 hair, and put it on. Then they pressed about 
 her, and bent over her in very natural atti- 
 tudes, kissing and embracing her; and brought 
 the children to take leave of her; and were a 
 tender-hearted, simple, foolish set of women 
 alt )gether. 
 
 "Xow, Jupe," said Mrs. Gradgrind, "if you 
 are quite determined, come !' 
 
 But .she had to take her farewell of the male 
 part of the company yet, and every one of them 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 97 
 
 had to unfold his arms (for they all assumed 
 the professional attitude when they found them- 
 selves near Sleary), and give her a parting 
 kiss — Master Kidderminster excepted, in whose 
 young nature there was an original flavor of 
 the misanthrope, who was also known to have 
 harbored matrimonial views, and who moodily 
 withdrew. Mr. Sleary was reserved until the 
 last. Opening his arms wide, he took her by 
 both hands, and would have sprung her up 
 and down, after the riding-master manner of 
 congratulating young ladies on their dismount- 
 ing from a rapid act; but there was no rebound 
 iu Sissy, and she only stood before him cry- 
 ing. 
 
 " Good bye, my dear 1" said Sleary. "You'll 
 make your fortune, I hope, and none of our 
 poor folkth will ever trouble you, I'll pound it. 
 I with your father hadn't taken hith dog 
 with him ; ith a ill-conwenienth to have the 
 dog out of the billth. But on thecond 
 thoughth, he wouldn't have performed without 
 hith mathter, tho ith ath broad ath ith long!" 
 
 With that, he regarded her attentively with 
 his fixed eye, surveyed the company with the 
 loose one, kissed her, shook his head, and 
 handed her to Mr. Gradgrind as to a horse. 
 
 "There the ith, Thquire," lie said, sweeping 
 her with a professional glance as if she were 
 being adjusted in her seat, "and the'll do you 
 juthtithe. Good bye, Thethilia!" 
 
 "Good bye Cecilia!" "Good bye Sissy!" 
 "God bless you, dear!" In a variety of voices 
 from all the room. 
 
 But the riding-master's eye had observed the 
 bottle of the nine oils in her bosom, and 
 he now interposed with "Leave the bottle, my 
 dear; ith large to carry; it will be of no uthe 
 to you now. Give it to me!" 
 
 "No, no!" she said, in another burst of 
 tears. "Oh no 1 Pray let me keep it for 
 father till he comes back! He will want it, 
 when he comes back. He had never thought 
 of going away, when he sent me for it. I 
 must keep it for him, if you please!" 
 
 "Tho be it, my dear. (You thee how it 
 ith, Thquire!) Farewell, Thethilia! My latht 
 wordth to you ith thith, Thtick to the termth 
 of your engagement, be obedient to the 
 Thquire, and forget nth. But if, when you're 
 grown up and married and well off, you 
 come upon any horthe-riding ever, don't be 
 hard upon it, don't be croth with it, give it 
 a Bethpeak if you can, and think you might 
 do wurth. People mutht be amused, Thquire, 
 thomehow, continued Sleary, rendered niore 
 pursy than ever, by so much talking ; " they 
 can't be alwayth a working, nor yet they can't 
 be alwayth a learning. Make the betbt of uth : 
 not the wurtht. I've got my living out of the 
 horthe-riding all my life, I know ; but I con- 
 thider that I lay down the philothophy of the 
 thubject when Ithay to you, Thquire, make the 
 betht of uth : not the wurtht !" 
 
 The Sleary philosophy was propounded as 
 they went down stairs; and the fixed eye of 
 Philosophy — and its rolling eye, too — soon 
 7 
 
 lost the three figures and tho basket in tha 
 darkness of the street. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Mr. Bounderby being a bachelor, an elderly 
 lady presided over his establishment, in con- 
 sideration of a certain annual- stipend. Mrs. 
 Sparsit was this lady's name; and she was a 
 prominent figure in attendance on Mr. Boun- 
 derby's car, as it rolled along iu triumph with 
 the Bully of humility inside. 
 
 For, Mrs. Sparsit had not only seen different 
 davs, but was highly connected. She had a 
 great aunt living in these very times called 
 Lady Scadgers. Mr. Sparsit, deceased, of whom 
 she was the relict, had been by the mother's 
 side what Mrs. Sparsit still called "a Powler." 
 Strangers of limited information and dull ap- 
 prehension were sometimes observed not to 
 know what a Powler was, and even to appear 
 uncertain whether it might be a business, or 
 a political party, or a profession of I'aith. The 
 better class of minds, however, did not need 
 to be informed that the Powlers were an 
 ancient stock, who could trace themselves so 
 exceedingly far back that it was not surpris- 
 ing if they sometimes lost themselves — which 
 they had rather frequently done, as respected 
 horse-tlesh, blind-hookey, Hebrew monetary 
 transactions, and the Insolvent Debtors Court 
 The late Mr. Sparsit, being by the mother's 
 side a Powler, married this lady, being by the 
 father's side a Scadgers. Lady Scadgers (an 
 immensely fat old woman, with an inordinate 
 appetite for butcher's meat, and a mysterious 
 leg, which had now refused to get out of bed for 
 fourteen years) contrived the marriage, at a - 
 period when Sparsit was just of age, and 
 chiefly noticeable for a slender body, weakly 
 supported on two long slim props, and sur- 
 mounted by no head worth mentioning. He 
 inherited a fair fortune from his uncle, but 
 owed it all before he came into it, and spent 
 it twice over immediately afterwards. Thus, 
 when he died, at twenty-four (the scene of 
 his decease Calais, and the cause brandy), he 
 did not leave his widow, lium whom he had 
 been separated soon after the honeymoon, in 
 affluent circumstances. That bereaved lady, 
 fifteen years older than he, fell presently at 
 deadly feud with her only relative, Lady 
 Scadgers ; and, partly to spite her ladyship, 
 and, partly to nuiintain herself, went out at a 
 salary. And here she was now in her elderly 
 days, with the Coriolanian style of nose and 
 the dense black eyebrows which had captivated 
 Sparsit, making Mr. BounJerby's tea as he 
 took his breakfast. 
 
 If Bounderby had been a Conqueror, and 
 Mrs. Sparsit a captive Princess whom he 
 took about as a feature in his state-proces- 
 sions, he could not have made a greater flour- 
 ish with her than he hal)itually did. Just as 
 it belonged to his boastfulness to dejireeiate 
 his own extraction, so it belonged to it to exalt 
 Mrs. Sparsit's. In the measure that he would 
 
98 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 not allow his own youth to have been attend- 
 ed by a single favorable circumstance, he 
 brightened Mrs. Sparsit's juvenile career with 
 every possible advantage, and showered wagon 
 loads of early roses all over that lady's path. 
 "And yet, sir," he would say, "how does it turn 
 out after all? Why here she is at a hundred a 
 year (I give her a hundred, which she is pleas- 
 ed to term handsome), keeping the house of 
 Josiah Bounderby of Coketown!" 
 
 Nay, he made this foil of his so very widely 
 known, that third parties took it up, and 
 handled it on some occasions with considerable 
 briskness. It was one of the most exaspera- 
 ting attributes of Bounderby, that he not only 
 sang his own praises, but stimulated other 
 men to sing them. There was a moral infec- 
 tion of claptrap in him. Strangers, modest 
 enough elsewhere, started up at dinners in 
 Coketown, and boasted, in quite a rampant 
 way, of Bounderby. They made him out to 
 be the Royal arms, the Union Jack, Magna 
 Charta, John Bull, Habeas Corpus, the Bill of 
 Rights, An Englishman's house is his castle, 
 Church and State, and God save the Queen, 
 all put together. And as often (and it was 
 very often) as an orator of this kind brought 
 into his peroration, 
 
 " Princes and Lords may flourish or may fade, 
 A breath can make them, as a breath has made:" 
 
 — it was, for certain, more or less understood 
 among the company that he had heard of 
 Mrs. Sparsit. 
 
 "Mr. Bounderby," said Mrs. Sparsit, "you 
 are unusually slow, sir, with your breakfast 
 this morning." 
 
 "Why, ma'am," he returned, "I am thinking 
 about Tom Gradgrind's whim ;" Tom Grad- 
 grind, for a bluff independent maunerof speak- 
 ing — as if somebody were always endeavoring 
 to bribe him with immense sums to say Thomas, 
 and he wouldn't; "Tom Gradgrind's whim, 
 ma'am, of bringing up the tumbling-girl." 
 
 "The girl is now waiting to know," said Mrs. 
 Sparsit, "whether she is to go straight to the 
 school, or up to the Lodge." 
 
 "She must wait, ma'am," answered Boun- 
 derby, "till I know myself. We shall have 
 Tom Gradgrind down here presently, I sup- 
 pose. If he should wish her to remain here 
 a day or two longer, of course she can, 
 ma'am." 
 
 "Of course she can if you wish it, Mr. 
 Bounderby." 
 
 ' ' I told him I would give her a shake-down 
 here, last night, in order that he might sleep 
 on it before he decided to let her have any as- 
 sociation with Louisa." 
 
 " Indeed, Mr. Bounderby ? Very thoughtful 
 of you f 
 
 Mrs. Sparsit's Coriolanian nose underwent a 
 slight expansion of the nostrils, and her black 
 eyebrows contracted as she took a sip of tea. 
 
 " It's tolerably clear to me" said Bounder- 
 by, " that the little puss can get small good out 
 of such companionship." 
 
 "Are you speaking of young Miss Gradgrind, 
 Mr. Bounderby?" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am, I am speaking of Louisa." 
 
 "Your observation being limited to 'little 
 puss,' " said Mrs. Sparsit, "and there being two 
 little girls in question, I did not know which 
 might be indicated by that expression." 
 
 "Louisa," repeated Mr. Bounderby. "Louisa, 
 Louisa." 
 
 "You are quite another father to Louisa, 
 sir." Mrs. Sparsit took a little more tea; and, 
 as she bent her again contracted eyebrows 
 over her steaming cup, rather looked as if her 
 classical countenance were invoking the infer- 
 nal gods. 
 
 "If you had said I was another father to 
 Tom — young Tom, I mean, not my friend, 
 Tom Gradgrind — you might have been nearer 
 the mark. I am going to take young Tom 
 into my office. Going to have him under my 
 wing, ma'am." 
 
 "Indeed ? Rather young for that, is he not, 
 sir?" Mrs. Sparsit's "sir," in addressing Mr. 
 Bounderby, was a word of ceremony, rather 
 exacting consideration for herself in the use, 
 than honoring him. 
 
 "I'm not going to take him at once; he is 
 to finish his educational cramming before 
 then," said Bounderby. "By the Lord Har- 
 ry, he'll have enough of it, first and last ! 
 He'd open his eyes, that boy would, if he 
 knew how empty of learning my young maw 
 was, at his time of life." Which, by the by, 
 he probably did know, for he had heard of it 
 often enough. "But it's extraordinary the 
 difficulty I have on scores of such subjects, in 
 speaking to any one on equal terms. Here, 
 for example, I have been speaking to you this 
 morning about Tumblers. Why, what do you 
 know about tumblers? At the time when, to 
 have been a tumbler in the mud of the streets, 
 would have been a godsend to me, a prize 
 in the lottery to me, you were at the Italian 
 Opera. You were coming out of the Italian 
 Opera, ma'am, in white satin and jewels, a 
 blaze of splendor, when I hadn't a penny to 
 buy a link to light you." 
 
 "I certainly, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with 
 a dignity serenely mournful, "was familiar with 
 the Italian Opera at a very early age." 
 
 "Egad, ma"am, so was I," said Bounderby, 
 " — with the wrong side of it. A hard bed the 
 pavement of its Arcade used to make, I as- 
 sure you. People like you, ma'am, accus- 
 tomed from infancy to lie on Down feathers, 
 have no idea how hard a paving-stone is, 
 without trying it. No, no, it's of no use my 
 talking to you about tumblers. I should speak 
 of foreign dancers, and the West End of Lon- 
 don, and May Fair, and lords and ladies and 
 honorables." 
 
 "I trust, sir," rejoined Mrs. Sparsit, with 
 decent resignation, "it is not necessary that 
 you should do anything of that kind. I hope 
 I have learnt how to accommodate myself to 
 the changes of life. If I have acquired an in- 
 terest in hearing of your instructive experi- 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 99 
 
 ences, and can scarcely hear enough of them, 
 I claim no merit for that, since I believe it is 
 a general sentiment." 
 
 "Well, ma'aiii," said her patron, perhaps 
 some people may be pleased to say that they 
 do like to hear, in his own unpolished way, 
 what Josiah Bounderby of Coketown has gone 
 through. But you must confess that you 
 were born in the lap of luxury, yourself. Come, 
 ma'am, you know you were born in the lap of 
 luxury." 
 
 "I do not, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit with 
 a shake of her head, "deny it." 
 
 Mr. Bounderby was obliged to get up from 
 table, and stand with his back to the fire, 
 looking at her; she was such an enhancement 
 of his merits. 
 
 "And you were in crack society. Devilish 
 high society," he said, warming his legs. 
 
 " It is true, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with 
 an affectation of humility the very opposite 
 of his, and therefore in no danger of jostling 
 it. 
 
 " You were in the tiptop fashion, and all the 
 rest of it," said Mr. Bounderby. 
 
 " Yes, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a 
 kind of social widowhood upon her. " It is 
 unquestionably true." 
 
 Mr. Bounderby, bending himself at the 
 knees, literally embraced his legs in his great 
 satisfactiou, and laughed aloud. Mr. and Miss 
 Gradgrind being then announced, he received 
 the former with a shake of the hand, and the 
 latter with a kiss. 
 
 "Can Jupe be sent here, Bounderby?" asked 
 Mr. Gradgrind. 
 
 Certainly. So Jupe was sent there. On 
 coming in, she curtseyed to Mr. Bounderby, 
 and to his friend Tom Gradgrind, and also to 
 Louisa; but in her confusion unluckily omitted 
 Mrs. Sparsit. Observing this, the blustrous 
 Bounderby had the Ibllowing remarks to 
 make : 
 
 "Now, I tell you what, my girl. The name 
 of that lady by the teapot, is Mrs. Sparsit. 
 That lady acts as mistress of this house, 
 and she is a highly connected lady. Conse- 
 quently, if ever you come again into any room 
 in this house, you will make a short stay in it 
 if you don't behave towards that lady in your 
 most respectful manner. Wow, I don't care 
 a button what you do to me, because I don't 
 atifict to be anybody. So far from having high 
 connexions, I have no connexions at all, and 
 1 come of the scum of the earth. But towards 
 that lady, i do care what you do; and you shall 
 do what is deierential and respectful, or yuu 
 shall not come here." 
 
 "I hope, Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, 
 in a conciliatory voice, "that this was merely 
 an oversight." 
 
 "My friend Tom Gradgrind suggests, Mrs. 
 Sparsit," said Bounderby, "that this was mere- 
 ly an oversight. Very iikelv. However, as 
 you are aware, ma'am, I don't allow of even 
 ovei'sights towards you." 
 
 "You are very good indeed, sir," returned 
 Mrs. Sparsit, shaking her head with her state 
 humility. "It is not worth speaking of." 
 
 Sissy, who all this time had been faintly 
 excusing herself with tears in her eyes, was 
 now waved over by the master of the house 
 to Mr. Gradgrind. She stood, looking intently 
 at him, and Louisa stood coldly by, with her 
 eyes upon the ground, while he proceeded 
 thus : 
 
 " Jupe, I have made up my mind to take 
 you into my house ; and when you are not in 
 attendance at the school, to employ you about 
 Mrs. Gradgrind, who is rather an invalid. I 
 have explained to Miss Louisa — this is Miss 
 Louisa — the miserable but natural end of your 
 late career ; and you are to expressly under- 
 stand that the whole of that subject is past, 
 and is not to be relerred to any more. From 
 this time you begin your history. You are, 
 at present, ignorant, I know." 
 
 " Yes, sir, very," she answered, curtseying. 
 
 " I shall have the satisfaction of causing 
 you to be strictly educated ; and you will be 
 a living proof to all who come into communi- 
 cation with you, of the advantages of the 
 training you will receive. You will be re- 
 claimed and formed. You have been in the 
 habit, now, of reading to your father, and 
 those people I found you among, I dare say ?" 
 said Mr. Gradgrind, beckoning her nearer to 
 him before he said so, and dropping his voice. 
 
 " Only to father and Merrylegs, sir. At 
 least I mean to father, when Merrylegs was 
 always there." 
 
 "Never mind Merrylegs, Jupe," said Mr. 
 Gradgrind, with a passing frown. "I don't ask 
 about him. I understand you to have been in 
 the habit of reading to your father?" 
 
 "0 yes, sir, thousands of times. They were 
 the happiest — 0, of all the happy times we had 
 together, sirl " 
 
 It was only now, when her grief broke out, 
 that Louisa looked at her. 
 
 "And what," asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still 
 lower voice, "did you rea'd to your father, 
 Jupe?" 
 
 "About the Fairies, sir, and the Dwarf, and 
 the Hunchback, and the Genies," she sobbed 
 out. 
 
 "There!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is 
 enough. Never breathe a word of such de- 
 structive nonsense any more. Bounderby, this 
 is a case for rigid training, and I shall observe 
 it with interest." 
 
 "Well," returned Mr. Bounderby, "I have 
 given you my opinion already, and 1 shouldn't 
 do as you do. But, very well, very well. Siuca 
 you are bent upon it, veri/ well!" 
 
 So, Mr. Gradgriud and his daughter took 
 Cecilia Jupe oil with them to Stone Lodge, 
 and on the way Louisa nevi'r spoke one wurd, 
 good or bad. And Mr. Bounderby went about 
 his daily pursuits. And Mrs. Sparsit got be- 
 hind her eyebrows and meditated in the gloom 
 of that retreat, all the morning. 
 
100 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 CHAPTER Vni. 
 
 Let us strike the key note again, before 
 pursuing the tune. 
 
 When she was half a dozen years y«unger, 
 Louisa had been overheard to begin a conver- 
 sation with her brother one day, by saying, 
 "Tom, I wonder" — upon which Mr. Gradgrind, 
 who was the person overhearing, stepped forth 
 into the Hght, and said, "Louisa, never wonder!" 
 
 Herein lay the spring of the mechanical art 
 and mystery of educating the reason without 
 stooping to the cultivation of the sentiments 
 and aflections. Never wonder. By means of 
 addition, subtraction, multiplication and divi- 
 sion, settle everything somehow, and never 
 wonder. Bring to me, says M'Choakumchild, 
 yonder baby just able to walk, and I will en- 
 gage that it shall never wonder. 
 
 Now, besides very many babies just able to 
 walk, there happened to be in Coketown a con- 
 siderable population of babies who had been 
 walking against time towards the infinite world, 
 twenty, thirty, forty, fifty years and more. 
 These portentous infants being alarming crea- 
 tures to stalk about in any human society, the 
 eighteen denominations incessantly scratched 
 one another's faces and pulled one another's 
 hair, by way of agreeing on the steps to be taken 
 for their improvement — which they never did; 
 a surprising circumstance, when the happy 
 adaptation of the means to the end is con- 
 sidered. Still, although they ditfered in 
 every other particular, conceivable and incon- 
 ceivable (especially inconceivable), they were 
 pretty well united on the point that these un- 
 lucky infants were never to wonder. Body 
 number one, said they must take everything 
 on trust. Body number two, said they must 
 take everything on political economy. Body 
 number three, wrote leaden little books for 
 them, showing how the good grown-up baby 
 invariably got to the Savings Bank, and the bad 
 grown-up baby invariably got transported. — 
 Body number four, under dreary pretences of 
 being droll (when it was very melancholy in- 
 deed), made the shallowest pretences of con- 
 cealing pitfalls of knowledge, into which it 
 was the duty of these babies to be smuggled 
 and inveigled. But, all the bodies agreed that 
 they were never to wonder. 
 
 There was a library in Coketown, to which 
 general access was easy. Mr. Gradgrind 
 greatly tormented his mind about what the 
 people read in this library: a point, whereon 
 little rivers of tabular statements periodically 
 flowed into the howling ocean of tabular 
 statements, which no diver ever got to any 
 depth in and came up sane. It was a dis- 
 heartening circumstance, but a melancholy 
 fact, that even these readers persisted in won- 
 dering. They wondered about human nature, 
 human passions, human hopes and tears, the 
 struggles, triumphs and defeats, the cores 
 and joys and sorrows, the lives and deaths, 
 of common men and women. They some- 
 times, after fifteen hours' work, sat down to 
 
 read mere fables about men and women, more 
 or less like themselves, and children, more or 
 less like their own. They took De Foe to their 
 bosoms, instead ot Euclid, and seemed to be 
 on the whole more comforted by Goldsmith 
 than by Cocker. Mr. Gradgrind was for ever 
 working, in print and out of print, at this ec- 
 centric sum, and he never could make out how 
 it yielded this unaccountable product. 
 
 " I am sick of my life. Loo. I hate it alto- 
 gether, and I hate everybody except you," said 
 the unnatural young Thomas Gradgrind in the 
 hair-cutting chamber at twilight. 
 
 "You don't hate Sissy, Tom." 
 
 " I hate to be obliged to call her Jupe. And 
 she hates me," said Tom moodily. 
 
 " No she does not, Tom, I am sure." 
 
 "She must," said Tom. "She must just 
 hate and detest the whole set-out of us. 
 They'll bother her head off, I think, before 
 they have done with her. Already she's 
 getting as pale as wax, and as heavy as — I 
 am." 
 
 Young Thomas expressed these sentiments, 
 sitting astride of a chair before the fire, with 
 his arms on the back, and his sulky face on 
 his arms. His sister sat in the darker corner 
 by the fireside, now looking at him, now look- 
 ing at the bright sparks as they dropped upon 
 the hearth. 
 
 "As to me," said Tom, tumbling his hair 
 all manner of ways with his sulky hands, "I 
 am a Donkey, that's what / am. I am as 
 obstinate as one, I am more stupid than one- 
 I get as much pleasure as one, and I should 
 like to kick like one." 
 
 "Not me, I hope, Tom ?" 
 
 "No, Loo ; I wouldn't hurt you. I made an 
 exception of you at first. I don't know what 
 this — ^joUy old — Jaundiced Jail — " — Tom had 
 paused to find a sufficiently complimentary 
 and expressive name for the parental root) 
 and seemed to relieve his mind for a moment 
 by the strong alliteration of this one, "would 
 be without you." 
 
 "Indeed, Tom ? Do you really and truly 
 say so ?" 
 
 " Why, of course I do. What's the use of 
 talking about it !" returned Tom, chafing his 
 face on his coat sleeve as if to mortify his flesh, 
 and have it in unison with his spirit. 
 
 "Because, Tom," said his sister, after silent- 
 ly watching the sparks awhile, "as I get older, 
 and nearer growing up, I often sit wondering 
 here, and think how unfortunate it is for me 
 that I can't reconcile you to home better than 
 I am able to do. I don't know what other 
 girls know. I can't play to you, or sing to 
 you. I can't talk to you so as to lighten your 
 mind, for I never see any amusing sights or 
 read any amusing books that it would be a 
 pleasure or a relief to you to talk about, when 
 you are tired." 
 
 "Well, no more do I. I am as bad as you 
 in that respect; and I am a Mule too, which 
 you're not. If father was determined to make 
 me either a Prig or a Mule, and I am not a 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 101 
 
 Prig, why, it stands to reason, I must be a 
 Mule. And so I am," said Tom, desperately. 
 
 " It's a great pity," said Louisa, after ano- 
 ther pause, and speaking thoughtfully out of 
 hor dark corner ; " its a great pity, Tom. It's 
 very uulortunate for both of us." 
 
 " Oh 1 You," said Tom ; "you are a girl. 
 Loo, and St pr;irl comes out of it better than a 
 boy does. 1 don't miss anything in you. You 
 are the only pleasure I have — you can brighten 
 even this place — and you can always lead me 
 as you like." 
 
 " You are a dear brother, Tom ; and while 
 you think I can do such things, I don't so 
 much mind knowing better. Though I do 
 know better, Tom, and am very sorry for it." 
 She came and kissed him, and went back into 
 her corner again. 
 
 " I wish I could collect all the Facts we hear 
 so much about," said Tom, spitefully setting 
 his teeth, " and all the Figures, and all the 
 people who found them out ; and 1 wish I 
 could put a thousand barrels of gunpowder 
 under them, and blow them all up together ! 
 However, when I go to live with old Boun- 
 derby, I'U have my revenge." 
 
 " Your revenge, Tom ?" 
 
 " 1 mean, 1 11 enjoy myself a little, and go 
 about and see something, and hear something. 
 I'll recompense myself for the way in which 
 I have been brought up." 
 
 '• But don't disappoint yourself beforehand, 
 Tom. Mr. Bounderby thinks as father thinks, 
 and is a great deal rougher, and not half so 
 kind." 
 
 "Ohl" said Tom, laughing; "I don't mind 
 that. I shall very well know how to manage 
 and smooth old Bounderbyl" 
 
 Their shadows were defined upon the wall, 
 but those of the high presses in the room were 
 all blended together on the wall and on the 
 ceiling, as if the brother and sister were over- 
 bung by a dark cavern. Or, a fanciful imagi- 
 nation — if such treason could have been there 
 — mi^ht have made it out to be the sliadow of 
 their subject, and of its lowering association 
 with their future. 
 
 "'What is your great mode of smoothing and 
 managing, Tom? Is it a secret?" 
 
 " OhI" said Tom, "if it is a secret, it's not 
 tar off. It's you. You are his little pet, you 
 lire his favorite; he'll do anything ■^or you. 
 When he says to me what I don't like, I shall 
 Bav 10 him, 'My sister Loo will be hurt and dis- 
 ftppoinied, Mr. Buuiiderby. Slie always used 
 to tell me she was sure you would be easier 
 with me than this.' That'll bring him about, 
 01 nothing will." 
 
 After waiting for some answering remark 
 and getting none, Tom wearily relapsed itifo 
 the present lime, and twined himself yawning 
 round and about the rails of lii.-^ chair, and 
 rumpled his head more ami mure, until he sud- 
 denly looked up, and asked: 
 
 "rlave vou gone to sleep, Loo?'' 
 
 "No, Tom. I am looking at the fire." 
 
 "Yuu seem to find more to look at in it 
 
 than ever I could find," said Tom. "Another 
 of the advantages, I suppose, of being a girl." 
 
 "Tom," inquired his sister, slowly, and in a 
 curious tone, as if she were reading what she 
 asked, in the fire, and it were not quite plainly 
 written there, "do you look forward with any 
 satisfaction to this change to Mr. Bounderby's?" 
 
 "Why, there's one thing to be said of it," re- 
 turned Tom, pushing his chair from him, and 
 standing up; "it will be getting away from 
 home." 
 
 "There is one thing to be said of it," Louisa 
 repeated in her former curious tone; "it will 
 be getting away from home. Yes." 
 
 "Not but what I shall be very unwilling, 
 both to leave you. Loo, and to leave you 
 here. But I must go, you know, whether I 
 like it or not; and I had better go where I can 
 take with me some advantage of your in- 
 fiuence, than where I should lose it altogether. 
 Don't you see?" 
 
 "Yes, Tom." 
 
 The answer was so long in coming, though 
 there was no indecision in it' that Tom went 
 and leaned- on the back of her chair, to con- 
 template the fire which so engrossed her, from 
 her point of view, and see what he could make 
 of it. 
 
 "Except that it is a fire," said Tom," it 
 looks to me as stupid and blank as everything 
 else looks. What do you see in it? Not a 
 circus?" 
 
 "I don't see anything in it, Tom, parti- 
 cularly. But since I have been looking at it, 
 I have been wondering about you and me, 
 grown up." 
 
 " Wondering again I" said Tom. 
 
 " I have such unmanageable thoughts," re- 
 turned his sister, " that they will wonder." 
 
 " Then I beg of you, Louisa," said Mrs. 
 Gradgrind, who had opened the doirf without 
 beinir heard, ' to do nothing of that descrip- 
 tion, for goodness sake, you inconsiderate girl, 
 or I shall never hear the last of it I'rom your 
 father. And Thomas, it is really shameful, 
 with my poor head continually wearing me 
 out, that a boy brought up as you have been, 
 and whose education has cost what yours has, 
 should be found encouraging his sister to won- 
 der, when he knows his father has expressly 
 said that she is not to do it." 
 
 Louisa denied Tom's participation in the 
 offence; but her mother stopped her with the 
 conclusive answer, "Louisa, don't tell me, in 
 my state of health; for unless you had been 
 encouraged, it is morally and physically im- 
 possible that you could have done it.'' 
 
 "I was encouraged by nothing, mother, but 
 by looking at the red sparks dropping out of 
 the fire, and whitening and dying. It mad"? 
 me think, after all, how short my life would 
 be, and how little 1 could hope to do in it." 
 
 " Nonsense !'' said Mrs. Gradgrind, leiiderod 
 almost energetic. " Nonsense 1 Don't stand 
 there and tell me such stuff, Louisa, lo my 
 face, when you know very well that if it was 
 ever to reach your father's ears I should never 
 
102 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 hear the last of it. After all the trouble that has 
 been taken with you ! After the lectures you 
 have attended, and the experiments you have 
 seen 1 After I have heard you myself, when 
 the whole of my right side has been benumbed, 
 going on with your master about combus- 
 tion, and calcination, and calorification, and I 
 may say every kind of ation that could drive a 
 poor invalid distracted, to hear you talking in 
 this absurd way about sparks and ashes I I 
 wish," whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind, taking a 
 chair, and discharging her strongest point be- 
 fore succumbing under these mere shadows of 
 facts, "yes, I really do wish that I had never 
 had a family, and then you would have known 
 what it was to do without me !" 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Sissy Jupe had not an easy time of it, be- 
 tween Mr. M'Choakumchild and Mrs. Grad- 
 grind, and was not without strong impulses in 
 the first months of her probation, to run away. 
 It hailed facts all day long so very hard, and 
 life in general was opened to her as such a 
 closely-ruled cypheriug-book, that assuredly 
 she would have run away, but for only one 
 restraint. 
 
 It is lamentable to think of; but this re- 
 straint was the result of no arithmetical pro- 
 cess, was self-imposed in defiance of all calcu- 
 lation, and went dead against any table of pro- 
 babilities that any Actuary would have drawn 
 up from the premises. The girl believed that 
 her father had not deserted her ; she lived in 
 the hope that he would come back, and in the 
 faith that he would be made the happier by 
 her remaining where she was. 
 
 The wretched ignorance with which Jupe 
 clung to this consolation, rejecting the superior 
 comfort of knowing, on a sound arithmetical 
 basis, that her father was an unnatural vaga- 
 bond, filled Mr. Gradgrind with pity. Yet, 
 what was to be done ? M'Choakumchild 
 reported that she had a very dense head 
 for figures ; that, once possessed with a 
 general idea of the globe, she took the 
 smallest conceivable interest in its exact 
 measurements ; that she was extremely slow 
 in the acquisition of dates, unless some pitiful 
 incident happened to be connected therewith; 
 that she would burst into tears on being 
 required (by the mental process) immediately 
 to name the cost of two hundred and forty- 
 Beven muslin caps at fourteenpence halfpenny; 
 that she was as low down, in the school, as 
 low could be ; that after eight weeks of induc- 
 tion into the elements of Political Economy, 
 she had only yesteiday been set right by a 
 prattler three feet high, for returning to the 
 question, " What is the first principle of this 
 science?" the absurd answer, "To do unto 
 others as I would that they should do unto 
 me." 
 
 Mr. Gradgrind observed, shaking his head, 
 that all this was very bad ; that it showed 
 the necessity of infinite grinding at the mill 
 
 of knowledge, as per system, schedule, blue 
 book report, and tabular statements A to Z ; 
 and that Jupe " must be kept to it." So Jupe 
 was kept to it, and became very low spirited, 
 but no wiser. 
 
 " It would be a fine thing to be you. Miss 
 Louisa 1 " she said one night, when Louisa 
 had endeavored to make her perplexities for 
 next day something clearer to her. 
 
 " Do you think so ? " 
 
 " I should know so much, Miss Louisa. All 
 that is difficult to me now, would be so easy 
 then." 
 
 " You might not be the better for it. Sissy." 
 
 Sissy submitted, after a little hesitation, 
 " I should not be the worse. Miss Louisa." 
 To which Miss Louisa answered, '' 1 don't 
 know that." 
 
 There had been so little communication be- 
 tween these two — both because life at Stone 
 Lodge went monotonously round like a piece 
 of machinery which discouraged human inter- 
 ference, and because of the prohibition rela- 
 tive to Sissy's past career — that they were >till 
 almost strangers. Sissy, with her dark eyes 
 wonderingly directed to Louisa's face, was 
 uncertain whether to say more or to remain 
 silent. 
 
 "You are more useful to my mother, and 
 more pleasant with her than 1 can ever be." 
 Louisa resumed. "You are pleasanter to your- 
 self, than / am to myse\i'." 
 
 "But, if you please, Miss Louisa," Sissy 
 pleaded, "I am — so stupid 1" 
 
 Louisa, with a brighter laugh than usual, 
 told her she would be wiser by and by. 
 
 "You don't know,'' said Sissy, half crying, 
 "what a stupid girl I am. All through schuol 
 hours I make mistakes. Mr. and Mrs. 
 M'Choakumchild call me up, over and over 
 again, regularly to make mistakes. 1 can't 
 help them. They seem to come natural to 
 me." 
 
 "Mr. and Mrs. M'Choakumchild never make 
 any mistakes themselves, I suppose. Sissy?" 
 
 "0 no!" she eagerly returned. "They know 
 everything." 
 
 "Tell me some of your mistakes." 
 
 "I am almost ashamed," said Sissy, with re- 
 luctance. "But to-day, for instance, Mr. 
 M'Choakumchild was explaining to us about 
 Natural Prosperity." 
 
 "National, 1 think it must have been," ob- 
 served Louisa. 
 
 "Yes, it was — But isn't it the same?" she 
 timidly asked. 
 
 "You had better say. National, as he said 
 so," returned Louisa, with her dry reserve. 
 
 "National Prosperity. And he said. Now, 
 this schoolroom is a Nation. And in this na- 
 tion, there are fifty millions of money. Isn't 
 this a prosperous nation? Girl number twenty, 
 isn't this a prosperous nation, and a'n't you in 
 a thriving stale?" 
 
 "What did )ou say?" asked Louisa. 
 
 '• Miss Louisa, 1 said I didn't know. I 
 ihuu 'lit 1 couldn't know whether it was a 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 103 
 
 prospTous nation or not, and whethT I was 
 in a thriving state or not, unless I knew who 
 had got the money, and whether any of it 
 was mine. But that had nothing to do with 
 it. It was not in the figures at all," said 
 Sissy, wiping her eyes. 
 
 " That was a great mistake of yours," 
 obsprved Louisa. 
 
 " Yes, Miss Louisa, I know it was now. 
 Then Mr. M.'Choakumchild said he would try 
 me again. And he said, this schoolroom is 
 an immense town, and in it there are a million 
 of inhabitants, and only five-and-twenty are 
 starved to death in the streets, in the course 
 of a year. What is your remark on that 
 proportion ? And my remark was — for I 
 couldn't think of a better one — that I thought 
 it must be just as hard upon those who were 
 starved, whether the others were a million, 
 or a million million. And that was wrong, 
 too." 
 
 "Of course it was." 
 
 "Then Mr. M'Choakumchild said he would 
 try me once more. And he said. Here are the 
 sfutterings " 
 
 "Statistics," said Louisa. 
 
 "Yes, Miss Louisa — they always remind me 
 of stutterings, and that's another of my mis- 
 takes — of accidents upon the sea. And I find 
 (Mr. M'Choakumchild said) that in a given 
 time a hundred thousand persons went to sea 
 on long voyages, and only tive hundred of them 
 were drowned or burned to death. What is 
 the percentage ? And I said. Miss;" here Sissy 
 fairly sobbed as confessing with extreme con- 
 trition to her greatest error ; "I said it was 
 nothing." 
 
 "Nothing, Sissy?" 
 
 "Nothing, Miss — to the relations anfi friends 
 of the people \)-ho were killed. I shall never 
 learn," said Sissy. "And the worst of all is, 
 that although my poor father wished me so 
 much to learn, and although i am so anxious 
 to learn because he wished me to, I am afraid 
 I don't like it." 
 
 Louisa stood looking at the pretty modest 
 head, as it drooped abashed betbre her, until 
 it was raised again to glance at her face. Then 
 she asked: 
 
 "Did your father know so much himself, 
 that he wished you to be well taught too, 
 Sissy?" 
 
 Sissy hesitated before replying, and so plain- 
 ly showed her sense that they were entering 
 on forbidden ground, that Louisa added, "No 
 one hears us; and if any one did, I am sure 
 no harm could be found in such an innocent 
 question." 
 
 "No, Miss Louisa," answered Sissy, upon 
 this encouragement, shaking her head; "father 
 knows very little indeed. It's as much as he 
 can do to write; and it's more than people in 
 general can do to read his writing. Though 
 it's plain to mt." 
 
 "Your mother?"' 
 
 "Father says she was quite a scholar. She 
 died when I was born. She was;" Sissy made 
 
 the terrible communication nervously ; "she 
 was a dancer." 
 
 "Did your father love her?'' Louisa asked 
 these questions with a strong, wild, wandering 
 interest peculiar to her; an interest gone 
 astray like a banished creature, and hiding in 
 solitary places. 
 
 "0 yes ! As dearly as he loves me. Father 
 loved me, first, for her sake. He carried me 
 about with him when I was quite a baby. We 
 have never been asunder from that time." 
 
 "Yet he leaves you now. Sissy ?'' 
 
 "Only for my good. Nobody understands 
 him as I dn; nobody knows him as I do. 
 When he left me for my good — he never would 
 have left me for his own — I know he was 
 almost broken-hearted with the trial. He will 
 not be happy for a single minute, till he comes 
 back." 
 
 "Tell me more about him," said Louisa, "I 
 will never ask you again. Where did vou 
 Hve?'; ^ ° ^ 
 
 "We travelled about the country, and had 
 no fixed place to live in. Father's a ;" Sissy 
 whispered the awful word; "a clown." 
 
 "To make the people laugh?'' said Louisa, 
 with a nod of intelligence. 
 
 "Yes. But they wouldn't laugh sometimes, 
 and then father cried. Lately, they very 
 often wouldn't laugh, and he used to come 
 home despairing. Father 's not like most. 
 Those who didn't know him as well as I do. 
 and didn't love him as dearly as I do, might 
 believe he was not quite right. Sometimes 
 they played tricks upon him ; but they never 
 knew how he felt them, and shrunk up, when 
 he was alone with me. He was far, far 
 timider than they thought!" 
 
 "And you were his comfort through every 
 thing?" 
 
 She nodded, with the tears rolling down her 
 face. "I hope so, and father said I was. It 
 was because he grew so scared and trembling, 
 and because he felt himself to be a poor, 
 weak, ignorant, helpless man, (those used to 
 be his words,) that he wanted me so much to 
 know a great deal and be diflerent from him. 
 I used to read to him to cheer his courage, 
 and he was very fond of that. They were 
 wrong books — I am never to speak of them 
 here — but we didn't know there was any harm 
 in them." 
 
 "And he liked them ?" said Louisa, with her 
 searching gaze on Sissy all this time. 
 
 "0 very much 1 They kept him, many times, 
 from what did him real harm. And often and 
 often of a night, he used to forget all his trou- 
 bles in wondering whether the Sultan would 
 let the lady go on with the story, or would have 
 her head cut off before it was finished.'' 
 
 "And your father was always kind ? To the 
 last ?" asked Louisa ; contravening the great 
 principle, and wondering very much. 
 
 "Always, always!" returned Sissy, clasping 
 her hands. "Kinder and kinder than I can 
 tell. He was angry only one night, and that 
 was not to me, but Merrylegs. Merrylegs ;" 
 
104 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 she whispered the awful fact ; "is his perform- 
 ing dog." 
 
 "Why was he angry with the dog?" Louisa 
 demanded. 
 
 "Father, soon after they came home from 
 performing, told Merrylegs to jump up on the 
 backs of the two chairs and stand across them, 
 which is one of his tricks. He looked at 
 father, and didn't do it at once. Everything 
 of father's had gone wrong that night, and he 
 hadn't pleased the public at all. He cried out 
 that the very dog knew he was failing, and 
 had no compassion on him. Then he beat the 
 dog, and I was frightened, and said — "Father, 
 father ! Pray don't hurt the creature who is so 
 fond of you ! Heaven forgive you, father, 
 stop!" And he stopped, and the dog was 
 bloody, and father lay down crying on the 
 floor with the dog in his arms, and the dog 
 licked his face." 
 
 Louisa saw that she was sobbing ; and go- 
 ing to her, kissed her, took her hand, and sat 
 down beside her. 
 
 " Finish by telling me how your father left 
 you, Sissy. Now that I have asked you so 
 much, tell me the end. The blame, if there 
 is any blame, is mine : not yours." 
 
 " Dear Miss Louisa," said Sissy, covering 
 her eyes, and sobbing yet ; " I came home 
 from the school that afternoon, and found poor 
 father just come home too, from the booth. — 
 Aud he sat rocking himself over the fire as if 
 he was iu pain. And I said, 'Have you hurt 
 yourself, father?' (as he did sometimes, like 
 they all did), and he said *A little, my dar- 
 ling.' And when I came to stoop down and 
 look up at his face, I saw that he was cry- 
 ing. The more I spoke to him, the more 
 he hid his face; and at first he shook all 
 over, and said nothing but 'My darling!' and 
 ' My love !' " 
 
 Here Tom came lounging in, and stared at 
 the two with a coolness not particularly savor- 
 ing of interest iu anything but himself, and not 
 much of that at present. 
 
 " I am asking Sissy a few questions, Tom," 
 observed his sister. " You have no occasion 
 to go away ; but don't interrupt us for a mo- 
 ment, Tom dear." 
 
 " Oh ! very well !" returned Tom. " Only 
 father has brought old Bounderby home, and 
 I want you to come into the drawing-room. 
 Because if you come, there's a good chance of 
 old Bounderby's asking me to dinner; and if 
 you don't, there's none." 
 
 "I'll come directly." 
 
 "I'll wait for you," said Tom, "to make 
 sure." 
 
 Sissy resumed in a lower voice. "At last 
 poor father said that he had given no satisfac- 
 tion again, and never did give any satisfac- 
 tion now, and that he was a shame and 
 disgrace, and I should have done better with- 
 out him all along. I said all the affectionate 
 things to him that came into my heart, and 
 presently he was quiet and I sat down by him, 
 and told him all about the school and every- 
 
 thing that had been said and done there. 
 When I had no more left to tell, he put his 
 arms round my neck, and kissed me a great 
 many times. Then he asked me to fetch some 
 of the stuff he used, for the little hurt he had 
 had, and to get it at the best place, which was 
 at the other end of town from there; and then, 
 after kissing me again, he let me go. When 1 
 had gone down stairs, I turned back that I 
 might be a little bit more company to him yet, 
 and looked iu at the door, and said, 'Father 
 dear, shall I take Merrylegs?' Father shook his 
 head and said, 'No, Sissy, no; take nothing 
 that's known to be mine, my darling;' and I left 
 him sitting by the fire. Then the thought must 
 have come upon him, poor, poor father! of going 
 away to try something for my sake; for. whea 
 I came back, he was gone." 
 
 "I say! Look sharp for old Bounderby, 
 Loo !"' Tom remonstrated. 
 
 "There's no more to tell, Miss Louisa. I 
 keep the nine oils ready for hitn, and I know 
 he will comeback. Every letter that I see in 
 Mr. Gradgrind's hand takes my breath away 
 and blinds my eyes, fo^* I think it comes from 
 father, or from Mr. Sleary about father, Mr. 
 Sleary promised to write as soon as ever father 
 should be heard of, aud I trust to him to keep 
 his word." 
 
 "Do look sharp for old Bounderby, Loo !'' 
 said Tom, with an impatient whistle. " He'll 
 be off, if you don't look sharp!'' 
 
 After this, whenever Sissy dropped a curt- 
 sey to Mr. Gradgrind in the presence of hia 
 family, and said in a faltering way, "I beg 
 your pardon, sir, for being troublesome — but 
 — have you had any letter yet about me ?" 
 Louisa would suspend the occupation of the 
 moment, whatever it was, and look for the 
 reply as earnestly as Sissy did. And when 
 Mr, Gradgrind regularly answered, "No, 
 Jupe, nothing of the sort," the ti-embling ot 
 Sissy's lip would be repeated in Louisa's face, 
 and her eyes would follow Sissy with com- 
 passion to the door. Mr. Gradgrind usually 
 improved these occasions by remarking, when 
 she was gone, that if Jupe had been properly 
 trained from an early age, she would have 
 demonstrated to herself on sound principles 
 the baselessness of these fantastic hopes. 
 Yet it did seem (though not to him, for he 
 saw nothing of it), as if fantastic hope could 
 take as strong a hold as Fact. 
 
 This observation must be limited exclusively 
 to his daughter. As to Tom, he was becoming 
 that not unprecedented triumph of calcula- 
 tion which is usually at work on number one. 
 As to Mrs. Gradgrind, if she said anything 
 on the subject, she would come a little way out 
 of her wrappers, like a feminine dormouse, and 
 say: 
 
 " Good gracious bless me, how my pooi 
 head is vexed and worried by that girl Jupe's 
 so perseveringly asking, over and over again, 
 about her tiresome letters 1 Upon my word 
 and honor, I seem to be fated, and destined, 
 and ordained, to live in the midst of things that 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 105 
 
 1 am never to near the last of. It really is a 
 most extraordinary circumstance that it ap- 
 pears as if I never was to hear the last of any- 
 rhing!" 
 
 At about this point, Mr. Gradgrind's eye 
 would fall upon her; and under the influence 
 of that wintry piece of fact, she would become 
 torpid again. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 I entertain a weak idea that the English 
 people are as hard-worked as any people upon 
 whom the sun shines. I acknowledge to this 
 ridiculous idiosyncrasy, as a reason why I 
 would give them a little more play. 
 
 Ill the hardest working part of Ooketown; in 
 the innermost fortilications of that ugly citadel, 
 where Nature was as strongly bricked out as 
 killing airs and gases were bricked in ; at 
 the heart of the labyrinth of narrow courts 
 upon courts, and close streets upon streets, 
 which had come into existence piecemeal, 
 every piece iu a violent hurry for some one 
 man's purpose, and the whole an unnatural 
 family, shouldering, and trampling, and press- 
 ing one another to death; in the last close 
 nook of this great exhausted receiver, where 
 the chimneys, for want of air to make a 
 draught, were built in an immense variety of 
 stunted and crooked shapes, as though every 
 house put out a sign of the kind of people 
 who might be expected to be born in it ; 
 among tbe multitude of Coketown, generi- 
 cally called " the Hands," — a race who would 
 have found more favor with some people, if 
 Providence had seen fit to make them only 
 hands, or like the lower creatures of the sea- 
 shore, only hands and stomachs — lived a 
 certain Stephen Blackpool, forty years of age. 
 
 Stephen looked older, but he had had a hard 
 life. It is said that every life has its roses and 
 thorns; there seemed, however, to have been 
 a misadventure or mistake in Stephen's 
 case, whereby somebody else had become 
 possessed ot' his roses, and he had become 
 possessed of the same somebody else's thorns 
 in addition to his own. He had known, to use 
 his words, a peck of trouble. He was usually 
 called Old Stephen, iu a kind of rough homage 
 to the fact. 
 
 A rather stooping man, with a knitted 
 brow, a pondering expression of face, and a hard- 
 looking head sutiiciently capacious, on which 
 his iron-grey hair lay long and thin. Old Stephen 
 might have passed for a particularly intelligent 
 man iu his condition. Yet he was not. He 
 took no place among those remarkable 
 "Hands," who, piecing together their broken 
 intervals of leisure through many years, had 
 mastered difficult sciences, and acquired a 
 knowledge of most unlikely things. He held 
 no station among the Hands who could make 
 speeches and carry on debates. Thousands of 
 his compeers could talk much better than he. 
 at any time. He was a good power-loom 
 weaver, and a man of perfect integrity What 
 
 more he was, or what else he had in him, if 
 anything, let him show for himself. 
 
 The lights in the great factories, which 
 looked, when they were illuminated, like Fairy 
 palaces — or the travellers by express train 
 said so — were all extinguished; and the bells 
 had rung for knocking off for the night, and 
 had ceased again; and the hands, meu and 
 women, boy and girl, were clattering home. 
 Old Stephen was standing in the street, with 
 the odd sensation upon him which the stop- 
 page of the machinery always produced — the 
 sensation of its having worked and stopped in 
 his own head. 
 
 ''Yet I don't see Rachael, still I" said he. 
 
 It was a wet night, and many groups of 
 young women passed him, with their shawls 
 drawn over their bare heads and held close 
 under their chins to keep the rain out. He 
 knew Rachael well, for a glance at any one of 
 these groups was sufficient to show him that 
 she was not there. At last, there were no 
 more to come ; and then he turned away, say- 
 ing in a tone of disappointment, "Why, then, 
 I ha' missed her I" 
 
 But, he had not gone the length of three 
 streets, when he saw another of the shawled 
 figures in advance of him, at which he looked 
 so keenly that perhaps its mere shadow indis- 
 tinctly reflected on the wet pavement — if he 
 could have seen it without the figure it- 
 self moving along from lamp to lamp, bright- 
 ening and fading as it went — wuuld have 
 been enough to tell him who was there — 
 Making his pace at once much quicker and 
 much softer, he darted on until he was very 
 near this figure, then fell into his former walk, 
 and called " Rachael 1" 
 
 She turned, being then in the brightness of 
 a lamp ; and raising her hood a little, showed 
 a quiet oval face, dark and rather delicate, 
 irradiated by a pair of very gentle eyes, and 
 further set off by the perfect order of her shin- 
 ing black hair. It was not a face iu its first 
 bloom ; she was a woman five and thirty years 
 of age. 
 
 "Ah, ladl 'Tis thou?" when she had 
 said this, with a smile which would have been 
 quite expressed, though nothing of her had 
 been seen but her pleasant eyes, she replaced 
 her hood again, and they went on together. 
 
 "I thought thou wast ahind me, Rachael?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Early t'night, lass?" 
 
 "'Times I'm a little early, Stephen; 'times 
 a little late. I'm never to be counted on, 
 going home." 
 
 "Nor going t'other way, neither, 't seems to 
 me, Rachael?" 
 
 "No, Stephen." 
 
 He looked at her with some disappoint- 
 ment in his face, but with a respectful and 
 patient conviction that she must be right in 
 whatever she did. The expression was not 
 lost upon her; she laid her hand lightly on 
 Lis arm a moment, as if to thank him for it 
 
 "We are such true friends, lad, and such old 
 
106 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 friends, and getting to be such old folk, 
 now." 
 
 "No, Rachael, thou'rt as young as ever thou 
 wast." 
 
 "One of us would be puzzled how to get old, 
 Stephen, without t'other getting so too, both 
 being alive," she answered, laughing; "but, 
 any ways, we're such old friends, that t'hide a 
 word of honest truth fra'one another would 
 be a sin and a pity. Tis better not to walk 
 too much together. 'Times, yes! 'Twould be 
 hard, indeed, if 'twas not to be at all," she 
 said, with a cheerfulness she sought to com- 
 municate to him. 
 
 "'Tis hard, anyways, Rachael." 
 
 "Try to think not; and 'twill seem better." 
 
 "I've tried a long time, and 'ta'nt got bet- 
 ter. But thou'rt right; 'tmight make folk talk, 
 even of thee. Thou hast been that to me, 
 Rachael, throug'h so many year: thou hast done 
 me so much good, and heartened of me in 
 that cheering way: that thy word is a law to 
 me. Ah, lass, and a bright good law! Better 
 than some real ones." 
 
 "Never fret about them, Stephen," she 
 answered quickly, and not without an anxious 
 glance at his face. "Let the laws be." 
 
 "Yes," he said, with a slow nod or two. 
 "Let 'em be. Let everything be. Let all 
 sorts alone. 'Tis a muddle, and that's all." 
 
 "Always a muddle ?" said Rachael, with 
 another gentle touch upon his arm, as if 
 to recall him out of the thoughtfulness, in 
 which he was biting the long ends of his 
 loose neckerchief as he walked along. The 
 touch had its instantaneous effect. He let 
 them fall, turned a smiling face upon her, and 
 said, as be broke intv"* a good humored laugh, 
 "Ay, Rachael, lass, awlus a muddle. That's 
 where I stick, I come to the muddle many 
 times and agen, and I never get beyond it." 
 
 They had walked some distance, and were 
 near their own homes. The woman's was the 
 first reached. It was in one of the many 
 small streets for which the favorite under- 
 taker (who turned a handsome sum out of 
 the one poor ghastly pomp of the neighbor 
 hood) kept a black ladder, in order that those 
 who had done their daily groping up and 
 down the narrow stairs might slide out of this 
 working world by the windows. She stopped 
 at the corner, and putting her hand in his, 
 wished him good night. 
 
 "Good night, dear lass; good night!" 
 
 She went, with her neatligure and her sober 
 womanly step, down the dark street, and he 
 stood looking after her until she turned into 
 one of the small houses. 1 here was not a dut- 
 ter of her coarse shawl, perhaps, but had its 
 interest in this man's eyes; not a tone of her 
 voice but had its echo in his innermost heart. 
 
 When she was lost to his view, he pursued 
 his homeward way, glancing up sometimes at 
 the sky, where the clouds wer<' sailing fast 
 and wildly. But they were broken now, and 
 the rain had ceased, and the mion shone — 
 looking down the high chimue}o uf Cokeiown, 
 
 on the deep furnaces below, and casting Ti- 
 tanic shadows of the steam engines at rest, 
 upon the walls where they were lodged. The 
 man seemed to have brightened with the night, 
 as he went on. 
 
 His home, in such another street as the 
 first, saving that it was narrower, was over a 
 little shop. How it came to pass that any 
 people found it worth their while to sell or 
 buy the wretched little toys, mixed up in its 
 window with cheap newspapers and perk 
 (there was a leg to be raffled for to-morrow 
 night), matters not here. He took his end of 
 candle from a shelf, lighted it at another end 
 of candle on the counter, without disturbing 
 the mistress of the shop who was asleep in 
 her little room, and went up stairs into hia 
 lodging. 
 
 It was ft room, not unacquainted with the 
 black ladder under various tenants ; but as 
 neat, at present, as such a room could be. A 
 few books and writings were on an old bureau 
 in a corner, the furniture was decent and suf- 
 ficient, and, though the atmosphere was taint- 
 ed, the room was clean. 
 
 Going to the hearth to set the candle down 
 upon a round three-legged table standing 
 there, he stnmbled against something. As he 
 recoiled, looking down at it, it raised itself up 
 into the form of a woman in a sitting attitude. 
 
 "Heaven's mercy, woman I" he cried, falling 
 farther off from the figure: "Hast thou come 
 back again!" 
 
 Such a woman! A disabled, drunken crea 
 ture, barely able to preserve the sitting posture 
 by steadying herself with one begrimed hand 
 on the floor, while the other was so purposeless 
 in trying to push away her tangled hair from 
 her face, that it only blinded her the more with 
 the dirt upon it. A creature so foul to look 
 at, in her tatters, stains, and splashes, but so 
 much fouler than that in her moral infamy, 
 that it was a shameful thing even to see her. 
 
 After an impatient oaih or two, and some 
 stupid clawing of herself with the hand not 
 necessary to her support, she got her hair 
 away from her eyes sufficiently to obtain a 
 sight of him. Then she sat swajing her body 
 to and fro, and making gestures with her un 
 nerved arm, which seemed intended as the ac- 
 companiment to a fit of laughter, though her 
 face was stolid and drowsy. 
 
 "Eigh lad? What, yo'r there?" Some hoarse 
 sounds meant for this, came mockingly out of 
 her at last; and her head dropped forward on 
 her breast. 
 
 "Back agen?" she screeched, after some 
 minutes, as if he I ail that moment said it, 
 "Yes! And back agen. Back agen ever and 
 ever so often. Back? Yes, back. Why not?" 
 
 Roused by the unmeaning violence with 
 which she cried it out, she scrambled up, and 
 st'iod supporting herself with her shoulders 
 against the wall; danoling in one hand by the 
 string, a dunghill fragment of a bonnet, and 
 tr\ing 10 look scornfully at him. 
 
 "I'll sell thee off again, and I'll sell thee off 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 107 
 
 again, and I'll sell thee off a score of timesi" 
 she cried, with something between a furious 
 menace and an effort at a defiant dance. 
 "Come awa' from th' bed!" He was sitting on 
 the side of it, with his face hidden in his hands. 
 "Come awa' from 't. 'Tis mine, and I've a 
 right to 'tf 
 
 As she staggered to it, he avoided her with 
 a shudder, and passed — his face still hidden — 
 to the opposite end of the room. She threw 
 herself upon the bed heavily, and soon was 
 snoring hard. He sunk into a chair, and moved 
 but once all that night. It was to throw a 
 covering over her; as if his hands were not 
 enough to hide her, even in the darlcness. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 The Fairy palaces, burst out into illumina- 
 tion, before pale morning, showed the mon- 
 strous serpents of smoke trailing themselves 
 over Cokelown. A clattering of clogs upon 
 the pavement ; a rapid ringing of bells 5 and 
 all the melancholy-mad elephants, polished 
 and oiled up for the day's monotony, were at 
 their heavy exercise ayain. 
 
 Stephen bent over his loom, quiet, watchful, 
 and steady. A special contrast, as every man 
 was in the forest of looms where Stephen 
 worked, to the crashing, smashing, tearing 
 piece of mechanism at which he labored. — 
 Never fear, good people of an anxious tur!i of 
 nund thiit Art will consign Nature to oblivion. 
 Set anywhere, side by side, the work of God 
 and the work of man ; and the former, even 
 though it be a troop of Hands of very small 
 account, will gain in solemn dignity from the 
 Comparison. 
 
 Four hundred and more Hands in this Mill; 
 Two hundred and fifty horse Steam Power, li 
 lo known, to the force of a single pound weight, 
 w .at ttie engine will do; but, not all the calcu- 
 lators of the National Debt can tell me the ca- 
 pacity for good or evil, for love or hatred, for 
 pAtriotism or discontent, for the dec(jmposili(jn 
 ot' virtue into vice, or the reverse, at any single 
 moment in the soul of one of these its quiet 
 servants, with the composed faces and the regu- 
 lated actions. There is no mysiery in it; there 
 is an unfathomable mystery m the meanest of 
 tliem, for ever. Supposing we were to reserve 
 GUI- arithmetic for material objects, and to 
 govern these awful unknown quantities by other 
 means 1 
 
 The day grew strong, and showed itself 
 outside, even against the Hamiiig lights within. 
 The lights were turned out, and the work went 
 on. The rain fell, and the Smoke-serpents, 
 submissive to the curse of ad that tribe, trailed 
 themselves upon the earth. In the waste 
 yard outside, the steam from the escape-pipe, 
 the litter of barrels and old iron, the shining 
 heaps of coals, the ashes everywhere, were 
 shrouded in a veil of mist and ram. 
 
 The work went on, until the noon-bell 
 rang. More clattering upon the pavements. 
 
 The looms, and wheels, and Hands, all out of 
 gear for an hour. 
 
 Stephen came out of the hot mill into the 
 damp wind and the cold wet streets, haggard 
 and worn. He turned from his own class and 
 his own quarter, taking nothing but a little 
 bread as he walked along, towards the hill on 
 which his principal employer lived, in a red 
 house with black outside shutters, green 
 inside blinds, a black street door, up two white 
 steps, BoDXDEKHY (in letters very like him- 
 self) upon a brazen plate, and a round brazen 
 door-handle underneath it like a brazen full- 
 stop. 
 
 Mr. Bounderby was at his lunch. So Ste- 
 phen had expected. Would his servant say 
 that one of the Hands begged leave to speak 
 to him ? Message in return, requiring name 
 of such Hand. Stephen Blackpool. There 
 was nothing troublesome against Stephen 
 Blackpool; yes, he might come in. 
 
 Ste))hen Blackpool in the parlor. Mr. 
 Bounderby (whom he just knew by sight), at 
 lunch on chop and sherry. Mrs. Sparsit net- 
 ting at the tireside, in a side-saddle attitude, 
 with one foot in a cotton stirrup. It was a 
 part, at once of Mrs. Sparsit's dignity and 
 service, not to lunch. fehe supervised the 
 meal officially, but implied that in her own 
 stately person she considered lunch a weak- 
 ness. 
 
 '' Now, Stephen," said Mr. Boun lerbj; 
 "what's the matter with yov V 
 
 Stephen made a bow. Not a servile one — 
 these Hands will never do that ! Lord bh'ss 
 you, sir, you'll never catch them at that, if they 
 have been with you twenty years 1 — and, as 
 a complimentary toilet for Mrs. Sparsit, tucked 
 his neckerchief ends into his waistcoat. 
 
 "Now, you know," said Mr. Bounderby, 
 takin>; some sherry, "we have never had any 
 difficulty with you, and you have never been 
 one of the unreasonable ones. You don't ex- 
 pect to be set up in a coach and six, and to be 
 fed on turtle-soup and venison, with a gold 
 spoon, as a good many of 'em do ;" Mr. Boun- 
 derby always represented this to be the sole, 
 immediate, and direct object of any Hand who 
 was not entirely satisfied ; "and therefore I 
 know already that you have not come here 
 to make a complaint. Now, you know, I am 
 certain of that, before hand." 
 
 " No, sir, sure I ha' not coom for nowt o' 
 th' kind." 
 
 Mr. Bounderby seemed agreeably surprised, 
 HOtwithstanding his previous strong conviction. 
 " Very well," he returned. " You're a steady 
 Hand, and I was not mistaken. Now, let me 
 hear what it's all about. As it's not that, let 
 me hear what it is. What have you got to say? 
 (Jut with it, lad I" 
 
 Stephen happened to glance towards Mrs. 
 Sparsit. " I can go, Mr. Bounderby, if you 
 wish it," said that self-sacrificing lady, making 
 a feint of taking her foot out jf the stirrup. 
 
 Mr. Bounderby staye<l her, by holding a 
 moutliful of chop i-i suspeuaiou before swalf 
 
108 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 lowing it, and putting out his left hand. 
 Then, withdrawing his hand and swallowing 
 his mouthful of chop, he said to Stephen : 
 
 "Xow, you know, this good lady is a born 
 lady, a high lady. You are not to supp()>e 
 because she keeps my house for uie, thai she 
 hasn't been very high up the tree — ah, up 
 at the top of the tree 1 Now, if you have 
 got anything to say that can't be said before 
 a bora lady, this lady will leave the room. 
 If wliat you have got to say, can be said 
 before a born lady, this lady will stay vshere 
 she is." 
 
 " Sir, I hope I never had nowt to say 
 not fitten fur a born L.dy to hear, sin' I were 
 born mysen'," was the reply, accompanied 
 with a jlight flush. 
 
 "Very well," said Mr. Bounderby, pushing 
 away his plate, and leaning back. " Fire 
 away 1" 
 
 "1 ha' coom," Stephen began, raising his 
 eyes from the floor, after a moment's consider- 
 ation, "to ask yo yor advice. I need'i over- 
 much. I were married on a Eas'r Mondy 
 nineteen year sin', long and dree. She were a 
 young lass — pretty enow — wi' good accounts 
 ofheroeu'. Well! She went bad — soon. Not 
 along of me. Gonnows I were not a unkind 
 husband to her." 
 
 "1 have heard all this before," said Mr. 
 Bounderby. * She found other companions, 
 took to drinking, left off working, sold the 
 furniture, pawned the clothes, and placed old 
 (jooseberry.'' 
 
 "1 were patient wi' her." 
 
 ("The m.jre fool you, I think," said Mr. 
 Bouiiderby, in confidence to his wine-glass.) 
 
 "I wert- vei'y patient wi' tier. I tried to 
 wean her fra,'t, uwerand ower agen. I tried 
 ttiis, I tried that, I tried t'oother. I ha' gone 
 home many's the time, and found all vanished 
 as I had In the world, and her without a sense 
 lett to bless hersen' lying on bare ground. 1 
 ha' dunt not once, not twice — twenty lime!" 
 
 Every line in his face deepened as he said 
 it, and put in its affecting evidence of the suf- 
 fering he had undergone. 
 
 "From bad to worse, from worse to worse. 
 She left me. She disgraced hersen' every- 
 ways, bitter and bad. She coom back, she 
 coom back, she coom back. What could 
 I do t' hinder her? 1 ha' walked the stieets 
 nights long, ere ever I'd go home. I ha' gone 
 t' th' brigg, minded to fling mysen' ower, and 
 ha' no more on't. I ha' bore that much, that 
 1 were owd when I were young." 
 
 Mrs. Sparsit, easily ambling along with her 
 netting needles, raised the Coriolanian eye- 
 brows aad shook her head, as much as to say, 
 " The great know trouble as well as the small. 
 Please to turn your humble eye in My direc- 
 tion." 
 
 " I ha' paid her to keep awa' fra' me. These 
 five year I ha' paid her. 1 ha' gotten decent 
 fewtrils about me agen. I ha' lued hard and 
 sad, but not ashamed and t'earf'u' a' the miu- 
 aits o' my life. Last night, I went hume. 
 
 There she lay upon my harston I There she 
 is!" 
 
 In the strength of his misfortune, and the 
 energy of his distress, he fired fur the moment 
 like a proud man. In another moment, he 
 stood as he had stood all the time — his usual 
 stoop upon him ; his pondering face addressed 
 to Mr. Bounderby, with a curiuus expression 
 on it, half-shrewd, hall-perplexed, as it his 
 mind were set upon unravelling something 
 very dilflcult ; his hat held tight in his lelt 
 hand, which rested on his hip; his ri;:hl arm, 
 with a rugged propr ely and force of action, 
 very earnestly emphasisinjr what he said: nut 
 least so when it always paused, a little bent, 
 but not withdrawn, as he paused. 
 
 "1 was acquainted with all this, you know," 
 said Mr. Buunderby, "except the last clause, 
 long ago. It's a bad job ; that's what it is. 
 Yuu had better have been satisfied as you 
 were, and not have got married. However, 
 it's too late to say that." 
 
 "Was it an unequal marriage, sir, in point 
 of years?" asked Mr-. Spar»it. 
 
 "You hear what this lady asks. Was it an 
 unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky 
 job of yours?" said Mr. Bounderby. 
 
 "Not e'en so. I was one-and-tweuty mysen"; 
 she were twenty nighbout." 
 
 "Indeed, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit to her Chief, 
 v;ith great placidity. "I inferred, from its be- 
 ing so miserable a marriage, that it waa proba- 
 bly an unequal one in point of years."' 
 
 Mr. Bounderby looked very hard at the good 
 lady in a sidelong way that had an odd »heep- 
 ishnes.s about it. He fortified himoelf with a 
 little more sherry. 
 
 " Well ! Why don't you go on ?" he then 
 asked, turning rather irritably on Stephen 
 Blackpool. 
 
 " 1 ha' coom to ask yo, sir, how I am to be 
 ridden o' this woman." Stephen infised a }et 
 deeper gravity into the mixed expression of 
 his attentive face. Mrs. Sparsit utieri'd a gen- 
 tle ejaculation, as having received a mural 
 shock. 
 
 " What do you mean ?" said Bounderby, 
 getting up to lean his baclv against the chim- 
 ney-piece. "What are you taliiing about? 
 You took her, for better for worse." 
 
 "I mun' be ridden o' her. I cannot bear't 
 nommore. I ha' lived under't so long, tor 
 that I ha' had'n the pity and the comforting 
 words o' th' best lass living or dead. Haply, 
 but for her, I should ha' gone buttering mad." 
 
 " He wishes to be free, to marry the female 
 of whom he speaks, I fear, sir," obsei-ved Mrs. 
 Sparsit in an under-toue, and much dejected 
 by the immorality of the people. 
 
 "1 do. Ihe lady says what's right. I do. 
 I were a coming to't. I ha' read i' th' papers 
 that great fuk (fair faw 'em a'l I wishes 'em 
 no hurt!) are not bonded together for better 
 fur worse so fast, but that they can be set free 
 tra' their mistbrtnet marriages, and marry 
 ower agen. When ihey dunnot agree, fur that 
 their tempers is ill-sorted, they have rooms o) 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 109 
 
 one kind an' another in their houses, and they 
 can live asunders. We fok ha' only one room, 
 and we can't. When that won't ^, they ha' 
 gowd and other cash, and they can say, 'This 
 for yo, and that for me,' and they can go their 
 separate ways. We can't. Spite o' all that, 
 they can be set free for smaller wrongs than 
 is sufiPered by hundreds an' hundreds of us — 
 by women fur more than men — they can be 
 set free for smaller wrongs than mine. So, I 
 mun be ridden o' this wife o' mine, and I want 
 t' know howV" 
 
 "No how," returned Mr. Bounderby. 
 
 ''If I do her any hurt, sir, there's a law to 
 punish me?" 
 
 "Of course there is." 
 
 "If I flee from her, there's a law to punish 
 me?" 
 
 "Of course there is." 
 
 "If I marry t'oother dear lass, there's a law 
 to punish me!" 
 
 "Of course there is." 
 
 "If I was to live wi' her an' not marry her — 
 saying such a thing could be, which it never 
 could or would, an' her so good — there's a law 
 to punish me, in every innocent chilt belong- 
 ing to me?" 
 
 "Of course there is." 
 
 "Now, a' God's name," said Stephen Black- 
 pool, '"show me the law to help mel" 
 
 "There's a sanctity in this relation of life," 
 said Mr. Bouuderby, "and — and — it must be 
 kept up." 
 
 '"No no, dunnot say that, sir. 'Tan't kep' up 
 that way. Not that way. 'Tis kep' down that 
 way. I'm a weaver, I were in a tact'ry when 
 a chilt, but I ha' gotten een to see wi' and eeru 
 to hear wi'. I read in th' papers, every "Sizes, 
 every Sessions — and you read too — I know it ! 
 with dismay — how th' uupossibility o' ever 
 getting unchained from one another, at any 
 price, on any terms, brings blood upon this 
 laud, and brings many common married 
 fok (agen I say, women fur of'ener than 
 men ) to battle, murder, and sudden death. 
 Let us ha' this, right understood. Mine's a 
 grievous case, an' I want — if yo will be so 
 good — t' know the law that helps me." 
 
 "Now, I tell you what!" said Mr. Bounder- 
 by, putting his hands in his pockets. "There 
 is such a law." 
 
 Stephen, subsiding into his quiet manner, and 
 never wandering in his attention, gave a nod. 
 
 "But it"s not tor you at all. It costs money. 
 It costs a mint of money." 
 
 How much might that be? Stephen calmly 
 asked. 
 
 "Why, you'd have to go to Doctors' Com- 
 mons with a suit, and you'd have to go to a 
 court of Common Law with a suit, and you'd 
 have to go to the House of Lords with a suit, 
 and you'd have to get an Act of Parliament 
 to enable you to marry again, and it would 
 cost you (ii it was a case ol very p'ain-sailing), 
 I suppose from a thousand to tit'teeii hundred 
 pound," said Mr, Bouncerby. "Perhaps twice 
 the mouev."' 
 
 "There's no other law?" 
 
 "Certaiuly not." 
 
 "Why then, sir," said Stephen, turning white, 
 and motioning with that right hand of bis, as 
 if he gave everything to the four winds, "'//*' a 
 muddle. 'Tis just a muddle a'toogether, an' 
 the sooner I am dead, the better." 
 
 (Mrs. Sparsit again dejected by the impiety 
 of the people.) 
 
 "Pooh, pooh! Don't you talk nonsense, my 
 good fellow," said Mr. Bounderby, "about 
 things you don't undt-rstand; and don't you call 
 the Institutions of your country a muddle, or 
 you'll get yourself into a real muddle one of 
 these tiue mornings. The Institutions of your 
 country are not your piecework, and the only 
 thing you have got to do, is, to mind your 
 piece-work. You didn't take your wife for fast 
 and for loose; but for better for worse. If she 
 has turned out worse — why, all we have got to 
 say is, she might have turned out better." 
 
 '' 'Tis a muddle," said Stephen, shaking his 
 head as he moved to the door. "Tis 'a a mud- 
 dle!" 
 
 "Now, I'll tell you what!" Mr. Boundf-rby 
 resumed, as a valedictory address. " With 
 what I shall call your unhallowed opinions, 
 you have been quite shocking this lady : who, 
 as I have already told you, is a born lady, 
 and who, as I have not already told you, has 
 had her own marriage misfortunes to the 
 tune of tens of thousands of pounds — tens ot 
 Thou-sands of Pounds !'' (he repeated it with 
 great relish.) "Now, you have always been 
 a steady Hand hitherto ; but my opinion is, 
 and so 1 tell you plainly, that you are turning 
 into the wrong road. You have been listen- 
 ing to some mischievous stranger or other — 
 they're always about — and the best thing you 
 can do is, to come out of that. Now, yuu un- 
 derstand :" here his countenance expressed 
 marvellous acuteness ; "I can see as tar into a 
 grindstone as another man ; farther than a 
 goud many, perhaps, because I had my nose 
 well kept to it when I was young.* I see traces ' 
 of the turtle soup, and venison, and gold spoon ! 
 in this.-* Yes, I do ! ' cried Mr. Bounderby, i 
 shaking his head with obstinate cunning. "By 
 the Lord Harry, I do !" 
 
 AV'ith a very different shake of the head, 
 and a deep sigh, Stephen said, "Thank you, 
 sir, I wish .you good day." So, he left Mr. 
 Bounderby swelling at his own portrait on the 
 wall, as if he were going to explode himselt 
 into it; and Mrs. Sparsit still ambling on with 
 her foot in her stirrup, looking quite cast 
 down by the popular vices. 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 Old Stephen descended the two white steps, 
 shutting the black door with the brazen door- 
 plate, by the aid of the brazen full-stop, to 
 which he gave a parting polish with the sleeve 
 of his coat, observing that his hot nand cloud- 
 ed it. He crossed the street with his e\c.s 
 bent upon the ground, and thus was walking 
 
iia 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 sorrowfully away, when lie felt a touch upon 
 his arm. 
 
 It was not the touch he needed most at such 
 a moment — the touch that could calm the 
 wild waters of his soul, as the uplifted hand 
 of the sublimest love and patience could abate 
 the raging of the sea — yet it was a woman's 
 hand too. It was an old woman, tall and 
 shapely still, though withered by Time, on 
 whom his eyes fell when he stopped and turned. 
 She was very cleanly and plainly dressed, 
 had country mud ufon her shoes, and was 
 newly come from a journey. The flutter of 
 her manner, in the unwonted noise of the 
 streets; the spare shawl, carried unfolded on 
 her arm; the heavy umbrella, and little 
 basket; the loose long-fingered gloves, to which 
 her hands were unused; all bespoke an old 
 woman from the country, in her plain holiday 
 clothes, come into Coketown on an expedition 
 of rare occurrence. Remarking this at a 
 glance, with the quick observation of his class, 
 ytephen Blackpool bent his attentive face — 
 his face, which, like the faces of many of his 
 order, by dint of long working with eyes and 
 hands in the midst of a prodigious noise, had 
 acquired the concentrated look with which we 
 are familiar in the countenances of the deaf — 
 the better to hear what she asked him. 
 
 "Pray, sir," said the old woman, "did'nt I 
 see you come out of that gentleman's house ?" 
 pointing back to Mr. Bounderby's. "I believe 
 it was you, unless I have had the bad luck to 
 mistake the person in following?" 
 
 "Yes, missus," returned Stephen, "it were 
 me." 
 
 "Have you — you'll excuse an old woman's 
 curiosity — have you seen the gentleman?" 
 
 "Yes, missus.'' 
 
 "And how did he look, sir? "Was he 
 portly, bold, outspoken, hearty?" As she 
 straightened her own figure, and held up 
 her head in adapting her action to her words, 
 the idea crossed Stephen that he had seen 
 this old woman before, and had not quite liked 
 her. 
 
 " yes," he returned, observing her more 
 attentively, " he were all that." 
 
 "And healthy," said the old woman, "as 
 the fresh wind?" 
 
 " Yes," returned Stephen. "He were ett'n 
 and drinking — as large and as loud as a Hum- 
 mobee." 
 
 " Thank you 1" said the old woman with in- 
 finite content. " Thank you !" 
 
 He certainly never had seen this old woman 
 before. Yet there was a vague remembrance 
 in his mind, as if he had more than once 
 dreamed of some old woman like her. 
 
 She walked along at his side, and, gently ac- 
 commodating himself to her humor, he said 
 Coketown was a busy place, was it not? To 
 which she answered, "Eigh surel Dreadful 
 bus)'!" Then he said, she came from the 
 country, he saw? To which she answered in 
 the affirmative. 
 
 "By Parliamentary, this morning. I came 
 
 forty mile by Parliamentary this morning, and 
 I'm goin^back the same forty mile this afte^ 
 noon. iT^alked nine miles to the station this 
 morning, and if I find nobody on the road to 
 give me a lift, I shall walk the nine mile back 
 to night. That's pretty well, sir, at my age!" 
 said the chatty old woman, her eyes brighten- 
 ing with exultation. 
 
 "Deed 'tis. Don't do 't too often, missus." 
 "No, no. Once a year," she answered, 
 shaking her head. "I spend my savings so, 
 once every year. I come, regular, to tramp 
 about the streets, and see the gentlemen." 
 "Only to see 'em?" returned Stephen. 
 "That's enough for me," she replied, with 
 great earnestness and interest of manner. "I 
 ask no more! I have been standing about, on 
 this side of the way, to see that gentleman," 
 turning her head back towards Mr. Bounder- 
 by's again, "come out. But, he's late this year, 
 and I have not seen him. You came out, in- 
 stead. Now, if I am obliged to go back without a 
 glimpse of him — I only want a glimpse — well! I 
 have seen you, and you have seen him, and I 
 must make that do." Saying this, she looked at 
 Stephen as if to fix his features in her mind, 
 and her eyes were not so bright as they had 
 been. 
 
 With a large allowance for difference ot 
 tastes, and with all submission to the patricians 
 of Coketown, this seemed so extraordinary a 
 source of interest to take so much trouble 
 about, that it perplexed him. But they were 
 passing the church now, and as his eye caught 
 the clock, he quicken -d his pace. 
 
 He was going to his work ? the old woman 
 said, quickening hers, too, quite easily. Yes, 
 time was nearly out. On his telling her where 
 he worked, the old woman became a more sin- 
 gular old woman than before. 
 
 "Ain't you happy ?"' she asked him. 
 "Why — there's — awmost nobbody but has 
 their troubles; missus." He answered eva- 
 sively, because the old woman appeaed to 
 take it for granted, that he would be very hap- 
 py indeed, and he had not the heart to disap- 
 point her. He knew that there was trouble 
 enough in the world; and if the old woman had 
 lived so long, and could count upon his having 
 so little, why so much the better for her, and 
 none the worse for him. 
 
 "Ay, ay I You have your troubles at home, 
 you mean?" she said. 
 
 "Times. Just now and then," he answered 
 slightly. 
 
 "But, working under such a gentleman, they 
 don't follow you to the Factory ?" 
 
 No, no; they didn't follow him there, said 
 Stephen. All correct there. Everything ac- 
 cordant there. (He did not go so far as to say, 
 for her pleasure, that there was a sort of Divine 
 Right there; but, I have heard claims almost as 
 magnificent of late years.) 
 
 They were now in the black bye-road near 
 the place, and the Hands were crowding in. 
 The bell was ringing, and the Serpent was a 
 Serpent of many coils, and the Elephant vva.i 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 Ill 
 
 getting ready. The strange old woman was 
 delighted with the very bell. ] t wjl^lre beauti- 
 fullest bell she had ever heard, she said, and 
 sounded grand ! 
 
 She asked him, when he stopped, good na- 
 turedly, to shake hands with her before going 
 in, how long he had worked there ? 
 
 " A dozen year," he told her. 
 
 " I must kiss the hand," said she, " that has 
 worked in this fine factory for a dozen year!" 
 And she lifted it, though he would have pre- 
 vented her, and put it to her lips. What har- 
 mony, besides her age and her simplicity, sur- 
 rounded her, he did not know, but even in this 
 fantastic action there was a something neither 
 out of time nor place ; a something which it 
 seemed as if nobody else could have made as 
 serious, or done with such a natural and 
 touching air. 
 
 He had been at his loom full half an hour, 
 thinking about this old woman, when, having 
 occasion to move round the loom for its ad- 
 justment, he glanced through a window which 
 was in his corner, and saw her still looking up 
 at the pile of building, lost in admiration. 
 Heedless of the smoke, and mud and wet, and 
 of her two long journeys, she was gazing at it, 
 as if the heavy thrum thatissued from its many 
 stories were proud music to her. 
 
 She was gone by and by, and the day went 
 after her, and the lights sprung up again, and 
 the Express whirled in full sight of the Fairy 
 Palace over the arches near; little felt amid the 
 jarring of the machinery, and scarcely heard 
 above its crash and rattle. Long before then, 
 his thoughts had gone back to the dreary room 
 above the little shop, and to the shameful figure 
 heavy on the bed, but heavier on his heart. 
 
 Machinery slackened ; throbbing feebly like 
 a fainting pulse ; stopped. The bell again ; 
 the glare of light and heat dispelled ; the fac- 
 tories, looming heavy in the black wet night ; 
 their tall chimneys rising up into the air like 
 competing Towers of Babel. 
 
 He had spoken to Rachael only last night, it 
 was true, and had walked with her a little way; 
 but he had his new misfortune on him, in which 
 no one else could give him a moment's relief, 
 and, for the sake of it, and because he knew 
 himself to want that softening of his anger 
 which no voice but hers could effect, he felt 
 he might so far disregard what she had said 
 as to wait for her again. He waited, but she 
 had eluded him. She was gone. On no other 
 night in the year, could he so ill have spared 
 her patient face. 
 
 ! Better to have no home in which to lay 
 his head, than to have a home and dread to 
 ^0 to it, through such a cause. He ate and 
 drank, lor he was exhausted — but, he little 
 knew or cared what ; and he wandered about 
 in the chill rain, thinking and thinking, and 
 brooding and brooding. 
 
 No word of a new marriage had ever 
 passed between them ; but Rachael had taken 
 great pity on him years ago, and to her 
 alone he had opeued his closed heart all this 
 
 time, on the subject of his miseries ; and he 
 knew very well that, if he were free to ask 
 her, she would take him. He thought of the 
 home he might at that moment have been 
 seeking with pleasure and pride ; of the 
 different man he might have been that night ; 
 of the lightness then in his now heavy-laden 
 breast; of the then restored honor, self- 
 respect, and tranquillity, now all torn to 
 pieces. He thought of the waste of the best 
 part of his life, of the change it made in his 
 character for the worse every way, of the 
 dreadful nature of his existence, bound hand 
 and foot to a dead woman, and tormented by 
 a demon in her shape. He thought of 
 Rachael, how young when they were first 
 brought together in these circumstances, how 
 mature now, how soon to grow old. He 
 thought of the number of girls and women 
 she had seen marry, how many homes with 
 children in them she had seen grow up 
 around her, how she had contentedly pursued 
 her own lone quiet path — for him — and how 
 he had sometimes seen a shade of melancholy 
 on her blessed face, that smote him with re- 
 morse and despair. He set the picture of her 
 up, beside the infamous image of last night ; 
 and thought. Could it be, that the whole 
 earthly course of one so gentle, good, and self- 
 denying, was subjugate to such a wretch as 
 that 1 
 
 Filled with these thoughts — so filled that 
 he had an unwholesome sense of growing 
 larger, of being placed in some new and dis- 
 eased relation towards the objects among which 
 he passed, of seeing the iris around every misty 
 light turn red — he went home for shelter. 
 
 CHAPTER XIIl. 
 
 A candle faintly burned in the window, to 
 which the black ladder had often been raised 
 for the sliding away of all that was most pre- 
 cious in this world to a striving wife and a 
 brood of hungry babies ; and Stephen added 
 to his other thoughts the stern refiection, that 
 of all the casualties of this existence upon 
 earth, not one was dealt out with so unequal 
 a hand as Death. The inequality of Birth 
 was nothing to it. For, say that the child of 
 a King and the child of a Weaver were born 
 to-night in the same moment, what was that 
 disparity, to the death of any human creature 
 who was serviceable to, or beloved by, another, 
 while this abandoned woman lived on ! 
 
 From the outside of his home he gloomily 
 passed to the inside, with suspended breath 
 and with a slow footstep. He went up to his 
 door, opened it, and so into the room. 
 
 Quiet and peace were there. Rachael was 
 there, sitting by the bed. 
 
 She turned her head, and the light of her 
 face shone in upon the midnight oi his mind. 
 She sat by the bed, watching and tending his 
 wife. That is to say, he saw that some one 
 lay there, and he knew too well it must be 
 she ; but Rachael's hands had put a curtain 
 
112 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 up, so ttat she was screened from his eyes. 
 Her disgraceful garments were removed, and 
 some of Rachael's were in the room. Every- 
 thing was in its place and order as he had 
 always kept it, the little fire was newly 
 trimmed, and the hearth was freshly swept. 
 It appeared to him that he saw all this in Ra- 
 chael's face, and looked at nothing besides. — 
 While looking at it, it was shut out from his 
 view by the softened tears that filled his eyes; 
 but, not before he had seen how earnestly she 
 looked at him, and how her own eyes were 
 filled too. 
 
 She turned again towards the bed, and satis- 
 fying herself that all was quiet there, spoke in 
 alow, calm, cheerful voice. 
 
 "I am glad you have come at last, Stephen. 
 You are very late." 
 
 "I ha' been walking up an' down." 
 
 "I thought so. But 'tis too bad a night for 
 that. The rain falls very heavy, and the wind 
 has risen." 
 
 The wind? True. It was blowing hard. 
 Hark to the thundering in the chimney, and 
 the surging noise I To have been out in such 
 a wind, and not to have known it was blow- 
 ing ! 
 
 •' I have been here once before, to-day, Ste- 
 phen. Landlady came round for me at dinner- 
 time. There was some one here that needed 
 looking to, she said. And 'deed she was right. 
 All wandering and lost, Stephen. Wounded 
 too, and bruised." 
 
 He slowly moved to a chair and sat down, 
 drooping his head before her. 
 
 " I came to do what little I could, Stephen ; 
 first, for that she worked with me when we 
 were girls both, and for that you courted her 
 and married her when I was her friend — " 
 
 He laid his furrowed forehead on his hand, 
 with a low groan. 
 
 " And next, for that I know your heart, and 
 am right sure and certain that 'tis far too mer- 
 ciful to let her die, or even so much as suffer, 
 for want of aid. Thou knowest who said, 'Let 
 him who is without sin among you, cast the 
 first stone at her!' There have been plenty to 
 do that. Thou art not the man to cast the last 
 stone, Stephen, when she is brought so low." 
 
 " Rachael, Rachael I" 
 
 " Thou hast been a cruel sufiferer. Heaven 
 reward thee !" she said, in compassionate ac- 
 cents. " I am thy poor friend, with all my 
 heart and mind." 
 
 The wounds of which she had spoken, seem- 
 ed to be about the neck of the self made out- 
 cast. She dressed them now, still without 
 showing her. She steeped a piece of linen in 
 a basin, into which she poured some liquid 
 from a bottle, and laid it with a gentle hand 
 upon the sore. The three-legged table had 
 been drawn close to the bedside, and on it 
 there were two bottles. This was one. 
 
 It was not so far off, but that Stephen, fol- 
 lowing h(-r liands with his eyes, could read 
 what was primed on it, in large letters. He 
 
 turned of a deadly hue, and a sudden horror 
 seemed tOj^ll upon him. 
 
 "I will stay here, Stephen," said Rachael, 
 quietly resuming her seat, "till the bells go 
 Three. 'Tis to be done again at three, and 
 then she may be left till morning." 
 
 " But thy rest agen to-morrow's work, my 
 dear." 
 
 "I slept sound, last night. I can wake many 
 nights, when I am put to it. 'Tis thou who 
 art in need of rest — so white and tired. Try 
 to sleep in the chair there, while I watch. 
 Thou hadst no sleep last night, I can well be- 
 lieve. To-morrow's work is far harder for thee 
 than for me." 
 
 He heard the thundering and surging out 
 of doors, and it seemed to him as if his late 
 angry mood were going about trying to get 
 at him. She had cast it out 5 she would, 
 keep it out ; he trusted to her to defend him 
 from himself. 
 
 "She don't know me, Stephen; she just 
 drowsily mutters and stares. I have spoken 
 to her times and again, but she don't notice I 
 'Tis as well so. When she comes to her right 
 mind once more, I shall have done what I can, 
 and she never the wiser." 
 
 "How long, Rachael, is't looked for, that 
 she'll be so?" 
 
 " Doctor said she would haply come to her 
 mind to-morrow." 
 
 His eyes again fell on the bottle, and a 
 tremble passed over him, causing him to 
 shiver in every limb. She thought he was 
 chilled with the wet. "No," he said; "it 
 was not that. He had had a fright." 
 "A fright?" 
 
 " Ay, ay I coming in. When I were walk- 
 ing, when I were thinking. When I — " It 
 seized him again ; and he stood up, holding 
 by the mantel-shelf, as he pressed his dank cold 
 hair down with a hand that shook as if it were 
 palsied. 
 
 " Stephen !" 
 
 She was coming to him, but he stretched out 
 his arm to stop her. 
 
 " No ! Don't please ; don't ! Let me see 
 thee setten by the bed. Let me see thee, a' so 
 good, and so forgiving. Let me see thee as I 
 see thee when I coom in. 1 can never see thee 
 better than so. Never, never, never!" 
 
 He had a violent fit of trembling, and then 
 sunk into his chair. After a time he con- 
 trolled himself, and resting with an elbow 
 on one knee, and his head upon that hand, 
 could look towards Rachael. Seen across 
 the dim candle with his moistened eyes, she 
 looked as if she had a glory shining round 
 her head. He could have believed she had. 
 He did believe it, as the noise without shook 
 the window, rattled at the door below, and 
 went about the house clamoring and la- 
 menting. 
 
 "When she gets better, Stephen, 'tis to be 
 hoped she'll leave rhee to thyself a'^ain, and 
 I do thee no mure hurt. Anyways we will ho,'e 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 113 
 
 (»o now. And now I shall keep silence, for I 
 want thee to sleep." 
 
 He closed his eyes, more to please her than 
 to rest his weary head ; but, by slow degrees 
 as he listened to the great noise of the wind, 
 he ceased to hear it, or it changed into the 
 working of his loom, or even into the voices of 
 the day (his own included) saying what had 
 been really said. Even this imperfect conscious- 
 ness faded away at last, and he dreamed a 
 long, troubled dream. 
 
 He thought that he, and some one on whom 
 his heart had long been set — but she was not 
 Rachael, and that surprised him, even in the 
 midst of his imaginary happiness — stood in 
 the church being married. While the cere- 
 mony was performing, and while he recog- 
 nised among the witnesses some whom he 
 knew to be living, and many whom he knew 
 to be dead, darkness came on, succeeded by 
 the shining of a tremendous light. It broke 
 from one line in the table of commandments 
 at the altar, and illuminated the building with 
 the words. They were sounded through the 
 church, too, as if there were voices in the fiery 
 letters. Upon this, the whole appearance 
 before him and around him changed, and 
 nothing was left as it had been, but himself 
 and the clergyman. They stood in the day- 
 light before a crowd so vast, that if all the 
 people in the world could have been brought 
 together into one space, they could not have 
 looked, he thought nore numerous ; and 
 they all abhorred bin . and there was not one 
 pitying or friendly tye among the millions 
 thai were fastened on his face. He stood un 
 a raised stage, under his own loom ; and, look- 
 ing up at the shape the loom took, and hear- 
 ing the burial service distinctly read, he knew 
 that he was there to suffer death. In an in- 
 stant what he stood on fell below him, and he 
 was gone. 
 
 Out of what mystery he came back to his 
 usual life, and to places that he knew, he was 
 unable to consider; but, he was back in those 
 places by some means, and with this condem- 
 nation upon him, that he was never, in this 
 world or the next, through all the unimaginable 
 ages of eternity, to look on Rachael's face or 
 hear her voice. Wandering to and fro, un- 
 ceasingly, without hope, and in search of he 
 knew not what (he only knew that he was 
 doomed to seek it), he was the subject of a 
 nameless, horrible dread, a mortal fear of 
 one particular shape which everything took. 
 Whatsoever he looked at, grew into that form 
 sooner or later. The object of his miseraljle 
 existence was to prevent its recognition by 
 any one among the various people he encoun- 
 tered. Hopeless labor! If he led them out of 
 rooms where it was, if he shut up drawers and 
 closets where it stood, if he drew the curious 
 from places where he knew it to be secreted, 
 and gotthemout into the streets, the very chim- 
 neys of the mills a.-ssumed that shape, and round 
 Ihein was the printed word. 
 
 The wind was blowing again, the rain was 
 
 beating on the housetops, and the larger 
 spaces through which he had strayed con- 
 tracted to the lour walls of his room. Saving 
 that the fire had died out, it was as his eyes 
 had closed upon it. Rachael seemed to have 
 fallen into a doze, in the chair by the bed. 
 She sat wrapped in her shawl, perfectly still. 
 The table stood in the same place, cluse by 
 the bedside, and on it, in its real projiortioua 
 and appearance, was the shape so often re- 
 peated. 
 
 He thought he saw the curtain move. He 
 looked again, and he was sure it moved. He 
 saw a hand come forth, and gmpe about a 
 little. Then the curtain moved more pe?- 
 cepiibly, and the woman m the bed put it 
 back, and sat up. 
 
 With her woful eyes, so haggard and wild, so 
 heavy and large, she looked all round the 
 room, and passed the corner where he slept in 
 his chair. Her eyes returned to that corner, 
 and she put her hand over them as a shade, 
 while she looked into it. Again they went 
 all around the room, scarcely heeding Rachaft 
 if at all, and returned to that corner. He 
 thought, as she once more shaded them — not 
 so much looking at him, as looking for him 
 with a l)rutish instinct that he was there — that 
 no single trace was left in those debauched 
 features, or in the mind that went along with 
 them, of the woman he had married eighteen 
 years before. But that he had seen her couiC 
 to this by inches, he never could have believed 
 her to ije the same. 
 
 All this time, as if a spell were on him, he 
 was motionless and powerless, except to watch 
 her. 
 
 Stupidly dozing, or communing with her 
 incapable self about nothing, she sat for a little 
 whiie with her hands at her ears, and herhead 
 resting on them. Presently, she resumed her 
 staring round the room. And now, for the 
 first time her eyes stopped at thetable with the 
 bottles on it. 
 
 Straightway she turned her eyes back to his 
 cor er, with the defiance of last night, and, 
 moving very cautiously and softly, stretched 
 out her greedy hand. She drew a mug into 
 the bed, and sat for awhile considering which 
 of the two bottles she should choose. Finally, 
 she laid her insensate grasp upon the bottle 
 that had swift and certain death in it, and be- 
 fore his eyes, pulled out the cork with her teeth. 
 
 Dream or reality, he had no voice, nor had 
 he power to stir. If this be real, and her 
 allotted time be not yet come, wake, Rachael, 
 wake ! 
 
 She thought of that, too. She looked at 
 Rachael, and very slowly, very cautiously, 
 poured out the contents. The draught was at 
 her lips. A moment and she would be past 
 all help, let the whole world wake and come 
 about her with its utmost power. But, in 
 that moment Rachael started up with a sup- 
 pressed cry. The creature struggled, struck 
 her, seized' her by the hair; but Rachael uad 
 the cup. 
 
114 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 Stephen broke out of his chair. "Rachael, 
 am I wakiu' or dreamiu' this dreadfo' night!" 
 
 "Tis all well, Stephen. I have been asleep 
 myself. 'Tis near three. Hush 1 I hear the 
 beUs." 
 
 The wind brought the sounds of the church 
 clock to the window. They listened, and it 
 struck three. Stephen looked at her, saw how 
 pale she was, noted the disorder of her hair, 
 aud the red marks of fingers on her forehead, 
 and felt assured that his senses of sight and 
 hearing had been awaked. She held the cup 
 in her hand even now. 
 
 " I thought it must be near three," she 
 said, calmly pouring from the cup into the 
 basin, aud steeping the linen as before. "I 
 am thankful I stayed! 'Tis done now, when I 
 have put this on. Iherel And now she's 
 quiet again. The few drops in the basin I'll 
 pour away, for 'tis bad stuff to leave about, 
 though ever so little of it." As she spoke, she 
 drained the basin into the ashes of the hre, and 
 broke the bottle on the hearth. 
 
 She had nothing to do, then, but to cover 
 herself with her shawl before going out into the 
 wmd aud rain. 
 
 "Thou'lt let me walk wi' thee at this hour, 
 Rachael?" 
 
 "No, Stephen. 'Tis but a minute and I'm 
 home." 
 
 "Thou'rt not fearfo';" he said it in a low 
 voice, as they went out at the door; "to leave 
 me alone wi' her !" 
 
 As she looked at him, saying "Stephen ?'" 
 he went down on his knee before her, on the 
 poor mean stairs, and put an end of her shawl 
 to his lips. 
 
 "Thou art an Angel. Bless thee, bless 
 thee!" 
 
 "1 am, as I have told thee, Stephen, thy poor 
 friend. Angels are not like me. lietvveen 
 them, and a working woman fu' of faults, there 
 is a deep gulf set. My little sister is among 
 them, but she is changed." 
 
 She raised her eyes for a moment as she said 
 the words; and then they fell again, in all their 
 gentleness and mildness, on his face. 
 
 "Thou changest me from bad to good. Thou 
 mak'st me humbly wishfo' to be more like thee, 
 and fearib' to lose thee when this life is ower, 
 an' a' the muddle cleared awa'. Thou'rt an 
 Angel; it may be, thou hast saved my soul 
 alive!" 
 
 She looked at him, on his knee at her feet, 
 •with her shawl still in his hand, and the reproof 
 on her lips died away when she saw the work- 
 ing of his face. 
 
 "I coom home desp'rate. I coom home 
 wi'out a hope, and madwi' thinking that when 
 I said a word o' complaint, I was reckoned a 
 cureasonable Hand. 1 told thee I had had a 
 fright. It were the Poison-bottle on table. I 
 never hurt a livin' creetur; but, happenin' so 
 suddenly upon't, I thowt, 'How can / say 
 what I might ha' done to mysen, or her, or 
 both!'" 
 
 She put her two hands on his mouth, with 
 
 a face of terror, to stop him from saying 
 more. He caught them in his unoccupied 
 hand, and holding them, and still clasping the 
 border of her shawl, said, hurriedly: 
 
 "But I see thee, Rachael, setten by the bed. 
 I ha' seen thee a' this night. In my troublous 
 sleep I ha' kuown thee still to be there. Ever- 
 more I will see thee there. I nevermore will 
 see her or think o' her, but thou shalt be be- 
 side her. I nevermore will see or think o' any- 
 thing that angers me, but thou, so much better 
 than me, shalt be by th' side on't. And so I 
 will try t' look t' th' time, and so I will try t' 
 trust t' th' time, when thou aud me at last 
 shall walk together far awa', beyond the deep 
 gulfj in th' country where thy little sister is." 
 
 He kissed the border of her shawl again, 
 and let her go. She bade him good night in 
 a broken voice, and went out into the street. 
 
 The wind blew from the quarter where the 
 day would soon appear, and still blew strongly. 
 It had cleared the sky before it, and the ram 
 had spent itself or travelled elsewhere, and the 
 stars were bright. He stood bare-headed in 
 the road, watching her quick disappearance. 
 As the shining stars were to the heavy candle 
 ill the window, so was Rachael, in the rugged 
 fancy of this man, to the common experiences 
 of his life. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Time went on in Coketown like its own 
 machinery : so much material wrought up, 
 so much fuel consumed, so many powers worn 
 out, so much money made. But, less inexor- 
 able than iron, steel, and brass, it brought its 
 varying seasons even into that wilderness of 
 smoke and brick, and made the only stand that 
 ever was made in the place against its direful 
 uniformity. 
 
 "Louisa is becoming," said Mr. Gradgrind, 
 "almost a young woman." 
 
 Time, with his innumerable horse-power, 
 worked away, not minding what anybody 
 said, and presently turned out young Thomas 
 a foot taller than when his father had last taken 
 particular notice of him. 
 
 "Thomas is becoming," said Mr. Gradgrind, 
 "almost a young man." 
 
 Time passed Thomas on in the mill, while 
 his father was thinking about it, and there 
 he stood in a long tail-coat and a stiff shirt- 
 collar. 
 
 "Really," said Mr. Gradgrind, "the period 
 has arrived when Thomas ought to go lo 
 Bounderby." 
 
 Time, sticking to him, passed him on into 
 Bouuderby's Bank, made him an inmate of 
 Bounderby's house, necessitated the purchase 
 of his first razor, and exercised him diligently 
 in his calculations relative to number one. 
 
 The same great manufacturer, always with 
 an immense variety of work on hand, in every 
 stage of development, passed Sissy onward in 
 his mill, and worked her up into a very pretty 
 article indeed. 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 115 
 
 "I fear, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind, "that 
 your continuance at the school any longer, 
 would be useless." 
 
 "I am afraid it would, sir," Sissy answered 
 with a curtsey. 
 
 "I cannot disguise from you, Jupe," said 
 Mr. Gradgrind, knitting his brow, "that 
 the result of your probation there has 
 disappointed me ; has greatly disappointed 
 me. You have not acquired, under Mr. 
 and Mrs. M'Choakumchild, anything like 
 that amount of exact knowledge which 
 I looked for. You are extremely deficient 
 in your facts. Y'^our acquaintance with figures 
 is very limited. Y'ou are altogether backward, 
 and below the mark." 
 
 "I am sorry, sir," she returned; "but I know 
 it is quite true. Yet I have tried hard, sir." 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Gradgrind, "yes, I believe 
 you have tried hard; I have observed you, and 
 I can find no fault in that respect." 
 
 '•Thank you, sir. I have thought some- 
 time" ;" Sissy very timid here ; "that perhaps 
 I tried to learn too much, and that if I had 
 asked to be allowed to try a little less, I might 
 have—" 
 
 "No, Jupe, no," said Mr. Gradgrind, shak- 
 ing his head in his profoundest and most emi- 
 nently practical way. "No. The course you 
 pursued, you pursued according to the system 
 — the system — and there is no more to 
 be said about it. I can only suppose that the 
 circumstances of your early life were too un- 
 favorable to the development of your reasoning 
 powers, and that we began too late. Still, as 
 1 have said already, I am disappointed." 
 
 " I wish I could have made a better ac- 
 knowledgment, sir, of your kindness to a poor 
 f irlorn girl who had no claim upon you, and of 
 your protection of her." 
 
 "Uori'tsh?d tears," said Mr. Gradgrind. — 
 "Don't shed tears. I don't complain of you. 
 You are an affectionate, earnest, good young 
 woman, an ' — and we must make that do." 
 
 " i hank you, sir, very much," said Sissy, 
 wiih a grateful curtsey. 
 
 " You are useful to Mrs. Gradgrind, and (in 
 a generally pervading way) you are serviceable 
 in the family also; so I understand from Miss 
 Louisa, and, indeed, so I have observed myself. 
 1 therefore hope," said Mr. Gradgrind, "that 
 you can make yourself happy in those rela- 
 tions." 
 
 "I should have nothing to wish, sir, if — " 
 
 "I understand you," said Mr. Gradgrind; 
 "you still refer to your father. I have beard 
 from Miss Louisa that you still preserve that 
 bottle. Well! If your training in the science 
 of arriving at exact results had been more 
 successful, you would have been wiser oh these 
 points. I will say no more." 
 
 He really liked Sissy too well to have a 
 contempt for her ; otherwise he held her 
 calculating powers in such very slight estima- 
 tion, that he must have fallen upon that 
 conclusion. Somehow or other, he had be- 
 come possessed by au idea liia-t there was some- 
 
 thing in this girl which could hardly be set 
 forth in a tabular form. Her capacity of defi- 
 nition might be easily stated at a very low 
 figure, her mathematical knowledge at nothing ; 
 yet he was not sure that if he had been re- 
 quired, for example, to tick heroff into columns 
 in a parliamentary return, he would have quite 
 known how to divide her. 
 
 In some stages of his manufacture of the 
 human fabric, the processes of 'I'ime are very 
 rapid. Young Thomas and Sissy being both 
 at such a stage of their working up, these 
 changes were effected in a year or two ; while 
 Mr. Gradgrisd himself seemed stationary in 
 his course, and underwent no alteration. 
 
 Except one, which was apart from his ne- 
 cessary progress through the mill. Time 
 hustled him into a little noisy and rather dirty 
 machinery, in a bye corner, and made him 
 Member of Parliament for Coketown: one of 
 the respected members for ounce weights and 
 niPasures, one of the representatives of the 
 multiplication table, one of the deaf honorable 
 gentlemen, dumb honorable gentlemen, blind 
 honorable gentlemen, lame honorable gentle- 
 men, dead honorable gentlemen, to every other 
 consideration. Else wherefore live we in a 
 Christian land, eighteen hundred and odd years 
 after our Master ? 
 
 All this while, Louisa had been passing on, 
 so quiet and reserved, and so much triveu to 
 watching the bright ashes at twilight as they 
 fell into the grate and became extinct, that 
 from the period when her father had said she 
 was almost a young woman — which seemed 
 but yesterday — she had scarcely attracted his 
 notice again, when he found her quite a young 
 woman. 
 
 "Quite a young woman," said Mr. Grad- 
 grind, musing. "Dear me 1" 
 
 Soon after this discovery, he became more 
 thoughtful than usual for several days, and 
 seemed much engros.-ed by one subject. On 
 a certain night, when he was going out, and 
 Louisa came to bid him good bye betore his 
 (iepari\ire — as he was not to be home until 
 late, and she would not see him again untcU 
 the moruing^he held her in his arms, looking 
 at her in his kindest manner, and said : 
 
 "My dear Louisa, you are a woman." 
 
 She answered with the old, quick, searching 
 look of the night whcu she was found at the 
 Circus ; then cast down her eyes. "Yes, 
 lather." 
 
 "My dear," said Mr. Gradgrind, "I must 
 speak with you alone and seriously. Come to 
 ms in my room after breakfast to-morrow, 
 will you ?" 
 
 "Yes, father." 
 
 "Your hands are rather cold, Louisa. Are 
 you not well ?" 
 
 "Quite well, father." 
 
 "And cheerful ?" 
 
 She looked at him again, and smiled in her 
 peculiar manner. "I am as cheerful, father, 
 as 1 usually am, or usually have been." 
 
 " That's well," said Mr. Gradgrind. So, he 
 
116 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 kissed her and went away; and Louisa re- 
 turned to the serene apartment of the hair-cut- 
 ting character, and leaning her elbow on her 
 hand, looked again at the short-lived sparks 
 that so soon subsided into ashes. 
 
 "Are you there, Loo V said her brother, 
 hjoking in at the door. He was quite a young 
 gentlemau of pleasure now, and nut quite a 
 prepossessing one. 
 
 '* Dear Tom," she answered, rising and em- 
 bracing him, " how long it is since you have 
 been to see me 1" 
 
 '■Why, I have been otherwise engaged, Loo, 
 in the evenings; and in the daytime old Boun- 
 derby has been keeping me at it rather. But 
 1 touch him up with you, when he comes it too 
 strong; and so we preserve an understanding. 
 I say! Has father said anything particular to 
 you, to-day or yesterday, Loo?" 
 
 '•No, Tom. But he told me to-night that he 
 wished to do so in the morning." 
 
 "Ah I That's what I mean," said Tom. 
 "Do you know where he is to-night?" — with a 
 very deep expression. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then I'll tell you. He's with old Boundor- 
 by. They are having a regular confab toge- 
 ther, up at the Bank. Why at the Bank, do 
 you think ? Well, I'll tell you again. To 
 keep Mrs. Sparsit's ears as far off as possible, 
 I expect." 
 
 W^ith her hand upon her brothe'-'j shoulder, 
 Louisa still stood looking at the lire. Her 
 brother glanced at her face with greater inter- 
 est than usual, and encircling her waist with 
 his arm, drew her coaxingly to him. 
 
 "You are very fond of me, an't you. Loo?" 
 
 " Indeed I am, Tom, though you do let 
 such long intervals go by without coming to 
 see me." 
 
 "Well, sister of mine," said Tom, " when 
 you say that, you are near my thoughts. We 
 might be so much oftener together — mightn't 
 we? Always together, almost — mightn't we ? 
 It would do me a great deal of good if you were 
 to make up your mind to I know what, Loo. 
 It would be a splendid thing for me. It would 
 be uncommonly jolly !" 
 
 Her thoughtfulness baffled his cunning 
 scrutiny. He could make nothing of her face. 
 He pressed her in his arm, and kissed her 
 cheek. She returned the kiss, but still looKed 
 at the fire. 
 
 "I say, Loo! I thought I'd come and just 
 hint to you what was groing on : though I sup- 
 posed you'd most likely guess, even if you 
 didn't know. I can't stay, because I'm engaged 
 to some fellows to-night. You won't forget 
 how fond you are of me ?" 
 
 "No, dear Tom, I won't forget." 
 
 "That's a capital girl," said Tom. "Good 
 bye. Loo." 
 
 She gave him an affectionate good night, 
 and went out with him to the door, whence 
 the tires of Coketown could be seen, making 
 the distance lurid. She stood there, looking 
 steadfastly towards them, and listening to his 
 
 departing steps. They retreated quickly, as 
 glad to get away from Stone Lodge ; and she 
 stood there yet, when he was gone and all was 
 quiet. It seemed as if, first in her own fire 
 within the house, and then in the fiery haze 
 without, she tried to discover what kind of woot 
 Old Time, that greatest and longest-established 
 Spinner of all, would weave from the threads 
 he had already spun into a woman. But, his 
 factory is a secret place, his work is noiseless, 
 and his Hands are mutes. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Although Mr. Gradgrind did not take after 
 Blue Beard, his room was quite a Blue chamber 
 in- its abundance of blue books. Whatever 
 they could prove (which is usually anything 
 you like), they proved there, in an army con- 
 stantly strengthening by the arrival of new re- 
 cruits. In that charmed apartment, the most 
 complicated social questions were cast up, got 
 into exact totals, and finally settled — if those 
 concerned could only have been brought to 
 know it. As if an astronomical obser- 
 vatory should be made without any win- 
 dows, and the astronomer within should 
 arrange the starry universe solely by pen, 
 ink and paper, so Mr. Gradgrind, in Jiis 
 Observatory (and there are many like it), had 
 no need to cast an eye upon the teeming my- 
 riads of human beiu'S around him, but could 
 settle all their destinies on a slate, and wipe 
 out all their tears with one dirty little bit of 
 sponge. 
 
 To this Observatory, then : a stern room 
 with a deadly-statistical clock in it, which 
 measured every second with a beat like a rap 
 upon a coffin-lid : Louisa repaired on the 
 appointed morning. The window looked to- 
 wards Coketown ; and when she sat down near 
 her father's table, she saw the high chimneys 
 and the long tracks of smoke looming in the 
 heavy distance gloomily. 
 
 "My dear Louisa," said her father, "I pre- 
 pared you last night to give me your serious 
 attention in the conversation we are nowgo'ng 
 to have together. You have been so well 
 trained, and you do, I am happy to say, so 
 much justice to the education you have re- 
 ceived, that I have perfect confidence in your 
 good sense. You are not impulsive, you are 
 not romantic, you are accustomed to view 
 everything from the strong dispassionate 
 ground of reason and calculation. From that 
 ground alone, I know you will view and con- 
 sider -what I am going to communicate." 
 
 He waited, as if he would have been glad 
 that she said something. But she said never 
 a word. 
 
 "Louisa, my dear, you are the subject of a 
 proposal of marriage that has been made to 
 me." 
 
 Again he waited, and again she answered 
 not one word. This so far surprised him, as 
 to induce him gently to repeat, " a proposal of 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 117 
 
 marriage, my dear." To which, she returned 
 without any visible emotion whatever : 
 
 " I hear you, father. I am attending, I 
 assure you." 
 
 '' Well 1 " said Mr. Gradgrind, breaking 
 into a smile, after being for the moment at a 
 loss. " you are even more dispassionate than 
 I expected, Louisa. Or, perhaps you are not 
 unprepared for the announcement I have it in 
 charge to make ? " 
 
 " I cannot say that, father, until I hear it. 
 Prepared or unprepared, I wish to hear it all 
 from you. I wish to hear you state it to me, 
 father." 
 
 Strange to relate, Mr. Gradgrind was not so 
 collected at this moment as his daughter was. 
 He took a paper-knife in his hand, turned it 
 over, laid it down, took it up again, and even 
 then had tolook along the blade of it, consider- 
 ing how to go on. 
 
 ''What you say, my dear Louisa, is perfectly 
 reasonable. I have undertaken then to let you 
 you know that that Mr. Bounderby has in- 
 formed me that he has long watched your pro- 
 gress with particular interest and pleasure, and 
 has long hoped that the time misrht ultimately 
 arrive when he should offer you his hand in 
 marriage. That time, to which she has so long, 
 ajid certainly with great constancy, looked for- 
 ward, is now come. Mr. Bounderby has made 
 his proposal of marriage to me, and has en- 
 treated me to make it known to you, and to 
 express his hope that you will take it into your 
 favorable consideration." 
 
 Silence between them. The deadlysta 
 trstica! clock vcrv hoi ow. The distant smoke 
 Very blnck arid heavy. 
 
 "Father," said Louisa, "do you think I love 
 Mr. Bounderby?" 
 
 Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomfited 
 by this unexpected question. "Well, my 
 child," he returned, "I — really — cannot take 
 upon myself to say." 
 
 "Father," pursued Louisa, in exactly the 
 same voice as before, "do you ask me to love 
 Mr. Bounderby?" 
 
 "My dear Louisa, no. No. I ask nothing." 
 
 " Father," she still pursued, " does Mr. 
 Bounderby ask me to love him?" 
 
 " Really, my dear," said Mr. Gradgrind, " it 
 is dithcultto answer your question — " 
 
 '• Difficult to answer it. Yes or No, father?" 
 
 "Certainly, my dear. Because ;" here was 
 something to demonstrate, and it set him up 
 again; " because the reply depends so mate- 
 rially, Louisa, on the sense in which we use 
 the expression. Now, Mr. Bounderby does 
 not do you the injustice, and does not do 
 himself the injustice, of preteiidinfr to any- 
 thing fanciful, fanta:^tic, or (I am u.-iiif: 
 synonymous terms) sentimental. Mr. Bound- 
 erby would have seen you grow up under 
 iis eyes, to very little purpose, if he could so 
 far fi<rget what is due to your good sense, not 
 to say to his, as to address you from any such 
 ground. Therefore, perhaps the expression 
 
 itself— I merely suggest this to you, my dear 
 
 may be a little misplaced." 
 
 " What would you advise me to use in its 
 stead, father?" 
 
 " Why, my dear Louisa," said Mr. Grad- 
 grind, completely recovered by this time, " I 
 would advise you (since you ask me) to 
 consider this question, as you have been 
 accustomed to consider every other question 
 simply as one of tangible Fact. The ignorant' 
 and the giddy may embarrass such subjecu 
 with irrelevant fancies, and other absur- 
 dities that have no existence, properly 
 viewed — really no existence — but it is no 
 compliment to you to say, that you know better. 
 Now, what are the Facts of this case ? You 
 are, we will say in round numbers, twenty 
 years of age ; Mr. Bounderby is, we will say in 
 round numbers, fifty. There is some disparity 
 in your respective years, but in your means anil 
 positions there is none; on the'contrary, there 
 is a great suitability. Then the question arises, 
 Is this one disparity sufficient to operate as a 
 bar to such a marriage? In considering this 
 question, it is not unimportant to take into 
 account the statistics of marriage, so far aa 
 they have yet been obtained, in England and 
 Wales. I find, on reference to the figures, that 
 a large proportion of these marriages are con- 
 tracted between parties of very unequal ages, 
 and that the elder of these contracting parties 
 is, in rather more than three-fourths of these 
 instances, the bridegroom. It is remarkable, 
 as showing the wide prevalence of this law, 
 that among the natives of the British posses- 
 sions in India, also in a considerable part of 
 China, and among the Calmucks of Tartary, 
 the best means of computation yet furnibhed 
 us by travellers, yield similar results. The 
 disparity I have mentioned, therefore, almost 
 ceases to be disparity, and (virtually) all but 
 disappears." 
 
 "What do you recommend, father," asked 
 Louisa, her reserved composure not in the 
 least affected by these gratifying results, 
 "that I should substitute for the term I used 
 just now? For the misplaced expression?" 
 
 "Louisa," returned her father, "it appears 
 to me that nothing can be plainer. Confining 
 yourself rigidly to Fact, the question of Fact 
 you state to yourself is : Does Mr. Bounderby 
 ask me to marry him ? Yes, he does. The 
 sole remaining question then is: Shall I marry 
 him ? I think nothing can be plainer than 
 thit." 
 
 "Shall I marry him ?" repeated Louisa, with 
 great deliberation. 
 
 " Precisely. And it is satisfactory to me. as 
 your father, ray dear Louisa, to know that you 
 do not come to the consideration of that 
 question with the previous habits of mitd.and 
 habits of life, that belong to many young 
 women." 
 
 " No, father;" she returned, " I do not." 
 
 " I now leave vou to judtje for yourself,' said 
 Mr. Gradgrind. "I have stated the case, aa 
 such cases are usually stated among practical 
 
118 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 minds ; I have stated it, as the case of your 
 mother and myself was stated in its time. 
 The rest, my dear Louisa, is for you to 
 decide." 
 
 From the beginning, she had sat looking at 
 nim fixedly. As he now leaned back in his 
 chair, and bent his deep-set eyes upon her in 
 his turn, perhaps he might have seen one 
 wavering moment in her, when she was im- 
 pelled to throw herself upon his breast, and 
 give him the pent-up confidences of her heart. 
 But, to see it, he must have overleaped at a 
 bound the artificial barriers he had for many 
 years been erecting, between himself and all 
 those subtle essences of humanity which will 
 elude the utmost cunning of algebra until the 
 last trumpet ever to be sounded shall blow 
 even algebra to wreck. The barriers wer^ too 
 many and too high for such a leap. He did 
 not see it. With his unbending, utilitarian, 
 matter-of-fact face, he hardened her again ; 
 and the moment shot away into the plumb- 
 less depth of the past, to mingle with all the 
 lost opportunities that are drowned there. 
 
 Removing her eyes from hira, she sat so 
 long looking silently towards the town, that he 
 said, at length : " Are you consulting the 
 chimneys of the Coketown works, Louisa?"' 
 
 " There seems to be nothing there, but 
 languid and monotonous smoke. Yet when 
 the night comes, Fire bursts out, fatherl" she 
 answered, turning quickly. 
 
 "Of course I know that, Louisa. I do not 
 see the application of the remark." To do 
 him justice he did not, at all. 
 
 She passed it away with a slight motion of 
 her hand, and concentrating her attention upon 
 him again, said, "Father, I have often thought 
 that life is very short" This was so dis- 
 tinctly one of his subjects that he interposed: 
 
 "It is short, no doubt, my dear. Still, the 
 average duration of human life is proved to 
 have increased of late years. The calculations 
 of various life assurance and annuity otKces, 
 among other figures which cannot go wrong, 
 have established the fact." 
 
 "I speak of my own life, father." 
 
 "0 indeed ? Still," said Mr. Gradgrind, "I 
 need not point out to you, Louisa, that it is 
 governed by the laws which govern lives in the 
 aggregate." 
 
 "While it lasts, I would wish to do the little 
 I can, and the little I am fit for. What does it 
 matter !" 
 
 Mr. Gradgrind seemed rather at a loss to 
 understand the last four words ; replying, 
 ''How, matter? What, matter, my dear?" 
 
 "Mr. Bounderby," she went on in a steady, 
 straight way, without regarding this, "asks me 
 to marry him. The question I have to ask 
 myself is, shall I marry him ? That is so, 
 father, is it not? You have told me so, father. 
 Have you not?" 
 
 "Certainly, my dear." 
 
 "Let it be so. Since Mi. Bounderby likes 
 to take me thus, I am satisfied to accept his 
 proposal. Tell him, father, as soon as you 
 
 please, that this was my answer. Repeat it> 
 word for word, if you can, because I should 
 wish him to know what I said." 
 
 "It is quite right, my dear," retorted her 
 father approvingly, "to be exact. 1 will o\y 
 serve your very proper request. Have you any' 
 wish, in reference to the period of your mar- 
 riage, my child ?" 
 
 "None, father. What does it matter 1" 
 
 Mr. Gradgrind had drawn his chair a little 
 nearer to her, and taken her hand. But, her 
 repetition of these words seemed to strike with 
 some little discord on his ear. He paused 
 to look at her, and, still holding her baud, 
 said : 
 
 "Louisa, I have not considered it essential 
 to ask you one question, because the possibility 
 implied in it appeared to me to be too remote. 
 But, perhaps I ought to do so. You have 
 never entertained in secret any other proposal?' 
 
 "Father," she returned, almost scornfully, 
 "what other proposal can have been made to 
 me? Whom have I seen? Where have I 
 been? What are my heart's experiences?" 
 
 "My dear Louisa," returned Mr. Gradgrind, 
 re-assured and satisfied, "you correct me justly. 
 I merely wished to discharge my duty." 
 
 "What do / know, father," said Louisa in 
 her quiet manner, "of tastes and fancie^^; of 
 aspirations and afl'ections; of all that part of 
 my nature in which such light things might 
 have been nourished? What escape have I 
 had from problems that could be demonstrated, 
 and realities that could be grasped?" As she 
 said it, she unconsciously closed her hand, as 
 if upon a solid object, and slowly opened it as 
 though she were releasing dust or ash. 
 
 "My dear," assented her eminently practical 
 parent, "quite true, quite true." 
 
 "Why, father," she pursued, "what a 
 strange question to ask me! The baby- 
 preference that even I have ht-ard of as com- 
 mon among children, has never had its innocent 
 resting-place in my breast. You have been 
 so caretul of me, that I never had a child's 
 heart. You have trained me so well that [ 
 never dreamed a child's dream. You have 
 dealt so wisely with me, father, from my cradle 
 to this hour, that I never had a child's belief 
 or a child's fear." 
 
 Mr. Gradgrind was quite moved by his suc- 
 cess, and by this testimony to it. "My dear 
 Louisa," said he, "you abundantly repay my 
 care. Kiss me, my dear girl." 
 
 So, his daughter kissed him. Detaining 
 her in his embrace, he said, "I may assure 
 you now, my favorite child, that I am made 
 happy by the sound decision at which you 
 have arrived. Mr. Bounderby is a very re- 
 markable man; and what little disparity can be 
 said to exist between you — if any — is more 
 than counterbalanced by the tone your mind 
 has acquired. It has always been my ol ject 
 so to educate you, as that you might, while still 
 in your early youth, be (if I may so express 
 myself) almost any age. Kiss me once mure, 
 Louisa. N ow, let us go and find your mother." 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 119 
 
 Accordingly, they went down to the draw- 
 ing-room, where the esteemed lady with no 
 nonsense about her was recumbent as usual, 
 while Sissy worked beside her. She gave some 
 feeble signs of returning animation when they 
 entered, and presently the taint transparency 
 was presented in a sitting attitude. 
 
 "Mrs. Gradgnnd," said her husband, who 
 had waited tor the achievement of this feat 
 with some impatience, "allow me to present 
 to you Mrs. Bounderby." 
 
 '"Oh!'' said Mrs. Gradirrind, "so you have 
 settled it! Well, I am sure I hope your health 
 may be good, Louisa; for if your head begins 
 to split as soon as you are married, which was 
 the case with mine, I cannot consider that you 
 are to be envied, though I have no doubt you 
 think you are, as all girls do. However, I give 
 you joy, my dear — and hope you may now turn 
 all your ological studies to good account, I am 
 sure I do ! I must give you a kiss of congratu- 
 lation, Louita; but don't touch my right 
 shoulder, for there's something running down 
 it all day long. And now you see," whimpered 
 Mrs. Gradgrind, adjusting her shawls after the 
 affectionate ceremony, "I shall be worrying 
 myself, morning, noon, and night, to know 
 what I am to call him!" 
 
 "Mrs. Gradgrind," said her husband, solemn- 
 ly, "what do you mean ?" 
 
 "Whatever I am to call him, Mr. Grad- 
 grind, when he is married to Louisa ! I 
 must call him something. It's impossible," 
 said Mr;. Gradgrind, with a mingled sense of 
 politeness and injury, "to be constantly ad 
 dressing him, and never giving: him a name. 
 I cannot call him Josiah, for the name is in- 
 supportable to me. You yourself wouldn't 
 hear of Joe, you very well know. Am I to 
 call my own son-in-law. Mister? Not, I be- 
 lieve, unless the lime has arrived when, as an 
 invalid, I am to be trampled upon by my rela- 
 tions. Then, what am I to call him ?" 
 
 Nobody present having any suggestion to 
 offer in the remarkable emer^'ency, Mrs. Grad- 
 grind departed this life for the time being, after 
 delivering the following codicil to her remarks 
 already executed: 
 
 "As to the wedding, all I ask, Louisa, is, — 
 and I ask it with a fluttering in my chest, 
 which actually extends to the soles of my feet. 
 — that it may take place soon. Otherwise, I 
 know it is one of those subjects I shall never 
 hear the last of." 
 
 When Mr. Gradgrind had presented Mrs. 
 Bounderby, Sissy had suddenly turned her 
 head, and looked, in wonder, in pity, in sorrow 
 in doubt, in a multitude of emotions, towards 
 Louisa. Louisa had known it, and seen it, with- 
 out looking at her. From that moment she 
 was impassive, proud, and cold — held Sissy at 
 a distance — changed to her altoirether. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Mr. Bounderby's first disquietude, on hear- 
 ing of his happiness, was occasioned by the 
 
 necessity of imparting it to Mrs. Sparsit. 
 He could not makp up his mind how to do 
 that, or what the consequences of the step 
 might be. Whether she would instantly depar*, 
 bag and baggage, to Lady Scadgers, or would 
 positively retuse to budge from the premises; 
 whether she would be plaintive or abusive, 
 tearful or tearing ; whether she would break 
 her heart, or break the looking glass ; Mr. 
 Bounderby could not at all foresC'^. However, 
 as it must be done, he had no choice but to 
 do it; so, after attemjiting several letters, and 
 failing in them all, he resolved to do it by word 
 ofmouth. 
 
 On his way home, on the evening he set 
 aside for this momentous purpose, he took the 
 precaution of stepping into a chemist's shop and 
 buying a bottle of the very strongest smelling- 
 salts. "By George !" said Mr. Bounderhy, "if 
 she takes it in the fainting way, I'll have the 
 skin off her nose, at all events!" But, in sjiite 
 of being thus forearmed, he entered his own 
 house with anything but a courageous 
 air ; and appeared, before the object of his 
 misgivings, like a dog who was conscious of 
 coming direct from the pantry. 
 "Good evening, Mr. Bounderby !"' 
 "Good evening, ma'am, good evening." 
 He drew up his chair, and Mrs. Sparsit drew 
 back hers, as who should say, "Your fireside, 
 sir. I freely admit it. It is lor you to occupy 
 it all, ifyou think proper." 
 
 "Don't go to the North Pole, ma'am !" said 
 Mr. Bounderby. 
 
 "Thank you, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, and re- 
 turned, though short of her former position. 
 
 Mr. Bounderby sat looking at her, as, with 
 the points of a stiff sharp pair of scissors, she 
 picked out holes for some inscrutable orna- 
 mental purpose, in a piece of cambric. An 
 operation which, taken in connexion with the 
 bushy eyebrows and the Roman nose, suggested 
 with some liveliness the idea of a hawk en- 
 gaged upon the eyes of a tough little bird. 
 She was so steadfastly occupied, that many 
 minutes elapsed before she looked up from 
 her work; when she did so, Mr. Bounderby be- 
 spoke her attention with a hitch of his head. 
 
 "Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, 
 puttinyr his hands in his pockets, and assuring 
 himself with his right hand that the cork of 
 the little bottle was ready for use, "I have no 
 occasion to say to you, that you are not only a 
 lady born and bred, but a devilish sensible 
 woman." 
 
 "Sir," returned the lady, "this is indeed not 
 the first time that you have honored me with 
 similar expressions of your good opinion." 
 
 "Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, 
 "I am going to astonish you." 
 
 "Yes, sir ?" returned Mrs. Sparsit, interro- 
 gatively, and in the most tranquil manner pos- 
 sible. She generally wore mittens, and she 
 now laid down her work and smoothed those 
 mittens. 
 
 "I am going, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, 
 "to marry Tom Gradgriud's daughter." 
 
120 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 "Yes, sir?" returned Mrs. Sparsif. "I hope 
 y m may be happy, Mr. Boundorby. Oh, in- 
 deed I hope you may be hupf)y, sir!'' And 
 she said it with such great coudesconsion, as 
 well as with such great compassion for him, 
 that Bomiderby, far more disconcerted than if 
 she had thrown her work-box at the mirror, or 
 swooned on the hearth-rug, — corked up the 
 smelling-salts tight in his pocket, and thought, 
 "Now con-found this woman, who could have 
 ever guessed that she would take it in this 
 way !" 
 
 "I wish with all my heart, sir," said Mrs. 
 S[)arsit, in a highly superior manner; somehow 
 she seemed, in a moment, to have established 
 a right to pity him ever afterwards; "that you 
 may be in all respects very happy." 
 
 "Well, ma'am," returned Bounderby, with 
 some resentment in his tone : which was 
 clearly lowered, though in spite of himself, 
 "I am obliged to you. I hope I shall be." 
 
 "/>o you, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit, with great 
 affability. "But naturally you do; of course 
 yoa do." 
 
 A very awkward pause on Mr. Bounderby's 
 part succeeded. Mrs. Sparsit sedately resumed 
 her work, aud occasionally gave a small cough, 
 which sounded like the cough of conscious 
 strength and forbearance 
 
 "Well, ma'am," resumed Bounderby, "under 
 these circumstances, I imagine it would not be 
 agreeable to a character like yours to remain 
 here, though you would be very welcome here?" 
 
 "Oh dear no, sir, I could on no account 
 think of thatl" Mrs. Sparsit shook her 
 head, still in her highly superior manner, and 
 a little changed the small cough — coughing 
 now, as if the spirit of prophecy rose within 
 her. but had better be coughed down. 
 
 " However, ma'am," said Bounderby, "there 
 are apartments at the Bank, where a born and 
 bred lady, as keeper of the place, would be 
 rather a catch thau otherwise; aud if the same 
 terms — " 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir. You were so good 
 as to promise that you would always substitute 
 the phrase, annual compliment." 
 
 " Well, ma'am, aanual compliment. If the 
 same annual compliment would be acceptable 
 there, why, I see nothing to part us unless you 
 do." 
 
 "Sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "The proposal 
 is like yourself, and if the position 1 should 
 assume at the Bank is one that I could occupy 
 
 without descending lower in the social scale 
 
 )) 
 
 "Why, of course it is," said Bounderby. "If 
 it was not, ma'am, you don't suppose that I 
 should offer it to a lady who has moved in the 
 society you have moved in. Not that / care 
 for such society, you knovrl But you do.' 
 "Mr. Bounderby, you are very considerate." 
 "You'll have your own private apartments, 
 and you'll have your coals and your candles and 
 ail ihe rest of it, and you'll have your maid to 
 attend up(myou,atid you'll have your light por- 
 ter to prutect you, and you'll be what I take 
 
 the liberty of couaiaering precious comforta- 
 ble," said Bounderby. 
 
 "Sir," rejoined Mrs. Sparsit, "say no more. 
 In yielding up my trust here, I shall not be 
 freed from the necessity of eating the bread of 
 dependence:" she might have said the sweet- 
 bread, for that delicate article in a savory 
 brown sauce was her favorite supper : " and I 
 would rather receive it from your hand, thau 
 from any other. Therefore, sir, I accept your 
 offer gratei'ully, and with many sincere ac- 
 knowledgments for past tiavors. And I hope, 
 .sir,*' said Mrs. Sparsit. concluding in an im- 
 [)ressively compassionate manner, " I fondly 
 hope that Miss Gradgrind may be all you 
 desire, and deserve!" 
 
 Nothing moved Mrs. Sparsit from that posi- 
 tion any more. It was in vain for Bounderby 
 to bluster, or to assert himself in any of his 
 explosive ways ; Mrs. Sparsit was resolved to 
 have compassion on him, as a Victim. She 
 was polite, obliging, cheerful, hopeful; but, the 
 more polite, the more obliging, the more cheer- 
 ful, the more hopeful, the more exemplary 
 altogether, she ; the forlorner Sacrifice and 
 Victim, he. Ibhe had that tenderness for his 
 melancholy fate, that his great red countenance 
 used to break out iuto cold perspirations when 
 she looked at him. 
 
 Meanwhile the marriage was appointed 
 to be solemnized in eight weeks' time, and 
 Mr. Bounderby went every evening to Stone 
 Lodge as an accepted wooer. Love was made 
 on these occasions in the form of bracelets ; 
 and, ou all occasions during the period of be 
 trolhal, took a manufacturing aspect. Dresses 
 were made, jewellery was made, cakes and 
 gloves were made, settlements were made, and 
 an extensive assortment of Facts did appro- 
 priate honor to the contract. The business 
 was all Fact, from first to last. The Hours 
 did not go through any of those rosy perform- 
 ances, which foolish poets have ascribed to 
 them at such times; neither did the clocks go 
 any faster, or any slower, than at other sea- 
 sons. The deadly-statistical recorder in the 
 Gradgrind observatory knocked every second 
 on the head as it was born, aud buried it with 
 his accustomed regularity. 
 
 So the day came, as all other days come to 
 people who will only stick to reason ; and when 
 it came, there were married in the church of 
 the florid wooden legs — that popular order of 
 architecture — Josiah Bounderby, Esquire, of 
 Coketown, to Louisa, eldestdaughter of Thomas 
 Gradgrind, Esquire, of Stone Lodge, M. P. for 
 that borough. And when they were united in 
 holy matrimony, they went home to breakfast 
 at Stone Lodge ^foresaid. 
 
 There was an improving party assembled 
 ou the auspicious occasion, who knew what 
 everything they had to eat and drink was 
 made of, and how it was imported or ex- 
 ported, and in what quantities, and in what 
 bottoiis, whether native or foieign, and all 
 about it. The bridesmaids, down to little 
 Jane Gradgrind, were, in an intellectual 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 121 
 
 point- of view, fit helpmates for the calculating 
 boy; and there was no nonsense about any of 
 the company. 
 
 After breakfast, the bridegroom addressed 
 them in the following terms: 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen, I am Josiah Boun- 
 derby of Coketown. Since you have done my 
 wife and myself the honor of drinking our 
 healths and happiness, I suppose I must ac- 
 knowledge the same; though, as you all know 
 rae, and know what I am, and what ray ex- 
 traction was, you won't expect a speech from 
 a man who, when he sees a Post, says 'that's 
 a Post,' and when he sees a Pump, says 'that's 
 a Pump,' and is not to be got to call a Post a 
 Pump, or a Pump a Post, or either of them a 
 Toothpick. If you want a speech this morning, 
 my friend and father-in law, Tom Gradgrind, 
 is a member of Parliament, and you know 
 where to get it. I am not your man. How- 
 ever, if I teel a little independent when I look 
 around this table to day, and reflect how little 
 I thought of marrying Tom Gradgrind's daugh- 
 ter when I was a ragged street-boy, who never 
 washed his face unless it was at a pump, and 
 that not oftener than once a fortnight, I hope 
 I may be excused. So, I hope you like my 
 feeling independent; if you dou't, I can't help 
 it. I do feel independent. Now, I have men- 
 tioned, and you have mentioned, that I am this 
 day married to Tom Gradgrind's daughter. I 
 am very glad to be so. It has long bepn my 
 wish to be so. I have watched her bringing 
 up, and I believe she is worthy of me. At the 
 same time — not to deceive you — I believe I 
 am worthy of her. So, I thank you, on both our 
 parts, for the goodwill you have shown towards 
 us ; and the best wish I can give the unmar- 
 ried part of the present company, is this: I 
 hope every lachelor may find as good a wife as 
 I have found. And I hope every spinster may 
 find as good a husband as my wife has found." 
 
 Shortly after which oration, as they were 
 going on a nuptial trip to Lyons, in order 
 that Mr. Bounderby might take the oppor- 
 tunity of seeing how the Hands got on in those 
 parts, and whether they, too, required to be fed 
 with gold spoons; the hap[)y pair departed for 
 the railroad. The bride, in passing down 
 stairs, dressed for her journey, found Tom wait- 
 ing for her— flushed, either with his feelings 
 or the vinous part of the breakfast. 
 
 "What a game girl you are, to be such a 
 first-rate sister, Loo 1" whispered Tom. 
 
 She clung to him, as she should have clung 
 to some far better na'ure that day, and was a 
 little shaken in her reserved composure for the 
 first time. 
 
 "Old Bounderby's quite ready," said Tom. 
 "Time's up. Good bye! I shall be on the 
 look-out for you when you come back. I say, 
 my dear Loo I An't it uncommonly jolly now?'" 
 
 CHAPTER XVIL 
 
 A SUN'N'Y midsummer day. There was such 
 a thing sometimes, even iu Cukctown. 
 
 Seen from a distance in such weather. Coke- 
 town lay shrouded in a haze of its own, which 
 appeared impervious to the sun's rays. You 
 only knew the town was there, because vou 
 knew there could have been no such sulky 
 blotch upon the prospect without a town. A 
 blur of soot and smoke, now confusedly tend- 
 ing this way, now that way, now aspiring to 
 the vault of heaven, now murkily creepi g 
 al( ng the earth, as the wind ruse and fell, or 
 changed its quarter: a dense formless jumble, 
 with sheets of cross liglit in it, that showed 
 nothing but masses of darkness: Coketown in 
 the distance was suggestive of itself, though 
 not a brick of it could be seen. 
 
 Thf wonder was, it was there at all. It 
 had been ruined so often, that it was amazing 
 how it had borne so many shocks. Surely 
 there never was such fra^'ile china-ware as 
 that of which the millers of Cokettnvn were 
 made. Handle them never so lightly, and 
 they fell to pieces with such ease that you 
 might suspect them of having been flawed be- 
 fore. They were ruined, when they were re- 
 quired to send laboring children to school; they 
 were ruined, when inspectors were appointed 
 to look into their works; they were ruined, when 
 such inspectors considered it doubtful whe- 
 ther they were quite justified in chopping 
 people up with their machinery; they were 
 utterly undone, when it was hinted that per- 
 haps they need not always make quite so much 
 smoke. Besides Mr. Bounderby's gold spoon 
 which was generally received in Coketown, 
 another prevalent fiction was very popular 
 there. It took the form of a threat. VVhen- 
 ever a Coketowner felt he was ill-used — that is 
 to say, v/heuever he was not left entirely alone, 
 and it was proposed to hold him accountable 
 for the consequences of any of his acts — he 
 was sure to come out with the awful menace, 
 that he would "sooner pitch his property into 
 the Atlantic." This had terrified the Home 
 Secretary within an inch of his life, on several 
 occasions. 
 
 However, the Coketowners were so patriotic 
 after all, that the) never had pitched their pro- 
 perty into the Atlantic yet, but on the contrary, 
 had been kind enough to take mighty good 
 care of it. So there it was, in a haze yonder; 
 and it increased and multiplied. 
 
 The streets were hot and dusty on the 
 summer day, and the sun was so bright that 
 it even shone through the heavy vapor 
 drooping over Coketown, and could not be 
 looked at steadily. Stokers emerged from 
 low underground doorways into factory yards, 
 and sat on steps, and posts, and palings, 
 wiping their swarthy visages, and contem- 
 plating coals. The whole town seemed to be 
 frying in oil. There was a stilling smell of 
 hot oil everywhere. The steam-engines shone 
 with it, the dresses of the Hands were soiled 
 with it, the mills throughout their many stories 
 oozed and trickled it. The atmosphere of 
 those Fairy palaces was like the breath of the 
 simoom \ and their inhabitants, wasting with 
 
122 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 heat, toiled languidly in the desert. But no 
 temperature made the melancholy mad 
 elephants more mad or more sane. Their 
 wearisome heads went up and down at the 
 same rate, in hot weather and cold, wet 
 weather and dry, fair weather and foul. The 
 measured niolion of their shadows on the 
 walls, was the substitute Coketown had to 
 show for the shadows of rustling woods 5 while 
 for the summer hum of insects, it could offer, 
 all the year round, from the dawn of Monday 
 to the night of Saturday, the whirr of shafts 
 aud wheels. 
 
 Drowsily, they whirred all through this 
 sunny day, making the passenger more sleepy 
 and more hot as he passed the humming walls 
 of the mills. Sunblinds, and sprinklings of 
 water, a little cooled the main streets and the 
 shops; but tiie mills, and the courts and alleys, 
 baked at a tierce heat. Down upon the river 
 that was black and thick with dye, some Coke- 
 town boys who were at large — a rare sight 
 there — rowed a crazy boat, which made a spu- 
 mous track upon the water as it jogged along, 
 while every dip of an oar stirred up vile 
 smells. But the sun itself, however be- 
 neficent generally, was less kind to Coke- 
 town than hard frost and rarely looked in- 
 tently into any of its closer regions with- 
 out engendering more death than life, 
 bo does the eye of Heaven itself become an 
 evil eye, when incapable or sordid hands are 
 interposed between it and the things it looks 
 upon to bless. 
 
 Mrs. Sparsit sat in her afternoon apartment 
 at the Bank, on the shadier side of the frying 
 street. Ullicehours were over; and at that 
 period of the day, in warm weather, she usually 
 embellished with her genteel presence, a mana- 
 gerial board-room over the public office. Her 
 own private sitting-room was a story higher, 
 at the window of which post of observation 
 she was ready, every morning, to greet Mr. 
 Bounderby as he came across the road, with 
 the sympathising recognition appropriate to a 
 Victim. He had been married now, a year ; 
 and Mrs. Sparsit had never released him from 
 her determined pity a moment. 
 
 The Bank oifered no violence to the whole- 
 some monotony of the town. It was another 
 red brick house, with black outside shutters, 
 green inside blinds, a black street door up two 
 white steps, a brazen door-plate and a brazen 
 door handle full stop. It was a size larger than 
 Mr. Bounderby's house, as other houses were 
 from a Bize to half-a-dozen sizes smaller; in all 
 other particulars, it was strictly according to 
 pattern. 
 
 Mrs. Sparsit was conscious that by coming 
 in the evening-tide among the desks and 
 writing implements, she shed a feminine, not 
 to say also aristocratic, grace upon the otBce. 
 Seated, with her needlework or netting appara- 
 tus, at the window, she had a self-laudatory 
 sense of correcting, by her lady-like deport- 
 ment, the rude business aspect of the place. 
 With this impression of her interesting char- 
 
 acter upon her, Mrs. Sparsit considered her- 
 self, in some sort, the Bank Fairy. The towns- 
 people who, in their passing and re-passing, 
 saw her there, regarded her as the Bank 
 Dragon, keeping watcli over the treasures of 
 the mine. 
 
 What those treasures were, Mrs. Sparsit 
 knew as little as they did. Gold and silver 
 coin, precious paper, secrets that if divulged 
 would bring vague destruction upon vague 
 persons (generally, however, people whom 
 she disliked), were the chief items in her 
 ideal catalogue thereof. For the rest, she 
 knew that after office hours, she reigned su- 
 preme over all the office furniture, and over a 
 locked up iron room with three locks, against 
 the door of which strong chamber the light 
 porter laid his head every ni^^ht, on a truc-kle 
 bed that disappeartd at cockcrow. Further, 
 she was lady paramount over certain vaults 
 in the basements, sharply spiked off from 
 communication with the predatory world; and 
 over the relics of the current day's work, con- 
 sisting of blots of ink, worn out pens, frag- 
 ments of wafers, and scraps of paper torn so 
 small, that nothing interesting could ever be 
 deciphered on them when Mrs. Sparsit 
 tried. Lastly, she was guardian over a little 
 armory of cutlasses and carbines, arrayed 
 in vengeful order above one of the official 
 chimney-pieces ; and over that respectable 
 tradition never to be separated from a place of 
 business claiming to be wealthy — a row of fire- 
 buckets — vessels calculated to be of no physi- 
 cal utility on any occasion, but observed to 
 exercise a fine moral influence, almost equal 10 
 bullion, on most beholders. 
 
 A deaf serving- woman and the light porter 
 completed Mrs. Sparsit's empire. The deaf 
 serving-woman was rumored to be wealthy ; and 
 a saying had tor many years gone about among 
 the lower orders of Coketown, that she would 
 be murdered some night when the Bank was 
 shut, for the sake of her money. It was 
 generally considered, indeed, that she had 
 been due some time, and ought to have fkllen 
 long ago ; but she had kept her life, and her 
 situation, with an ill-conditioned tenacity that 
 occasioned much offence and disappointment. 
 
 Mrs. Sparsit's tea was just set for her on a 
 pert little table, with its tripod of legs in an 
 attitude, which she insinuated after office 
 .hours, into the company of the stern, eath rn 
 topped, long board-table that bestrode the 
 middle of the room. The light porter placed 
 the tea-tray on it, knuckling his forehead as 
 a form of homage. 
 
 ''Thank you, Bitzer," said Mrs. Sparsit. 
 
 ''Thank you, ma'am," returned the light 
 porter. He was a very light porter indeed ; 
 as light as in the days when he blinkingly 
 defined a horse, for ^irl number twenty. 
 
 "All is shut up, Bitzer?' said Mrs. Sparsit. 
 
 "All is shut up, ma'am." 
 
 "And what," said Mrs. Sparsit, pouring 
 out her tea, "is the news of the day ? Any- 
 thing?" 
 
HARD TLMES. 
 
 123 
 
 "Well, ma'am, I can't say that I have heard 
 anything particular. Our people are a bad 
 lot, ma'am J but that is no news, unfortu- 
 nately." 
 
 "What are the restless wretches doing now?'' 
 asked Mrs. Sparsit. 
 
 "Merely going on in the old way, ma'am. 
 Uniting, and leaguing, and engaging to stand 
 by one another." 
 
 "It is much to be regretted," said Mrs. 
 Sparsit, making her nose more Roman and 
 her eyebrows more Coriolaiiian in thestrem^th 
 of her severity, "ihat the united masters allow 
 of any such class combinations." 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," said Bitzer. 
 
 " Being united themselves, they ought one 
 and all to set their faces against employing any 
 man who is united with any other man,"' said 
 Mrs. Sparsit. 
 
 "They have done that, ma'am," returned 
 Bitzer; "but — it rather fell through, ma'am." 
 
 "I do not pretend to understand these 
 things," said Mrs. Sparsit, with dignity, "my 
 lot having been originally cast in a widely dif- 
 ferent sphere; and Mr. Sparsit, as a Powler, 
 being also quite out of the pale of any such 
 dissensions. I only know that these people 
 must be conquered, and that it's high time it 
 was done, once for all." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, with a 
 deniunstratiou of great respect for Mrs. Spar- 
 sit's oracular authority. "You couldn't put it 
 clearer, I am sure, ma'am." 
 
 As this was his usual hour for having a lit- 
 tle contiilential chat with Mrs. Sparsit, and as 
 he had already caught her eye and seen that 
 fclie was going to ask him something, he made 
 a pretence of arranging the rult;rs, inkstands, 
 and so forth, while that lady went on wiih her 
 tea, glancing through the open window down 
 into the street. 
 
 "Has it been a busy day, Bitzer?'' asked Mrs. 
 Sparsit. 
 
 " Not a very busy day, my lady. About an 
 average day." He now and then slided into 
 uiv lady, instead of ma'am, as an involuntary 
 acknowledgment of Mrs. Sparait's personal 
 dignity and claims to reverence. 
 
 '•The clerks," said Mrs. Sparsit, carefully 
 brushing an imperceptible crumb of bread and 
 butter from her left-hand mitten, "are trust- 
 worthy, punctual, and industrious, of course?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, pretty fair ma'am. With the 
 usual exception." 
 
 He held the respectable office of general 
 spy and informer in the establishment, for 
 which volunteer service he received a pre- 
 sent at Christmas, over and above his weekly 
 wage. He had grown into an extremely clear- 
 headed, cautious, prudent young man, who 
 was safe to rise in the world. His mind was 
 80 exactly regulated, that he had no affections 
 or passions. All his prjceedings were the 
 result of the nicest and coldest calculation ; 
 and it was not without cause that Mrs. Sparsit 
 habitually observed of him, that he was a 
 young man of the steadiest principle she had 
 
 ever known. Having satisiied himself, e>D 
 his father's death, that his mother had a right 
 of settlement in Coketown, this excellent 
 young economist had asserted that right for 
 her with such a steadfast adherence to the 
 principle of the case, that she had been shut 
 up in the workhouse ever since. It must be 
 admitted that he allowed her half a pound of 
 tea a year, which was weak in him ; first, 
 because all gifts have an inevitable tendency 
 to pauperize the recipient, and secondly, be- 
 cause his only reasonable transaction in that 
 commodity would have been to buy it for as 
 little as he could poss:bly give, and sell it for 
 as much as he could possibly get ; it having 
 been clearly ascertained by philosophers that 
 in this is comprised the whole duty of man — 
 not a part of man's duty, but the whole. 
 
 "Pretty fair, ma'am. With the usual excep- 
 tion, ma'am," repeated Bitzer. 
 
 "Ah — h!" s-iid Mrs. Sparsit, shaking her 
 head over her tea-cup, and taking a long gulp. 
 
 "Mr. Thomas, ma'am, I doubt Mr. Thomas 
 very much, ma'am, I don't like his ways at 
 all." 
 
 "Bitzer," said Mrs. Sparsit, in a very im- 
 pressive manner, "do you recollect my having 
 said anything to you respecting names?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon, ma'am. It's quite true 
 that you did object to names being used, and 
 they're always best avoided." 
 
 "Please to remember that I have a charge 
 here," said Mrs. Sparsit, with her air of 
 state. " I hold a trust here, Bitzer, under 
 Mr. Bounderby. However improbable both 
 Mr. Bounderby and myself might have deem- 
 ed it years ago, that he would ever become 
 my patron, making me an annual compli- 
 ment, I cannot but regard him in that light. 
 From Mr. Bounderby I have received every 
 acknowledgment of my social station, and 
 every recognition of my family descent, that 
 I could possibly expect. More, far more. 
 Therefore, to my patron I will be scrupuluusly 
 true. And I do not consider, I will not con- 
 sider, I cannot consider," said Mrs. Sparsit, 
 with a most extensive stock on hand of hunur 
 and morality, "that I should be scrupulouftiv 
 true, if I allowed names to be mentioneti 
 under this roof, that are unfortunately — most 
 unfortunately— no doubt of that — connected 
 with his." 
 
 Bitzerknuckled his forehead again, and again 
 begued pardon. 
 
 "No, Bitzer," continued Mrs. Sparsit, "say 
 an individual, and I will hear you ; say Mr. 
 Thomas, and you must excuse me." 
 
 " With the usual exception, ma'am;" said 
 Bitzer, trying back, "of an indvidual."' 
 
 " Ah — h !" Mrs. Sparsit repeated the ejacu- 
 lation, the shake of the head over her tea-cup, 
 and the long gulp, as taking up the conversa- 
 tion a;,'ain at the point where it had been in- 
 terrupted. 
 
 "An individual, ma'am," said Bitzer, "has 
 lever been what lie onglit to have been, since 
 he first came into the place. He is a dissipa- 
 
124 
 
 DICKEXS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 ted, extravagant idler. He is not worth his 
 salt, ma'aui. He wouldu't get it either, if 
 he hadn't a friend aud relation at court, 
 ma'nin I" 
 
 "Ah — h!" said Mrs. Sparsit, with another 
 melancholy shake ut her head. 
 
 " I only hujie, nia'ani," pursued Bitzer, 
 "that his friend and relation may not supply 
 him with the means of carrying on. Other- 
 wise, ma'am, we Unuw out of whose pocket 
 that money comes." 
 
 "Ah — h I" sighed Mrs. Sparsit again, with 
 another melancholy shake of her head. 
 
 "fie is to be pilled, ma'am. The last party 
 I have alluded to, is to be pitied, ma'am," said 
 Bitzer. 
 
 "Yes, Bitzer," said Mrs. Sparsit. "I have 
 always pitied the delusion, always." 
 
 "As to an individual, ma'am," said Bitzer, 
 dropping his voice and drawing nearer, ''he 
 is as improvident as any of the people in this 
 town. And you know what tlieir improvi- 
 dence is, ma'am. No one could wish to know 
 it better than a lady of your eminence does." 
 
 " fhey would do well," returned Mrs. Spar- 
 sit, ''to take example by you, Bitzer." 
 
 "Thank you, ma'am. But, since you do 
 refer to me, now look at me, ma'am. I have 
 put by a little, ma'am, already. Th>it gratuity 
 which I receive at Christmas, ma'am: I never 
 touch it. I don't even go the length of my 
 wages, though they're not high, ma'am. Why 
 cati'l they do as I have done, ma'am ? What 
 one person can do, another can do." 
 
 This, again, was among the fictions of Coke- 
 town. Any capitalist there, who had made 
 si.vtv thou.>and pounds out of sixpence, always 
 protes-ed to wonder why the sixty thousand 
 nearest tiands didn't each make sixty thou- 
 sand pounds out of sixpence, and more or li.'ss 
 reproached them everyone for not accomplish- 
 ing the little feat. What I did, you can do. 
 Why don't you go aud do it? 
 
 "As to their wanting recreations, ma'am," 
 said Bitzer, "it's stuff and nonsense. / don't 
 want recreations. I never did, and I never 
 shall; I dun't like 'em. As to their combi- 
 ning together ; there are many of them, I have 
 no doubt, that by watching and informing 
 upon one another could earn a trifle now and 
 then, whether in money or good will, and im- 
 prove their livelihood. Then, why don't they 
 improve it, ma'am ? It's the first considera- 
 tion of a rational creature, and it's what they 
 pretend to want." 
 
 " Pretend indeed !" said Mrs. Sparsit. 
 
 " I am sure we are constantly hearing, 
 ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, con- 
 cerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. 
 "Why look at ae, ma'am I I don't want a 
 wife and family. Why should they ?" 
 
 "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. 
 Sparsit. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, " that's 
 where it is. If they were more provident, and 
 less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? 
 They would say, * While my hat covers my 
 
 family,' or, 'while my bonnet covers my family' 
 — as the case might be, ma'am — ' I have only 
 one to feed, and that's the person I most like 
 to feed.' " 
 
 " To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating 
 muffin. 
 
 '• Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuck 
 ling his for head again, in return for the 
 favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversa- 
 tion. "Would yuu wish a little more hot water, 
 iHa'am, or is there anything else that I could 
 fetch you ?" 
 
 "Nothing just now. Bitzer." 
 
 " riiank you ma'am. I shouldn't wish to 
 disturb you at y( ur meals, ma'am, pnrticularly 
 tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, 
 c ailing a little to look over into the street 
 fri^m where lie stood; "but there's a gentleman 
 been looking up here for a minute or so, 
 ma'am, and he has come across as if he was 
 guiiiff to knock. That is his knock, ma'am, no 
 doubt." 
 
 He stepped to the window ; and looking out, 
 a-nd drawing in his head again, confirmed him- 
 self with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the 
 gentleman to be shown in, ma'am ?" 
 
 "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. 
 Sparsi', wiping her mouth and arranging her 
 mittens. 
 
 "A stranger, ma'am, evidently." 
 
 "What a stranger can want at the Bank at 
 this time of the evening, unless he comes upon 
 some business for which he is too late, I dun't 
 know," said Mrs. Sparsit; "but I hohl a chart;e 
 in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and 
 I will never shrink from it. If to see him is 
 any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see 
 him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." 
 
 Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. 
 Sparsit's maijnanimous words, repeated his 
 knock so loudly that the light porter hastened 
 down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took 
 the precaution of concealing her little table, 
 with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, 
 and then decamjied up stairs that she might 
 appear, if needful, with greater dignity. 
 
 " If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would 
 wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his li^'bt 
 eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Spar- 
 sit, who had improved the interval by touching 
 up her cap, took her classical features down 
 staiis again, and entered the board room ia 
 the manner of a Roman matron going outside 
 the city walls to treat with an invading general. 
 
 The visiter having strolled to the windo^v, 
 and being then engaged in looking carelessly 
 out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry 
 as mm could possibly be. He stood whistling 
 to himS'Mf m h all imaginable coolness, with 
 ais hat sti 1 on, and a certain air of exhaustion 
 up in him, in part arising from excessive 
 summer and in part from excessive gentility. 
 For, it vas to be seen with half an eye that he 
 wis a thorou di gentleman, made to the model 
 ot'the time; weary of everything, and putting 
 no m jre faith m anything than Lucifer. 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 125 
 
 "I believe, sir," quoth Mrs. Sparsit, "you 
 wished to see me." 
 
 "I beg your pardon," he said, turning and 
 removing his hat; "pray excuse me." 
 
 "Humph!" thought Mrs. Sparsit, as she 
 made a stately bend. ''Five and thirty, good 
 looking, good figure, good teeth, good voice, 
 good breediag, well dressed, dark hair, bold 
 eyes." All which Mrs. Sparsit observed in 
 her womanly way — like the Sultan who put 
 his head in the pail of water — merely in dip- 
 ping down and coming up again. 
 
 "Please to be seated, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. 
 
 "Thauk you. Allow me." He placed a 
 chair for her, but remained himself carelessly 
 lounging against the table. "1 1. ft my servant 
 at the railway looking after the lugfjage — very 
 heavy train and vast quantity of it in the van 
 — and strolled on, looking about me. Ex- 
 ceedingly odd place. Will you allow me to 
 ask you if it's always as black as this?" 
 
 "In general much blacker," returned Mrs. 
 Sparsit, in her uncompromising way. 
 
 " Is it pos&ible ! Excuse me : you are not 
 a native, I think ?" 
 
 "No, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. It was 
 once ray good or ill fortune, as it may be — be- 
 fore I became a widow — to move in a very dif 
 ferent sphere. My husband was a Powler." 
 
 "Beg your pardon, really !" said the stran- 
 ger. "Was—?" 
 
 Mrs. Sparsit repeated, "A Pswler." "Pow- 
 ler Family," said the stranger, after reflecting 
 a few moments. Mrs. Sparsit signified assent. 
 The stranger seemed a little more fatigued 
 than before. 
 
 "You must be very much bored here?" was 
 the inference he drew from the communica- 
 tion. 
 
 "I am the servant of circumstances, sir," 
 said Mrs. Sparsit, "and I have long adapted 
 myself to the governing power of my life." 
 
 "Very philosophical," returned the stranger, 
 "and very exemplary and laudable, and — " 
 It seemed to be scarcely worth his while to 
 finish the hentence, so he played with his 
 watch-chain wearily. 
 
 "May I be permitted to ask, sir," said Mrs. 
 Sparsit, to what I am indebted for the favour 
 of—" 
 
 "Assuredly," said the stranger. "Much 
 obliged to you for reminding me. I am the 
 bearer of a letter of introduction to Mr. Boun- 
 derby the Banker. Walking through this extra- 
 ordinarily black town, while they were getting 
 dinner ready at the hotel, I asked a fellow 
 whom I met; one of the working people ; who 
 appeared to have been taking a shower-bath 
 of something fluffy, which I assume to be the 
 raw material ; — " 
 
 Mrs. Sparsit inclined her head. 
 
 " — Raw material — where Mr. Bounderby 
 the Banker, might reside. Upon which, mis- 
 led no doubt by the word Banker, he directed 
 me to the Bank. Fact being, I presume, that 
 Mr, Bounderby the Banker, does not reside in 
 
 the edifice in which I have the honour of offer- 
 ing this explanation ?" 
 
 "No, sir, returned Mrs. Sparsit, "he does 
 not." 
 
 "Thank you. I had no intention of deliver- 
 ing my letter at the present moment, nor have 
 I. But, strollnig on to the Bank to kill 
 time, and having the good fortune to observe 
 at the window," towards which he languidly 
 waved his hand, then slightly bowed, "a lady 
 of a very superior and agreeable appearance, I 
 considered thtit 1 could nut do better than take 
 the liberty of asking that lady where Mr. Boun- 
 derby the Banker, does live. Which I accord- 
 ingly venture, with all suitable apologies, to 
 do." 
 
 The inattention and indolence of his manner 
 were suthciently relieved, to Mrs. Sparsit's 
 thinking, by a certain gallantry at ease, which 
 offered her homage too. Here he was, for in- 
 stance, at this moment, all but sitting on the 
 table, and yet lazily bending over her, as if he 
 acknowledged an attraction in her that made 
 her charming — in her way. 
 
 "Banks, I know, are always suspicious, and 
 officially must be," said the stranger, wliose 
 lightness and smoothness of speech were 
 pleasant likewise; suggesting matter far more 
 sensible and humorous than it ever contained 
 — which was perhaps a shrewd device of the 
 founder of this numerous sect, whosoever may 
 have been that great man ; "therefore I may 
 observe that my letter — here it is — is from the 
 member for tuis place — Gradgrind — whom I 
 have had the ple;^sure of knowing in London." 
 
 Mrs. Sparsit recognised the hand, intimated 
 that such confirmation was quite unnecessary, 
 and gave Mr. Bounderby's address, with all 
 needful clues and directions in aid. 
 
 "Thousand thanks," said the stranger. "Of 
 course you know the Banker well ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," rejoined Mrs. Sparsit. "In my 
 dependent relation towards him, I have known 
 him ten years." 
 
 "Quite nn eternity ! I think he married 
 Gradgrind's daughter?" 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Sparsit, suddenly com- 
 pressing her mouth. "He had that — honor." 
 
 "The lady is quite a philosopher, I am told?" 
 
 "Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. Is she?" 
 
 "Excuse my impertinent curiosity," pursued 
 the stranger, fluttering over Mrs. Sparsit's eye- 
 brows, with a propitiatory air, "but you know 
 the family, and know the world. I am about 
 to know the family, and may have much to 
 do with them. Is the lady so very alarming ? 
 Her father gives her such a portentously hard- 
 headed reputation, that I have a burnitig de- 
 sire to know. Is she absolutely unapproach- 
 able? Repellently and stunningly clever? I 
 see, by your meaning smile, you think not. 
 You have poured balm into my anxious soul. 
 As to age, now. Forty? Five and thirty?" 
 
 Mrs. Sparsit laughed outright. "A chit," 
 said she. "Not twenty when she was mar- 
 ried " 
 
 "I give you my honor, Mrs. Powler," return- 
 
126 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 ed the stranger, detaching himself from the 
 table, " that I never was so astonished in my 
 life!" 
 
 It really did seem to impress him, to the 
 utmost extent of his capacity of being impress- 
 ed, lie looked at his informant for full a 
 quarter of a minute, and appeared to have the 
 surprise in his mind all the time. " I assure 
 you, Mrs. Powler," he then said, much ex- 
 hausted, '' that the father's manner prepared 
 me for a grim and slony maturity. I am 
 obliged to you, of all things, fur correcting so 
 absurd a mistake. Pray excuse my intrusion. 
 Many thanks. Good day !" 
 
 He bowed himself out ; and Mrs. Sparsit, 
 hiding in the window-curtain, saw him languish- 
 ing down the street on the shady side of the 
 way, observed of all the town. 
 
 *' What do you think of the gentleman, 
 Bitzer ?" she asked the light porter, when he 
 came to take away. 
 
 "Spends a deal of money on his dress, 
 ma'am." 
 
 "It must be admitted," said Mrs. Sparsit, 
 "that it's very tasteful." 
 
 "Yes, ma'am,"' returned Bitzer, "if that's 
 worth the money." 
 
 "Besides which, ma'am," resumed Bitzer, 
 while he was polishing the table, "he looks to 
 me as if he gamed." 
 
 "It's immoral to game," said Mrs. Sparsit. 
 
 "It's ridiculous, ma'am," said Bitzer, "be- 
 cause the chances are against the players." 
 
 Whether it was that the heat prevented Mrs. 
 Sparsit from working, or whether it was that 
 her hand was out, she did no work that night. 
 She sat at the window, when the sun began to 
 sink behind the smoke; she sat there, when the 
 smoke was burning red, when the color faded 
 from it, when darkness seemed to rise slowly 
 out of the ground, and creep upward, upward, 
 up to the house-tops, up the church steeple, up 
 to the snmmitsof the factory chimneys, up to the 
 sky. Without a candle in the room, Mrs. Sparsit 
 sat at the window, with her hands b'ifore her, 
 not thinking much of the sounds of evening; 
 the whooping of boys, the barking of dogs, 
 the rumbling .of wheels, the steps and voices 
 of passengers, the shrill street cries, the clogs 
 upon the pavement when it was their hour for 
 going by, the shutting-up of shop-shutters. 
 Not until ihe light porter announced that her 
 nocturnal sweetbread was ready, did Mrs. Spar- 
 sit arouse herself from her reverie, and convey 
 her dense black eyebrows — by that time 
 creased with meditation, as if they needed 
 ironing out — up stairs. 
 
 "0, you Fool!" said Mrs. Sparsit, when she 
 was alone at her supper. Whom she meant, 
 she did not say; but she could scarcely have 
 meant the sweetbread. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 The Gradgrind party wanted assistance in 
 murdering the Graces. They went about re- 
 cruiting; and where could they enlist recruits 
 
 more readily, than among the fine gentlemen 
 who, having found out everything to be worth 
 nothing, were equally ready for anything ? 
 
 Moreover, the healthy spirits who had mounted 
 to this sublime height were attractive to many 
 of the Gradgrind school. They liked line gen- 
 tlemen; they pretended that they did not, but 
 they did. They became exhausted in imita- 
 tion of them; and they yaw-yawed in their 
 speech like them; and they served out, with an 
 enervated air, the little mouldy rations of po- 
 litical economy, on which they regaled their 
 disciples. There never before was seen on 
 earth such a wonderful hybrid race as was thus 
 produced. 
 
 Among the fine gentlemen not regularly be- 
 longing to the Gradj^rind school, there wasone 
 of a good family and a better appearance, with 
 a happy turn of humor which had told im- 
 mensely with the House of Commons on the 
 occasion of his entertaining it with his (and 
 the Board of Directors') view of a railway 
 accident, in which the most careful ollicers 
 ever known, employed by the most liberal 
 managers ever beard o\', assisted by the finest 
 mechanical contrivances ever devised, the 
 whole in action on the best line ever con- 
 structed, had killed five people and wounded 
 thirty-two, by a casualty without which the 
 excellence of the whole system would have 
 been positively incomplete. Among the slain 
 was a cow, and among the scattered articles 
 unowned, a widow's cap. And the honorable 
 member had so tickled the House (which 
 has a delicate sense of humor) by putting 
 the cap on the cow, that it became impatieut 
 of any serious reference to the Coroner's In- 
 quest, and brought the railway off with Cheers 
 and Laughter. 
 
 Now, this gentleman had a younger bro- 
 ther of still better appearance than himself, 
 who had tried life as a Cornet of Dragoons, 
 and found it a bore; and had afterwards tried 
 it in the train of an English minister abroad, 
 and found it a bore ; and had then strulled to 
 Jerusalem, and got bored there; and had then 
 gone yachting about the world, and got bored 
 everywhere. To whom this honorable and jocu- 
 lar member fraternally said one day, "Jem, 
 there's a good opening among the hard Fact 
 fellows, and they want men. I wonder you 
 don't go in for statistics." Jem, rather 
 taken by the novelty of the idea, and very 
 hard up for a change, was as ready to " go 
 in" for statistics as for anything else. So, he 
 went in. He coached himself up with a blue 
 book or two ; and his brother put it 
 about among the hard Fact fellows, and sail, 
 "If you want to bring in, for any place, a 
 handsome dog who can make you a devilish 
 good speech, look after my brother Jem, for 
 he's your man." After a few dashes in the 
 public meeting way, Mr. Gradgrind and a 
 council of political sagps approved of Jem, and 
 it was resolved to send him down to Coketown, 
 to become known there and in the neighbor- 
 hood. Hence the letter Jem had lasu night 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 127 
 
 shown to Mrs. Sparsit, which Mr. Bounderby 
 now held in his hand ; superscribed, "Josiah 
 Bounderby, Esquire, Banker, Coketown. Spe- 
 cially to introduce James Harthouse, Esquire. 
 Thomas Gradgrind." 
 
 Within an hour of the receipt of this de- 
 spatch and Mr. James Harthouse's card, Mr. 
 Bounderby put on his hat and went down to 
 the Hotel. There, he found Mr. James Hart- 
 house looking out of the window, in a state ot 
 mind so disconsolate, that he was already half 
 disposed to " go in " for something else. 
 
 " My name, sir," said his visitor, '' is Josiah 
 Bounderby of Coketown." 
 
 Mr. James Harthouse was very happy 
 indeed (though he scarcely looked soj,to have 
 a pleasure he had long expected. 
 
 "Coketown, sir," said Bounderby, obstinately 
 taking a chair, "is not the kind of place you 
 have been accustomed to. Therefore, if you'll 
 allow me — or whether you will or not, for I 
 am a plain man — I'll tell you something about 
 it befoi'e we go any further." 
 
 Mr. Harthoue would be charmed. 
 
 "Don't be too sure of that," said Boun- 
 derby. "I don't promise it. First of all, 
 you see our smoke. That's meat and drink 
 to us. It's the healthiest thing in the world 
 in all respects, and particularly for the 
 lungs. If you are one of those who want us 
 to consume it, I differ from you. We are not 
 going to wear the bottoms of our boilers out 
 any faster than we wear 'em out now, for all 
 the humbugging sentiment in Great Britain 
 and Ireland." 
 
 By way of "going in" to the fullest extent, 
 Mr. Harthouse rejoined, " Mr. Bounderby, I 
 assure you I am entirely and completely of 
 your way ofthiuking. On conviction." 
 
 "I am glad to hear it," said Bounderby. 
 "Now you have heard a lot of talk about the 
 work in our mills, no doubt. You have ? 
 Very good. I'll state the fact ot it to you. 
 It's the pleasautest work there is, and it's the 
 liiihtest work there is, and it's the best paid 
 work there is. More than that, we couldn't im- 
 prove the mills themselves, unless we laid down 
 Turkey carpets on the floors. Which we're 
 not a-going to do." 
 
 "Mr. Bounderby, perfectly right." 
 
 "Lastly," said Bounderby, "as to our Hands. 
 There's not a Hand in this town, sir, man, wo- 
 man, or child, but has one ultimate object in 
 life. That object is, to be fed on turtle soup 
 and venison with a gold spoon. Now, they're 
 not a-going — none of 'em — ever to be fed on 
 turtle soup and venison with a gold spoon. 
 And now you know the place." 
 
 Mr. Harthouse professed himself in the 
 highest degree instructed and refreshed, by this 
 condensed epitome of the whole Coketown 
 question. 
 
 "Why, you see," replied Mr. Bounderby, "it 
 suits my disposition to have a full understand- 
 ing with a man, particularly with a public 
 man, when I make his acquaintance. I have 
 ouly one thing more to say to you, Mr. Hart- 
 
 house, before assuring you of the pleasure with 
 which I shall respond, to the utmost of my 
 poor ability, to my friend Tom Gradgrind'a 
 letter of introduction. You are a man of family. 
 Don't you deceive yourself by supposing for a 
 moment that 1 am a man of family. I am a 
 bit of dirty riff-raff, and a genuine scrap of tag, 
 rag, and bobtail." 
 
 If anything could have exalted Jem's in- 
 terest in Mr. Bounderby, it would have been 
 this very circumstance. Or, so he told him. 
 
 " So now," said Bounderby, " we may 
 shake hands on equal terms. I say, equal 
 terms, because although I know what 1 am, 
 and the exact depth of the gutter I have 
 lifted myself out of, better than any man does, 
 I am as proud as you are. I am just as proud 
 as you are. Having now asserted my inde- 
 pendence in a proper manner, I may come to 
 how do you find yourself, and I hope you're 
 pretty well." 
 
 The better, Mr. Harthouse gave him to un- 
 derstand as they shook hands, for the salubrious 
 air of Coketown. Mr. Bounderby received 
 the answer with favor. 
 
 "Perhaps you know," said he, "or perhaps 
 you don't know, I married Tom Gradgrind's 
 daughter. If you have nothing better to do 
 than to walk up town with me, I shall be 
 glad to introduce you to Tom Gradgrind's 
 daughter." 
 
 " Mr. Bounderby," said Jem, " you antici- 
 pate my dearest wishes." 
 
 They went out without further discourse ; 
 and Mr. Bounderby piloted the new ai-quain- 
 tance who so strongly contrasted with him, to 
 the private red brick dwelling, with the black 
 outside shutters, the green inside blinds, and 
 the black street door up the two white steps. 
 In the drawing-room of which mansion, there 
 presently entered to them the most remark- 
 able girl Mr. James Harthouse had ever seen. 
 She was so constrained, and yet so careless ; so 
 reserved, and yet so watchful ; so cold and 
 proud, and yet so sensitively ashamed of her 
 husband's braggart humility — from which she 
 shrunk as if every example of it were a cut or 
 a blow; that it was quite a new sensation to 
 observe her. In face she was no less remark- 
 able than in manner. Her features were hand- 
 some; but their natural play was so suppressed 
 and locked up, that It seemed impossible to 
 guess at their genuine expression. Utterly in- 
 ditt'erent, perfectly self reliant, never at a loss, 
 and yet never at her ease, with her figure in 
 company with them there, and heruiind appa- 
 rently quite alone — it was of no use "goin^in" 
 yet awhile to comprehend this girl, lor she baf- 
 fled all penetration. 
 
 From the mistress of the house, the visiter 
 glanced to the house itself. There was no 
 mute sign of a woman in the room. No 
 graceful little adornment, no fanciful littie 
 device, however trivial, anywhere expressed 
 her influence. Cheerless and comfortless, 
 boastfully and doggedly rich, there the room 
 stared at its present occupants, unsoftened and 
 
128 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 unrelieved by the least trace of any womanly 
 occupation. As Mr. Bounderby stood in the 
 midst ol'his household gods, so those unrelent- 
 ing divinities occupied their places around Mr. 
 Baunderby, and they were worthy of one 
 another and well matched. 
 
 '•This, sir," said Bounderby, "is my wife, 
 Mrs. Bounderby: Tom Gradgrind's eldest 
 daughter. Loo, Mr. James Harthouse. Mr. 
 Harlhouse has joined your father's muster- 
 roll. If he is not Tom Gradgrind's col- 
 league before long, I believe we shall at least 
 hear of him in connexion with one of our 
 neighboring towns. You observe, Mr, Hart- 
 house, that my wife is my junior. I don't 
 know what she saw in me to marry me, but 
 she saw something in me, I suppose, or she 
 wouldn't have married me. She has lots of 
 expensive knowledge, sir, political and other- 
 wise. If you want to cram for anything, I 
 should be troubled to recommend you to a 
 better adviser than Loo Bounderby." 
 
 To a more agreeable adviser, or one from 
 whom he would be more likely to learn, Mr. 
 Harthouse could never be recommended. 
 
 '* Come !" said his host. " If you're in 
 the complimentary line, you'll get on here, 
 for you'll meet with no competition. I have 
 never been in the way of learning compliments 
 myself, and I don't profess to understand the 
 art of paying 'em. In fact, I despise 'em. 
 But, your bringing-up was different from mine; 
 mine was a real thing, by George! You're a 
 gentleman, and I don't pretend to be one. I 
 am Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, and that's 
 enough for me. However, though / am not 
 influenced by manners and station. Loo Bound- 
 erby may be. She hadn't my advantages — dis- 
 advantages you would call 'em, but I call 'em 
 advantages — so you'll not waste your power, I 
 dare say." 
 
 "Mr. Bounderby," said Jem, turning with 
 a smile to Louisa, "is a noble animal in a 
 comparatively natural state, quite tree from 
 the harness in which a conventional hack like 
 myself works." 
 
 "You respect Mr. Bounderby very much," 
 she ouietly returned. "It is natural that you 
 should." 
 
 He was disgracefully thrown out, for a 
 gentleman who had seen so much of the 
 world, and thought — "Now, how am I to take 
 this ?" 
 
 "You are going to devote yourself, as I 
 gather from what Mr. Bounderby lias said, 
 to the service of your country. You have 
 made up your mind," said Louisa, still 
 standing before him where she had first 
 stopped — in all the singular contrariety of her 
 self-possession, and her being obviously so 
 very ill at ease — " to show the nation the way 
 out of all its difficulties." 
 
 " Mrs. Bounderby," he returned laughing, 
 " upon my honor, no. I will make no such 
 pretence to yon. I have seen a little, here 
 una there, up and down ; I have found it all to 
 
 be very worthless, as everybody has, and as 
 some confess they have, and some do not ; and 
 I am going in for your respected father's opi- 
 nions — really because I have no choice of opi- 
 nions, and may as well back them as anything 
 else." 
 
 " Have you none of your own ?" asked 
 Louisa. 
 
 " I have not so much as the slightest pre- 
 dilection left. I assure you I attach not the 
 least importance to any opinions. The result 
 of the varieties of boredom I have under- 
 gone, is a conviction (unless conviction is too 
 industrious a word for the lazy sentiment I 
 entertain on the subject), that any set of ideas 
 will do just as much good as any other set, and 
 just as much harm as any other set. There's 
 an English family with a capital Italian motto. 
 What will be, will be. it's the only truth 
 going!" 
 
 This vicious assumption of honesty in dis- 
 honesty — a vice so dangerous, so deadly, and 
 so common — seemed, he observed, a little to 
 impress her in his favor. He followed up the 
 advantage, by saying in his pleasantest man- 
 ner : a manner to which she might attach 
 as much or as little meaning as she pleased: 
 " The side that can prove anything in a 
 line of units, tens, hundreds and thousands, 
 Mrs. Bounderby, seems to me to afford the 
 most fun, and to give a man the best chance. 
 I am quite as much attached to it as if I be- 
 lieved it. I am quite ready to go in for it, to 
 the same extent as if I believed it. And what 
 moi-e could I possibly do, if 1 did believe it!" 
 
 "You are a singular politician," said Louisa. 
 
 "Pardon me; I have not even that merit. 
 We are the largest party in the state, I assure 
 you, Mrs. Bounderby, if we all fell out of our 
 adopted ranks and were reviewed together." 
 
 Mr. Bounderby, who had been in danger of 
 bursting in silence, interposed here with a pro- 
 ject for postponing the tamily dinner to half- 
 past six, and taking Mr. James Harthouse in 
 the meantime on a round of visits to the voting 
 and interesting notabilities of Coketown and 
 its vicinity. The round of visits was made; 
 and Mr. James Harthouse, with a discreet use 
 of his blue coaching, came off' triumphantly, 
 though with a considerable accession of bore- 
 dom. 
 
 In the evening, he found the dinner-table 
 laid for four, but they sat down only three. 
 It was an appropriate occasion for Mr. Boun- 
 derby to discuss the flavor of the hap'orth 
 of stewed eels he had purchased in the streets 
 at eight years old, and also of the inferior 
 water, specially used for laying the dust, 
 with which he had washed down that repast. 
 He likewise entertained his guest, over the 
 soup and fish, with the calculation that he 
 (Bounderby) had eaten in his youth at least 
 three horses under the guise of polonies and 
 saveloys. These recitals, Jem, in a languid 
 manner, received with " charming !" every 
 now and then ; and they probably would have 
 decided him to go in lur Jerusalem again to- 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 iiwjrrow morning', had he been less curious re- 
 ispectiug Louisa. 
 
 " Is there nothing," he thought, glancing at 
 her as she sat at the hoad of the table, where 
 her youthful figure, small and slight, but very 
 graceful, looked as pretty as it looked mis- 
 placed; "is there nothing that will move that 
 face ?" 
 
 Yes I By Jupiter, there was something, and 
 here it was, in an unexpected shape I Tom 
 appeared. She changed as the door opened, 
 and broke into a beaming smile. 
 
 A beautiful smile. iMr. James Harthonse 
 might not have thought so much of it, but that 
 he had wondered so long at her impassive 
 face. She put out her hand — a pretty Utile 
 solt hand ; and her fingers closed upon her 
 brother's, as if she would have carried them 
 to her lips. 
 
 "Ay, ay?" thought the visiter. "This 
 whelp is the only creature she cares for. 
 So, so 1" 
 
 The whelp was presented, and took his 
 chair. The appellation was not flattering, but 
 not unmerited. 
 
 "When I was your age, young Tom," said 
 Bounderby, "I was punctual, or I get no 
 dinner !" 
 
 "When you were my age," returned Tom, 
 **you hadn't a wrong balance to get right, and 
 hadn't to dress afterwards." 
 
 ''Never mind that now," said Bounderby. 
 
 "Well, then," grumbled Tom. "Don't be- 
 gin with me." 
 
 "Mrs. Bounderby," said Harthouse, perfect- 
 ly hearing this under-strain as it went ou; 
 "your brother's face is quite familiar to me. 
 Can I have seen him abroad ? Ur at some 
 public school, perhaps ?" 
 
 "No," she returned, quite interested, "he 
 has never been abroad yet, and was educatt-d 
 here, at home. Tom, love, I am telling Mr. 
 Harthouse that he never saw you abroad." 
 
 "No such luck, sir," said Tom. 
 
 There was little enough in him to brighten 
 her face, for he was a sullen young iellow, and 
 ungracious in his manner even to her. So 
 much the greater must have been the solitude 
 of her heart, and her need of some one on whom 
 to bestow it. "So much the more is this whelp 
 the cnly creature she has ever cared for," 
 thought Mr. James Harthouse, turning it over 
 and over. "So much the more. So much the 
 more."' 
 
 Both in his sister's presence, and after she 
 had left the room, the whelp took no pains to 
 hide his contempt for Mr. Bounderby, when- 
 ever he could indulge it without the observa- 
 tion of that independent man, by making wry 
 faces, or shutting one eye. Without respond- 
 ing to the.ic telegraphic communications, Mr. 
 Harthouse encouraged him much in the course 
 of the evening, and showed an unusual liking 
 for him. At last, when he rose to return to 
 his hotel, and was a little doubiful whether he 
 knew the wav by night, the whelp immediately 
 9 
 
 proffered his services as guide, and turned out 
 with him to escort him thither. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 It was very remarkable that a young cren- 
 tlemau who had been brought up under one 
 continuous system of unnatural restraint, 
 should be a hypocrite ; but it was certainly the 
 case with Tom. It was very strange that a 
 young gentleman who had never been left to 
 his own guidance for five consecutive minutes, 
 should be incapai)le at last of governing him- 
 self; but so it wtts with Tom. It was ah.) 
 gether unaccountable that a young gentleniar 
 whose imagination had been strangled in hi.' 
 cradle, should be still inconvenienced iiy it:? 
 ghost in the form of grovelling sensualities; 
 but such a monster, beyond all duubt, was 
 Tom. 
 
 "Do you smoke?" asked Mr. James Hart- 
 house, when they came to the hotel. 
 
 "I believe you I" said Tom. 
 
 He could do no less than ask Tom up ; 
 and Tom could do no less than go uj). What 
 with a cooling drink adapted to the weather, 
 but not so weak as cool ; and what with a 
 rarer tobacco than was to be bought in those 
 parts ; Tom was soon in a highly free and easy 
 state at his end of the sofa, and more than 
 ever disposed to admire his new friend at the 
 other end. 
 
 Tom blew his smoke aside, after he had 
 been smoking a little while, and took an ob- 
 servation of his friend. "He don't seem to 
 care about his dress," thought Tom, " and yet 
 how capitally he does it. What an easy i^well 
 he is I" 
 
 Mr. James Harthouse, happening to catch 
 Tom's eye, remarked that he drank nothing, 
 and filled his glass with his own negiigeut 
 haml. 
 
 "Thank'ee," said Tom. "Thank'ee. Well, 
 Mr. Harthouse, I hope you have ha 1 about 
 a dose of old Boun<lerby to-night." Tom 
 said this with one eye shut up again, and 
 looking over his glass knowingly, at his enter- 
 tainer. 
 
 "A very good fellow indeed I" returned 
 Mr. James Harthouse. 
 
 "You think so, don't you ?" said Tom. And 
 shut up his eye again. 
 
 Mr. Jam^s Harthouse smiled ; and rising 
 from his end of the sofa, and lounging with 
 his back against the chimney-piece, so that 
 he stood before the empty fire-grate as he 
 smoked, in front of Tom, and looking down 
 at him, observed : 
 
 " What a comical brother in-law you are !" 
 
 " What a comical brother-in-law old Boun- 
 derby is, I think you mean," said Tom. 
 
 " You are a piece of caustic, Tom," retorted 
 Mr. .lames Harthouse. 
 
 There was something so very agreeable ni 
 being so intimate with such a waistcoat; hi 
 being called Tom, by such a voice; in be'iiL' 
 ou such off-hand terms so soon, with such a 
 
130 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 pair of whiskers ; that Tom was uncommonly 
 pleased with hiraseU'. 
 
 "Oh!"' 1 don't care for old Bounderby," 
 said he, " if you mean that. I have always 
 called old Bounderby by the same name, 
 when I have talked about him, and I have 
 always thought of him in the same way. I am 
 not goiug to begin to be polite now, about old 
 Bounderby. It would be rather late in the 
 day." 
 
 "Don't mind me," returned James ; "but 
 take care when his wife is by, you know." 
 
 "His wife ?■' said Tom. "My sister Loo? 
 yes ! " And he laughed, and took a little 
 more of the cooling drink. 
 
 James Uarthouse continued to lounge in the 
 same place and attitude, smoking his segar in 
 his own easy way, and looking pleasantly at the 
 whelp, as it he knew himself to be a kind of 
 agreeable demon who had only to hover over 
 him, and he must give up his whole soul if re- 
 quired. It certainly did seem that the whplp 
 yielded to this influence. He looked at his 
 companion sneakingly, he looked at him ad- 
 miringly, he looked at him boldly, and put up 
 one leg on the sofa. 
 
 "My sister Loo?" said Tom. "She never 
 cared for old Bounderby." 
 
 "That's the past tense, Tom," returned Mr. 
 James Harthouse, striking the ash from his 
 cigar with fiis little linger. "We are in the 
 present tense, now." 
 
 "Verb neuter, not to care. Indicative 
 mood, present tense. First person singular, I 
 do not care; second person singular, thou dost 
 not care; third person singular, she does not 
 care," returned Tom, 
 
 "Good! Very quaint!" said his friend. 
 "Though you don't mean it." 
 
 "But I do mean it," cried Tom. "Upon my 
 honor! Why, you won't tell me, Mr. Hart 
 house, that you really suppose my sister Loo 
 does care for old Bounderby." 
 
 "My dear fellow," returned the other, "what 
 am I bound to suppose, when I find two 
 married people living in harmony and happi- 
 ness?" 
 
 Tom had by this time got both his legs on 
 the sofa. If his second leg had not been al- 
 ready there when he was called a dear fellow, 
 he would have put it up at that great stage of 
 the conversation. Feeling it necessary to do 
 something then, he stretched himself out at 
 greater length, and, reclining with the back of 
 his head on the end of the sofa, and smoking 
 with an infinite assumption of negligence, 
 turned his common faje, and not too sober 
 eyes, towards the face looking down upon him 
 fio carelessly yet so potently. 
 
 "You know our governor, Mr. Harthouse," 
 said Tom, "and therefore you needn't be sur- 
 prised that Loo married old Bounderby. She 
 never had a lover, and the governor proposed 
 old Bounderby, and she took him." 
 
 "Very dutiful in your interesting sister," said 
 Mr. James Harthouse. 
 
 "Yes, but she wouldn't have been as dutiful. 
 
 and it would not have come oflf as easily," re- 
 turned the whelp, "if it hadn't been for me." 
 
 The tempter merely lilted his eyebrows, but 
 the whelp was obliged to go on. 
 
 "/ persuaded her," he said, with an edifying 
 air of superiority. "I was stuck into old 
 Bounderby 's bank (where I never wanted to 
 be), and I knew I should get into scrapes 
 there, if she put old Bounderby's pipe out; so 
 I told her my wishes, and she came into them. 
 She would do anything for me. It was very 
 game of her, wasn't it?" 
 
 "It was charming, Tom!" 
 
 "Not that it was altogether so important to 
 her as it was to me," cuntinued Tom coolly, 
 "because my liberty and comfort, and perhaps 
 my getting on, depended on it; and she had no 
 other lover, and staying at home was like slay- 
 ing in jail — especially when I was gone. It 
 wasn't as if she gave up another lover lor old 
 Bounderby; but still it was a good thing in 
 her." 
 
 "Perfectly delightful. And she gets on so 
 placidly."' 
 
 "Oh," returned Tom, with contemptuous 
 patronage, "she's a regular girl. A girl can 
 get on anywhere. She has settled down to the 
 life, and she don't mind. The life does just as 
 well tor her, as another. Besides, though Loo 
 is a girl, she's not a common sort of girl. She 
 can shut herself up within herself, and think 
 — as I iiave often known her sit and watch the 
 fire — for an hour at a stretch." J 
 
 "Ay, ay? Has resources of mv own," said 
 Harthouse, smoking quietly. 
 
 "Not so much of that as you may suppose,'' 
 returned Tom; "for our governor had her 
 crammed with all sorts of dry bones and saw- 
 dust. It's his system." 
 
 "Formed his daughter on his own model ?'' 
 suggested Harthouse. 
 
 " His daughter ? Ah I and everybody else. 
 Why, he formed Me that way," said Tom. 
 
 "Impossible I " 
 
 "He did though," said Tom, shaking his 
 head. "I mean to say, Mr. Harthouse, that 
 when I first left home and went to old 
 Bounderby's, I was as fiat as a warming-pan, 
 at-d knew no more about life, than any oyster 
 does." 
 
 "Come, Tom ! I can hardly believe that. A 
 joke's a joke." 
 
 "Upon my soul!" said the whelp. "I am 
 serious; I am indeed!" He smoked with 
 great gravity and dignity for a little while, 
 and then added, in a highly complacent tone, 
 "Oh! I have picked up a little, since. I don": 
 deny that. But I have done it myself; no 
 thanks to the governor." 
 
 "And your intelligent sister?"' 
 
 "My intelligent sister is about where she 
 was. She used to complain to me that she 
 had nothing to fall back upon, that girls u-<ually 
 fall back upon; and I don't see how she is lo 
 have got over that since. But s7<e don't miiiil, ' 
 he sagaciously added, puffing at his ci-ur ;. _aiii. 
 "Girls can always get on, somehow.'' 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 131 
 
 "Callin^r at the Bank yesterday eveninor,for 
 Mr. Bounderby's address, I found an ancient 
 lady there, who seems to entertain great admi- 
 ration foryour sister,'' observed Mr. James Hart- 
 house, throwing away the last small remnant 
 of the cigar he had now smoked out. 
 
 "Mother Sparsit?" said Tom. "W'hatl you 
 have seen her already, have you ?" 
 
 His friend nodded. Tom took his cigar 
 out of his mouth, to shut up his eye (which 
 had grown rather unmanageable) with the 
 greater expression, and to tap his nose several 
 time with his finger. 
 
 "Mother Sparsit's feeling for Loo is more 
 than admiration, I should think," said Tom. 
 "Say atfection and devotion. Mother Sparsit 
 never set her cap at Bounderby when he was 
 a bachelor. Oh no 1" 
 
 These were the last words spoken by the 
 whelp, before a giddy drowsiness came upon 
 him, followed by complete oblivion He was 
 roused from the latter state by an uneasy 
 dream of being stirred up with a boot, and 
 also of a voice saying: "Come, it's late. Be 
 otf!"' 
 
 "Well !"' he said, scrambling from the sofa. 
 "I must take my leave of you though. I say. 
 Yours is very good tobacco. But it's too 
 mild." 
 
 "Yes, it's too mild," returned his enter- 
 tainer. 
 
 '•It's — it's ridiculously mild," said Tom. 
 "'A' here's the door? Good night!" 
 
 He had another odd drean of being taken 
 by a waiter through a mist, which, after 
 giving him some trouble and difficL.lty 
 resolved itself into the main street, in 
 which he stood alone. He then walked home 
 prt-tty easily, though not yet free from an im- 
 pression of the presence and iiifliience of his 
 rew friend — as if he were lounging somewhere 
 in the air, in the same negligent attitude, re- 
 garding bim with the same look. 
 
 The whelp went home, and went to bed. 
 If he had had any spnse of what he had done 
 that night, and had been less of a whelp and 
 more of a brother, he might have turned 
 short on the road, might have gone down to 
 the ill-smelling river that was dyed black, 
 might have gone to bed in it fur good and all, 
 and have cuitained his head for ever with its 
 til thy waters. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 "Oh my friends, the down-trodden opera- 
 tives of Coketowu ! Oh my friends and felh w- 
 countrymen, the slaves of an iron-handed and 
 a gri iding despotism I Oh my friends and fel- 
 low suti'erers, and fellow-workmen, and fellow- 
 men I I tt-11 you that the hour is come, when 
 we must rally round one another as One united 
 power, and crumble into dust the i"))pressors 
 thai loo long have battened upon the plunder 
 of our families, upon the sweat of our brows, 
 upon tlie labor of our hands, upon the strength 
 ol our sinews, upon the (jod-created glorious 
 
 rights of Humanity, and upon the holy and 
 eternal privileges of Brotherhood !" 
 
 "Good!" "Hear, hear, hear 1" "Hurrah!" 
 and other cries, arose in many voices from va- 
 rious parts of the densely crowded and suffoca- 
 tingly close Hall, in which the orator, perched 
 on a stage, delivered himself of this and what 
 other froth and fume he had in him. He had 
 declaimed himself into a violent heat, and was 
 as hoarse as he was hot. By diut of roarinc 
 at the top of his voice under a flaring gaslight 
 clenching his fists, knitting his brows, setting 
 his teeth, and pounding with his arras, he had 
 taken so much out of himself by this time, that 
 he was brought to a stop and called for a glass 
 of water. 
 
 As he stood there, trying to quench his 
 fiery face with his drink of water, the com- 
 parison between the orator and the crowd of 
 attentive faces turned towards him, was ex- 
 tremely to his disadvantage. Judging him 
 by Nature's evidence, he was above the mass 
 in very little but the stage on which he stood. 
 In many great respects, he was essentially be- 
 low them. He was not so honest, he was not 
 so manly, he was not so good humored ; he 
 substituted cunning for their simplicity, and 
 passion for their safe solid sense. An ill- 
 inade high-shouldered man, with lowering 
 brows, and his features crushed into an 
 habitually sour expression, he contrasted 
 most unfavorably, even in his mongrel 
 dress, with the great body of his hearers in 
 their plain working clothes. Strange as it 
 always is to consider any assembly in the 
 act of submissively resigning itself to the 
 dreariness of some complacent person, lord or 
 commoner, whom three-fnurths of it could, by 
 no human means, raise out of the slough of 
 inanity to th ir own intellectual level, it was 
 particularly strange, and it was even particu- 
 larly atiVcting, to see this crowd of earnest 
 faces, whose honesty in the main no compe- 
 tent observer free from bias could doubt, so 
 agitated by such a leader. 
 
 Good ! Hear hear ! Hurrah ! 1 he eagerness 
 both of atiention and intention, exbibitid in all 
 the countenances, made them a most impres- 
 sive sight. There was no carelessness, no Ian 
 guor, no idle curiosity ; none of the many 
 shades of indifference to be seen in all other 
 assemblies, visible for one moment there. That 
 every man felt his condition to be, somehow or 
 other, worse than it might be; that every man 
 ci'nsidereil it incumbent on him to join the rest, 
 towards the making of it better; that every niau 
 feit his only hope to be in his allying himself to 
 the comrades by whom he was surrounded; 
 and that in this belief, right or wrong (un- 
 happily wrong then), the whole of that crowd 
 were gravely, deeply, faithfully in earnest ; 
 must have been as [ilain to any one who 
 chose 10 see what was there, as the bare 
 beams of the roof, and the whitened brick 
 walls. Nor could any such sjtectator fail to 
 know in his own breast, that these men, through 
 their very delusions, showed gitat qualities, 
 
132 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 susceptible of beinpf turned to the happiest 
 and best account ; and that to pretend (on 
 the strength of sweeping axioms, howsoever 
 cut and dried) that they went astray wholly 
 without cause, and of their own irrational 
 wills, was to pretend that there could be smoke 
 without fire, death without birth, harvest with- 
 out seed, anything or everything produced from 
 nothing. 
 
 The orator having refreshed hi.nself, wiped 
 his corrugated forehead from left to right 
 several times with his handkerchief folded into 
 a pad, and concentrated all his revived forces 
 in a sneer of great disdain and bitterness. 
 
 " But, oh my friends and brothers I Oh 
 meu and Englishmen, the down-trodden 
 operatives of Coketown ! What shall we 
 say of that man — that working man, that 
 I should find it necessary so to libel the 
 glorious name — who, being practically and 
 well acquainted with the grievances and wrongs 
 of you, the injured pith and marrow of this land, 
 and having heard you, with a noble and majes- 
 tic unanimity that will make Tyrants tremble, 
 resolve for to subscril)e to the funds of the 
 United Aggregate Tribunal, and to abide by 
 the injunctions issued by that body f r your 
 benefit, whatever they may be — what, I ask 
 you, will you say of that working man, since 
 such I must acknowledge him to be, who, at 
 such a time, deserts his post, and sells his 
 flag ; who, at such a time, turns a traitor and 
 a craven and a recreant; who, at such a time, 
 is not ashamed to make to you the dastardly 
 Hud humiliating avowal that he will hold him- 
 self aloof, and will not be one of those asso- 
 ciated in the gallant stand for Freedom and 
 for Right ?" 
 
 The assembly was divided at this point. — 
 There were some groans and hisses, but the 
 general sense of h(juor was much too strong 
 for the condemnation of a man unheard. "Be 
 sure you're right, Slackbridge!" "Put him 
 up 1" "Let's hear him !" Such things were 
 said on many sides. Finally, one strong vuice 
 called out, "Is the man heer ? If the man's 
 heer, Slackbridge, let's hear the man himseln, 
 'stead o' yo." Which was received with a round 
 of applause. 
 
 Slackbridge, the orator, looked about him 
 with a withering smile ; and, holding out his 
 right hand at arm's length (as the manner of 
 all Slackbridges is), to still the thundering sea, 
 waited until there was a profound silence. 
 
 "Oh my friends and fellow men," said Slack- 
 bridge then, shaking his head with violent 
 scorn, "I do not wonder that you, the pros- 
 trate sous of labor, are incredulous of the ex- 
 istence of such a man. But he who sold his 
 birth-right for a mess ot poiage existed, and 
 Judas Is ariot existed, and Castlerea^h ex- 
 isted, and this man exists !" 
 
 Here, a brief press and confusion near the 
 stage, ended in the man himself standing at 
 the orator's side before the concourse. He 
 was pale and a little moved in the face — his 
 lips especially showed it ; but he stood quiet, 
 
 with his left hand at his chin, waiting to b« 
 heard. There was a chairman to regulate the 
 proceedings, and this functionary now took 
 the case into his own hands. 
 
 " My friends," said he, "by virtue o'my of- 
 fice as your president, I askes o' our friend 
 Slackbridge, who may be a little over better 
 in this business, to take his seat, whiles this 
 man Stephen Blackpool is heern. You all 
 know this man Stephen Blackpool. You know 
 him awlung o' his misfort'ns, and his good 
 name." 
 
 With that the chairman shook him frankly 
 by the hand, and sat down again. Slack- 
 bridge likewise sat down, wiping his hot fore- 
 head — always from left to right, and never the 
 reverse way. 
 
 " My friends," Stephen began, in the midst 
 of a dead calm ; "I ha' herd what's been spok'n 
 o' me, and 'tis lickly that I shan't mend it. 
 But I'd liefer you 'd hearn the truth concernia 
 myseln, fro my lips than fro onny other man's, 
 though I never cud'n speak afore so monny, 
 wi'out bein moydert and muddled." 
 
 Slackbridge shook his head as if he would 
 shake it off, in his bitterness. 
 
 "I 'm th' one single Hand in Bounderby's 
 mill, o' a' the men theer, as don't caoom in wi' 
 th' proposed reg'iations. I canna' coom in wi' 
 'em. My friends, I doubt their doin' yo onny 
 good. Licker they'll do yo hurt." 
 
 Slackbridge laughed, folded his arms, and 
 frowned sarcastically. 
 
 " But 't ant sommuch for that as I stands 
 out. If that were aw, I'd coom in wi' th' rest 
 But I ha' my reasons — mine, yo see — fur 
 being hindered ; not on'y now, but awlus — 
 awlus — life long I" 
 
 Slackbridge jumped up and stood beside 
 him, gnashing and tearing. "Oh my friends, 
 what but this did I tell you? Oh my fellow- 
 countrymen, what warning but this did I give 
 you? And how shows this recreant conduct 
 in a man on whom unequal laws are known 
 to have fallen heavy? Oh you Englishmen, 
 I ask you how does this subornation show in 
 one of yourselves, who is thus consenting to 
 his own undoing and to yours, and to your 
 children's and your children's children's ?'' 
 
 There was some applause, and some cry- 
 ing of Shame upon the man; but the great* r 
 part of the audience were quiet. They looked at 
 Stephen's worn face, rendered more pathetic 
 by the homely emotions it evinced; and, in tlie 
 kindness cf their nature, they were more sorry 
 than indignant. 
 
 " 'Tis this Delegate's trade for t' speak," 
 said Stephen, "an he's paid for't, an he 
 knows his work. Let him keep to't. Let him 
 give no heed to what I ha had'n to bear. That's 
 not for him. That's not for nobbody but me." 
 
 There was a propriety, not to say a dignity 
 in these words, that made the hearers yet 
 more quiet and attentive. The same strong 
 voice called out, "Slackbridge, let the man be 
 heern, and howd thee tongue!" Then tue 
 place was wonderfully still. 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 133 
 
 "My brothers, " said Stephen, whose low 
 Toice was distinctly heard, '"and my fellow- 
 workmen — for that yo are to me, though not, 
 as I knows on, to this delegate heer — 1 ha but 
 a word to sen, and I could sen nommore if I 
 was to speak till Strike o" day. I know weel 
 aw what's afore me. I know weel that yo are 
 aw resolved to ha nommore ado wi' a man who 
 i< not wi' yo in this matther. I know weel 
 that if I was a lying parisht i' th' road, yo'd 
 leel it rij^ht to pass me by as a forrenner and 
 stranger. What I ha getn, I mun mak th' 
 bejt on." 
 
 "Stephen Blackpool," said the chairman, 
 rising, '"think on't again. Think ou't once 
 a^iea, lad, atbre thour't shunned by aw owd 
 friends." 
 
 There was an universal murmur to the 
 same elfect, though no man articulated a 
 ward. Every eye was fixed on Stephen's face. 
 To repent of his determination, would be to 
 take a load from all their minds. He looked 
 aru ind him, and knew that it was so. J^'ot a 
 grain of anger with them was in his heart; he 
 knew them, lar below their surface weaknesses 
 and luisconceptious, as no one but their fellow 
 laborer could. 
 
 ' 1 ha thowt on't, above a bit, sir. I sim- 
 ply canua coom in. I mun go th' way as 
 [■i)s afore me. I mun tak my leave o' aw 
 heer." 
 
 He made a sort of reverence to them by 
 htjlJiiig up his arms, and stood for the mo- 
 meui in that attitude; not speaking until they 
 siu«vly dropped at his sides. 
 
 "Monny's the pleasant word as soom heer 
 has spok'n wi' me; monny'sthe iace 1 bee hter, 
 as I iirdt seen when I were yoong and lighter 
 lieaii'u than now. i ha never had no fratch 
 aiurt', sin ever 1 were born, wi' any o' iny like; 
 Lionnows 1 ha' none now that's o' my makiu'. 
 ^ o'li ca' me traitor and that — yo, 1 mean t' 
 say," addiessin^ Slackbridge, '"but 'lis easier 
 to ca' than mak' out. So let be." 
 
 He had moved away a pace or two to '^ome 
 diMMi from the platform, when he remembered 
 soiueiliiiig he had not said, and returned again. 
 
 "Haply," he said, turning his furrowed 
 face slowly about, tliat he might as it were 
 iudividuaUy address the whole audience, those 
 both near and distant; '"haplv, when this ques- 
 tiju has been tak'n up and discoosed, there'll 
 I'e a tiireal to turn out if I'm let to work 
 among )o. I hope I shall die ere ever such a 
 tune coums, and I shall wjrk solitary amo"g 
 vo unless it c'^oms — truly, I mun do t, my 
 friends; not to brave yo, but to live. I ha 
 nobbui work to live by; and wheerever can 1 
 go, 1 who ha worked sin 1 were no heighth at 
 aw, in Coketowu heer? I mak' no complaints 
 o' beiu turned to the wa', o' being outcasien 
 and overlofkeu fro this time forrard, but 1 
 hope 1 shall be let to work. If there is any 
 right for me at aw, my friends, 1 think 'tis 
 that.'' 
 
 Not a word was spoken. Not a sound was 
 audible iu the building, but the slight rustle 
 
 of men moving a little apart, all along the 
 centre of the room, to open a means of passing 
 out, to the man with whom they had all bound 
 themselves to renounce companionship. Look- 
 ing at no one, and going hij way with a lowly 
 steadiness upon him that asserted nothing and 
 sought nothing. Old Stephen, with all his 
 troubles on his head, left tiie scene. 
 
 Then Slackbridge, who had kept his 
 oratorical arm extended during the going 
 out, as if he were repressing with infinite 
 solicitude and by a wonderful moral power 
 the vehement passions of the multitude, 
 applied himself to raising their spirits. Had 
 not the Koman Brutus, oh my British country- 
 men, condemned his sou to death; and had not 
 the Spartan mothers, oh my soon to be victo- 
 rious friends, driven their living children on 
 the points ot their enemies' swords? Then 
 was it not the sacred duty of the men of Coke- 
 town, with forefathers before them, an admir- 
 ing world in company with them, and a \)os- 
 tenty to come after them, to hurl out traitors 
 from the tents they had pitched in a sacrtd 
 and a Godlike cause? The winds of Heaven 
 anwered Yes; and bore Yes, east, west, north 
 and south. And consequently three cheers tor 
 the United Aggregate Tribunal ! 
 
 Slackbridge acted as fugleman, and gave 
 the time. The multitude of doubtful faces 
 (a little conscience stricken) brightened at the 
 sound, and took it up. Private feeling must 
 yield to the common cause. Hurrah ! The 
 roof yet vibrated with the cheering when the 
 assembly dispersed. 
 
 Thus easily did Stephen Blackpool fad into 
 the loneliest of lives, the life of soliiucie 
 among a familiar crowd. The stranger in 
 the land who looks into ten thousand faces 
 for some answering look and never finds it, is 
 in cheering society as compared with hi in 
 who passes ten averted faces daily, that were 
 once the countenances of friends. Such ex- 
 perience was to be Stephen's now, in eveiy 
 waking moment of his life ; at his work, on 
 his way to it and from it, at his door, at his 
 window, everywhere. By general consent, 
 they even avoided that side of the street on 
 which he habitually walked ; and left it, of all 
 the working men, to him only. 
 
 He had been for many years, a quiet, silent 
 man, associating but little with other men, 
 and used to companionship with his own 
 thoughts. He had never known before, the 
 strength of the want in his heart for the fre- 
 quent recognition of a nod, a look, a word : 
 or the im:neuse amount of relief that had 
 bei»u pourea into it by drops, through such 
 small means. It was even harder than he 
 could have believed posside, to separate in 
 his own conscience his abandonment by all 
 his fellows, from a baseless sense of shame and 
 disgrace. 
 
 The first four days of his endurance were 
 days so long and heavy, that he began to be 
 appalled by the prospect before him. Not 
 only did he see no Kachael all the time, but 
 
134 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 He avoided every chance of seeing her; for, 
 although he knew that the prohibition did 
 not yet formally extend to the women working 
 in the factories, ho found that some of them 
 with whom he was acquainted were changed to 
 him, and he feared to try others, and dreaded 
 thatllachael might be oven singled out from the 
 rest if she were seen in his company. So, he 
 had been quite alone during the four days, and 
 had spoken to no one, when, as he was leaving 
 his work at night, a young man of a very light 
 complexion atcosted him in the street. 
 
 "Your name's Blackpool, ain't it?" said the 
 young man. 
 
 Stephen colored to find himself with his hat 
 in his hand, in his gratitude for being spoken 
 to, or in the suddenness of it, or both. He 
 made a feint of adjusting the lining, and said, 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You are the Hand they have sent to Co- 
 ventry, I mean?" said Bitzer, the very light 
 young man in question. 
 
 Stephen answered " Yes," again. 
 
 " I supposed so, from their all appearing to 
 keep away from you. Mr. Bounderby wants 
 to speak to you. You know his house, don't 
 you ?" 
 
 Stephen said *' Yes," again. 
 
 " Then go straight up there, will you ? " 
 said Bitzer. "You're expected, and have 
 only to tell the servant it's you. I belong to 
 the Bank ; so, if you go straight up without 
 me (I was sent to fetch you), you'll save me a 
 walk." 
 
 Stephen, whose way had been in the con- 
 trary direction, turned about, and betook 
 himself as in duty iDound, to the red brick 
 castle of the giant Bounderby. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 "Well Stephen," said Bounderby, in his 
 windy manner, " what's this I hear ? What 
 have these pests of the earth been doing to 
 you ? Come in, and speak up." 
 
 It was into the drawing-room that he was 
 thus bidden. A tea-table was set out ; and 
 Mr. Bounderby's young wife, and her brother, 
 and a great gentleman from London, were 
 present. To whom Stephen made his obeisance, 
 closing the door and standing near it, with his 
 hat in his hand. 
 
 " This is the man I was telling you about, 
 Harthouse," said Mr. Bounderby. The gen- 
 tleman he addressed, who was talking to Mrs. 
 Bounderby on the sofa, got up, saying in an 
 indolent way, " Oh really ?" and dawdled to 
 the hearthrug where Mr. Bounderby stood. 
 
 " Now," said Bounderby, " speak up !" 
 
 Aftei the four days he had passed, this 
 address fell rudely and discordantly on 
 Stephen's ear. Besides being a rough hand- 
 ling of his wounded mind, it seemed to 
 assume that he really was the self-interested 
 deserter he had been called. 
 
 "What were it, sir," said Stephen, "as yo 
 were pleased to want wi' me?'' 
 
 "Why, I have told you," returned Bounder- 
 by. "Speak up like a man, since you are a 
 man, and tell us about yourself and this Com- 
 bination." 
 
 "Wi' yor pardon, sir," said Stephen Black- 
 pool, "I ha' nowt to sen about it." 
 
 Mr. Bounderby, who was always more or 
 less like a Wind, finding something in his way 
 here, began to blow at it directly. 
 
 "Now, look here, Harthouse," said he, 
 "here's a specimeti of 'em. When this man 
 was here once before, I warned this man against 
 the mischievous strangers who are always 
 about — and who ought to be hanged wherever 
 they are found — and I told this man thai he 
 was going in the wong direction. Now, 
 would you believe it, that although they have 
 put this mark upon him, he is such a slave to 
 them still, that he's afraid to open his lips 
 about them?" 
 
 "I sed as I had nowt to sen, sir ; not as I 
 was fearfo' o' openin' my lips." 
 
 "You said. Ah 1 I know what you said; 
 more than that, I know what you mean, you 
 see. Not always the same thing, by the 
 Lord Harry! Quite different things. You 
 had better tell us at once, that that fellow 
 Slackbridge is not in the town, stirring up the 
 people to mutiny; and that he is not a regular 
 qualified leader of the people; that is, a most 
 confounded scoundrel. You had better tell us 
 so at once; you can't deceive me. Y'^ou want 
 to tell us so. Why don't you?" 
 
 "I'm as sooary as yo, sir, when the people's 
 leaders is bad," said Stephen, shaking his 
 head. "They taks such as off'ers. Haply 'tis 
 na' the snia'est o' their misfortuns when they 
 can get nu better." 
 
 The wind began to be boisterous. 
 
 "Now, you'll think this pretty well, Hart- 
 house," said Mr. Bounderby. "You'll think 
 this tolerably strong. Y^ou'll say, upon my suul 
 this is a tidy specimen of what my friends 
 have to deal with; but this is nothing, sir! 
 You shall hear me ask this man a question. 
 Pray, Mr. Blackpool" — wind sprin>:ing up 
 very fast — "may I take the liberty of asking 
 you how it happens that you refused to be iu 
 this Combination?" 
 
 "How 't happens?" 
 
 "Ah !" said Mr. Bounderby, with his thumbs 
 in the arms of his coat, and jerking his head 
 and shutting his eyes in confidence with the 
 opposite wall: "how it happens." 
 
 "I'd leefer not coom to't, sir; but sin you 
 put th' question — an not want'n t' be ill- 
 manner'n — I'll answer. I ha passed a pro- 
 mess." 
 
 "Not to me, you know," said Bounderby. 
 (Gusty weather with deceitful calms. One 
 now prevailing.) 
 
 "0 no, sir. Not to yo." 
 
 "As for me, any consideration for me has 
 had just nothing at all to do with it," said 
 Bounderbv, still in confidence with the wall. 
 "If only Josiah Bounderby of Coketown had 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 135 
 
 been in question, you would have joined and 
 made no bones about it?" 
 
 "Why yes, sir. 'Tis true." 
 ' "Though he knows," said Mr. Bouuderby, 
 now blowing a gale, "that these are a set of 
 rascals and rebels whom transportation is too 
 good fori Now, Mr. Hartliou.se, you have 
 Wn knocking about in the world some time. 
 Did you ever meet with anything like that 
 man out of this blessed country ?" And Mr. 
 Bounderby pointed him out for inspection, 
 with an angry finger. 
 
 " Nay, ma'am," said Stephen Blackpool, 
 staunchly protesting against the words that 
 had been used, and instinctively addressing 
 himself to Louisa, after glancing at her face. 
 "Not rebels, nor yet rascals. Nowt o' th' 
 kind, ma'am, nowt o' th' kind. They've not 
 doon me a kindness, ma'am, as I know and 
 feeh But there's not a dozen men amoong 
 'em, ma'am — a dozen! Not six — but what be- 
 lieves as he has doon his duty by the rest and 
 by himseln, God forlnd as I, that ha known 
 an had'n experience o' these men aw my life — 
 I, that ha' ett'n an droonken wi' em, an seet'n 
 wi" em, an toil'n wi' em, and lov'n 'em, should 
 fail fur to stan by 'em wi' the truth, let 'em ha 
 d jon to me what they may !" 
 
 He spoke with the rugged earnestness of 
 his place and character — deepened, perhaps, 
 by a proud consciousness that he was faithful 
 to his class under all their mistrust; but he 
 fully remember 3d where he was, and did not 
 even raise his voice. 
 
 "No, ma'am, no. They're true to one an- 
 other, faithfo' to one another, fectiouate to one 
 another, e'en to death. Be poor among 'em, 
 be sick among 'em, grieve amoong 'em for 
 onny o' th' monny causes that carries grief 
 to the poor man's dour, an they'll be tender 
 wi' yo, gentle wi' yo, comfortable wi' yo, Chri- 
 sen wi' yo. Be sure o' that, ma'am. They'd 
 be riven to bits, ere ever they'd be different." 
 
 "In short," said Mr. Buundeiby, "it's be- 
 cause tliey are so full of vrtues that they have 
 turned you adrift. Go thruugh with ii while 
 you are about it. Out with it." 
 
 "How 'tis, ma'am," resumed Stephen, ap- 
 
 E earing still to find his natural refuge in 
 lOuisa's face, "that what is best in us fok, 
 seems to turns ua most to trouble an misfort'n, 
 an mistake, I dunno. But "tis so. I know 
 'tis, as I know the heavens is over me ahint 
 the smoke. We re patient too, an wants in 
 general to do right. An' I canna think the 
 fawt is aw wi' us." 
 
 "Now, my friend," said Mr, Bounderby, 
 whom he could not have exasperated more, 
 quite unconscious of it though he was, than by 
 seeming to appeal to any one else, "if you will 
 favor me with your attention for half a minute, 
 I should like to have a word or two with you. 
 You said just now, that you had nothingto tell 
 us about this business. You are quite sure of 
 that, before we go any further?" 
 "Sir, I am sure ou't." 
 "Here's a gentleman from London present," 
 
 Mr. Boundarby made a back-handed point at 
 Mr. James Harthouse with his thumb, "a Par- 
 liament gentleman. I should like him to hear 
 a short bit of dialogue between you and me, 
 instead of taking the substance of it — for I 
 know precious well, beforehand, what it will 
 be; nobody knows better than I do, take notice! 
 — instead of receiving it on trust, from my 
 mouth." 
 
 Stephen bent his head to the gentleman 
 from London, and showed a rather more 
 troubled mind than usual. He turned his 
 eyes involuntarily to his former refuge, but 
 at a look from that quarter (expressive though 
 instantaneous) he settled them on Mr. Bouu- 
 derby's face. 
 
 "i^ow, what do you complain of?" spake 
 Mr. Bounderby. 
 
 "I ha' not coom heer, sir," Stephen re- 
 minded him, "to complain. I coom for that 
 I were sent for." 
 
 "What," repeated Mr. Bounderby, folding 
 his arms, "do you people, in a general way, 
 complain of?" 
 
 Stephen looked at him with some little irre- 
 solution for a moment, and then seemed to 
 make up his mind. 
 
 " Sir, I were never good at showin o't, 
 though I ha had'n my share in feeling o't. 
 'Deed we are in a muddle, sir. Look round 
 town — so rich as 'tis — and see th' numbers o' 
 people as has been broughten into beiu heer, 
 fur to weave, an to card, and to piece out a 
 livin, aw the same one way, somehows, 
 twixt their cradies an their graves. Look 
 how we live, an wheer we live, an in what 
 numbers, an by what chances, and wi' what 
 sameness; and look how the mills is awlus a 
 goin, an how they never works us no nigher to 
 onny dis'ant object — ceptiu awlus, Death. — 
 Look how you considers of us, an writes of u-, 
 an talks of us, and goes up wi' yor dejjutations 
 to Secretaries o' State 'bout us, and huw yoare 
 awlus right, an how we are awlus wrong, and 
 never had'n no reason in us sin ever we were 
 born. Look how this ha gruwen and groweri, 
 sir, bigger an bigger, broader an broader, harder 
 an harder, fro year to year, fro generation unto 
 generation. Who can look on'l sir, and fairly 
 tell a man 'tis not a muddle?" 
 
 "Of course," said Mr. Bounderbj-. "Now 
 perhaps you'll let the gentleman know, how 
 you would set this muddle (as you're so fjnd 
 of calling it) to rights." 
 
 "I doimo, sir. I canna be expecten to't, 
 'Tis not me as should be looken to for that, 
 sir. 'Tis them as is put ower me, an ower aw 
 the rest of us. What do they tak upon them- t 
 sen, sir, if not to do't?" I 
 
 "I'll tell you something towards it, at any " 
 rate," returned Mr. Bounderby. "We will 
 make an example of half a dozen Slack- 
 bridges. We'll indict the blackguards for 
 felony, and get 'em shipped off to penal set- 
 tlements." 
 
 Stephen gravely shook his head. 
 
 "Don't tell me we won't, man," said Mr. Boun- 
 
136 
 
 / 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 derby, by this time blowing a hurricane, "be- 
 cause we will, I tell you !" 
 
 "Sir," returned Stephen, with the quiet con- 
 fidence of absolute certainty, "if yo was t' tak 
 a hundred Slackbridges — aw as there is, 
 an aw the number ten times towd — an 
 was t' sew 'em up in separate sacks, an 
 sink 'em in the deepest ocean as were made 
 ere ever dry land coom to be, yo'd leave the 
 muddle just wheer 'tis. Mischeevous stran- 
 gers !" said Stephen, with an anxious smile ; 
 "when ha we not heern, 1 am sure, sin ever we 
 can call to mind, o' th' mischeevous strangers! 
 'Tis not by them, the trouble's made, sir. 'Tis 
 not wi' them 't commences. I ha no favor for 
 'em — I ha no reason to favor 'em — but 'tis 
 hopeless an useless to dream o' takin them fro 
 their trade, 'stead o' takin their trade fro 
 them I Aw that's now about me in this room 
 were heer afore I coom, an will be heer when 
 I am gone. Put that clock aboard a ship an 
 pack it off to Norfolk Island, an the time will 
 go on just the same. So 'tis wi' Slackbridge 
 every bit." 
 
 Reverting for a moment to his former re- 
 fuse, he observed a cautionary movement of 
 her eyes towards the door. Stepping back, he 
 put his hand upon the lock. But, he had not 
 spoken out of his own will and desire; and he 
 felt it in his heart a noble return for his late 
 injurious treatment, to be faithful to the last to 
 those who had repudiated him. He stayed to 
 finish what was in his mind. 
 
 "Sir, I canna, wi' my little learning an my 
 common way, tell the genelman what will 
 better aw this — though some working-men o' 
 this town could, above my powers — but I can 
 tell him what I know will never do't. The 
 strong hand will never do't. Vict'ry and 
 triumph will never do't. Agreein fur to mak 
 one si le unnat' rally awlus and for ever right, 
 and toother side unnat'rally awlus and for ever 
 wrong, will never, never do't. Ivor yet lettin 
 alone will never do't. Let thousands upon 
 thousands alone, aw leadin the like lives 
 and aw faw'en into the like muddle, and they 
 will be as one, an yo will be as anoother, wi' a 
 black unpassable world betwixt yo, just as long 
 or short a time as sitch like misery can last. 
 Not drawin nigh to fok, wi' kindness an 
 patience an cheery ways, that so draws nigh to 
 one another in their monny troubles, and so 
 cherishes one another in their distresses wi' 
 what they need themseln — like, I humbly be- 
 lieve, as no people the gentleman ha seen in 
 aw his travels can beat — will never do't till 
 th' Sun turns t' ice. Last o' aw, jatin 'em as 
 so much Power, and reg'latin 'em as if they 
 was figures in a soom, or machines; wi'out 
 loves and likeins, wi'out memories and in- 
 clinations wi'out souls to weary an souls to 
 hope — when aw goes quiet, draggin on wi' 
 'e;n as if they'd nowt o' th' kind, an when 
 aw jjoes onquiet, reproaching 'em fur their 
 want o' sitch humanly feelins in their dealins 
 wi' yo — this will never do't, sir, till God's 
 work ia unmade." 
 
 Stephen stood with the open door in his 
 hand, waiting to know if anything more were 
 expected of him. 
 
 "Just stop a moment," said Mr. Bounderby, 
 excessively red in the face "I told you, the 
 last time you were here with a grievance, 
 that you had better turn about and come 
 out of that. And I also told you, if you 
 remember, that I was up to the gold spoon 
 look-out." 
 
 "I were not up to't myseln, air ; I do assure 
 yo." 
 
 "Now, it's clear to me," said Mr. Bounderby, 
 "that you are one of those chaps who have 
 always got a grievance. And you go about, 
 sowing it and raising crops. That's the busi 
 ness oi'i/ori)- life, my friend." 
 
 Stephen shook his head, mutely protesting 
 that indeed he had other business to do tor his 
 life. 
 
 "You are such a waspish, raspish, ill-con- 
 ditioned chap, you see," said Mr. Bounderby, 
 "that even your own Union, the men who 
 know you best, will have nothing to do with 
 you. I never thought those fellows could be 
 right in anything; but I tell you what! I so 
 far go along with them for a novelty, that I'll 
 have nothing to do with you either." 
 
 Stephen raised his eyes quickly to his face. 
 
 "You can finish off what you're at," said Mr. 
 Bounderby, with a meaning nod, "and then go 
 elsew'nere." 
 
 "Sir, yo know weel," said Stephen expres- 
 sively, "that if I canna get work wi' yo, I canna 
 get it elsewheer." 
 
 The reply was, "What I know, I know; and 
 what you know, you know. I have no more to 
 say about :t." 
 
 Stephen glanced at Louisa again, but her 
 eyes were raised to his no more; therefore, 
 with a sigh, and saying, barely above his 
 breath, "Heaven help us aw in this world !" he 
 departed. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIL 
 
 It was falling dark when Stephen came out 
 of Mr. Bounderby's house. The shadows of 
 night had gathered so fast, that he did not 
 look about him when he closed the door, but 
 plodded straight along the street. Nothing, 
 was further from his thoughts than the curious 
 ohi woman he had encountered on his previous 
 visit to the same house, when he heard a step 
 behind him that he knew, and, turning, saw 
 her inRachael's company. 
 
 He saw Rachael first, as he had heard her 
 only. 
 
 "Ah, Rachael, my dear I Missus, thon wi' 
 herl" 
 
 " Well, and now you are surprised to be 
 sure, and with reason I must say," the old 
 woman returned. " Here 1 am again, you 
 see." 
 
 "But how wi' Rachael ?" said Stephen, fall- 
 ing into their step, walking between them, and 
 looking from the one to the other. 
 
HARD TlMft!S. 
 
 137 
 
 " Why, I come to be with this good lass 
 pretty much as I came to be with you," said 
 the old woTiau cheerfully, taking the reply 
 upon herself. " My visitinfr time is later this 
 year than usual, for I have been rather 
 troubled with shortness of breath, and so put 
 it otf till the weather was fine and warm. For 
 the same reason I don't make all ray journey 
 in one day, but divide it into two days, and 
 get a bed to-night at the Travellers' Coifee 
 House down by the railroad, (a nice clean 
 house,) and go back. Parliamentary, at six 
 in the morning. Well, but what has this to 
 do with this good lass, says you? I'm going 
 to tell you. I have heard of Mr. Bounderby 
 being married I read it in the paper, where 
 it looked grand — oh, it looked tine I" the 
 old woman dtvelt on it with strange enthu- 
 siasm ; "and I want to see his wife. I have 
 never seen her yet. Now, if you'll believe 
 me, she hasn't come out of that house since 
 noon to-day. So, not to give her up too 
 easily, I was waiting about, a little last bit 
 more, when I passed close to this good lass 
 two or three times ; and her face being so 
 friendly I spoke to her, and she spoke to me. 
 There I" said the old woman to Stephen, 
 "vou can make all the rest out for yourself 
 now, a deal shorter than I can, I dare say !" 
 
 Once again, Stephen had to conquer an in- 
 stinctive propensity to dislike this old woman, 
 though ter maimer was as honest and simple 
 as a manner possibly could be. With a gen- 
 tleness that was as natural to him as he knew 
 it to be to Rachael, he pursued the subject that 
 interested her in her old age. 
 
 "Well, missus,'' said he, "I ha seen the lady, 
 and she were yoong and hansom. Wi' fine 
 dark thinkin eyes, and a still way, Rachael, as 
 1 ha never seen the like on." 
 
 "Young and handsome. Yes !"' cried the 
 old woman, quite delighted. ''As bonny as a 
 rose I And what a happy veife!"' 
 
 "Aye, missus, I suppose she be," said 
 Stephen. But with a doubtful glance at 
 Kachael. 
 
 "Suppose she be? She must be. She's 
 your master's wife," returned the old woman. 
 
 Stephen nodded assent. "Thou£rh as to 
 master," said he, glancing again at Rachael, 
 *'not master onny more. That's aw enden 
 twixt hiui and me." 
 
 "Have you left his work, Stephen?" asked 
 Rachael, anxiouslv and quickly. 
 
 "Whv, Rachael,"' he replied, "whether I ha 
 lefi'n his work, or whether his work ha lefl'n 
 me, cuoms t' th' same. His work and me are 
 paited. 'Tis as weel so — better, I were 
 thinkin when yo coom up wi' me. It would ha 
 brought'n trouble upon trouble if I had stayed 
 theer. Haply 'tis a kindness to monny that 
 I go; haply 'tis a kindness to myseln ; anyways 
 it mun be done. I mun turn my face fro Coke- 
 town fur th' tiiie, an seek a fort'n, dear, by 
 beginnin fresh."' 
 
 "Where will you jjo, Stephen?" 
 
 "I dunuo t'night,"' said he, lifting off his hat, 
 
 and smoothing his thin hair with the flatof hig 
 hand. "But I'm not a goin' t'night, Rachael ; 
 nor yet t" morrow. Tan"t easy overniuch, t' 
 know wheer t' turn, but a good heart will coom 
 to me." 
 
 Herein, too, the sense of even thinking un- 
 selfishly aided him. Before he had so much as 
 closed Mr. Bounderby"s door, he had reflected 
 that at least his being obliged to go away whs 
 good for her, as it would save her from the 
 chance of being brought into question for 
 not withdrawing from him. Though it would 
 cost him a hard pang to leave her, and 
 though he could think of no similar place in 
 which his condemnation would not pursue 
 him, perhaps it was almost a relief to be forced 
 away from the endurance of the last four days, 
 even to unknown difficulties and distresses. 
 
 So he said, with truth, "I'm more leetsome 
 Rachael, under 't, than I couldn ha believed." 
 It was not her part to make his burden heavier. 
 She answered with her comforting smile, and 
 the three walked on together. 
 
 Age, especially when it strives to be self- 
 reliant and cheerful, finds much consideration 
 among the poor. The old woman was so 
 decent and contented, and made so light of 
 her infirmities, though they had increased upon 
 her since her former interview with Stephen, 
 that they both took an interest in her. She 
 was too sprightly to allow of their walking at 
 a slow pace on her account, but she was very 
 grateful to be talked to, and very willin? to 
 talk to any extent : so, when they came to 
 their part of the town, she was more brisk and 
 vivacious than ever. 
 
 "Coom to my poor place, missus,"' paid 
 Stephen, "and tak a coop o' tea. Rachael 
 will coom then, and arterwards i"ll see thee 
 safe t' thy Travellers' lodgin. 'T may be long, 
 Rachael, ere ever 1 ha th' chance o' thy coom- 
 pany agen." 
 
 They complied, and the three went on to 
 the house where he lodged. When they 
 turned into the narrow street, Stephen glanced 
 at his window with a dread that always haunt- 
 ed his desolate home; but it was open, as he 
 had left it, and no one was there. The evil 
 spirit of his life had flitted away again, months 
 ago, and he had heard no more of her since. 
 The only evidences of her last return now, were 
 the scantier movables in his room, and the 
 grayer hair upon his head. 
 
 He lighted a candle, set out his little tea- 
 board, got hot water from below, and brought 
 in small portions of tea and sugar, a loaf, and 
 some butter, from the nearest shop. The bread 
 was new and crusty, the butter fresh, and 
 the sugar lump, of course — in fulfilment of 
 tlie standard testimony of the Coketown 
 magnates, that these people lived like princes, 
 sir. Rachael made the tea (so large a party 
 necessitated the borrowing of a cup), and 
 the visiter enjoyed it mightily. It was the 
 first glimpse of sociality the host had liad for 
 many days. He too, with the world a wide 
 heath before him, enjoyed the meal — again iu 
 
138 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 corroboration of the magnates, as exemplify- 
 ing the utter want of calculation on the part 
 of these people, sir. 
 
 "I ha never thowt yet, missus," said Stephen, 
 "o' askiii thy name." 
 
 The old lady announced herself as "Mrs. 
 Pegler." 
 
 "A widder, I think ?" said Stephen. 
 
 "Oh, many long years I" Mrs. Pegler's 
 husband (one of the best on record) was 
 already dead, by Mrs. Pegler's calculation, 
 when Stephen was born. 
 
 "'Twere a bad job too, to lose so good a one," 
 said Stephen. "Onny children ?" 
 
 Mrs. Pegler's cup, rattling against her saucer 
 as she held it, denoted some nervousness on 
 her part. "No," she said. "Not now, not 
 now." 
 
 "Dead, Stephen," Rachael softly hinted. 
 
 " 'm sooary I ha spok'u on't," said Stephen. 
 "I ought t' ha hadn in my mind as I might 
 touch a sore place. I — I blame myseln." 
 
 While he excused himself, the old lady's 
 cup rattled more and more. "I had a sou," 
 she said, curiously distressed, and not by any 
 of the usual appearances of sorrow; ^'and he 
 did well, wonderfully well. But he is not to 
 
 be spoken of if you please. He is " 
 
 Putting down her cup, she moved her hands 
 as if she would have added, by her action, 
 " dead 1" Then, she said, aloud, " I have lost 
 him." 
 
 Stephen had not yet got the better of his 
 having given the old lady pain, when his land- 
 ladv came stumbling up the narrow stairs, and 
 calling him to the door, whispered in his ear. 
 Mrs. Pegler was by nn means deaf, for she 
 caught a word as it was uttered. 
 
 " Bounderby !" she cried, in a suppressed 
 voice, starting up Irom the table. " Oh, hide 
 me! Don't let me be seen for the world. — 
 Don't let him come up till I have got away. 
 Pray, pray 1" She trembled, and was exces- 
 sively agitated ; getting behind Rachael, when 
 Rachael tried to reassure her ; and not seem- 
 ing to know what she was about. 
 
 " But hearken, missus, hearken ;" said 
 Stephen, astonished, " 'Tisnt Mr. Bounderby ; 
 'tis his wife. Yor not fearfo' o' her. Yo was 
 hey-go-mad about her, but an hour sin." 
 
 "But are you sure it's the lady and not the 
 gentleman ?" she asked, still trembling. 
 
 " Certain sure 1" 
 
 " Well then, pray don't speak to me, nor yei 
 take any notice of me," said the old woman. 
 "Let me be quite to myselfin this corner." 
 
 Stephen nodded ; looking to Rachael for an 
 explauation, which she was quite unable to 
 give him ; took the candle, wcLt down stairs, 
 and in a few moments returned lighting 
 Louisa into the room. She was followed by 
 the whelp. 
 
 Rachael had risen, and stood apart with 
 her shawl and bonnet in her hand, when 
 Stephen, himself profoundly astonished by 
 this visit, put the caudle on the table. Then 
 
 he too stood, with his doubled hand upon the 
 table near it, waiting to be addressed. 
 
 For the first time in her life, Louisa had 
 come into one of the dwellings of the Coke- 
 town Hands ; for the first time in her life, 
 she was face to face with anything 
 like individuality in connexion with them. 
 She knew of their existence by hundreds 
 and by thousands. She knew what results in 
 work a given number of them would produce, 
 in a given space of time. She knew them in 
 crowds passing to and from their nests, like 
 ants or beetles. But she knew from her read- 
 ing infinitely more of the ways of toiling in- 
 sects, than of these toiling men and women. 
 
 Something to be worked so much and paid 
 so much, and there ended; something to be 
 infallibly settled by laws of supply and de- 
 mand ; something that blundered against 
 those laws, and floundered into difficulty ; 
 something that was a little pinched when 
 wheat was dear, and over-rate itself when 
 wheat was cheap ; something that increased 
 at such a rate of per centage, and yielded such 
 another per centage of crime, and such 
 another per centage of pauperism ; something 
 wholesale, of which vast fortunes were made ; 
 something that occasionally rose like a sea, and 
 did some harm and waste (chiefly to itself), 
 and fell again ; this she knew the Coketown 
 Hands to be. But, she had scarcely thought 
 more of separating them into units, than of 
 separating the sea itself into its component 
 drops. 
 
 She stood for some moments looking round 
 the room. Prom the few chairs, the few 
 books, the common prints, and the bed, she 
 glanced to the two women, and to Stephen. 
 
 " I have come to speak to you, in conse- 
 quence of what passed just now. I should 
 like to be serviceable to you, if you will let 
 me. Is this your wife?" 
 
 Rachael raised her eyes, and they sufficiently 
 answered no. and dropped again. 
 
 "I remember," said Louisa, reddening at 
 her mistake; '"I recollect, now, to have heard 
 your domestic misfortunes spoken of though 
 I was not attending to the particulars at the 
 time. It was not my meaning to ask a ques- 
 tion that would give pain to any one here. If 
 I should ask any other question that may hap- 
 pen to have that result, give me credit, if you 
 please, for being in ignorance how to speak to 
 you as I ought." 
 
 As Stephen had but a little while ago in- 
 stinctively addressed himself to her, so she now 
 instinctively addressed herself to Rachael. 
 Her manner was short and abrupt, yet falter- 
 ing and timid. 
 
 "He has told you what has y assed between 
 himself and my husband? You would be his 
 first resource, I think." 
 
 "I have heard the end of it, young lady," 
 said Rachael. 
 
 "Did I understand, that, b' in" rejected by 
 one employer, he would probably be rejected 
 by all? 1 thought he said as much?" 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 139 
 
 "The chances are very small, young lady — 
 next to nothing — for a man who gets a bad 
 name among them." 
 
 "What shall I understand that you mean by 
 a bad name?" 
 
 "The name of being troublesome." 
 
 "Then, by the prejudices of his own class, 
 and by the prejudices of the other, he is sacri- 
 ficed alike ? Are the two so deeply sepa- 
 rated in this town, that there is no place 
 whatever, for an honest workman between 
 them ?" 
 
 Rachael shook her head in silence. 
 
 "He fell into suspicion," said Louisa, "with 
 his iellow-weavers, because he had made a 
 promise not to be one of them. I think it 
 must have been to you that he made that pro- 
 mise. Might I ask you why he made it?" 
 
 Rachael burst into tears. "I didn't seek it 
 of him, poor lad. I prayed him to avoid trou- 
 ble for his own good, little thinking he'd come 
 to it through me. But I know he'd die a hun- 
 dred deaths, ere ever he'd break his word. I 
 know that of him well." 
 
 Stephen had remained quietly attentive in 
 his usual thoughtful attitude, with his hand 
 at his chin. He now spoke in a voice rather 
 less steady than usual. 
 
 "No one, excepting myseln, can ever know 
 what honor, an what love, an respect, I bear 
 to Rachael, or wi' what cause. When I passed 
 that promess, I towd her true, she were th' 
 Angel o' my life. ' fwere a solemn promess. 
 'Tis gone fro me, fur ever." 
 
 Louisa turned her head to him, and bent it 
 with a defrence that was new in her. She 
 louked from him to Rachael, and her features 
 sofiened. "What will you do?"' stie asked 
 him. And her voice had softened too, 
 
 "Weel, inaajn," said Stephen, makin? the 
 best of it, with a smile; "when I ha iiuished 
 off, I mun quit this part, an try another. Fort- 
 net or mislortnet, a man can but try; there's 
 nowt to he done wi'out tryin' — cept laying 
 doun an dying." 
 
 "How will you travel?'' 
 
 ".Vfoot, my kind leddy, afoot. 
 
 Louisa colored, and a purse appeared in her 
 hand. Tiie rustling of a bankiune was audi- 
 ble, as she unfolded one and laid it oa the 
 table. 
 
 "Kachael, will you tell him —for you know 
 how, without offence — that this is freely his, 
 to help him on his way? Will you entreat him 
 to take it?" 
 
 "I canna' do that, young lady," she answer- 
 ed, turning her head aside; "bless you for 
 thinkinjr o' the poor lad wi' such tenderness. 
 But 'tis for him to know his heart, and what is 
 right according to it." 
 
 Louisa looked, in part incredulou'*, in part 
 frightened, in part overcome with quick sympa- 
 thy, when this man of so much self command, 
 who had been so plain and steady through the 
 late interview, lost his composure in a moment, 
 and now stood with his hand before his face. 
 She stretched cut hers, as if she would have 
 
 touched him; then checked herself, and re- 
 mained still. 
 
 "Not e'en Rachael," said Stephen, when 
 he stood again with his face uncovered, 
 "could mak sitch a kind offerin, by onny 
 words, kinder. T' show that I'm not a 
 man wi'out reason and gratitude, I'll tak 
 two pound. I'll borrow't for t' pay't back. — 
 'T will be the sweetest work as ever I ha 
 done, that puts it in my power t' acknowledge 
 once more uiy lastiu thankfulness for this pre- 
 sent action." 
 
 She was fain to take up the note again, and 
 to substitute the much smaller sum he had 
 named. He was neither courtly, nor hand- 
 some, nor picturesque, in any respect; and yet 
 his manner of accepting it, and of expressing 
 his thanks without more words, had a grace in 
 it that Lord Chesterfield could not have taught 
 his son in a century. 
 
 Tom had sat upon the bed, swinging one 
 leg and sucking his walking-stick with suf- 
 ficient unconcern, until the visit had attained 
 this stage. Seeing his sister ready to depart, 
 he got up, rather hurriedly, and put in a word. 
 
 "Just wait a moment. Loo! Before we 
 go. 1 should like to speak to him a moment. 
 Something conies into my head If you'll 
 step out on the stairs, Blackpool, I'll mention 
 it. Never mind a light, manl" Tom was 
 remarkably impatient of his moving towards 
 the cupboard, to get one. "It don't want a 
 light." 
 
 Stephen followed hiji out, and Tom closed 
 the room door, and held the lock in his hand. 
 
 "I say!" he whispered. "I think I can do 
 you a good turn. Lon't ask me what it is, 
 because it may not come to anything. But 
 there's no harm in my trying." 
 
 His breath fell like a flame of fire on Ste- 
 phen's ear; it was so hot. 
 
 "That was our light porter at the Bank," 
 said 'J'om, "who brought you the message ti- 
 night. i call him our light porter, because I 
 belong to the Bank too." 
 
 Stephen thought "What a hurry he is in!" 
 Ue spoke so comusedly. 
 
 "Well!" said Tom. "Now look here! When 
 are you oti?" 
 
 " I 'day's Monday,"* replied Stephen, con- 
 sidering. "Why, sir, Friday or Saturday, nigh 
 'bout." 
 
 "Friday or Saturday," said Tom. "Now, 
 look here! I am not sure that I can do you 
 the good turn I want to do you — that's my 
 sister, you know, in your room — but i may be 
 able to, and if I should not be able to, there's 
 no harm done. So I tell you what. You'll 
 know our light porter again?" 
 
 "Yes sure," said Stephen. 
 
 "Very well," returned Tmn. "When you 
 leave work of a night, between this and \uur 
 going away, just hang about the Bank an huur 
 or so, will you? Don't take on, as if you meant 
 anythinir, if he should see you han;.;ing about 
 there; because I shan't put him up to speak to 
 you, unless 1 find i can do you the service I 
 
140 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 want to do you. In that case he'll have a note 
 or a message for you, l)iit not else. Now look 
 here! You are sure yuu understand." 
 
 He had wormed a tiu^^er, in the dark- 
 ness, throuf^h a button-lioln of Stephen"^ 
 coat, and was screwing that corner of tiie gar- 
 ment tight up, round aud round, in an extraor- 
 dinary manner. 
 
 "1 understand, sir,"' said Stephen. 
 
 "Now look here !" repeated 1 om. "Be sure 
 you don't make any mistake tht-n, and don't 
 t'orgtt I shall U:\[ my sister as we go lionu-, 
 what I have in view, and .•ihe'll approve, 1 know. 
 Now look here! You're all right, are yt.puV 
 You understand all about it ? Very well then. 
 Come along, Loo!'' 
 
 He pushed the door open as he called to her, 
 but did not return into the room, or wait to be 
 lighted down the narrow stairs. He was at 
 the bottom when she began to descend, and 
 was in the street before she could take his 
 arm. 
 
 Mrs. Pegl r remained in hei" corner until 
 the brother and sister were gone, and until 
 Sieplien came back with the candle in iiis 
 hand. She was in a state of inexpressible 
 admiration of Mrs. tsounderby, and, like an 
 unaccountable old woman, wept, " becaus ■ 
 she was such a pretty dear." Yet Mrs. 
 Pegler was so flurried lest the object of 
 her admiration should return by any chance, 
 or anybody else should come, that her 
 cheerfulness was ended for that night. It 
 was late too, to people who rose early and 
 worked hard ; therefore the party broke 
 up ; and Stephen and Rachael escorted their 
 mysterious acquaintance to the door of the 
 Travellers' Culf'ee House, where they parted 
 from her. 
 
 They walked back together to the corner 
 of the street where iiachael lived, and as they 
 drew nearer and nearer to it, silence crept 
 upon thein. When they came to the dark 
 corner where their unfrequent meetings always 
 ended, they stopped, still silent, as if both were 
 afraid to speak. 
 
 " I shall strive t' see thee agen, Rachael, 
 afore 1 go, l)ut if not '' 
 
 "Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis bet- 
 ter that we make up our minds to be optu wi' 
 one another." 
 
 " Thou 'rt awlus right. 'Tis bolder and 
 better. I ha' been thinkin, then, Rachael, 
 that as 'tis but a day or two that remains, 
 'twere better for thee, my dear, not t' be seen 
 wi' me. 'T might bring thee into trouble, fur 
 no good." 
 
 '• Tis not for that, Stephen, that I mind. But 
 thou know'st our old agreement. 'Tis for that." 
 
 "Well, well," said he. "'Tis better, onny- 
 ways." 
 
 "Thou'lt write to me, and tell me all that 
 happens, Stephen '/"' 
 
 "Y'es. What can I say now, but Heaven be 
 wi' thee. Heaven bless thee. Heaven thank 
 thee, and reward thee!'' 
 
 "May it bleos thee, Stephen, too, in all thy 
 
 wanderings, and send thee peace and rest at 
 last!" 
 
 "I towd thee, my dear," said Stephen Black- 
 pool — "that niglit — that 1 woild i.ever see or 
 think o' onnything that angered me. Out thou, 
 so much better than me, should'st be beside it. 
 Thou'rt beside it now. Thou mak'st me see it 
 wi' a better eye. Biess thee. Good night. 
 Good bye!" 
 
 It was but a hurried parting in the common 
 Street, yet it was a sacred remembrance to 
 these two common people. Ulililanan econo- 
 mists, skeletons of schoolmasters. Commission- 
 ers ot Fact, genteel and used up infidels, gab- 
 blers of nnmy little dog's-eared creeds, the 
 poor you will liave always with you. Cultivate 
 in them, while there is yet time, the utmost 
 graces of the fancies and atfectiuiis, to adorn 
 their lives so much in need of ornament; or, 
 in the moment of your triumph, when ro- 
 mance is utterly driven out of their souls, and 
 they and a bare existence stand face to face, 
 Reality will take a wolhsh turn, and make au 
 end ot you! 
 
 Stephen worked the next day, and the next, 
 uncheered by a word from any one, and 
 shunned in all his comings and goings as be- 
 fore. At the end of the second day, he 
 saw land; at the end of the third, his loom 
 stood empty. 
 
 He had overstayed his hour in the street 
 outside the Hank, on each of the two first 
 evenings; and nothing had happened there, 
 good or bad. That he might not be reiuisa 
 in his part of the engagement, he resolved to 
 wait full two hours, on this third and last nighu 
 
 There was the lady who had once kept Mr. 
 Boundeiby's house, sitting at the hrsi floor 
 window as he had seen her bet'ore; and there 
 was the light porter, sometimes talking with 
 her there, and sometimes looking over the 
 blind below which had Bank ufmn it, and 
 sometimes coming to the door and standing 
 on the steps for a breath of air. W hen he 
 first came out, Stephen thought he might be 
 looking for him, and passed near; but tiie light 
 porter only cast his winking e}es upon him 
 slightly, and said nothing. 
 
 1 wo hours were a long stretch of lounging 
 about, after a long day's labor. Stephen sat 
 upon the step of a door, leaned against a wall 
 under an archway, strolled up and down, list- 
 ened for the church clock, stopped and watched 
 children playing in the street. Some pur[>ose 
 or other is so natural to every one, that a mere 
 loiterer always looks and feels remarkable. — 
 When the hist hour was out, Stephen even be- 
 gan to have an uncomfortable sensation upon 
 him of being for the time a disreputable cha- 
 racter. 
 
 '1 hen came the lamplighter, and two length- 
 ening lines of light all down the long perspec- 
 tive of the sireet, until they were blended ..nd 
 lost in the distance. Mrs. Sparsit chased the 
 hrst floor window, drew down the blind, and 
 went up stair.-J. Presently, a light went up 
 stairs after her, passing hrst the tanligbi of 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 141 
 
 the door, and afterwards the two staircase 
 windows, on its way up. By and by, one corner 
 of the second floor blind was disturbed, as if 
 Mrs. Sparsit's eye were there; also the other 
 corner, as it' the light porter's eye were on that 
 side. Still no communication was made to 
 Stephen. Much relieved when the two hours 
 were at last accomplished, he went away at a 
 quick pace, as a recompense for so much loi- 
 tering. 
 
 He had only to take leave of his landlady, 
 and lie down on his temporary bed upon the 
 floor ; for his bundle was made u[) for to-mor- 
 row, and all was arranged for his departure. 
 He meant to be clear of the town very early : 
 before the Hands were in the streets. 
 
 It was barely daybreak, when with a parting 
 look round his room, mournfully wondering 
 whether he should ever see it again, he went 
 out. The town was as entirely deserted as if 
 the inhabitants had abandoned it, rather than 
 hold communication with him. Everything 
 looked wan at that hour. Even the coining 
 sun made but a pale waste in the sky, like a 
 sad sea. 
 
 By the place where Rachael lived, though it 
 was not in his way ; by the red brick streets ; 
 by the great silent factories, not trembling yet ; 
 by the railway, where the danger-lights were 
 waning in the strengthening day ; by the rail- 
 way's crazy neighborhood, half pulled down 
 and half built up ; by scattered red brick villas. 
 where the besmoked evergreens were sprinkled 
 with a dirty powder, like untidy snutf-takers ; 
 by coal-dust paths and many varieties of ug'i- 
 ness ; Stephen got to the top of the hill, and 
 looked back. 
 
 Day was shining radiantly upon the town 
 then, and the bells were going for the morn- 
 ing vv'ork. Domestic fires were not yet lighted, 
 and the high chimneys had the sky to them- 
 selves. Puffing out their poisonous volumes, 
 they would not be long in hiding it; but, for 
 half an hour, some of the many windows were 
 golden, which showed the Coketown people a 
 sun eternally in eclipse, through a medium of 
 smoked glass. 
 
 So strange to turn from the chimneys to the 
 birds. So strange to have the road dust on 
 liis feet instead of the coal-grit. So str nge 
 to have lived to his time of life, and yet to be 
 begiiming like a boy this summer morning ! 
 With these musings in his mind, and his bundle 
 under his arm, Stephen toi.'k his attentive face 
 alon^:: the high road. And the trees arched 
 over him, whispering that he left a true and 
 loving heart behind. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 Mr. James Harthouse, "going in"' for his 
 adopted party, soon began to score. With the 
 aid of a little more coaching for the political 
 sages, a little more genteel listlessness for the 
 general society, and a tolerable management 
 of the assumed honesty in dishonesty, most ef- 
 fective and most patronized of the polite dead- 
 
 ly sins, he speedily came to be considered ot 
 much promise. The not being troubled with 
 earnestness was a grand point in liis favor, 
 en 'bling him to take to the hard Fact folio wa 
 with as good a grace as if he had l)een bora 
 one of the tribe, and to ihrow all other tribes 
 overboard, as conscious imposters. 
 
 "Whom none of us believe, my dear Mrs. 
 Bounderby, and who do not believe them- 
 selves. The only dilference between us and 
 the professors of virtue or benevolence, or phi- 
 lanthiopy — never mind the name — is, that 
 we know it is all meaningless, and say so; 
 while they know it equally and will never say 
 so." 
 
 Why should she be shocked or warned by 
 this rei eration? It was not so unlike her 
 father's principles, and her early training, 
 that it need startle her. Where was the great 
 ditference between the two schools, when each 
 chained her down to material realities, and 
 inspired her with no faith in anything else? 
 What was there in her soul for Janu-s Hart- 
 house to destroy, which Thomas Gradgrind 
 had nurtured there in its state of innuceiice? 
 
 It was even the worse lor her at this pass; 
 that in her mind — implanted there before her 
 eminently practical father began to form it — 
 a struggling disposition to believe in a wider 
 and higher humanity than she had ever heard 
 of, Constantly strove with doubts and resent 
 ments. With doubts, because the aspiration 
 had been so laid waste in her youth. With 
 resentments, because of the wrong that had 
 been done her, if it were indeed a whisper of 
 the truth. Upon a nature long accustomed 
 to self-suppression, thus torn and divided, the 
 Harthouse philosophy came as a relief and jus- 
 tification. Everything being hollow, and 
 w(jrthless, she had missed nothing and sacri- 
 ficed nothing. What did it matter, she had 
 said to her lather, when he proposed her hus- 
 band. What did it matter, she said still. — 
 With a scornful selfreliance, she asked her- 
 self, what did anything matter — and went on. 
 
 Towards what? Step by step, onward and 
 downward, towards some end, yet so gradu- 
 ally that she believed herself to remain mo- 
 tioiUess. As to Mr. Harthouse, whither he 
 tended, he neither considered nor cared. He 
 had no particular design or plan before him; 
 no energetic wickedness ruffled his lassi- 
 tude. He was as much amused and in- 
 terested, at present, as it became so fine a 
 gentleman to be; perhaps even more than it 
 would have been consistent with his reputa- 
 tion to confess. Soon af"ter his arrival he lan- 
 guidly wrote to his brother, tlie honorable and 
 jocular member, that the Jiounderbys were 
 '•great fun ;'' and further, that the female 
 Bounderby, instead of being the Gorgon he 
 had expected, was young aud remarkably 
 pretty. After that, he wrote no more about 
 them, and devoted his leisure chiefly to their 
 house. He was very often in their house, in 
 his flittiiiirs and visitings about the Coketown 
 district; and was much encouraged by Mr. 
 
142 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 Bounderby. It was quite in Mr. Bounderby's 
 
 gusty way to boast to all his world that he 
 didu't care about your highly connected people, 
 but that if his wile Tom Gradgrind's daughter 
 did, she was welcome to their company. 
 
 Mr. James Harthouse began to think it 
 would be a new sensation, if the face which 
 changed so beautifully for the whelp, would 
 change for him. 
 
 He was quick enough to observe; he had 
 a good memory, and did not forget a word of 
 the brother's revelations. He iaterwove them 
 with everything he saw of the sister, and he 
 began to understand her. To be sure, the 
 better a id profounder part of her character 
 was not within his scope of perception; for in 
 natures, as in seas, depth answers unto depth; 
 but he soon began to read the rest with a 
 student's eye. 
 
 Mr. Bouuderby had taken possession of a 
 house and grounds, about fifteen miles from 
 the town, and accessible within a mile or 
 two, by a railwj^ striding on many arches 
 over a wild country, undermined by deserted 
 coalpits, and spotted at night by fires and 
 black shapes of engines. This country, gra- 
 dually softening towards the neighborhood 
 of Mr. Bounderby's retreat, there mellowed 
 into a rustic landscape, golden with heath, 
 and snowy with hawthorn in the spring of the 
 year, and tremulous with leaves and their 
 shadows all the summer time. The bank had 
 foreclosed a mortgage on the property thus 
 pleasantly situated: eflected by one of the 
 Coketown magnates : who, in his determina- 
 tion to make a shorter cut than usual to an 
 enormous fortune, overspeculated himself after- 
 wards by about two hundred thousand pounds. 
 These accidents did sometimes happen in the 
 best regulated families of Coketown, though 
 the bankrupts had no connexion whatever 
 with the improvident classes. 
 
 It afforded Mr. Bounderby supreme satis- 
 faction to instal himself in this snug little 
 estate, and with demonstrative humility to 
 grow cabbages in the flower-garden. He de- 
 lighted to live, barrack fashion, among the 
 elegant furniture, and he bull ed the very 
 pictures with his origin. "Why, sir," he 
 would say to a visiter, "I am told that 
 Nickits," the late owner, "gave seven hun- 
 dred pound for that Sea-beach. Now, to 
 be plain with you, if I ever, in the whole 
 course of my lite, take seven looks at it, at a 
 hundred pound a look, it will be as much as 
 I shall do. Noj by George! I don't forget 
 that I am Josiah Bounderby, of Coketown. 
 For J ears upon years, the only pictures in my 
 possession, or that I could have got into my 
 possession by any means, unless I stole 'em, 
 were the engravings of a man shaving himself 
 in a boot, on the blacking bottles that I was 
 overjoyed to use in cleaning boots with, and 
 that 1 sold when they were empty for a farthing 
 a-piece, and glad to get it !" 
 
 Then he would address Mr. Harthouse in 
 the same style. 
 
 "Harthouse, you have a couple of horse* 
 down here. Bring half a dozen more 
 if you like, and we'll find room for 'em. 
 There's 'Stabling in this place for a dozen 
 horses; and unless Nickits is belied, he kept 
 the full number. A round dozen of 'em, sir. 
 When that man was a boy, he went to West- 
 minster School. Went to Westminster School 
 as a King's Scholar, when I was principally 
 living on garbage, and sleeping in market 
 baskets. Why, if I wanted to keep a dozen 
 horses — which I don't, for one's enough for 
 me — I couldn't bear to see 'em in their stalls 
 here, and think what my own lodging used to 
 be. I couldn't look at 'em, sir, and not order 
 'era out. Yet so things come round. You see 
 this place; you know what sort of a p ace it 
 is; you areaw are that there's not a com- 
 pleter place of its size in this kingdom or 
 elsewhere — I don't care where — and here, 
 got into the middle of it, like a magtrot into a 
 nut, is Josiah Bounderby. While Nickits, (as 
 a man came into my office, and told me 
 yesterday,) Nickits, who used to act in Latin, 
 in the Westminster School plays, with the 
 chief justices and nobility of this country ap- 
 plauding him till they were black in the facci 
 is drivelling at this minute — drivelling, sir I — 
 in a fifth floor, up a narrow dark back street 
 in Antwerp." 
 
 It was among the leafy shadows of this re- 
 tirement, in the long sultry summer days, that 
 Mr. Harthouse began to prove the face which 
 had set him wondering when he first saw it, 
 and to try if it would change for him. 
 
 " Mrs. Bounderby, I esteem it a most for- 
 tunate accident that I find you alone here. I 
 have for some time had a particular wish to 
 speak to you." 
 
 It was not by any wonderful accident that 
 he found her, the time of day being that at 
 which she was always alone, and the p.lftce 
 being her favorite resort. It was an opening 
 in a dark wood, where some felled trees lay, 
 and where she would sit watching the fallen 
 leaves of last year, as she had watched the 
 falling ashes at home. 
 
 He sat down beside her, with a glance at 
 her face. 
 
 " Your brother. My young friend Tom — "' 
 
 Her color brightened, and she turned to him 
 with a look of interest. " I never in my life," 
 hn thought, " saw anything so remarkable and 
 so captivating as the lighting of those features!" 
 His face betrayed his thoughts — perhaps with- 
 out betraying him, for it might have been ac- 
 cording to its instructions so to do. 
 
 "Pardon me. The expression of your sis- 
 terly interest is so beautiful — Tom should be 
 so proud of it — I know this is inexcusable, but I 
 am so compelled to admire." 
 
 •'Being so impulsive," she said composedly. 
 
 "Mrs. Bounderby, no; you know I make no 
 pretence with you. You know 1 am a sordid 
 piece of human nature, ready to sell myself at 
 any time for any reasonable aum, and al- 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 143 
 
 together incapable of any Arcadian proceed- 
 ing whatever." 
 
 "I am waiting," she returned, "for your 
 further reference to my brother." 
 
 ''You are rigid with me, and I deserve it. 
 I am as worthless as a dog, as yon will find, 
 except that I am not false — not false. But 
 you surprised and started me from my subject, 
 which was your brother. I have an interest in 
 him." 
 
 "Have you an interest in anything, Mr. 
 Harthouse?" she asked, half incredueously and 
 half gratefully. 
 
 "If you had asked me when I first came 
 here, I should have said no. I must say now — 
 even at the hazard of appearing to make a 
 pretence, and of justly awakening your in- 
 credulity — yes." 
 
 She made a slight movement, as if she were 
 trying to speak, but could not find voice ; at 
 length she said, "Mr. Harthouse, I give you 
 credit for being interested in my brother." 
 
 "Thank you. I claim to deserve it. You 
 know how little I do claim, but I will go that 
 length. You have done so much for hi-n, you 
 are so fond of him; your whole life, Mrs. Boun- 
 derby, expresses such charming self forgetful- 
 ness on his account — pardon me again — I am 
 running wide of the subject. I am interested 
 in him for his own sake." 
 
 She had made the slightest action possible, 
 as if she would have risen in a hurry and gone 
 away. He had turned the course of what he 
 said at that instant, and she remained. 
 
 " Mrs. Bounderby," he resumed, in a lighter 
 manner, and yet with a show of effort in 
 assuming it, which was even more expressive 
 than ;he manner he dismissed; "it is no irre- 
 vocable ofience in a young fellow of your 
 brother's years, if he is heedless, inconside- 
 rate and expensive — a little dissipated, in the 
 common phrase. Is he?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Allow me to be frank. Do you think he 
 games at all?" 
 
 "I think he makes bets." Mr. Harthouse 
 waiting, as if that were not her whole answer, 
 she added, "I know he does." 
 
 "Of course he loses?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Everybody loses who bets. May I hint at 
 the probability of your sometimes supplying 
 him with money for these purposes?" 
 
 She sat, looking down; but, at this ques- 
 tion, raised her eyes searchingly and a little 
 resentfully. 
 
 "Acquit me of impertinent curiosity, my 
 dear Mrs. Bounderby. I think Tom may be 
 gradually falling into trouble, and I wish to 
 stretch out a helping hand to him from the 
 depths of my wicked experience. Shall I say 
 again, for his sake? Is that necessary?" 
 
 She seemed to try to answer, but nothing 
 came of it. 
 
 "Candidly to confess every thing that has 
 occurred to me," said James Harti;ouse, again 
 gliding with the same appearance of effort into 
 
 his more airy manner; "I will confide to you 
 my doubt whether he has had many advantages. 
 Whether — forgive my plainness— whether any 
 great amount of confidence is likely to have 
 been established between himself and his most 
 worthy father." 
 
 "I do not," said Louisa, flushing with her 
 own great remembrance in that wise, "think it 
 likely." 
 
 "Or, between himself, and — I may trust to 
 your perfect understanding of my meaning I 
 am sure — and his highly esteemed brother-in- 
 law." 
 
 She flushed deeper and deeper, and was 
 burning red when she replied in a fainter 
 voice, "I do not think that likely, either." 
 
 "Mrs. Bounderby," said Harthouse, after a 
 short silence, "may there be a better confidence 
 between yourself and me? Tomhas borrowed 
 a considerable sura of you?" 
 
 "You will understand, Mr. Harthouse," 
 she returned, after some indecision : she had 
 been more or less uncertain, and troubled 
 throughout the conversation, and yet had in 
 the main preserved her selfcontained man- 
 ner: "you will understand that if I tell you 
 what you press to know, it is not by wav of 
 complaint or regret. I would never complain 
 of anything, and what I have done I do not in 
 the least regret." 
 
 "So spirited, too!" thought James Hart- 
 house. 
 
 "When I married, I found that my brother 
 was even at that time heavily in debt. Hea^'-'y 
 for him, I mean. Heavily enough to oblige 
 me to sell some trinkets. They were no sacri- 
 fice. I sold them very willingly. I attached 
 no value to them. They were quite worthless 
 to me." 
 
 Either she saw in his face that he knew, or 
 she only feared in her conscience that he knew, 
 that she spoke of some of her husband's gifts. 
 She stopped, and reddened again. If he had 
 not known it before, he would have known it 
 then, though he had been a much duller man 
 than he was. 
 
 "Since then, I have given my brother, at 
 various times, what money I could spare : in 
 short, what money I have had. Confiding in 
 you at all, on the fiiith of the interest you pro- 
 fess for him, I will not do so by halves. Since 
 you have been in the habit of visiting here, he 
 has wanted in one sum as much as a hundred 
 pounds. I have not been able to give it to 
 him. I have felt uneasy for the consequences of 
 his being so involved, but I have kept these se- 
 crets untilnow,when Itrust them to your honor. 
 I have held no confidence with any one, because 
 — you anticipated my reason just now." She 
 abruptly broke off 
 
 He was a ready man, and he saw, and 
 seized, au opportunity here of presenting her 
 own image to her, slightly disguised as her 
 brother. 
 
 "Mrs. Bounderby, though a graceless person, 
 of the world worldly, I feel the utmost in- 
 terest, I assure you, in what you tell me. I 
 
144 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 eannot possibly be hard upon your brother. I 
 understand and share the wise consideration 
 with which you rejrard his errors. With all 
 possible respect both for Mr. Gradgrind and 
 for Mr. Bounderby, I think I perceive that 
 he has not been fortunate in his training. 
 Bred at a disadvantage towards the society 
 in which he has his part to play, he rushes 
 into these extremes for himself, from opposite 
 extremes that have long been forced — with the 
 very best intentions we have no doubt — upon 
 him. Mr. Bounderliy's fine bluff English 
 independence, though a most charming 
 characteristic, does not — as we have agreed — 
 invite confidence. If I might venture to 
 remark that it is the least in the world defi- 
 cient in that delicacy to which a youth mis- 
 taken, a character misconceived, and abilities 
 misdirected, would turn for relief and guid- 
 ance, I should express what it presents to my 
 own view." 
 
 As she sat looking straight before her, across 
 the changing lights upon the grass into the 
 darkness of the wood beyond, he saw in her 
 face her application of his very distinctly 
 uttered words. 
 
 "All allowance," he continued, "must be 
 made. I have one great fault to find with 
 Tom, however, which I cannot forgive, and for 
 which I take him heavily to account." 
 
 Louisa turned her eyes to his face, and 
 asked him what fault was that ? 
 
 " Perhaps," he returned, " I have said 
 enough. Perhaps it would have been better, 
 on the whole, if no allusion to it had escaped 
 me." 
 
 " You alarm me, Mr. Harthouse. Pray let 
 me know it." 
 
 "To relieve you from needless apprehension 
 — and as this confidence regarding your brother, 
 which I prize, I am sure, above all possible 
 things, has been established between us — I 
 obey. I cannot forgive him for not being more 
 sensible, in every word, look, and act of bis life, 
 of the affection of his best friend; of the devo- 
 tion of his best friend; of her unselfishness; of 
 her sacrifice. The return he makesher, within 
 my observation, is a very poor one. What she 
 has done for him demands his constant love and 
 gratitude, not his ill-humor and caprice. Care- 
 less fellow as I am, I am not so indifferent, 
 Mrs. Bounderby, as to be regardless of this 
 vice in your brother, or inclined to consider it a 
 venial offence." 
 
 Tiie wood floated before her, for her eyes 
 were suffused with tears. They rose from a 
 deep well, long concealed, and her heart was 
 tilled with acute pain that found no relief in 
 them. 
 
 "In a word, it is to correct your brother in 
 this, Mrs. Bounderby, that I most aspire. My 
 better knowledge of his circumstances, and 
 my direction and advice in extricating him — 
 rather valuable, I hope, as coming from a 
 scapegrace on a much larger scale — will give 
 me some influence over him, and all I gain I 
 shall certainly use towards this end. I have 
 
 said enough, and more than enough. I seem 
 to be protesting that I am a sort of good 
 fellow, when, upon my honor, I have not the 
 least intention to make any protestation to 
 that effect, and openly announce that I am 
 nothing of the sort. Yonder, among the trees," 
 he added, having lifted up his eyes and looked 
 about; for he had watched her closely until 
 now; "is your brother himself; no doubt, 
 just come down. As he seems to be loitering 
 in this direction, it may be as well, perhaps, 
 to walk towards him, and throw ourselves in 
 his way. He has been very silent and doleful 
 of late. Perhaps, his brotherly conscience is 
 touched — if there are such things as con- 
 sciences. Though, upon my honor, I hear of 
 them much too often to believe in them." 
 
 He assisted her to rise, and she took his 
 arm, and they advanced to meet the whelp. 
 He was idly beating the branches as he 
 lounged along: or he stopped viciously to rip 
 the moss from the trees with his stick. He 
 was startled when they came upon him while 
 he was engaged in this latter pastime, and his 
 color changed. 
 
 "Halloa 1" he stammered, "I didn't know you 
 were here." 
 
 "Whose name, Tom," said Mr. Harthouse, 
 putting his hand upon his shoulder and turn- 
 ing him, so that they all three walked towards 
 the house together, "have you been carving on 
 the trees?" 
 
 "Whose name?" returned Tom. "OhI Yon 
 mean what girl's name?" 
 
 "You have a suspicious appearance of in- 
 scribing some fair creature's on the bark, 
 Tom." 
 
 "Not much of that, Mr. Harthouse, unless 
 some fair creature with a slashing fortune at 
 her own disposal would take a fancy to me. 
 Or she might be as ugly as she was rich, with- 
 out any fear of losing me. I'd carve her 
 name as often as she liked." 
 
 "I'm afraid you are mercenary, Tom." 
 
 "Mercenary," repeated Tom, "Who is not 
 mercenary? Ask my sister." 
 
 "Have you so proved it to be a failing of 
 mine, Tom?" said Louisa, showing no ether 
 sense of his discontent and ill-nature. 
 
 "You know whether the cap fits you. Loo," 
 returned her brother sulkily. "If it does, you 
 can wear it." 
 
 "Tom is misanthropical to day, as all bored 
 people are, now and then," said Mr. Hart- 
 house. "Don't believe him, Mrs. Bounderby. 
 He knows much better. I shall disclose some 
 of his opinions of you, privately expressed to 
 me, unless he relents a little." 
 
 "At all events, Mr. Harthouse," said Tom, 
 softening in his admiration of his patron, but 
 shaking his head sullenly too, "you can't tell 
 her that I ever praised her for being merce- 
 nary. I may have praised her for being the 
 contrary, and I should do it again if I had as 
 good reason. However, never mind this now; 
 it's not very interesting to you, and I am sick 
 of the subject." 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 145 
 
 They walked on to the house, where Lonisa 
 quitted hervisiter's anu and went in. He stbod 
 looking after her, as she ascended the steps, 
 and passed into the shadow of the door; then 
 put his hand upon her brothers shoulder again, 
 and invited him with a confidential nod to a 
 walk in the garden. 
 
 "Tom, my fine fellow, I want to have a word 
 with you." 
 
 They had stopped among a disorder of roses 
 — it was part of Mr. Bounderby's humility to 
 keep Nickit's roses on a reduced scale — and 
 Tom sat down on a terrace-parapet, plucking 
 buds and picking them to pieces; while his 
 powerful Familiar stood over him, with a foot 
 upon the parapet, and his figure easily resting 
 on the arm supported by that knee. They were 
 just visible from her window. Perhaps she 
 saw them. 
 
 "Tom, what's the matter?" 
 
 "Oh 1 Mr. Harthouse," said Tom, with a 
 groan, "I am hard up, and bothered out of 
 my life." 
 
 "My good fellow, so am I." 
 
 "You!" returned Tom. "You are- the pic- 
 ture of independence. Mr. Harthout^e, I am 
 in a horrible mess. Yoti have no idea what a 
 state I have got myself into — what a state my 
 sister miwht have got me out of, if she would 
 only have done it." 
 
 He took to biting the rose buds now, and 
 tearing them away from his teeth with a hand 
 that trembled like an infirm old man's. After 
 one exceedingly observant look at him, his 
 companion relapsed into his liuhtest air. 
 
 "Tom, you are inconsiderate; you expect 
 too much of your sister. You have had money 
 of her, you dog, you know you have." 
 
 "Well, Mr. Harthouse, 1 know I have. — 
 How else was I to get it? Here's old Ijoiui- 
 derby always boasting that at my age he lived 
 upon two-pence a month, or something of that 
 sort. Here's my father drawing what he calls 
 a line, and tying me down to it from a bahyj 
 neck and heels. Here's my mother, who never 
 has anything of her own, except her com- 
 plaints. What is a fellow to do for money, 
 and where am I to look for it, if not to my 
 sister!" 
 
 He was almost crying, and scattered the 
 buds about by dozens. Mr. Harthouse took 
 him persuasively by the c<^at. 
 
 "But my dear Tom, if your sister has not 
 got it—" 
 
 "Not got it, Mr. Harthouse? I don't say 
 she has got it. I may have wanted more than 
 she was likely to have got. But then she 
 ought to get it. She could get it. It's of no 
 use pretending to make a secret of matters 
 now, after what I have told you already; you 
 know she didn't marry old Bounde by for her 
 own sake, or for his sake, but for my sake. 
 Then why doesn't she get what I want, out of 
 liim, for my sake? She is not obliged to say 
 A'hat she is going to do with it; she is sharp 
 enough ; she could manage to coax it out of 
 him, if .she chose. Then why doesn't she 
 10 
 
 choose, when I tell her of what consequence it 
 is? But no. There she sits in his company 
 like a stone, instead of making herself agreea- 
 ble and getting it easily. I do 't know what 
 you may call this, but I call it unnatural con- 
 duct." 
 
 Tiiere was a piece of ornamental water im- 
 mediately below the parapet, on lh° other side, 
 into which Mr. James Harthouse had a very 
 strong inclination to pitch Mr. Thomas Grad- 
 grind. Junior, as the injured men of Coketown 
 threatened to pitch their property into the - 1- 
 laritic. But he preserved his easy attitude; 
 and nothing more solid went over the stone 
 balustrades than the accumulated rosebuds 
 now Hoating about, a little surface-island. 
 
 "My dear Tom," said Harthouse, "let me try 
 to be your banker." 
 
 "For God's sake," replied Tom, suddenly, 
 "don't talk about banker.'?!'' And very white 
 he looked, in contrast with the roses. Very 
 white. 
 
 Mr. Harthouse, as a thoroughly well bred 
 man, accustomed to the best society, was not 
 to be surprised — he could as soon have been 
 affected — but he raised his eyelids a little 
 more, as if they were lif'ed by a feeble touch 
 of wonder. Albeit it was as much against 
 the precepts of his school to wonder, as it 
 was against the doctrines of the Giadgrind 
 College. 
 
 " W^hat is the present need, Tom ? Three 
 figures ? Out with them. Say what they 
 are." 
 
 " Mr. Harthouse," returned Tom, now ac- 
 tually crying ; and his tears were better than 
 his injuries, however pitiful a figure he made ; 
 " it's too late ; the money is of no use to me 
 at present. I should have had it before, to be 
 of use to me. But 1 am very much obliged 
 to you ; you're a true friend." 
 
 A true friend I "Whelp, whelp 1 " thought 
 Mr. Harthouse, lazily; "what an Ass you 
 are ! " 
 
 "And I take your offer as a great kind- 
 ness," said Toin, grasping his hand. " As a 
 great kindne.<s, Mr. Harthouse.' 
 
 "Well," returned the other, "it may be of 
 more use by and by. And, my good fellow, 
 if you will open your bedevilnients to me when 
 they come thick upon you, I may show you 
 better ways out of them than you can find for 
 yourself" 
 
 "Thank you," said Tom, shaking his head 
 dismally, and chewing ro.sebuds. "1 wish I 
 had known you sooner, Mr. Harthouse." 
 
 "Now, you see, Tom," said Mr. Harthouse 
 in conclusion; himself tossing over a rose ur 
 two, as a contribution to the island, which was 
 always drifting to the wall as if it wanted to 
 become a part of the mainland; "every man is 
 selfi>li in everything he does, and I am exactly 
 like the re.st of my fellow creatures. 1 am 
 desperately intent;" the languor of his despera 
 tion being quite tropical; "on your softening 
 towards your sister — which you ought to do; 
 
146 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 and on your being a more loving and agreea- 
 ble sort of brother — whirh you ought to be." 
 
 "I will be, Mr. Harthouse." 
 
 "No time like the present, Tom. Begin at 
 once." 
 
 "Certainly I will. And my sister Loo shall 
 say so." 
 
 "Having made which bargain, Tom," said 
 Harthouse, clapping him on the shoulder again, 
 with an air which left him at liberty to infer — 
 as he did, poor fool — that this condition was 
 imposed upon him in mere careless good nature, 
 to lessen his sense of obligation, "we will tear 
 ourselves asunder until dinner-time." 
 
 When Tom appeared before dinner, though 
 his mind seemed heavy enough, his body was 
 on the alert; and he appeared before Mr. Boun- 
 derby came in. "I didn't mean to be cross. 
 Loo," he said, giving her his hand, and kissing 
 her. "I know you are fond of me, and you 
 know I am fond of you." 
 
 After this, there was a smile upon Louisa's 
 face that day, for some one else. Alas, for 
 some one else ! 
 
 " So much the less is the whelp the only 
 creature that she cares for," thought James 
 Harthouse, reversing the reflection of his first 
 day's knowledge of her pretty face. " So 
 much the less, so much the less." 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 The next morning was too bright a morning 
 for sleep, and James Harthouse rose e rly, and 
 sat in the pleasant bay window of his dress- 
 ing-room, smoking the rare tobacco that had 
 had so wholesome an influence on his young 
 friend. Reposing in the sunlight, with the fra- 
 
 f ranee of his eastern pipe about him, and the 
 reamy smoke vanishing into the air, so rich 
 and soft with summer odors, he reckoned up 
 his advantages as an idle winner might count 
 his gains. He was not at all bored for the 
 time, and could give his mind to it. 
 
 He had established a confidence with her, 
 from which her husband was excluded. He 
 had established a confidence with her, that ab- 
 solutely turned upon her indifference towards 
 her husband, and the absence, now and at all 
 times, of any congeniality between them. He 
 had artfully, but plainly assured her, that he 
 knew her heart in its last most delicate recess- 
 es; he had come so near to her through its ten- 
 derest sentiment; he had associated himse'f 
 with that feeling; and the barrier behind which 
 she lived, had melted away. All very odd, and 
 very satisfactory! 
 
 And yet he had not, even now, any earnest 
 wickedness of purpose in him. Publicly and 
 privately, it were much better for the age in 
 which he lived, that he and the legion of whom 
 he was one were designedly bad, than indiffer- 
 ent and purposeless. It is the dritiing icebergs 
 setting with auy current anywhere, that wreck 
 the ships. 
 
 When the Devil goetli about like a roaring 
 lion, he goeth about in a shape by which few 
 
 but savages and hunters are attracted. But, 
 when he is trimmed, varnished, and polished, 
 according to the mode; when he is aweary of 
 vice, and aweary of virtue, used up as to brim- 
 stone, and used up as to bliss; then, whether 
 he take to the serving out of red tape, or to 
 the kindling of red fire, he is the very Devil. 
 
 So, James Harthouse reclined in the window, 
 iiulolently smoking, and reckoning up the 
 steps he had taken on the road by which he 
 happened to be travelling. The end to which 
 it led was before him, pretty plainly ; but he 
 troubled hiu self with no calculations about it. 
 What will be, will be. 
 
 As he had rather a long ride to take that day 
 — for there was a public occasion " to do '' at 
 some distancf, which afforded a tolerable op- 
 portunity of going in for the Gradgrind men — 
 he dressed early, and went down to breakfaot 
 He was anxious to see if she had relapsed since 
 the previous evening. No. He resumed where 
 he had left off. There was a look of interest 
 for him again. 
 
 He got through the day as much (or as 
 little) to his own satisfaction, as was to be 
 expected under the fatiguing circumstances; 
 and came riding back at six o'clock. There 
 was a sweep of some half mile between the 
 lodge and the house, and he was riding along 
 at a foot's pace over the smooth gravel, once 
 Nickit's, when Mr. Bounderby burst out of the 
 shrubbery with such violence as to make his 
 horse shy across the road. 
 
 "Harthouse!" cried Mr. Bounderby. "Have 
 you heard?" 
 
 "Heard what?" said Harthouse, soothing his 
 horse, and inwardly favoring Mr. Bounderby 
 with no good wishes. 
 
 "Then you haveriH heard!" 
 
 "I have heard you, and so has this brute. — 
 I have heard nothing else." 
 
 Mr. Bounderby, red and hot, planted himself 
 in the centre of the path before the horse's 
 head, to explode his bombshell with more ef- 
 fect. 
 
 "The Bank's robbed 1" 
 
 "You don't mean it!" 
 
 "Robbed last night, sir. Bobbed in an 
 extraordinary manner. Robbed with a false 
 key." 
 
 "Of much ?" 
 
 Mr. Bounderby, in his desire to make the 
 most of it, really seemed mortified by being 
 obliged to reply. "Why, no; not of very much. 
 But it might have been." 
 
 "Of how much?" 
 
 "Oh 1 as a sum — if you stick to a sum — of 
 not more than a hundred and fifty pound," 
 said Bounderby, with impatience. "But it's 
 not the sura ; it's the fact. It's the fact of 
 the Bank being robbed, that's the important 
 circumstance. I am surprised you don't 
 see it." 
 
 "My dear Bounderby," said James, dis- 
 mounting, and giving his bridle to his servant, 
 " I do see it ; and am as overcome as you can 
 possibly desire me to be, by the spectacle 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 147 
 
 afforded to my mental view. Nevertheless, 
 1 may be allowed, I hope, to congratulate you 
 — which I do with all my soul, I assure you 
 — on your not having sustained a greater 
 loss " 
 
 '* Thank'ee," replied Bounderby, in a short, 
 ungracious manner. " But I tell you what. 
 It might have been twenty thousand pound." 
 
 "I suppose it might." 
 
 '"Suppose it might? By the Lord, you maij 
 suppose so. By George!" said Mr. Bounder- 
 bv, with sundry menacing nods and shakes of 
 his head, "It might have been twice twenty. 
 There's no knowing what it would have been, 
 or wouldn't have been, as it was, but tor thi 
 fellows' being disturbed." 
 
 Louisa had come up now, and Mrs. Sparsit, 
 and Bitzer. 
 
 ■'Here's Tom Gradgrind's daughter knows 
 pretty well what it might have been, if you 
 duii't," blustered Bounderby. "Dropped, sir, 
 as if she was shot, when I told her ! Never 
 knew her do such a thing before. Does her 
 credit, under the circumstances, in my opinion." 
 
 She still looked faint and pale. James 
 Harthouse begged her to take his arm; and as 
 they moved on very slowly, asked how the rob- 
 bery had been committed. 
 
 "Why, I am going to tell you," said Boun- 
 derby, irritably giving his arm to Mrs. Sparsit. 
 "If you hadn't been so mighty particular about 
 the sum, I should have begun to tell you be 
 fore. You know this lady (for she is a lady), 
 Mrs. Sparsit?"' 
 
 "I have already had the honor'' — 
 
 "Very well. And this young man, Bitzer, 
 you saw him too on the same occasion?" Mr. 
 Harthouse inclined his head in assent, and 
 Bitzer knuckled his forehead. 
 
 "Very well. They live at the Bank. You 
 know they live at the Bank perhaps? Very 
 well. Yesterday afternoon, at the close of 
 business hours, everything was put away as 
 usual. In the iron room that this young fel- 
 low sleeps outside of, there was — ne%'er mind 
 how much. In the little safe in young Tom's 
 closet, the safe used for petty purposes, there 
 was a hundred and fitty odd pound." 
 
 "Hundred and fifty-four, seven, one," said 
 Bitzer. 
 
 "Come !" retorted Bounderby, stopping to 
 wheel round upon him, "let's have none of 
 your interruptions. It's enough to be robbed 
 while you're snoring because you're too com- 
 fortable, without being put right with your four 
 seven ones. I didn't snore, myself, when I 
 was vour age, let me tell you. I hadn't victuals 
 enough to snore. And I didn't four seven one. 
 Not if I knew it." 
 
 Bitzer knuckled his forehead again, in a 
 sneaking manner, and seemed at once par- 
 ticularly impressed and depressed by the 
 instance last given of Mr. Bouuderby's moral 
 abstinence. 
 
 "A hundred and fifty odd pound," resumed 
 Mr. Bounderby. "That sum of money, young 
 Tom locked in his safe; not a very strong sa!e, 
 
 but that's no matter now. Everything was left, 
 all right. Some time in the night, while this 
 young fellow snored — Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, you 
 say you have heard him snore ?" 
 
 ' Sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I cannot say 
 that I have heard him precisely snore, and 
 therefore must not make that statement. 
 But on winter evenings, when he has fallen 
 asleep at his table, I have heard him, what I 
 should prefer to describe as partially choke. 
 I have heard him on such occasions produce 
 sounds of a nature similar to what may be 
 sometimes heard in Dutch clocks. Kot," 
 said Mrs. Sparsit, with a lofty sense of giving 
 strict evidence, "that I would convey any im- 
 putation on his moral character. Far from it. 
 I have always considered Bitzer a young man 
 of the most upright principle; and to that I 
 beg to bear my testimony. 
 
 "Well!" said the exasperated Bounderby, 
 "while he was snoring, or choking, or Dutch- 
 clocking, or something or other — being asleep 
 — some fellows, somehow whether previously 
 concealed in the house or not remains to be 
 seen, got to young Tom's safe, forced it, and 
 abstracted the contents. Being then dis- 
 turbed, they made off; letting themselves out 
 at the main door, and double-locking it again 
 (it was double-locked, and the key under Mrs. 
 Sparsit's pillow) with a false key, which was 
 picked up in the street near the Bank, about 
 twelve o'clock to-day. No alarm takes place, 
 till this chap, Bitzer, turns out this morning 
 and begins to open and prepare the ofiBces for 
 business. Then, lookingat Tom's safe, he sees 
 the door ajar, and finds the lock forced, and 
 the money gone." 
 
 "Where is Tom, by the by?" asked Hart- 
 house, glancing round. 
 
 "He has beenhelping the police," said Boun- 
 derby, "and stays behind at the Bank. I wish 
 these fellows had tried to rob me when I was at 
 his time of life. They would have been out ol 
 pockes if they had invested eighteen pence in 
 the job; I can tell 'em that." 
 
 "Is anybody suspected?" 
 
 " Suspected ? I should think there was 
 somebody suspected. Egod !" said Bounderbv, 
 relinquishing Mrs. Sparsit's arm to wipe his 
 heated head, " Josiah Bounderby of Coketown 
 is not to be plundered and nobody suspected. 
 No, thank you !" 
 
 Might Mr. Harthouse inquire Who was sus- 
 pected? 
 
 " Well," said Bounderby, stopping and 
 facing about to confront them all, " I'll tell 
 you. It's not to be mentioned everywhere; 
 it's not to be mentioned anywhere ; hi order 
 that the scoundrels concerned (there's a gang 
 of 'em) may be thrown off their guard. So 
 take this in confidence. Now wait a bit.'' 
 Mr. Bounderby wiped his head again. "What 
 should you say ♦o;" here he violently exploded, 
 "to a Hand being in it?'' 
 
 " I hope." said Harthjuse, lazily, " not our 
 t'rieiid Blackpot'f 
 
148 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 " Say Pool instead of Pot, sir," returned 
 Bouuderby, "and that's the man." 
 
 Louisa faintly uttered some word of incre- 
 dulity and surprise. 
 
 " yes 1 I know !" said Bounderby, imme- 
 diately catching at the sound. *' I know 1 
 I am used to thatl I know ail about it. 
 They are the finest people in tJie world, these 
 fellows are. They have ^'ot the gill of the gab, 
 they have. They only want to have their 
 rights explained to them, they do. But 1 tell 
 you what. Show me a dissatisfied Hand, and 
 I'll show you a man that's fit for anything bad, 
 I don't care what it is." 
 
 Another of the popular fictions of Coke- 
 town, which some pains had been taken to 
 disseminate — and which some people really 
 believed. 
 
 " But I am acquainted Avith these chaps," 
 said Bounderby. '* I can read 'em oH, like 
 books. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, 1 appeal to you. 
 What warning did I give that fellow, the first 
 time he set foot in the house, when the express 
 object of his visit was to know how he could 
 knock Religion over, and floor the Established 
 Church? Mrs. Sparsit, in point of high con- 
 nexions, you are on a level with the aristo- 
 cracy, — did 1 say, or did 1 not say, to that 
 fellow, 'you can't hide the truth from me; 
 jou are not the kind of fellow 1 like; you'll 
 come to no good ?' " 
 
 ■'Assuredly, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "you 
 did, in a highly impressive manner, give him 
 such an admonition." 
 
 "When he shocked you, ma'am," said 
 Bounderby; "when he shocked your feelings?" 
 ''Yes, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a 
 meek shake of her head, "he certainly did so. 
 Though 1 do not mean to say but that my feel 
 ings may be weaker on such points — more 
 foolish, if the term is preferred — than they 
 might have been, if I had always occujiied my 
 present position." 
 
 Mr. Bounderby stared with a bursting pride 
 at Mr. Harthouse, as much as to say, "1 am 
 the proprietor of this female, and she's worth 
 your attention, I think ?" Then, resumed his 
 discourse. 
 
 "You can recall for yourself, Harthouse, 
 what I said to him when you saw him. 1 
 didn't mince the matter with him. I am 
 never mealy with 'em. I know 'em. Very 
 well, sir. Three days after that, he bolted. 
 \\ent off, nobody knows where: as my mother 
 did in rny infancy— only wiih this difference, 
 that he is a worse subject than my mother, 
 if possible. What did he do befbie he went ? 
 What do you say;" Mr. Bounderby, with 
 his hat in his hand, gave a Leal u{)ou the 
 crown at every little division of his sentences, 
 as if it were a tamliourine; "to his being 
 seen— night after night— watching the Bank? 
 —To his lurking about thf-re — atler dark? — 
 lo its striking Mrs. i^parsit— that he could 
 be lurking for no good? — To her calling Bitzer's 
 attention to him, and their both taking notice 
 of him? — And to its appearing on nnjuiry 
 
 to-day — that he was also noticed by the neigh- 
 bors?" Having come to the climax, Mr. 
 Bounderby, like an oriental dancer, put his 
 tambourine on his head. 
 
 ''Suspicious," said James Harthouse, "cer- 
 tainly." 
 
 " 1 think so, sir," said Bounderby, with a 
 defiant nod. " 1 think so. But there are 
 more of 'em in it. There's an old woman. 
 One never hears of thtse things till the mis- 
 chief's done ; all sorts of defects are found 
 out in the stable door after the horse is 
 stolen ; there's an old woman turns up now. 
 An old woman who seems to have besn flying 
 into town on a broomstick, every now and 
 then, i^he watches the piace a whole day 
 before this fellow begins, and, on the night 
 when you saw him, she steals away with him 
 and holds a council with him — I suppose, to 
 make her report on going off duty, and be 
 d— d to her." 
 
 There was such a person in the room that 
 night, and she shrunk from observat on, 
 thought Louisa. 
 
 " This is not all of 'em, even as we already 
 know 'em," said Bounderby, with many nods 
 of hidden meaning. " But I have said 
 enough for the present. You'll have the 
 goodness to keep it quiet, and mention it to 
 no one. It may take time, but we shall have 
 'em. It's policy to give 'em line enough, and 
 there's no olijection to that." 
 
 "Of course, they will be punishfd with the 
 utmost rigor of the law, as iiotice-boaids ob- 
 serve," replied James Harthouse, " and serve 
 them right. Fellows who go in for Banks 
 must take the consequences. If there were 
 no consequences, we should all go in for 
 Banks." He had gently taken Louiba's para- 
 sol from her hand, and kad put it up for her ; 
 and she walked under its shade, though the 
 sun did not shine there. 
 
 "For the present. Loo Bounderby," said her 
 husband, "here's Mrs. Sparsit to look after. 
 Mrs. Sparsit's nerves have been acted upou by 
 this business, and she'll stay here a day or two. 
 So make her comfortable." 
 
 "Ihank you very much, sir," that discreet 
 lady observed," but pray do not let My com- 
 fort be a consideration. Anything will do for 
 Me." 
 
 It soon appeared that if Mrs. Sparsit had a 
 failing in her association with that domestic 
 establishment, it was that she was so exces- 
 sively regardless of herself and regardful of 
 others, as to be a nuisance. On being shown 
 her chamber, she was so dreadfully sensible 
 of its comforts as to suggest the iniierence 
 that she would have preferred to pass the 
 night on the mangle in the laundry. True, 
 the Powlers and the Scadgerses were accus- 
 tomed to splendor, "but it is my duty to 
 remember," Mrs. Sparsit was fond of observ- 
 ing with a lofiy grace : particularly when any 
 of the domestics were present, "that whai 1 
 was, I am no longer. Indeed," said she, 
 " if I could altogether cancel the remem- 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 149 
 
 brance that Mr. Sparsit was a Powler, or 
 that I myself am related to the Scadgers 
 family ; or if I could even revoke the lact, 
 and make myself a person of common 
 descent and ordinary connexions ; I would 
 gladly do so. I should think it, under exist- 
 ing circumstances, right to do so.'' The same 
 Hermitical state of mind led to her renuncia- 
 tion of made dishes and wines at dinner, 
 until fairly commanded by Mr. Bounderby 
 to take tbem ; when she said, " Indeed, you 
 are very good, sir ; " and departed from a 
 resolution of which she had made rather 
 fiirmal and public announcement, to "wait for 
 the simple mutton." t!he was likewise deeply 
 apologetic for wanting the salt ; and, feeling 
 amiably bound to bear out Mr. Bounderby 
 to the fullest extent in the testimony he had 
 borne to her nerves, occasionally sat back 
 in her chair and silently wept ; at which 
 peiiods a tear of large dimensions, like a 
 crystal ear-ring, might be observed (orrathei, 
 miist be, for it insisted on public notice) 
 sliding down her Roman nose. 
 
 But Mrs. Sparsit's greatest point, first and 
 last, was her determination to pity Mr. Boun- 
 derby. There were occasions when in 
 lookm? at him she was involuntarily moved 
 to shake her head, a'' who should say "Alas ! 
 poiT Yorick !"' After allowing herself to be 
 betrayed into these evidences of emotion, she 
 would force a lambent brightness, and would 
 be fitfully cheertul, and would say, "You 
 have still good spirits, sir, I am thankful to 
 find ;"' and would iippear lo hail it as a blessed 
 dispensation that Mr. Bounderby bore up as 
 he did. One "diosynerasv for which she 
 often apologised, she tuund it excessively 
 dniicLill to conquer. She had a curious pro- 
 pensity to call Mrs. Bounderby "MissGrad- 
 grind," and yielded to it some three or four 
 score times in the course of the evening. Her 
 repetiti(ju of this mistake covered Mrs. 
 Sparsit with modest confusion; but indeed, she 
 said, it seemed so natural to say Miss Grad- 
 grind : wht reas, to persuade herself that the 
 young lady whom she had had the hap[)iness 
 of knijwiug from a child could l>e really and 
 truly Mrs. Bounderby, she found almost im- 
 possible. It was a further singularity of this 
 remarkable case, that the more she thought 
 ahoui it, the more impossible it appeured; "the 
 differerices,' she observed, "being such — " 
 
 In the drawing-room after dinner, Mr 
 Bounderby tried the case of the robbery, 
 examined the witnesses, made notes of the 
 evidence, found the suspected persons guilty, 
 and >entenced them to the extreme punish- 
 ment of the law. That d(jne, Bitzt-r was dis- 
 missed to town with instructions to recom- 
 mend Tom to come home l)y the mail-train. 
 
 When candles were broui'ht, Mrs. Sparsit 
 murmured, " Don't be low, sir. Pray hi me 
 see yo I cli--erful, sir, as I u-ed to do."' Mr. 
 Bounderby, upon whom these cimsolations 
 bad bfjiuu to produce the ettect of making 
 him, in a bull-headed, blundering way, sen- 
 
 timental, sighed like some large sea-animal. 
 " I cannot bear to see you so, sir," said 
 Mrs. Sparsit. " Try a hand at backgammon, 
 sir, as you used to do when I had the honor 
 of living under your roof." "I haven't played 
 backgammon, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, 
 "since that time." "No, sir," said Mrs. 
 Sparsit, soothingly, " I am aware that you 
 have not. I remember that Miss (jradgriud 
 takes no interest in the game. But 1 shall be 
 happy, sir, if you will condescend." 
 
 They played near a window, opening on the 
 garden. It was a fine night; not moonlif.'ht, 
 but sultry and fragrant. Louisa and Mr. 
 harthouse strolled out into the garden, where 
 their voices could be heard in the stillness, 
 though not what they said. Mrs. Sparsit, 
 from her place at the backgammon board, was 
 constantly straining her eyes to pierce the 
 shadows without. "What's the matter, nia'am?"' 
 said Mr. Bounderby; "you don't see a fire, 
 do you ?" " Oh dear no, sir," returned Mrs. 
 Sparsit, "I was thinking of the dew.'' "What 
 have you got to do with the dew, ma'am V 
 said Mr. Bounderby. "It's not myself, sir," 
 returned Mrs. Sparsit, " 1 am fearful of Miss 
 Gradgrind's taking cold." "She never takes 
 cold," said Mr. Bounderby. "Really sir?"' 
 said Mrs. Sparsit. And was affected with a 
 cou)ih in her throat. 
 
 When the time drew near for retiring, Mr. 
 BounderVjy took a glass of water. "Oh, sir !" 
 said Mrs. Sparsit. "N( t your therry warm, 
 with lemon peel and nutmeg?"' "Why, I ha\e 
 got out of the habit of taking it now, ma'am,"' 
 said Mr. Bounderby. "The more's the pit;, 
 sir," returned Mrs. Sparsii; "you are losing a.l 
 your good old habits. Cheer up. sirl ltMi.>-s 
 Giadgrind will permit me, I wid offertomake 
 it for you, as 1 have often done." 
 
 Miss Gradj;riiid readily permitting Mrs. 
 Sparsit to do anything she phased, thai 
 considerate lady made the beverHge, and 
 handed it to Mr. Bounderby. "it will do 
 you good, sir. It will warm your heart. It is 
 the sort of thing you want, and ought to take, 
 sir." And when Mr. Bounderby >=aid, "Ydi.r 
 health, ma'am!" she answered with great let I- 
 ing, "'1 hank you, sir. The same to jou, and 
 liap[)iness also." Finally, she wished him good 
 night, with great pathos; and Mr. Buundeii y 
 went to bed, with a maudlin persuasion ih t 
 he had been crossed in something tender, 
 though he could not, for his lite, have men- 
 tioned what it was. 
 
 Long after Louisa had undressed and 
 lain down, she watched and waited lor her 
 brother's coming home. That could hardly be, 
 she knew, until an hi ur past mii ni^hi; I ut 
 in the country silence, which did anyihiig 
 but calm the trouble of her thoiights, tune 
 lagged wearily. At last, when the darkne s 
 and stillness Ijad semied for hours to thickm 
 one another, she heaid the bell at the gate. 
 She felt as though ehe wuuld have been ;:lad 
 that it rang on until da\light; butitceasid, 
 and the clicks ol its last sound spiead out 
 
150 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STOFJES. 
 
 feinter auJ wider in the air, and all was dead 
 agaiu. 
 
 She waited yet some quarter of an hour, as 
 she judged. Then she arose, put on a loose 
 robe, and went out oi" lier room in the dark, 
 and up the staircase to her brother's room. 
 His door bt'itig shut, she soi'lly opened it and 
 epoke to him, approaching his bed with a 
 noiseless step. 
 
 She kneeled down beside it, passed hgrarm 
 over his neck, and drew his face to hers. She 
 knew that he only feigned to be asleep, but she 
 said nothing to him. 
 
 He started by and by as if he were just then 
 awakened, and ask who that was, and what 
 was the matter ? 
 
 "Tom, have you anything to tell me? If 
 ever you loved me in your life, and have any- 
 thing concealed from every one besides, tell it 
 to me." 
 
 "I don't know what you mean, Loo. You 
 have been dreaming." 
 
 '*My dear brother;" she laid her head down 
 on his pillow, and her hair flowed over him 
 as if she wuuld hide him from every one but 
 herself; '"is there nothing that you have to tell 
 me? Is there nothing you can tell me, if you 
 will. You can tell me nothing that will change 
 me. U Tom, tell me the truth 1" 
 
 "I don't know what you mean, Loo." 
 
 "As you lie here alone, my dear, in the 
 melaiichuly night, so you must lie somewhere 
 one night, when even I, if I am living then, 
 shall have left you. As I am here beside you, 
 barefoot, unclothed, undistinguishable in dark- 
 ness, so must I lie through all the night of my 
 decay, until I am dust. In the name of that 
 time, Tom, tell me the truth now !" 
 
 "What is it you want to know ?'' 
 
 "You luay be certain ;" in the energy of her 
 love she took him to her bosom as if he were 
 a child; "that I will not reproach you. You 
 may be certain thac I will be compassionate 
 and true to yon. You may be certain that I 
 will save you at whatever cost. Tom, have 
 you nothing to tell me? Whisper very softly. 
 Say only 'yes,' and I shall understand you!" 
 
 She turned her ear to his lips, but he remain- 
 ed doggedly silent. 
 
 "Not a word, Tom?" 
 
 "How can I say Yes, or how can I say No, 
 when I don't know what you mean? Loo, you 
 are a brave kind girl, worthy I begin to think 
 of a better brother than I am. But I have no- 
 thing more to say. Go to bed, go to bed." 
 
 "You are tired," she whispered presently, 
 more in her usual way. 
 
 "Yes, I am quite tired out." 
 
 "You have been so hurrie"! and disturbed 
 to-day. Have any fresh discoveries been 
 made?" 
 
 "Only those you have heard of, from — 
 him." 
 
 "Tom, have you said to any one that we 
 made a visit to those people, and that we saw 
 those three together ? ' 
 
 "No. Did'ut you yourself particularly ask 
 
 me to keep it quiet, wben you asked me to go 
 there with you ?" 
 
 " Yes. But I did not know then what was 
 going to happen." 
 
 " Nor I neither. How could I ?" 
 
 He was very quick upon her with this 
 retort. 
 
 "Ought I to say, after what has happened," 
 said his sister, standing by the bed — she had 
 gradually withdrawn herself and risen, 'that 
 1 made that visit? Should I say so? Must I 
 say so?" 
 
 "Good Heavens, Loo,'' returned her brother, 
 "you are notm the habit of asking my advice. 
 Say what you like. If you keep it to your- 
 self, I shall keep it to w((^self. If- you disclose 
 it, there's an end of it." 
 
 It was too dark for either to see the other's 
 face ; but each seemed very attentive, and to 
 consider before speaking. 
 
 "Tom, do you believe the man I gave the 
 money to, is really implicated in this crime?" 
 
 "I don't know. I don't see why he shouldn't 
 be." 
 
 "He seemed to me an honest man." 
 
 "Another person may seem to you dishonest, 
 and yet not be so." 
 
 There was a pause, for he had hesitated and 
 stopped. 
 
 "In short," resumed Tom, as if he had made 
 up his mind, "if you come to that, perhaps I 
 was so far from being altogether in his favor, 
 that I took him outside the door to tell him 
 quietly, that I thought he might consider him- 
 self very well off to get such a windfall as he 
 had got from my sister, and that I hi'ped he 
 would make a good use of it. You remember 
 whether 1 took him out or not. I say nothing 
 against the man; he may be a very good lel- 
 low, for an}lhiiig I know; 1 hope be is." 
 
 "Was he oti'ended by what }ou said?" 
 
 "No, he took it pretty well ; he was civil 
 enough. Wiiere are you. Loo?" He sat up 
 in bed and kissed her. "Good night, my dear, 
 good night !'' 
 
 "You have nothing more to tell me ?"' 
 
 "No. v\ hat should 1 have ? Y'ou wouldn't 
 have me tell you a lie ?" 
 
 "I wouldn't have you do that to-night, 
 Tom, of all the nights in your life; many and 
 much ha|)uier as 1 hope they will be." 
 
 "Thank you, my dear Loo. I am so tired, 
 that I am sure I wonder I don't say anything, 
 to get to sleep. Go to bed, go to bed." 
 
 Kissing her again, he turned round, drew 
 the coverlet over his head, and lay as still as 
 if that time had come by which she had ad- 
 jured him. She stood tor some time at the 
 Oedside before she slowly moved away. She 
 stopped at the door, looked back when she had 
 opeuf-d it, and asked him if he had called her? 
 But he lay still, and she sufily closed the door 
 and returned to her room. 
 
 Then the wretched boy looked cautiously 
 up and found her gone, crept out of bed, fast- 
 ened h'S door, and threw himself upon hi^ pil- 
 low agaiu ; tearing his hair, morosely cry n^ 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 15] 
 
 grudgingly loving her, hatefully but impeni- 
 teiitly spurning himself, and no less hatefully 
 and unprofitably spurning all the good in the 
 world. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Mrs. Sparsit, lying by to recover the tone 
 of her nerves iu Mr Bounderby's retreat, 
 kept such a sharp lookout, night and day, 
 under her Coriolanian eyebrows, that her eyes, 
 like a couple of lighthouses on an iron bound 
 coa,st, might have warned all prudent mari- 
 nt'rs from that bold rock, her Roman inose and 
 the dark and craggy region in its neighbor- 
 hood, but for the placidity of her manner. 
 Akhough it was hard to believe that her 
 retiring for the night could be anything but 
 a form, so severely wide awake were those 
 classical eyes of hers, and so impossible did 
 it seem that her rigid nose could yield to any 
 relaxing influence, yet her manner of sitting, 
 smoothing her uncomfortable, not to say, 
 gritty, mittens, (they were constructed of a 
 cool fabric like a meat-safe), or of ambling to 
 unknown places of destination with her foot in 
 her cotton stirrup, was so perfectly serene, that 
 most observers would have been constrained 
 to suppose her a dove, embodied by some freak 
 of nature, in the earthly tabernacle of a bird of 
 tUe hook-beaked order. 
 
 She was a most wonderful woman for 
 prowling about the house. How she got 
 Iruin story to story, was a mystery beyond 
 solution. A lady so decorous in herself and 
 so iiighly connected, was not to be suspected 
 of dropping over the bannisters or sliding 
 down them, yet her extraordinary facility of 
 locomotion, suggested the wild idea. Another 
 nuticeable circumstance in Mrs. Sparsit was 
 that she was never hurried. She would shoot 
 with consummate velocity from the root to the 
 hall, yet would be in full possession of her 
 breath and dignity on the moment of her ar- 
 rival there. Neither was hhe ever seen by 
 human vision to go at a great pace. 
 
 She tuok very kindly to Mr. Harthouse, and 
 had some pleasant conversation with him suou 
 after her arrival. She made him her stately 
 curtsey in the garden, one morning before 
 breakt'ast. 
 
 "It appears but yesterday, sir," said Mrs. 
 Sparsit, '"that 1 had the honor of receiving 
 you at the Bank, when you were so ^ood as 
 to wish to be made acquainted with Mr. 
 Bounderby's address." 
 
 "An occasion, 1 am sure, not to be forgot- 
 ten by myself in the course of Ages, said Mr. 
 Harthouse, inclining his head to Mrs. Sparsit 
 with the most indolent of all possible airs. 
 
 '• We live in a singular world, sir," said Mrs. 
 Sparsit." 
 
 ''I have had the honor, by a coincidence of 
 which 1 am proud, to have made a remark, 
 similar in eS'ect, though not so epigrammati- 
 cally expressed " 
 
 " A singular world, I would say, sir," pur- 
 
 sued Mrs. Sparsit ; after acknowledging tho 
 compliment with a drooping of her dark eye 
 brows, not altogether so mild in its expression 
 as her voice was in its dulcet tones ; " a« 
 regards the intimacies we form at one time, 
 with individuals we were quite ignorant of, a* 
 another. I recall, sir, that on that occasion 
 you went so far as to say you were actually 
 apprehensive of Miss Gradgrind." 
 
 " Your memory does me more honor than 
 my insignificance deserves. I availed myse'f 
 of your obliging hints to correct my timidity, 
 and it is unnecessary to add that they were 
 perfectly accurate. Mrs. Sparsil's talent for 
 — in fact, for anything requiring accuracy — 
 with a combinat.on of strength of mind — and 
 Family — is too habitually developed to admit 
 of any question." He was almost falling 
 asleep over this compliment; it took him so 
 long to get through, anS his mind wandered 
 so much in the course of its execution. 
 
 "You found Miss Gradgrind — I really can- 
 not call her Mrs. Bounderby ; it's very ab.-urd 
 of me — as youthful as I described her ?" asked 
 Mrs. Sparsit, sweetly. 
 
 "You drew her portrait perfectly," said Mr. 
 Harthouse. "Presented her dead image." 
 
 "Very engaging, sir ?" said Mrs. Sparsit, 
 causing her mittens slowly to revolve over one 
 another. 
 
 "Highly so." 
 
 "It used to be considered," said Mrs. 
 Sparsit, "that Miss Gradgrind was wanin.g 
 in animation, but 1 confess she appears to me 
 corsiderably and strikingly improved in that 
 respect. Ay, and indeed here is Mr. B am- 
 derby!" cried Mrs. Sparsit, nodding her 
 head a great many times, as if she had been 
 talking and thinking of no one else, "flow 
 do you find yourself this morning sii? Pray 
 let us see you cheerful, sir." 
 
 Now, these persistent assuagements of his 
 misery, and lightenings of his load, had l)y 
 this time begun to have the effect of makitig 
 Mr. Bounderbj softer than usual towards 
 Mrs. Sparsit, and harder than usual tu nn st 
 other j)eople from his wife downward. >u, 
 when Mrs. Spareit said, with forced lightnens 
 of heart, "You want your breakfast, sir, but 
 I dare say Miss Gradgrind will soon be hfre 
 to preside at the table," Mr. Bourdt-rbv 
 replied, "If I waited to be taken care ol t)y 
 my wife, ma'am, I believe y u know pretty 
 well I should wait till Doomsday, so I'll trouble 
 ;/uu to take charge of the teapot." Mrs. Sj^Kir- 
 sit complied, and assumed her old position ut 
 table. 
 
 This again made the excellent woman vastly 
 sentimental. She was so humble withal, that 
 when Louisa appeared, she rose, protestiu:.' 
 she never could think of sitting iti that place 
 under existing circumstances, often as .-he 
 had had the honor of making .Mi. Boundr-rbj's 
 breakfast, before Mrs Grailgrind— .-he beg;;>«i 
 pardon, she meant to say, Miss Boundeiby 
 — shp hoped te be excused, but .-he reully 
 could not get it ri^hi yit, ihou-ii she itu^iicJ 
 
152 
 
 DICKEXS' NE\Y STORIES. 
 
 to become familiar with it by and by — had 
 assumed her present position. It was only 
 (she observed) because Miss Gradgriud hap- 
 pened to be a litth late, and Mr. Bounderby's 
 time was so very precious, and she knew it of" 
 old to be so essential that he should break- 
 fast to the moment, that she had taken the 
 liberty ofcomplyinj^ with his request : long as 
 his will had been a law to her. 
 
 "There I stop where you are, ma'am," said 
 Mr. Bouiiderby, "stop where you are ! Wrs. 
 Bounderby will be very glad to be relieved oi' 
 the trouble, I believe." 
 
 "Don't say that, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, 
 almost with severity, ''because that is very un- 
 kind to Mrs. Bounderby. And to be unkind 
 is not to be you, sir." 
 
 "You may set your mind at rest, ma'am. — 
 You can take it very quietly, can't you Loo?" 
 said Mr. Bounderby, in a blustering way to bis 
 wile. 
 
 '^Oi' course. It is of no moment. Why 
 should it be of any importance to me?" 
 
 " Why should it be of any importance to 
 any rnie, Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am?" said Mr. 
 I'ouiiderby, swelling with a sense of slight. 
 ' You attach too much importance to these 
 tilings, ma'am. By George, you'll be cor- 
 rt cted in some of your notions here. You are 
 old fashioned, ma'am. You are behind Tom 
 Gradgriiid's children's time." 
 
 "What is the matter with you?" asked 
 Louisa, coldly surprised. "What has given 
 you (/ffence ?" 
 
 ''Ollence 1" repeated Bounderby. "Do you 
 suppose if there was any offence given me, I 
 sluiuldii't name it, and request to have it cor- 
 rected ? I am a straight forward man, I be- 
 lieve. I don't go beating about for side- 
 winds." 
 
 "1 suppose no one ever had occasion to think 
 \ou too diliident, or too delicate," Louisa 
 aiKswefed him composedly: "I have never 
 made that objection to you, either as a child or 
 a-> a woman. I don't understand what you 
 would have." 
 
 "Have?" returned Mr. Bounderby. "Nothing. 
 Otherwise, don't you. Loo Bounderby, know 
 thoroughly well that I, Josiah Bounderby of 
 (Juketown, would have it?" 
 
 She looked at him, as he struck the table 
 and made the teacups ring, with a proud color 
 ill her face that was a new change, Mr. Hart- 
 house ihou>;ht. "You are incomprehensible 
 tills inornir.g," said Louisa. "Pray take no 
 lurtlier trouble to explain yourself. I am not 
 curi.jus to know your meaning. What does it 
 matter! ' 
 
 Nothing more was said on this theme, and 
 Mr. Harthouse was soon idly gay on indiOerent 
 ouhjectt. But, from this day, the Sparsit 
 action upon Mr. Bounderby threw Louisa 
 and Jaines Harlhouse more together, and 
 b.reugilieiied the dangerous alienations from 
 her husb;in(i and coiiti'ience against liira with 
 another, into winch slie hail tallen b_\ det^rets 
 SO fine, that she could not retrace tlitiu U she 
 
 tried. But, whether she ever tried or no, lay 
 hidden in her own closed heart. 
 
 Mrs. Sparsit was so much affected on thia 
 particular occasion, that assisting Mr. Boun- 
 dcby to his hat after breakfast, and being 
 then alone with him in the hall, she 
 imprinted a chaste kiss upon his hand, mur- 
 mured "my benefactor!" and retired, over- 
 whelmed with grief Yet it is an indubitable 
 fact, within the cognizance of this history, that 
 five minutes after he had left the house in the 
 selfsame hat, the same descendant of the 
 Scadgerses and connexionby matrimony of the 
 Powlers, shook her right-hand mitten at his 
 portrait, made a contemptuous grimace at that 
 work of art, and said "Serve you right, you 
 Noodle, and I am glad of it!" 
 
 Mr. Bounderby had not been long gone, 
 when Bitzer appeared. Bitzer had come down 
 by train, shrieking and rattling over the long 
 line of arches that bestrode the wild country 
 of past and present coal pits, with an express 
 from Stone Lodge. It was a hasty note to 
 inform Louisa, that Mrs. Gra'lgrind lay 
 very ill. She had never been well, within her 
 daughter's knowledge ; but, she had declined 
 within the last few days, had continued sink- 
 ing all through the night, and was now as near- 
 ly dead, as her limited capacity of being in 
 any state that implied the ghost of an inten- 
 tion to get out of it, allowed. 
 
 Accompanied by the lightest of porters, fit 
 colorless servitor at Death's door when Mrs. 
 Gradgrind knocked, Louisa rumbled to Coke- 
 town, over the coalpits past and present, and 
 was whirled into its smoky jaws. She dismis- 
 sed the messenger to his own devices, and rude 
 away to her old home. 
 
 She had seldom been there, since her mar- 
 riage. Her father was usually sifting and sift- 
 ing at his p:<rliainentary cinder-heap in Lon- 
 don (without being observed to turn up many 
 precious articles among the rubbish,) and was 
 still hard at it in the national dust-yard. Her 
 mother had taken it rather as a disturbance 
 than otherwise, to be visited, as she reclined 
 upon her sofa; young people, Louisa felt her- 
 self all unfit for; Sissy she had never softened 
 to again, since the night when the stroller's 
 child had raised her eyes to look at Mr. Boun- 
 derby's intended wife. She had no induce- 
 ments to go back, and had rarely gone. 
 
 Neither, as she approached her old home 
 now, did any of the best influences of old 
 home descend upon he. The dreams of 
 childhood — its airy fables; its graceful, beauti- 
 ful, humane, impossible adornments of the 
 world beyond ; so good to 6e believed in 
 once, so good to be remembered when out- 
 grown, for then the least among them rises to 
 the stature of a great charity in the heart, 
 suffering little children to come int' the midst 
 of it, and to keep with their pure hands a gar- 
 den in the stony ways of this world, wherein it 
 were better for all the children of Adam that 
 they should ot'teiier sun themselves, simple and 
 u uailul, and not worldly-wise — what had she 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 153 
 
 to do with these ? Remembrances of how she 
 had journeyed to the little that she knew, by 
 the enchanted roads of what she and millions 
 of innocent creatures had hoped and ima- 
 gined; of how, first coming upon lltason 
 through the tender light of Fancy, she had 
 seen it a beneficent god, deferring to gods as 
 great as itself: not a grim Idol, cruel and 
 culd, with its victims bound hand to foot, and 
 its big dumb shape set up with a sightless 
 stare, never to be moved by anything but so 
 many calculated tons of leverage — what had 
 she to do with these? Her remembrances of 
 home atid childhood, were remembrances of 
 the drying up of every spring and fountain in 
 her young heart as it gushed out. The golden 
 waters were not there. They were flowing for 
 the fertilization of the land where grapes are 
 gathered from thorns, and figs from thistles. 
 
 She went, with a heavy, hardened kind of 
 sorrow upon her, iuto the house and into her 
 mother's room. Since the time of her leaving 
 home, Sissy had lived with the rest of the 
 family on equal terms. Sissy was at her 
 mother's side; and Jane, her sister, now ten or 
 twelve years old, was in the room. 
 
 There was great trouble before it could be 
 made known to Mrs. Gradgrind that her eldest 
 child was there. She reclined, propped up, 
 from mere habit, on a couch; as nearly in her 
 old usual attitude, as anything so helpless 
 could be kept in. She had positively refused 
 to tike to her bed; on the ground that if she 
 did, she would never hear the last of it. 
 
 Her feeble voice sounded so far away in 
 her bundle of shawls, and the sound of 
 another voice addressing her seemed to take 
 such a long time in getting down to her ears, 
 that she might have been lying at the bottom 
 of a wtU. Ihe poor lady was nearer Truth 
 than she ever had been: which had much to do 
 with it. 
 
 On being told that Mrs. Bounderby was 
 there, she replied, at cross-purposes, that she 
 had never called him by that name since he 
 married Louisa; that pending her choice ol 
 ail unobjectionable name, she had called him 
 J.; and that she could not at present depart 
 from that regulation, not being yet provided 
 with a permanent substitute. Louisa had sat 
 by her tor some minutes, and had spoken to 
 her often, before she arrived at a clear under- 
 standing who it was. bhe then seemed to 
 come to it all at once. 
 
 "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Gradgrind, "and 
 I hope you are going on satisfactorily to your- 
 self. It was all your father's doing. He set 
 his heart upon it. And he ought to know." 
 
 "I want to hear of you, mother; not of my- 
 self." 
 
 "You want to hear of me, my dear? 
 Thai's souiethiiig new, 1 am sure, wtieii any- 
 body wants to hear of me. Not at all well, 
 Louisa. Very taint and gidd}." 
 
 ''Are you in pain, dear niuiuer ?'' 
 
 ''1 think there s a paiu ouinewhere in the 
 
 room," said Mrs. Gradgrind, "but I couldn't 
 positively say that I have got it." 
 
 After this strange speech, she lav silent foi 
 some time. Louisa, holding her hand, could 
 feel no pulse ; but kis.»iug it, could see a slight 
 thin thread of life in lluttering ni'^tion. 
 
 "You very seldom see your sister," said Mrs. 
 Gradgrind. "She grows like you. I wish you 
 would look at her. Sissy, bring her here."' 
 
 She was brought, and stood with her hand 
 in her sister's. Louisa had observed her with 
 her arm round Sissy's neck, and she felt the 
 difference of this approach. 
 
 " Do you see the likeness, Louisa?" 
 
 " Yes, mother. I should think her like me. 
 But"— 
 
 "Eh? Yes, I always say so," Mrs. Grad- 
 grind cried, with unexpected quickness. " And 
 that reminds me. I want to speak to you, my 
 dear. Sissy, my good girl, lea\e us aloLe a 
 minute."' 
 
 Louisa had relinquished the hand : had 
 thought that her sister's was a better and 
 brighter face than hers had ever been ; had 
 seen in it, not without a rising feeling of 
 resentment, even in that place and at that 
 time, something of the geutlene>s of the other 
 face in the room; the sweet tace with the trust- 
 ing eyes, made paler than watching and sym- 
 pathy made it, by the rich dark hair. 
 
 Left alone with her mother, Louisa saw her 
 lying with an awful lull upon her face, like one 
 who was floating away upon some great water, 
 all resistance over, content to be carried dowp 
 the stream. She put the shadow of a hand to 
 her lips again, and recalled her. 
 
 "You were going to speak to me, mother."' 
 
 "Eh? Y'es, to be sure, my dear. You know 
 your father is almost always away now, and 
 therefore I must write to him about it." 
 
 "About what, mother? Don't be troubled. 
 About what ?" 
 
 "You must rememl)er, my dear, that when- 
 ever I have said anything, on any subject, I 
 have never heard the la.-,t of it; and conse- 
 quently, that I have long left off siiying any- 
 thing." 
 
 "I can hear you, mother." But, it was only 
 by dint of beuding down her ear, and at the 
 same time attentively watching the lips as they 
 moved, that she could link such faint and 
 broken sounds into any chain of connexion. 
 
 "You learnt a great deal, Louisa, and so did 
 your brother. Ologies of all kinds, from 
 morning to night. If there is any Ology left, 
 of any description, that has not been worn to 
 rags in this house, all I can say is, I hope I 
 shall never hear its name." 
 
 "I can hear you, mother, when you have 
 strength to go on." This, to keep her from 
 floating away. 
 
 "But there's something — not an Ology at 
 all — that your father has missed, or forgottea. 
 Louisa. I don't know what it is. 1 have 
 often sat with Sissy near me, and thought 
 about it. I shall never get it"s name now 
 But your father may. It makes me restless. 
 
154 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 I want to write to him to find out for God's 
 Bake, what it is. Give me a pen, give me a 
 pen." 
 
 Even the power of restlessness was gone, 
 except from the poor head, which could just 
 turn from side to side. 
 
 She fancied, however, that her request had 
 been complied with, and that the pen she 
 could not have held was in her hand. It 
 matters little what figures of wonderful no- 
 meaning siie began to trace upon .her wrap- 
 pers. The hand soon stopped in the midst 
 of them ; the light that had always been 
 feeble and dim behind the weak transparenty 
 went out; and even Mrs. Gradgrind, emerging 
 from the shadow in which man walketh and 
 disquieteth himself in vain, took upon her the 
 dread solemnity of the sages and patriarchs. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 Mrs. Sparsit's nerves being slow to re- 
 cover their tone, the worthy woman made 
 a stay of some weeks in duration at Mr. 
 Bounderby's retreat, where, notwithstanding 
 her anchorite turn of mind based upon her 
 becoming consciousness of her altered station, 
 she resigned herself, with noble fortitude, to 
 lodging, as one may say, in clover, and feeding 
 on the i'at of the land. During the whole 
 term of this recess from the guardianship of 
 the Bank, Mrs. Sparsit was a pattern of con- 
 sistency; continuing to take such pity on Mr. 
 Bounderby to his face, as is rarely taken on 
 man, and to call his portrait a Noodle to its 
 face, with the greatest acrimony and con- 
 tempt. 
 
 Mr. Bounderby, having got it into his explo- 
 sive composition that Mrs. Sparsit was a high- 
 ly superior woman to perceive that he had that 
 general cross upon him in his deserts (tor he 
 had not yet settled what it was), and further 
 that Louisa would have objected to her as a 
 frequent visiter if it had comported with his 
 greatness that she should object to anything 
 he chose to do, resolved not to lose sight of 
 Mrs. Sparsit easily. So, when her nerves were 
 strung up to the pitch of again consuming 
 sweetbreads in solitude, he said to her at the 
 dinner-table, on the day before her depar- 
 ture, "1 tell you what, ma'am; you shall come 
 down here of a Saturday while the fine weather 
 lasts, and stay till Monday." To which Mrs. 
 Sparsit returned, in eti'ect, though not of the 
 Mahommedan persuasion : *' To hear is to 
 obey." 
 
 Now, Mrs. SparsitVas not a poetical Wi)raan ; 
 but she took an idea, in the nature of an alle- 
 gorical fancy, into her head. Much watching 
 of Louisa, and much consequent observation 
 of her impenetrable demeanor, which keenly 
 whetted and sharpened Mrs. Sparsit's edizc, 
 must have given her as it were a lift, in the 
 way of inspiration. She created in her mind 
 a mighty Staircase, with a dark pit of shame 
 and ruin at the bottom ; and down these stairs, 
 
 from day to day and hour to hour, she saw 
 Louisa coming. 
 
 It became the business of Mrs. Sparsit's 
 life, to look up at the staircase, and to watch 
 Louisa coming down. Sometimes slowly, 
 sometimes quickly, sometin<e3 several steps 
 at one bout, sometimes slopping, nevei turn- 
 ing back. If she had once turned back, it 
 might have been the death of Mrs. Sparsit in 
 spleen and grief. 
 
 She had been descending steadily, to the 
 day, and on the day, when Mr, Bounderby 
 issued the weekly invitation recorded above. 
 Mrs. Sparsit was in good spirits, and inclined 
 to be conversational. 
 
 "And pray, sir," said she, "if I may ven- 
 ture to a^k a question appertaining to any 
 subject on which you show reserve — which is 
 indeed hardy in me, for I well know you 
 have reason for everything you do— have you 
 received intelligence respecting the robbery?" 
 
 "Why, ma'am, no; not yet. Under the cir- 
 cumstances, I didn't expect it yet. Rome 
 wasn't built in a day, ma'am." 
 
 "Very true, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, shaking 
 her head. 
 
 "Nor yet in a week, ma'am." 
 
 "No, indeed, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, 
 with an air of melancholy. 
 
 "In a similar manner," said Bounderby, "I 
 can wait, you know. If Romulus and Remus 
 could wait, Josiah Bounderby can wait. 1 hey 
 were better otf in their youth than I was, how- 
 ever. They had a she wolf for a nurse; / 
 had only a she wolf for a grandmother. She 
 didn't give any milk, ma'am; sl.e gave bruises. 
 She was a regular Alderney at that." 
 
 "Ah I" Mrs. Sparsit sighed and shuddeied. 
 
 "No, ma'am," continued Bounderby, "i have 
 not heard anything more about it. It's in 
 hand, though; and young Tom, who rather 
 sticks to business at present — something new 
 for him; he hadn't the schooling I had — is 
 helping. My injunction is, keep il quiet, and 
 let it seem to blow over. Do what }ou like 
 under the rose, but don't give a sign of 
 what you're about; or half a hundred of 'em 
 will combine together and get tliis tellow who 
 has bolted, out of reach ior good. Keep it 
 quiet, and the thieves will grow^ in conliueuce 
 by little and little, and we shall have "em." 
 
 "Very sagac ous indeed, -sir," said Mrs. 
 Sparsit. " Very interesting. The old wcman 
 you nientioned, sir " 
 
 "The old woman I mentioned, ma'am," 
 said Bounderby, cutting the matter shcrt, as it 
 was nothing to boast about, "is not laid hold 
 of; but, ohe may take her oath she will be, if 
 that is any satisfaction to her villanous old 
 mind. Ill the meantime, ma'am, I am of ori- 
 nion, if you ask me my opinion, that the less 
 she is talked about, the belter." 
 
 1 hat same evening, Mrs. Sparsit. in her 
 chamber window, reding from her packing 
 operations, looked towards her great staircase 
 and saw Louisa still descending. 
 
 She sal by Mr. Hailhou^e, lu an alcove in 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 155 
 
 the garden, talking very low. He stood lean- 
 ing over her, as they whispered together, and 
 his face almost touched her haii-. "If not 
 quite 1" said Mrs. Sparsit, straining her hawk's 
 eyes to the utmost. Mrs. Sparsit was too dis- 
 tant to iiear a word of their di»,course, or even 
 to know that they were speaking softly, other- 
 wise than from the expression of their hgures; 
 but what they said was this : 
 
 "You recollect the man, Mr. Harthouse?"' 
 
 "Oh, perfeetlyl" 
 
 "Uis face, and his manner, and what he 
 said?" 
 
 '•Perfectly. And an infinitely dreary person 
 he appeared to me to be. Lengthy and prosy 
 iu tlie extreme. It was very knowing to hold 
 forth, iu the humble-virtue school of eloquence; 
 but, I assure you 1 thought at ihe time, 'My 
 good fellow, yoa are ovt-r-doing this!'" 
 
 "It has been very dithcult to me to think ill 
 of that man." 
 
 '•My dear Louisa — as Tom says." Which 
 he never did say. "You know no good of the 
 fellow?" 
 
 "No, certainly." 
 "Nor of any other such person?'' 
 
 "Hi)W can 1," she returned, witn more of 
 her tirst manner on her than he had lately 
 Seen, "when 1 know nothing of them, men or 
 women?" 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Bounderbyl Then con- 
 sent to receive the submissive representation 
 of your devoted friend, who knows some- 
 tlimg ot several varieties of his excellent 
 fellovv creatures, — for excel eiit they are, 1 
 li.ive no doubt, in spite of such Utile I'uibles 
 a.> aUviiys helping iheniselves to wliat they 
 Can get hold of. This fellow talks. Well; 
 every ieilow talks. His protessmg moraiiiy 
 oulv deserves a moment's consideration, as 
 being a very suspicious oircuni.^lance. All 
 smfs of humbugs protess morality, trom the 
 lipase ol Commons t > the House ol Oorrectiou, 
 except our people; it really is that t^xteplion 
 wliich inaRes our people quite reviving. \.ou 
 savv and heard the case, flere was a coin- 
 muii man, pulled up extremely ohi rt by ni} 
 esteemed fnend Mr. dounderliy — who, a.-^ we 
 know, IS iidt possessed ot'ihai delicacy whi h 
 wouiii iiulten so light a baud. 1 he common 
 man was injured, exasperated, lelt ilie house 
 grumbling, met somebody v\ho proposed to 
 liuu to go in for some share in this iiank busi- 
 uens, went in, put something in his pocket 
 which had nothing in it before, and relieved 
 his mmd extremely. Keally he would have 
 been an uncommon, instead of a common, 
 man, it he had not availed hiin»' If of such 
 au oppuruinity. Ur he may have made it alto- 
 gt-iher, if he had the cleverness. Equally pro- 
 b.ible !" 
 
 •'1 almost feel as though it must be bad in 
 nit-," returned Louisa, after fitting thoughtful 
 awhile, ••to be so re;idy to agree with you, ai'd 
 tu tie so lightened in ray heart by what you 
 sa) ." 
 
 " 1 only say what is reasonable ; nothing 
 
 worse. I have talked it over with my friend 
 Tom more than once — of course, I remain on 
 terms of perfect contidence with Tom— and he 
 is (juite of my opinion, and 1 am quite of his. 
 Will you walk?'' 
 
 'J'hey strolled away, among the lanes begin- 
 ning 10 be indistinct in the twilij^ht -she lemm- 
 ing on his arm — and she little thought how 
 she was going down, down, down, Mrs. Spar- 
 sit's staircase. 
 
 Night and day, Mrs. Sparsit kept it stand 
 ing. When Louisa had arrived at the boUom 
 and disappeared in the gulf, it might fall in 
 upon lier if it would; but, until then, there it 
 was to be, a Building, before Mrs. Sparsit's 
 eyes. And there Louisa always was, upon it. 
 Always gliding down, down, down. 
 
 Mrs. Sparsit saw James Harthouse come 
 and go; she heard of him here and there: 
 she saw the changes of the face he had 
 studied; she, too, remarked to a nicety how 
 and when it clouded, how and when it cleared; 
 .-ihe kept her black eyes widt; open, with no 
 touch of pity, with no touch of compunc- 
 tion, all absorbed in interest; but, in the inte- 
 rest of seeing her, ever drawing with no hand 
 to stay her, nearer and nearer to the bottom 
 of this new Giants' Staircase. 
 
 With all her deference for Mr. Bounderby, 
 as contradistinguished from his portrait, 
 Mrs. Sparsit had not the smallest intention 
 of interrupting the descent. Eager to see it 
 accomplished, and yet patient, she waited for 
 the last fall as for the ripeness and fulness of 
 the harvest of her hopes. Hushed in expect- 
 ancy, she kept her wary gaze upon the stairs; 
 and seldtnn so much as darkly shook her right 
 mitten (with her hst in it), at the figure 
 comin'f down. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIL 
 
 The figure descended the great stairs, 
 steadily, steadily ; always verging, like a 
 weight in deep water, to the black gulf at the 
 bottom. 
 
 Mr. Gradgrind, apprised of his wife's de- 
 cease, made an expedition from London, and 
 buried in-r in a business like manner. He 
 ihen returned with promptitude to the nation- 
 al cinder-heap, and resumed his sifiing for the 
 odds and ends he wanted, and his throwing of 
 the dust about into the eyes of other people 
 who wanted other odds and ends — in fact, re- 
 sumed his parliamentary duties. 
 
 Li the meantime, Mrs. Sparsit kept un- 
 winking watch and ward. Separated from 
 her staircase, all the week, by the len;;th of 
 iron road dividing Coketown from the country 
 house, she yet maintained her cat-like obser- 
 vation of Louisa, through her husliand, through 
 her brother, through James Harthouse, 
 through the outsides of letters and packets, 
 through everything animate and inanimate 
 that at any lime went near the stairs.-— 
 " Yoii^r fool on the last st.'p, my lady," aaid 
 Mrs. Sparsit, aposirojihising the descend- 
 
156 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 ing figure, with the ai'l of her threatening 
 mitten, " and all your art shall never bind 
 me." 
 
 Art or nature thou^'h, the original s'ock 
 of Louisa's charact^jr ur the grait ut cireu in- 
 stances upon it, — her curious reserve cic 
 baflie, while it stimulated, one as sagacious as 
 Mrs. S|iiirsit. There were times when Mr. 
 James llarthouse was not sure of her. There 
 Wert times when he could not re.atl the face 
 he had studied so long; and when this lonely 
 girl was a greater m}stt-ry to him than any 
 woman of the world widi a ring of satellites 
 to help her. 
 
 So the time went on ; until it happened that 
 Mr. bounderby was called away from home 
 by business which required his presence else- 
 where, tor three or luur days. It was on a 
 f'riday that he intimated this to Mrs. Sparsit 
 at the lianlv, adding : " But you'll go down to- 
 moriow, ma'am, all the same. You 11 go do^vn 
 just as if I was there. It will make no ditfer- 
 euce to you." 
 
 " Pray, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, re- 
 proachfully, ''let me beg you not to say that. 
 Your absence will make a v^st ditference to 
 me, sir, as I think you very well know." 
 
 "Well, ma'am, then you must get on in my 
 absence as well as you can," said Bounderby, 
 not displeased. 
 
 '•Mr. Bounderby," retorted Mrs. Sparsit., 
 "your will is to me a law, sir; otherwise, it 
 might be my inclination to dispute your kind 
 cotumaiids, not feeling sure that it will be quite 
 so agreeable to Miss Gradgr.ud to receive me, 
 as It ever is to your own munihcent hospitality. 
 But you sh ill say no more, sir. I will go, upon 
 your invitation.'" 
 
 '*\Vhy, when I invite you to my house, 
 ma'tim,'' said Bounderby, ()peiiiiig his e}es, ''1 
 should hope you want no ottier iiivitaiion." 
 
 •'Xo indeed, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I 
 should hope noL Say no more, sir. 1 would, 
 sir, 1 c(juld see you gay again 1" 
 
 "What do you mean, ma'am?'' blustered 
 Bounderby. 
 
 "Sir," rejoined Mrs. Sparsit, " there was 
 wont to be an elasticity in you which I sadly 
 miss. Be buoyant, sir!"' 
 
 Mr. Buuiiderby, under the influence of this 
 ddhcult adjuration, backed up by her compas- 
 sionate eye, could only scratch his head in a 
 feeble and ridiculous manner, and afterwards 
 assert himself at a di.^iance, by being heard 
 to bully the small fry of business all the morn- 
 ing. 
 
 '•Bitzer," said Mrs. Sparsit that afterncon, 
 when her patron was gone on his journey, 
 and the Bank was clositig, " present my com- 
 pliments to young Mr. 1 homas, and ask him 
 if he would step up and partake of a laitb 
 chop and wstlnut ketchup, with a gla.ss ol 
 India ale T' Young Mr. Tht-mas being 
 usually ready tor anUlui.g in that way, re- 
 tun ed a gracious an>wfr. and followed on its 
 heels. " Mr. Thorn is," said Mrs. Sparsit, 
 " these plaiu viands being on table, I thought 
 
 vou miirht be tempted." " Thankee, Mrs. 
 Sparsit," said the whelp. And gloomily fell to. 
 
 " How is Mr. Harthouse, Mr. Tom '/" asked 
 Mrs. Sparsit. 
 
 "(Jh he is all ri2ht,"said Tom. 
 
 " Where may he be at present?" Mrs. Spar- 
 sit asked in a light conrersational manner, 
 after mentally devoting the wlielj) to the 
 Furies fir beiu;^ so uncommunicative. 
 
 " He is shooting in Yorksliire," said Tom. 
 "Sent Loo a basket ha f as big as a church, 
 yesterday.'' 
 
 " I he kind of gentleman now," said Mrs. 
 Spai>it, sweeily, " wlum one might wager to 
 be a good shot ! " 
 
 " Crack,'' said Tom. 
 
 He had long bet^n a down-looking young 
 fellow, but this characteristic had so increased 
 of late that he never raised his eyes to any 
 lace for three seconds togtnber. Mrs. Sparsit 
 conseq .ently had ample means of watching 
 his looks, if she were so inclined, 
 
 "Mr. Harthouse is a great fav(jrite of mine,*' 
 said Mrs. Sparsit, "as indeed he is of most peo- 
 ple. May we expect to see him again shortly, 
 Mr. Tom?'' 
 
 "Why, /expect to see him to-morrow," re- 
 turned the whelp. 
 
 "Good news!'' cried Mrs. Sparsit, blandly. 
 
 "1 have got an appointment with him to 
 meet him in the evening at the station here," 
 said Tom, "and I am going to dine with him 
 afterwards, I believe. He is not coming down 
 to Nickils's for a week or so, being die some- 
 where else. At least, he says so; but I shouldn't 
 wonder if he was to stop here over Sunday, 
 and stray that w.iy." 
 
 "Which reminds me!" said Mrs. Sparsit, 
 " Would you remember a message to your 
 sister, Mr. Tom, if I was to charge you with 
 one?'' 
 
 "Weill I'll try," returned the reluctant 
 whelp, "if it isn't a long un." 
 
 " It is merely my respec'ful compliments,'' 
 said Mrs. Sparsit, '"and I fear 1 may not 
 trouble her witti my society this week; being 
 still a little nervous, and better perhaps by my 
 po r self." 
 
 "Oh! If that's all," observed Tom, "it 
 wouldn't matter much, even if I wis to forget 
 it, lor Loo's not likely to think of you unless 
 she sees you." 
 
 Havi igpaid for his entertaiimient with this 
 a^Teeable comriliment, he relapsed into a 
 hngdog silence until there was no more India 
 ale let't, when he sai'l, " Well, Mrs. Sparsit, I 
 must be oft'I" and went off. 
 
 Next day, Saturday, Mrs. Sparsit sat at her 
 window ail day long: looking at the custom- 
 ers coming in and out, watching the pLstmen, 
 keeping an eye on the general tratlie of the 
 street, revolving many things in her mind, 
 but, above all, keeping her attention on her 
 staircase. 1 he evenii gcome, she put on her 
 l)Oiiuei and shawl, and wt-nt quietly out: hav- 
 lUir her reasons tor hovering in a furtive way 
 I about the station by which a passenger would 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 157 
 
 arrive from Yorkshire, and for preferrin<r to 
 peep into it round pillars and corners, and out 
 of ladies' waiting-ruom windows, to appearing 
 in its precincts openly. 
 
 Tom was in attendance, and loitered about 
 until the expected train came in. It brought 
 no Mr. Harthouse. Tom waited until the 
 F crowd had dispersed, and the bustle was 
 over; and then referred to a posted list of 
 trains, and took counsel with porters. That 
 done, he strolled away idly, sto[iping in the 
 street and looking up it and down it, and 
 i lifting his hat otf and putting it on again, and 
 yawning, and stretching himself, and exliibit- 
 ing all the symptoms of mortal weariness to 
 be expected in one who had siill to wait until 
 the next train should come in, an hour and 
 forty minutes hence. 
 
 "This is a device to keep him out of the 
 way," said Mrs. Sparsit, starting from the dull 
 office window whence she had watched him 
 last. " Harthouse is with his sister now I" 
 
 It was the conception of an inspired mo- 
 ment, and she shot off with her utmost swift- 
 ness to work it out. The station for the coun- 
 try house was at the opposite end of the town; 
 the time was short, the road not easy ; but she 
 was so quick in pouncing on a disengaged 
 coach, so quick in darting out of it, producinj; 
 her money, seizing her ticket, and diving into 
 the train, that she was borne along the arches 
 sipanning the land of coal-pits past and present, 
 as if she had been caught up in a cloud and 
 whirled away. 
 
 All the journey, immovable in the air 
 though never left behind ; plain to the dark 
 eyes of her mind, as the electric wires which 
 ruled a colossal strip of music-paper out ot the 
 evening sky, were plain to the dark eyes of her 
 body ; Mr. Sparsit saw her staircase, with the 
 figure coming down. Very near the bottom 
 uow. Upon the brink of the abyss. 
 
 An overcast September evening, just at 
 nightfall, saw beneath its drooping eyelid Mrs. 
 Sparsit glide out of her carriage, pass down 
 the wooden steps of the little station into a 
 stony road, cross it into a green lane, and be- 
 come hidden in a summer growth of leaves 
 and branches. One or two late birds, sleepily 
 chirping in their nests, and a bat heavily 
 crossing and recrossing her, and the reek of 
 her own tread in the thick dust that felt like 
 velvet, were all Mrs. Sparsit heard or saw un- 
 til she very softly closed a gate. 
 
 She went up to the house, keeping within 
 the shrubbery, and went round it, peeping 
 between the leaves at the lower windows. 
 Most of them were open, as they usually were 
 in such warm weather, but there were no lights 
 yet, and all was silent. She tried the garden 
 with no better effect. She thought of the 
 wood, and stole towards it, heedless of long 
 grass and briers; of worms, snails and slugs, 
 and all the creeping things that be. With her 
 dark eyes and her hook nose waril" in advance 
 of her, Mrs. Sparsit softly cruslied her way 
 througL the thick undergrowth, so intent 
 
 upon her object that she probably would have 
 done no less, if the wood had been a wood of 
 adders. 
 
 Hark! 
 
 The smaller birds might have tumbled out 
 of their nests, fascinated by the glittering of 
 Mrs. Sparsit's e)es in the gloom, asshe stopped 
 and listened. 
 
 Low voices close at hand. His voice, and 
 hers. The appointment ica.s a device to keep 
 the brother away ! There they were yonder, 
 by the felled tree. 
 
 Bending low among the dewy grass, Mrs. 
 Sparsit advanced closer to them. She drevy 
 herself up, and stood behind a tree, like Ri>- 
 binson Crusoe in his ambuscade against the 
 savages ; so near to them that at a spring, 
 and that no great one, she could have 
 touched them both. He was there secretly, 
 and had not shown himself at the house, 
 lie had C(nne on horseback, and must have 
 passed through the neighboring fields ; for his 
 horse was tied to the meadow side of the fence, 
 within a few paces. 
 
 " My dearest love," said he, " what could I 
 do? Knowing you were alone, was it possible 
 that T could stay away ?" 
 
 " Yuu may hang your head, to make your- 
 self the more attractive ; / don't know what 
 they see in you when you hold it up," thought 
 Mrs. Sparsit; " but you little think, my dear- 
 est love, whose eyes are on you 1" 
 
 That she hung her head, was certain. She 
 urged him to go away, she commanded him 
 to go away ; but she neither turned her face 
 to him, nor raised it. Yet it was remarkable 
 that she sat as still as ever the amiable woman 
 in ambuscade had seen her sit, at any period 
 in her lite. Her hands rested in one another, 
 line the hands of a statue; and even her man- 
 ner of speaking was not hurried. 
 
 "My dear cliild," said Harthouse; Mrs. 
 Sparsit saw with delight that his arm embraced 
 her; "will you not bear with my society for a 
 little while ?" 
 
 ''Not here." 
 
 "Where, Louisa?" 
 
 "Not here." 
 
 "But we have so little time to make so 
 much of, and 1 have come so far, and am alto- 
 gether so devoted, and distracted. There 
 never was a slave at once so devoted and iil- 
 used by his mistress. To look for your sunny 
 welcome that has warmed me into life, and to 
 be received in your frozen manner, is heart- 
 rending." 
 
 " Ain I to say again, that I must be left to 
 m. self here ?" 
 
 " But we must meet, my dear Louisa. Where 
 shall we meet ?" 
 
 They both started. The listener started 
 guiltily, too ; for she thought there was unotner 
 listener ainong the trees. It was only rain, 
 beginning to fall last, in heavy drops. 
 
 "Shall I ride up to the house a few minutea 
 hence, innocent'y supp(jsin;r that its master is 
 at-home and will be charmed to receive me?" 
 
158 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 "No I 
 
 " Your cruel commands are implicitly to be 
 obeyed; though I am the must unfortunate 
 fellow in the world, I believe, to have been 
 insensible to all other women, and to have 
 fallen ])rostrate at last under the loot of the 
 most beautiful, and the most enjraginjr, and the 
 most imperious. My dearest Louisa, I cannot 
 go myself, or let you go, in this hard abuse of 
 your power." 
 
 Mrs. Sparsit saw him detain her with his en- 
 circling arm, and heard him then and there, 
 within her (Mrs. Sparsit's) greedy hearing, 
 tell her how he loved her, and bow she was 
 the stake for which he ardently desired to 
 play away all that he had in life. The objects 
 he had lately pursued, turned worthless beside 
 her ; such success as was almost in his grasp, 
 he flung away from him like the dirt it was, 
 compared with her. Its pursuit, neverthe- 
 less, if it kept him near her, or its renuncia- 
 tion if it took him from her, or flight if she 
 shared it, or secresy if she commanded it, or 
 any fate, or every fate, all was alike to him, so 
 that she was true to him, — the man who had 
 seen how cast away she was, whom she had 
 inspired at their first mepting with an admira- 
 tion and interest of which he had thought 
 himself incapable, whom she had received into 
 her confidence, who was devoted to her and 
 adored her. All this, and more, in his hurry, 
 and in hers, in the whirl of her own gratified 
 malice, in ihe dread of being discovered, in the 
 rapidly increasing noise of heavy rain among 
 the leaves, and a thunder-storm rolling up — 
 Mrs. Sparsit received into her mind; set off with 
 such an unavoidable halo of confusion and 
 indistinctness, that when at length he climbed 
 the fence and led his horse away, she was not 
 sure where they were to meet, or when, except 
 that they had suid it was to be that night. 
 
 But one of them yet remained in the dark- 
 ness before her ; and while she tracked that 
 one, she must be riijht. " Oh, my dearest 
 love," thought Mrs. Sparsij, '• you little think 
 how well attended you are!" 
 
 Mrs. Sparsit saw her out of the wood, and 
 saw her enter the house. What to do next ? 
 It rained now, in a sheet of water. Mrs. 
 Sparsit's white stockings were of many colors, 
 green predominating ; prickly' things were in 
 her shoes ; caterpillars slung themselves, in 
 hammocks of their o«vn making, from various 
 parts of her dress; rills ran irom her bonnet, 
 and her Roman nose. In such condition Mrs. 
 Sparsit stood hidden in the density of the 
 shrubbery, considering what next? 
 
 Lo, Louisa coining out of the house I Has- 
 tily cloaked and muffled, and stealing away. 
 She elopes ! She falls from the lowermost 
 stair, and is swallowed up in the gulf! 
 
 Indifferent to the rain, and moving with a 
 quick determined step, she struck into a side- 
 path parallel with the ride. Mrs. Sparsit fol- 
 lowed in the ohadow of the trees, at but a 
 short distance ; for it was not easy to keep a 
 
 figure in yiew going quickly through the um- 
 brageous darkness. 
 
 When she stopped to close the sidegat« 
 without noise, Mrs. Sparsit stof>ped. When 
 she went on, Mrs. Sparsit went on. She went 
 by the way Mrs. Sparsit had come, emerged 
 from the green lane, crossed the stony road, 
 and ascended the wooden steps to the railroad. 
 A train for Coketown would come through pre- 
 sently, Mrs. Sparsit knew; so she understood 
 Coketown to be her first place of destination. 
 
 In Mrs. Sparsit's limp and streaming state, 
 no extensive precautions were necessary to 
 change her usual ajipearance ; but, she stopped 
 under the lee of the station wall, tumVjled her 
 shawl into a new shape, and put it on over 
 her bonnet. So disguised, she had no fear of 
 being recognised when she followed up the 
 railroad steps, and paid her money in the small 
 office. Louisa sat waiting in a corner. Mrs. 
 Sparsit sat waiting in another corner. Both 
 listened to the thunder, which was loud, and to 
 the rain, as it washed off the roof, and pattered 
 on the parapets of the arches. Two or three 
 lamps were rained and blown out; so, both saw 
 the lightning to advantage as it quivered and 
 zigzaged on the iron tracks. 
 
 The seizure of the station with a fit of 
 trembling, gradually deepening to a complaint 
 of the heart, announced the train. Fire and 
 steam, and smoke, and red light ; a hiss, a 
 crash, a bell, and a shriek ; Louisa put into 
 one carriage, Mrs. Sparsit put into anotbt-r; 
 the little station a desert speck in the thunder- 
 storm. 
 
 Though her teeth chattered in her head 
 from wet and cold, Mrs. Sparsit exulted 
 hugely. The figure had plunged down the 
 precipice, and she felt herself, as it were, at- 
 tending on the body. Could shcj who had 
 been so active in the getting up of the funeial 
 triumph, do less than exult ? "She will be 
 at Coketown long before him," thought Mrs. 
 Sf)arsit, " thoucrh his horse is never so ^ood. 
 \\'here will she w"ait for him ? And where 
 will they go together ? Paiienee. We shall 
 see." 
 
 The tremendous rain occasioned infinite 
 confusion, when the train stopped at its des- 
 tination. Gutters and pipes had burst, drains 
 had overflowed, and streets were under water. 
 In the first instant of alighting, Mrs. Spar*it 
 turned her distracted eyes towards the wait- 
 ing coaches, which were in great request. 
 " She will get into one," she considered, " and 
 will be away before I can tollow in anotlicr. 
 At a'l risks of being run over, I must see the 
 number, and hear the order given to the 
 coachman." 
 
 But, Mrs. Sparsit was wrong in her calcu- 
 lation. Louisa got into no coach, and was 
 already gone. The black eyes kept upon the 
 railroad-carriage in which she had travelled, 
 settled upon it a moment too late. The door 
 not being opened after several minutes, Mrs. 
 Sparsit passed it and repassed it, saw nothing, 
 looked in, and found it empty. Wet through 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 159 
 
 and through ; with her feet squelching and 
 squashing in her shoes whenever she moved; 
 with a rash of rain upon her classical visage ; 
 with a bonnet like an over-ripe fig ; with all 
 her clothes spoiled ; with damp impressions 
 of every button, string, and hook-and-eye she 
 wore, printed off upon her highly-connected 
 back ; with a stagnant verdure on her general 
 exterior, such as accumulates on an old park 
 fence in a mouldy lane ; Mrs. Sparsit had no 
 resource but to burst into tears of bitterness 
 and say, "I have lost her !" 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIH. 
 
 The national dustmen, after entertaining 
 one another with a great many noisy little 
 fights among themselves, had dispersed for the 
 present, and Mr. Gradgrind was at home for 
 the vacation. 
 
 He sat writing in the room with the deadly- 
 statistical clock, proving something no doubt 
 — probably, in the main, that the Good Sama- 
 ritan was a Bad Economist. The noise of the 
 rain did not disturb him much ; but Jt attract- 
 8d his attention sufficiently to make him raise 
 his head sometimes, as if he were rather re- 
 monstrating with the elements. When it thun- 
 dered very loudly, he glanced towards Coke- 
 town, having in his mind that some of the tall 
 chimneys might be struck by lightning. 
 
 The thunder was rolling into distance, and 
 the rain was pouring down like a deluge, when 
 the door of his room opened. He looked round 
 the lamp upon his table, and saw with amaze- 
 ment, his eldest daughter. 
 
 " Louisa!" 
 
 " Father, I want to speak to you." 
 
 "What is the matter? How strange you 
 look ! And good Heaven," said Mr. Grad- 
 grind, wondering more and more, '"have you 
 come here exposed to this storm ?" 
 
 She put her hands to her dress, as if she 
 hardly knew. "Yes." Then she uncovered 
 her head, and letting her cloak and hood fall 
 where they might, stood looking at him : so 
 colorless, so dishevelled, so defiant and despair- 
 ing, that he was afraid of her. 
 
 "What is it? I conjure you, Louisa, tell 
 me what is the matter." 
 
 She dropped into a chair before him, and 
 put her cold hand on his arm. 
 
 "Father, you have trained me from my 
 cradle." 
 
 "Yes, Louisa." 
 
 " I curse the hour in which I was born to 
 tuch a destiny." 
 
 He looked at hpr in doubt and dread, 
 vacantly repeating, " Curse the hour ? Curse 
 the h(nir ?" 
 
 " Uo could you give me life, and take from 
 me all the inapprecuxbie things that raise it 
 from the state of conscious death ? Where 
 are the graces of my soul ? Where are the 
 sentiments of my heart? ^\'hat have you 
 done, faiht-r what have you done, with the 
 
 garden that should have bloomed once, in this 
 great wilderness here!" 
 
 She struck herself with both her hands upop 
 her bosom. 
 
 " If it had ever been here, its ashes alone 
 would save me from the void in which my 
 wlole life sinks. I did not mean to i-ay this; 
 but, father, you remember the last time we 
 conversed in this room ?" 
 
 He had been so wholly unprepared for 
 what he heard now, that it was with difli- 
 culty lie answered, " Yes, Louisa." 
 
 "What has risen to my lips now, would have 
 risen to my lips then, if you had given me a 
 moment's help. I don't reproach you, father. 
 What you have never nurtured in me, you 
 have never nurtured in yourself; but ! if you 
 had only done so long ago, or if you had only 
 neglected me, what a much happier creature 
 I should have been this day !" 
 
 On hearing this, after all his care, he bowed 
 his head upon his hand and groaned aloud. 
 
 "Father, if you had known, when we were 
 last together here, what even I feared while I 
 strove against it — as it has been my task from 
 infancy to strive against every natural prompt- 
 ing that has arisen in my heart ; if you had 
 known that there lingered in my breast, sen- 
 sibilities, affections, weaknesses, capable of 
 being cherished into strength, defying all the 
 calculations ever made by man, and no more 
 known to his arithmetic than his Creator is, 
 — would you have given me to the husband 
 whom I am now sure that I hate ?" 
 
 He said, "No. No, my poor child." 
 
 "Would you have doomed me, at any time, 
 to the frost and blight that have hardened and 
 spoiled me? Would you have robbed me — for 
 no one's enrichment — only for the greater de- 
 solation of this world — of the immaterial part 
 of my life, the spring and summer of my be- 
 lief, my refuge from what is sordid and bad in 
 the real things around me, my school in which 
 I should have learned to be more humble and 
 more trusting with them, and to hope in my 
 little sphere to niake them better ?" 
 
 "0 no, no. No, Louisa." 
 
 "Yet, lather, if 1 had been stone blind ; if I 
 had groped my way by my sense of touch, and 
 had been free, while I knew the shapes and 
 surfaces of things, to exercise my fancy some- 
 what, in regard to them ; I should have been 
 a million times wiser, happier, more loving, 
 more contented, more innocent and human 
 in all good respects, than I am with the eyes 
 I have. Now, hear what I have come to 
 say." 
 
 He moved to support her with his arm. She 
 rising as he did so, they stood close together ; 
 she with a hand upon his shoulder, looking 
 fixedly in his lace. 
 
 •' With a hunger and thirst upon me, father, 
 which have never lieen for a moment a[i[ieased : 
 with an anient impulse towards sunn; region 
 where rules, and figures, and definitions were 
 not ([uite absulule; I have grown up, battling 
 every inch of my way." 
 
160 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 " I never knew yon were unhappy, my child." 
 "Father, I always knew it. In this strife I 
 have almost repulsed and crushed my better 
 angel into a demon. What I have learned 
 has left me doubting, misbelieving, despising, 
 regretting, what I have not learned ; and my 
 dismal resource has been to think that life 
 would soon go by, and that nothing in it 
 could be worth the pain and trouble of a 
 contest." 
 
 " And you so young, Louisa I" he said with 
 
 '• And I so young. In this condition, father 
 — for I show you now, without fear or favor, 
 the ordinary deadened state of my mind as I 
 know it— you proposed my husband to me. I 
 took him. I never made a pretence to him 
 or you that I loved him. I knew, and, father, 
 you knew, and he knew, that I never did. I 
 was not wholly indifferent, for I had a hope of 
 being pleasant and useful to Tom. I made 
 that wild escape irto something visionary, 
 and have gradually found out how wild it was. 
 But Tom had been the subject of all the little 
 imaginative tenderness of my life ; perhaps he 
 became so because I knew so well how to pity 
 him. It matters little now, except as it may 
 dispose you to think more leniently of his er- 
 rors." 
 
 As her father held her in his arm, she put 
 Her other hand upon his other shoulder, and 
 still looking fixedly in his face, went on. 
 
 "When I was irrevocably married, there rose 
 up into rebellion against the tie, the old strife, 
 made fiercer by a«ll those causes of disparity 
 ■which arise out of our two individual natures, 
 and which no general laws shall ever rule or 
 state for me, father, until they shall be able to 
 direct the anatomist where to strike his knife 
 into the secrets of my soul." 
 
 " Louisa 1" he said, and said imploringly ; 
 for he well remembered what had passed be- 
 tween them in their former interview. 
 
 " I do not reproach jou, father, I make no 
 complaint. I am here with another object." 
 
 " What can I do, child? Ask me what you 
 will." 
 
 " I am coming to it. Father, chance then 
 threw into my way a new acquaintance ; a 
 man such as I had had no experience of ; 
 used to tlie world : light, polished, easy ; 
 making no pretences; avowing ihe low esti- 
 mate of everything, that I was half afraid to 
 form in setTet; conveying to me almost imme- 
 diately, though I don't know how or by what 
 degrees, that he understood me, and read my 
 thoughts. I could not find that he was worse 
 than I. T lere seemed to be a near affinity 
 between us. I only wondered it should be 
 worth his while, who cared tor nothing else, to 
 care so much fo»me." 
 
 " For you, Louisa!" 
 
 Her father might instinctively have loosened 
 his hold, but that he felt her strength departing 
 from her. and saw a wild dilating fire in the 
 eves steadfastly regarding hmi. 
 
 " I say nothing of his plea for claiming my 
 
 confidence. It matters very little how he 
 gained it. Father, he did gain it. What yoa 
 know of the story of my marriage, he soon 
 knew, just as well." 
 
 Her father's face was ashy white, and he 
 held her in both his arms. 
 
 " I have done no worse, I have not dis- 
 graced you. But if you ask me whether I 
 have loved him, or do love him, I tell you 
 plainly, father, that it may be so. I don't 
 know !" 
 
 She took her hands suddenly from hia 
 shoulders and pressed them both upon her side: 
 while in her face, not like itself — and in her 
 figure, drawn up, resolute to finish by a last 
 effort what she had to say — the feelings long 
 suppressed broke loose. 
 
 " This night, my husband being away, he 
 has been with me, declaring himself my 
 lover. This minute he expects me, for I could 
 release myself of his presence by no other 
 means. I do not know that I am sorry, I do 
 not know that I am ashamed, I do not know 
 that I am degraded in my own esteem. All 
 that I know is, your philosophy and your 
 teaching will not save me. Now, father, you 
 have brought me to this. Save me by some 
 other means 1" 
 
 He tightened his hold in time to prevent her 
 sinking on the floor, but she cried out in a ter- 
 rible voice, "I shall die if you hold me ! Let 
 me fall upon the ground I" And he laid her 
 down there, and saw the pride of his heart and 
 the triumph of his system, lying, an insensible 
 heap, at his feet. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Louisa awoke from a torpor, and her eyes 
 languidly opened on her old bed at home, and 
 her old room. It seemed, at first, as if all 
 that had happened since the days when these 
 objects were familiar to her were the shadows 
 of a dream; but gradually as the objects be- 
 came more real to her sight, the events be- . 
 came more real to her mind. 
 
 She could scarcely move her head for pain 
 and heaviness, her eyes were strained and 
 sore, and she was very weak. A curious 
 passive inattention had such possession of • 
 her that the presence of her little sister in the j 
 room did not attract her notice for some ' 
 time. Even when their eyes had met, and 
 her sister had approached the bed, Louisa lay 
 for minutes looking at her in silence, and j 
 suffering her timidly to hold her passive hand, ] 
 before she asked : 
 
 "When was I brought to this room ?" 
 
 "Last night, Louisa." 
 
 " Who brought me here?" 
 
 " Sissy, I believe." 
 
 " Why do you believe so ? " 
 
 " Because I found her here this morning. 
 She did'nt come to my bedside to wake me, 
 as she alwa)s does, and 1 went to look tor her. 
 She was not in her own room titber, and I 
 went looking for her all over the house until I 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 161 
 
 found her here, taking care of you and cooling 
 your head. Will you see father? Sissy said 
 I was to tell him when you woke." 
 
 " What a beaming face you have, Jane ! " 
 said Louisa, as her young sister — timidly still 
 — bent down to kiss her. 
 
 " Have I ? I am very glad you think so. 
 I am sure it must be Sissy's doing." 
 
 The arm Louisa had begun to twine about 
 her neck unbent itself. " You can tell father, 
 if you will." Then staying her a moment, 
 she said, " It was you who made my room so 
 cheerful, and gave it this look of welcome ? '* 
 
 " Oh no, Louisa, it was done before I came. 
 It was " 
 
 Louisa turned upon her pillow, and heard 
 no more. When her sister had v/ithdrawn, she 
 turned her head back again, and lay with her 
 face towards the door until it opened and her 
 father entered. 
 
 He had a jaded anxious look upon him, and 
 hid hand, usually steady, trembled in hers. He 
 sat down at the side of the bed, tenderly ask- 
 ing how she was, and dwelling on the necessity 
 of her keeping very quiet after her agitation 
 and exposure to the weather last night. He 
 spoke in a subdued and troubled voice; very 
 different from his usual dictatorial manner, 
 and was often at a loss for words. 
 
 " My dear Louisa. My pour daughter." — 
 He was so much at a loss at that place, that 
 he stopped altogether. He tried again. 
 
 " My unfortunate child." The place was so 
 difficult to get over, that he tried again. 
 
 "It would be hopeless for me, Louisa, to en- 
 deavor to tell you how overwhelmed 1 have 
 been, and still am, by what broke upon me 
 for the first time last night. The ground on 
 which I stand has ceased to be solid under 
 my feet. The only support on which 1 leaned, 
 and the strength of which it seemed and still 
 does seem impossible to question, has given 
 way in an instant. I am stunned by the^e 
 discoveries. I have no selfish meaning in 
 what I say, but I find the shock of what broke 
 upon me last night, to be very heavy indeed." 
 
 She could give him no comfort herein, fche 
 had suffered the wreck of her whole life upon 
 the rock. 
 
 '■ I will not say, Louisa, that if you had by 
 any happy chance, undeceived me some time 
 ago, it would have been better for us both ; 
 better for your peace, and better for mine. 
 For I am sensible that it has not been a pait 
 of my system to invite any confidence of that 
 kind. 1 have proved my — my system to my- 
 self, and 1 have rigidly administered it, and I 
 must bear the responsibility of its lailurt-s. I 
 only entreat you to believe, my favorite child, 
 that I have meant to do right." 
 
 He said it earnestly, and to do him justice 
 he had. In gauging fathomless deeps with 
 his little mean excise-rod, and in staggeriii>.' 
 over the universe with his rusty stiff-legged 
 compasses, he had meant to do great things. 
 Within the limits of his short tether he had 
 tumbled about, aiiiiihilatiug the ffowers of 
 11 
 
 existence with greater singleness of purpose 
 than many of the blatant personages whose 
 company he kept. 
 
 "lam well assured of what you say, father. 
 I know I have been your favorite child ; I 
 know you have intended to make me happy. 
 I have never blamed you, and I never shall." 
 
 He took her outstretched hand, and retained 
 it in his. 
 
 " My dear, I have remained all night at my 
 table, pondering again and again on what has 
 so painfully passed between us. When i con- 
 sider your character; when I consider that what 
 has b' en known to me to-- hours has been con- 
 cealed by you for years ; when I consider und r 
 what immediate pre^^sure it has been forieii 
 from you at last; 1 come to the conclusion ihni 
 1 cannot but mistrust myself." 
 
 He might have added more than all, when 
 he saw the face now looking at him. He did 
 add it in effect, perhaj»s, as he solily moved 
 her scattered hair I'rom her forehead with ihe 
 palm of his hana. Such little actions, slight 
 in aiiother man, were very noiicealile in h;ni, 
 a id his daughter received them as it they had 
 been words of contrition. 
 
 "But," said Mr. Gradgrind, slowly, and 
 with hesitation, as well as with a wietched 
 sense of helplessness, "if 1 see reason to mis- 
 trust myself for the past, Louisa, 1 should also 
 mistrust myself for the present and the future. 
 To speak unieservedly to you, 1 do. 1 am 
 far from feeling convinced now, however dit- 
 ferently I might have felt only this time }es- 
 terday, that 1 am fit for the trust you repose 
 in me ; that I know How to respond to the ap- 
 peal you have come home to make to me ; 
 that I have the right instinct — supposing it for 
 the moment to be some quality of that na- 
 ture — how to help you and to set vou right, my 
 child." 
 
 She had turned upon her pillow, and lay 
 with her iace upon her arm, so that he could 
 not see it. c. II her ivildness and passion had 
 subsided ; but, though sotlened, she was nut 
 in tears. Her father was changed in nothing 
 so much as in the respect that he would have 
 been glad to see her m tears. 
 
 "Some persons hold," he pursued, stiil 
 hesitating, " that there is a wisdom of the 
 Head, and that there is a wiodom of the 
 Heart. I have not supposed so, but, as I 
 have said, I mistrust myself now. 1 have 
 supposed the Head to be all-sufficient. It 
 may not be all-sufficient ; how can I venture 
 this morning to say that it is? If that other 
 kind of wisdom should be what I have neg- 
 lected, and should be the instinct that is 
 wanted, Louisa " 
 
 He suggested it very doubtfully, as if he 
 were half unwilling to admit it even now. 
 She made him no answer, l>ing befure him 
 on her bed, still half-dressed, much as he had 
 seen her lying on the floor of his room last 
 night. 
 
 " Louisa," and his hand rested on her hair 
 I again, " 1 have been absent from here, my 
 
162 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 dear; a good deal of late, and though your 1 
 sister's training has been pur.sut-d actordiiig 
 to — the system," he appeared to come to that 
 word with great reluciauce always, " it has 
 necessarily been modified by daily associations 
 begnn, in her case, at a very early age. I ask 
 you — ignorantly and humbly, my daughter — 
 for the better, do you think V 
 
 " Father," she replied, without stirring, " if 
 any harmony has been awakened in her young 
 breast that was mute in mine until it turned to 
 discord, let her thank God for it, and go upon 
 her happier way, taking it as her greatest bles- 
 sing that she has avoided my way. 
 
 " my child, my child !" he said, in a for- 
 lorn manner, " 1 am an unhappy man to see 
 you thus! What avails it to me that you do 
 not reproach me, if I bitterly reproach myself!" 
 He bent his head and spoke low to her. " Lou- 
 isa, I have a misgiving that some change may 
 have been slowly working about me bv mere 
 love and gratitude; that what the Head had 
 left undone, and could not do, the Heart may 
 have been doing silently. Can it be so ?" 
 
 She made him no reply. 
 
 " 1 am not too proud to believe it, Louisa. 
 How could I be arrogant, and you before me 1 
 Can it be so? Is it so, my dear?" 
 
 He looked upon her, once more, lying cast 
 away there, ai.d without another word went 
 out of the room. He had not been long gone 
 when she heard a light tread near the door, 
 and knew that some one stood beside her. 
 
 Slie did not raise her head. A dull anger 
 that she should be seen in her distress, and 
 that the involuntary look she had so resented 
 should come to this fuldlment, smouldered 
 within her like an unwholesome fire. All 
 closely imprisoned forces rend and destroy. 
 The air that would be healthful to the earth, 
 the water that would enrich it, the heat that 
 would ripen it, tear it when caged up. So in 
 her bosom even now. The strongest qualities 
 she possessed, long turned upon themselves, 
 became a heap of obduracy, that rose against 
 a friend. 
 
 It was well that soft touch came upon her 
 neck, and that she understood herself to be 
 supposed to have fallen asleep. The sym- 
 pathetic hand did not claim her resentment. 
 Let it lie there, let it lie. 
 
 So it lay there, warming into life a crowd 
 of gentler thoughts, and she lay still. As 
 she softened with the quiet and the conscious- 
 ness of being so watched, some tears made 
 their way into her eyes. The face stooped 
 closer to her, and she knew that there were 
 tears upon it too, and she the cause of them. 
 
 As Louisa feigned to rouse herself, and sat 
 up. Sissy retired, so that she stood placidly at 
 the bed side. 
 
 "I hope I have not disturbed you. I have 
 come to ask if you will let me stay with you." 
 
 '•Why should you stay with me? My sister 
 will miss you. You are everything to her." 
 
 "Am 1?" returned Sissy, smiling and shak- 
 
 ing her head. "I would be something to jou' 
 dear Miss Louisa, if 1 might." 
 
 "What ?" said Louisa, almost sternly, 
 
 "Whatever you want most, if 1 could be 
 that. At all events I would like to try to be 
 as near it as I can. And however far off thai 
 may be, I will never tire of trying. Will you 
 let me ?" 
 
 " My father sent you to ask me ?" 
 
 "No intleed," replied Sissy. "He told me 
 that I might come in now, but he sent me 
 away from the room this morning — or at least 
 — " She hesitated and stopped. 
 
 "At least, what?" said Louisa, with her 
 searching eyes upon her. 
 
 "1 thought it best myself that I should bo 
 sent away, tor I felt very uncertain whethei 
 you would like to find me here." 
 
 " Have I always hated you so much?" 
 
 "I hope not, for I have always been truly 
 attached to you, and deeply wishful that you 
 should know it. But you changed to me a 
 little, shortly before you left home. Not that 
 I wondered at it. You knew so much, and I 
 knew so little ; and it was so natural in many 
 ways, going as you were among other friends, 
 that I had nothing to complain of, and was not 
 at all hurt." 
 
 Her color rose as she said it modestly and 
 hurriedly. Louisa understood the loving pre- 
 tence, and her haart smote her. 
 
 " May I try ?" said Sissy, emboldened to 
 raise her hand to the neck that was insensibly 
 drooping towards her. 
 
 Louisa, taking down the hand that would 
 have embraced her in another moment, held 
 it tight in one of hers, and answered: 
 
 "First, Sissy, you should know what I am. 
 I am so proud and so hardened, so confused 
 and troubled, so resentful and unjust to every 
 one and to myself, that everything is stormy, 
 dark, and wicked to me. Does not that repel 
 you ?" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "I am so unhappy, and all that should have 
 made me otherwise is so laid waste, that if I 
 had been bereft of sense to this hour, and in- 
 stead of being as learned as you think me, had 
 to begin to acquire the simplest truths, I could 
 not want a guide to peace, contentment, 
 honor, all the good of which I am quite de- 
 void, more abjectly than I do. Does not that 
 repel you ?" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 In the innocence of her brave affectio:, and 
 the trimming up of her old devoted spirit, the , 
 once deserted girl shone like a beautiful light 
 upon the darkness of the other. 
 
 Louisa raised the hand that it might clasp 
 her neck, and join its fellow there. She fell 
 upon her knees, and clinging to this stroller's 
 child looked up at her almost with veneration. 
 
 "Forgive me, pity me, help me! Have 
 compassion on my great need, and let me lay 
 this head of mine upon a loving hi art." 
 
 "U lay it here !" cried Sissy. 'Lay it here, 
 my dear." 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 163 
 
 Louisa's tears fell like tbe blessed rain 
 after a long drought. The sullen glare was 
 over, and in every drop there was a germ of 
 hope and promise for the dried-up ground. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 Mr. James Harthouse passed a whole night 
 and a day in a state of so much hurry that the 
 World, with its best glass in its eye, would have 
 scarcely recognised him during that insane in- 
 terval, as the brother Jem of the honorable 
 and jocular member. He was positively agi- 
 tated. He several times spoke with au em- 
 phasis, similar to the vulgar manner. He 
 went ill and went out in a most unaccountable 
 way, like a man with an object. He rode like 
 a highwayman. In a word, he was so horriblv 
 bored by real existing circumstances, that he 
 forgot to go in for iioredom in the manner pre- 
 scribed by the authorities. 
 
 After putting his horse at Coketown through 
 the storm, as if it were a leap, he waited up 
 all night; from time to time ringing his bell 
 with the greatest fury, charging the porter who 
 kept watch with delinquency in withholding 
 letters or messages that could not fall to have 
 been entrusted to him, and demanding resti- 
 tution on the spot. The dawn coming, the 
 morning coming, and the day coming and 
 neither message nor letter coming with i .ier, 
 he went down to the country house. I'lere, 
 the report was, Mr. Bounderby away, ard Mrs. 
 Bounderby in town. Left for town suddenly 
 last evening. Not even known to be gone 
 until receipt of message, importing that her 
 return was not to be expected for the present. 
 
 In these circumstances he had nothing for 
 it but to follow her to town. He went to the 
 house in town. Mrs. Bounderby not there ; 
 not even been heard of. He looked in at the 
 Bank. Mr. Bounderby away, and Mrs. Sparsit 
 away. Mrs. Sparsit away ? Who could have 
 been reduced to sudden extremity for the 
 company of that gritiin 1 
 
 " Well ! I don't know," said Tom, who had 
 his own reasons for being uneasy about it. 
 " She was off" somewhere at daybreak this 
 morning. She's always full of mystery ; I 
 hate her. So I do that white chap ; he's 
 always got his blinking eye upon a fellow." 
 
 " Where were you last night, Tom?" 
 
 " Where was I last night ! " said Tom. 
 " Come ! I like that. 1 was waiting for you, 
 Mr. Harthouse, till it came down as / never 
 saw it come down before. Where was I too ! 
 Where were you, you mean." 
 
 " I was prevented from coming — detained." 
 
 " Detained!" said Tom. " Two of us were 
 ^detained. I was detained looking for you till 
 I lost every train but the mail. It would have 
 been a pleasant job to go down by that on 
 such a night, and have to walk home through 
 a pond. I was obliged to sle^p in town after 
 all.'" 
 
 '• Where ?" 
 
 " Where ? Why, in your bed at Boander- 
 by's." 
 
 " Did you see your sister?" 
 
 " How the de;.ce," returned Tom, staring, 
 " could I see my sister when she was fifteen 
 miles off?" 
 
 Cursing these quick retorts of the young gen- 
 tleman to whom he was so true a friend, Mr. 
 Harthouse disembarrassed himself of that in- 
 terview with the smallest conceivai)le amount 
 of ceremony, and debated for the hundredth 
 time what all this could mean ? He made only 
 one thing clear. It was, that whether she was 
 in town or out of town, whether he had been 
 premature with her who was so hard tu c(>mpre- 
 heud, or she had lost courage, or they were dis- 
 covered, or some mischance or mistake at pre- 
 sent incomprehensible had occurred — he must 
 remain to confront his fortune, whatever it 
 was. The hotel where he was known to live 
 when condemned to that region of blackness, 
 was the stake to which he was tied. As to all 
 the rest — What will be, will be. 
 
 " So, whether I am waiting for a hostile 
 message, or an assignation, or a penitent re- 
 monstrance, or an impromptu wrestle with my 
 friend Bounderby in the Lancashire manner 
 — which would seem as likely as anything else 
 in the present state ot affairs — I'll dine," said 
 Mr. James Harthouse. "Bounderby has the 
 advantage in point of weight; anxl if anything 
 of a British nature is to come off between us, 
 it may as well to be in training." 
 
 Therefore he rang the bell, and tossing 
 himself negligently on a sofa, ordered "Some 
 dinner at six, with a beefsteak in it," and got 
 through the intervening time as well as he 
 could. That was not particularly well, for 
 he remained in the greatest perplexity, and 
 as the hours went on, and no kind of explana- 
 tion ottered itself, his perplexity augmented at 
 compound interest. 
 
 However, he took affairs as coolly a.<» it was 
 in human nature to do, and entertained him- 
 self with the facetious idea of the training more 
 than once. " It wouldn't be bad,'' he j-awned 
 at one time, " to give the waiter five shillings 
 and throw him." At another time it occurred 
 to him, "Or a fellow of about thirteen or four- 
 teen btone might be hired by the hour." But 
 these jests did not tell materially on the after- 
 noon or his suspense; and, sooth to say, they 
 both lagged fearfully. 
 
 It was impossible, even before dinner, to 
 avoid of en walking about in the patterns of 
 the carpet, looking out of the window, listen- 
 ing at the do')r for footsteps, and occasionally 
 becoming rather hot when they approached 
 that room. But after dinner, when the day 
 turned to twilight, and the twilight turned to 
 •Mglif, and still no communication was made 
 to him, it began to be, as he expressed it, 
 "uncommonly like the Holy Ollice and slow 
 torture." However, still true to his conviction 
 that coolness was the genuine hi^h-breeding, 
 (the only conviction he had,) he seiiied this 
 
164 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 crisis as the opportunity for ordering candles 
 and a newspaper. 
 
 He had been trying in vain, for half an 
 hour, to read this newspaper, when the waiter 
 appeared, and said, at once mysteriously and 
 apologetically, 
 
 " Beg your pardon sir. You're wanted sir, 
 if you please." 
 
 A general recollection that this was the sort 
 of thing the Police said to the swell mob, caus- 
 ed Mr. Harthouse to ask the waiter in return, 
 with bristling indignation, what the Devil he 
 meant by " wanted ?" 
 
 — " ^"-'o y^ui" pardon, sir. Young lady out- 
 side, sir, wished to see you." 
 
 " Outside ? Where ?" 
 
 "Outside this door, sir." 
 
 Giving the waiter to the personage before 
 mentioned, as a blockhead duly qualified for 
 that consignment, Mr. Harthouse hurried 
 into the gallery. A young woman whom he 
 had never seen stood there. Plainly dressed, 
 very quiet, very pretty. As he conducted her 
 into the ronm and placed a chair for her, he 
 observed by the light of the candles, that she 
 was even prettier than he had at tirst believed. 
 Her face was innocent and youthful, and its 
 expression remarkably pleb,sant. She was not 
 afraid of him, or in any way disconcerted ; she 
 seemed to have her mind entirely pre-oc- 
 cupied with t^o occasion of her visit, and to 
 have substituted that couhideration for herself. 
 
 " I speak to Mr. Harthouse ?" she said, when 
 they were alone. 
 
 " To Mr. Harthouse. " He added in his 
 mind — " And you speak to him with the most 
 confiding eyes I ever saw, and the most 
 earnest voice (though so quiet) I ever heard." 
 
 " If I do not understand — and I do not, sir " 
 — said Sissy," whatyour honor as a gentleman 
 binds you to, in other matters :" the blood real- 
 ly rose in his face as she began in these words: 
 " I am sure I may rely upon it to keep my visit 
 secret, and what I am going to say. I will rely 
 upon it, if you will tell me I may so far trust 
 you. '■ 
 
 " You may, I asure you. " 
 
 " I am young, as you see ; I am alone, as 
 you see. In coming to you, sir, I have no 
 advice or encouragement beyond my own 
 hope. " 
 
 He thought, " But that is very strong," as 
 he followed the momentary upward glance of 
 her eyes. He thought besides, " 'i his is a 
 very odd beginning. I don't see where we are 
 g«ing." 
 
 "Perhaps," said Sissy, " you have already 
 guessed whom I left just now?" 
 
 " I have been in the greatest concern and 
 uneasiness during the last four-and twenty 
 hours (which have appeared as many years)," 
 he returned, "on a lady's account. The 
 hopes I have been eiicourasred to tbrm that 
 you come from that lady do not deceive me, 1 
 trust." 
 
 " I left her within an hour." 
 
 "So lately I At ?" 
 
 "At her father's." 
 
 Mr. Harthouse's face lengthened in spite ot 
 his coolness, and his perplexity increased. 
 " Then I certainly," he thought, " do not see 
 where we are going." 
 
 " She hurried there last night. She arrived 
 there in great agitation, and was insensible 
 all through the night. I live at her father's, 
 and was with her. You may be sure, sir, 
 you will never see her again as long as you 
 live." 
 
 Mr. Harthouse drew a long breath, and, if 
 ever man found himself in the position of not 
 knowing what to say, made the discovery 
 beyond all question that he, James Hart- 
 house, was so circumstanced. The child -like 
 ingenuousness with which his visiter spoke, 
 her modest fearlessness, her truthfulness, 
 which put all artifice aside, her entire for- 
 getfulness of herself in the earnest, quiet, hold- 
 ing to the object with which she had come; 
 all this, together with her reliance on his eas- 
 ily-given promise, which in itself shamed him 
 — presented something in which he was so in- 
 experienced, and against which he knew his 
 usual weapons would fall so powerless; that 
 not a word could he rally to his relief. 
 
 At last he said: 
 
 "So startling an announcement, so confi- 
 dently made, and by such lips, is really dis- 
 concerting in the last degree. May I be per- 
 mitted to inqure if you are charged to convey 
 that information to me in those hopeless words 
 by the lady of whom we speak ?" 
 
 "1 have no charge from her. " 
 
 " The drowning man catches at the straw. 
 With no disrespect for your judgment, and with 
 no doubt of your sincerity, excuse my saying 
 that I cling to the belief that there is yet hupe 
 that I am not condemned to perpetual exile 
 from that lady's presence. " 
 
 " There is not the least hope. The first ob- 
 ject of my coming here, sir, is to assure you 
 that you must believe that there is no more 
 hope ofyour ever speaking with her again than 
 there would be if she had died when she came 
 home last night." 
 
 " Must believe ? But if I can't — or if I 
 should, by infirmity ef nature, be obstinate — 
 and won't — " 
 
 " It is still true. There is no hope." 
 
 James Harthouse looked at her with an in- 
 credulous smile upon his lips, but her mind 
 looked over and beyond him, and the smile 
 w. s quite thrown away. 
 
 He bit his lip. and took a little time for 
 consideration. 
 
 "If it should unhappily appear," he said, 
 "after due pains and duty on my part, that I 
 am brought to a position so desolate as this 
 banishment, I shall not become the lady's per- 
 secutor. But you said you had no commission 
 from her." 
 
 "I have only the commission of my love 
 for her, and her love for me. I have no 
 other trust than that I have been with her 
 since she fled home, and that she has given me 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 165 
 
 hcj confidence. T have no further trust than 
 thai I know something of her character and 
 her marriage. O, Mr. Harthouse, I thiuk you 
 had that trust too." 
 
 He was touched in the cavity where his 
 heart should have been, in that nest of addled 
 ejj^s, where the birds of heaven would have 
 lived if they had not been whistled away by 
 the simple fervor of this reproach. 
 
 " I am not a moral sort of lellow," he said, 
 " and I never make any pretensions to the 
 character of a moral sort of fellow. I am as 
 immoral as need be, I dare say. At the same 
 ti'ue, in bringing any distress upon the lady 
 who is the subject of the present conversation, 
 or in unfortunately comprumising her in any 
 way; or in committing myst-lf by any ex- 
 pression of sentiments towards her, not per- 
 fectly reconcilable with — the domestic hearth; 
 or in taking any advantage of her father's 
 being a machine, or of hnr brother's being a 
 whelp, er of her husband's being a bear; I 
 beg to be allowed to assure you that I have 
 had no particular evil intentions, but have 
 glided on from one step to another with a 
 bmoothness so entirely diabolical that I had 
 not the slightest idea the catalogue was half 
 so long until T began to turn it over. When 
 I nnd," said Mr. James Harthouse, in 
 conclusion, "that it is in several volumes." 
 
 Though he said all this in his frivolous 
 way, the way seemed, for that once, a con- 
 scious polishing of but an ugly surface. He 
 was silent for a moment, and then proceeded 
 with a more courtly air, though with traces of 
 vexation and disappointment that would not 
 be polished out: 
 
 ''After what has been just now represented 
 to me in a manner I find it impossible to doubt 
 — I really knuw of hardly any other source 
 from which I could have accepted it so readi- 
 ly — I feel bound to say to you in whom the 
 confidence you have mentioned, has been re- 
 pused, that I cannot refuse to contemplate the 
 pussiijility (however unexpected) of my seeing 
 the lady no more. I am solely to blame for 
 the thing having come to this — and — and I 
 cannot say," he added, rather bard up for a 
 general peror?tiun, " tha: I have any sanguine 
 expectations of ever becoming a moral sort of 
 fellow, or that I have any belief in any moral 
 Sort of fellow, anvwhere." 
 
 Sissj's face sufficiently showed that her ap- 
 peiil til him was not finished. 
 
 *' Yiiu spoke," he resumed, as she raised her 
 eyes to him again, "of your first object. I 
 may assume that there is a setoud to be men- 
 tioned?" 
 
 " Yes " 
 
 " Will vou oblige me by confiding i:?" 
 
 " Mr. Harthouse," returned Sissy, with a 
 blending of gentleness and steadiness that 
 quite dtfeated him, and with a perfect con- 
 fidence in his l>eing bouivd to do what she 
 required, that held him at a singular disad- 
 vantage, "the only reparation that remains 
 with }ou, is to leave here immediately, and 
 
 finally. I am qnite sure that you can miti- 
 gate in no other way the wrong and harm you 
 have done. I am quite sure that it is the only 
 compensation you have left in your power to 
 make. I do not say that it is much or that it 
 is enough, but it is something, and it is neces- 
 sary. Therefore, though without any other 
 authority than I have given you, and even 
 without the knowledge uf any other person 
 than yourself and myself, I ask you to depart 
 from this place to night under an obligation 
 never to return to it." 
 
 If she had asserted any influence over him 
 beyond her simple faith in the truth and 
 right of what she said ; if she had concealed 
 the least doubt or irresolution, or had har- 
 bored for the best purpose any reserve or 
 pretence; if she had shown or ielt the litrhi- 
 est trace of any sensitiveness to his ridicule, 
 or his astonishment, or any temonstrance he 
 might ofFer, he would have carried it against 
 her at this point. But he could as easily have 
 changed a clear sky by looking at it in sur- 
 prise as affect her. 
 
 "But do you know," he asked, quite at a 
 loss, "the extent of what you ask ? You pro- 
 bably are not aware that I am hereon a public 
 kind of business, preposterous enough in itself, 
 but which I have gone in for, and sworn by, 
 and am supposed to be devoted to in quite a 
 desperate manner? You probably are not 
 aware of that, but I assure you it's the fact." 
 
 It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact. 
 
 "Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking 
 a turn or two across the room, and biting his 
 nails dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It 
 would make a man so ridiculous, after going 
 in for these fellows, to back out in such an un- 
 accountable way." 
 
 " I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, " that it 
 is the only reparation in your power, sir. I 
 aip quite sure, or I would not have come here."' 
 
 He glanced at her face, and walked abotit 
 a^ain. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to 
 say. So immensely absurd !" 
 
 It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate fi)r secresy. 
 " If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing," 
 he said, stopping again presently, and leaning 
 against the chimney-piece, "it could only be iu 
 the most inviolable confidence." 
 
 " I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, 
 " and you will trust to me." 
 
 His leaning against the chimney piece re- 
 minded him of the night with the whelp. It 
 was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow 
 he felt as if he were the whelp to-night. He 
 could make no way at all. 
 
 " I supposp a man never was placed in a 
 more ridiculous position," he said, after look- 
 ing down, and looking up, and langding, and 
 frowning, and walking otf, and walking back 
 again. "' But I see no wav out of it. What 
 will be, will be. T}iis will be, I suppose. I 
 must take oflF myself, 1 imagine — in short, I 
 engai.'e to do it." 
 
 Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the 
 
165 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 result, but she was happy in it, and her face 
 beamed brightly. 
 
 "You will permit me to say," continued 
 Mr. James Ilarlhouse, "that I doubt if any 
 other ambassador, or ambassadress, could 
 have addressed me at the same advantage. — 
 I must not only regard myself as being in a 
 very ridiculous position, but as being van- 
 quished at all points. Will you allow me the 
 privilege of remembering my enemy's name.^" 
 
 " My name ?" said the ambassadress, blush- 
 ing. 
 
 " The only name I could possibly care to 
 know tonight." 
 
 "Sissy Jupe." 
 
 " Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related 
 to the family?" 
 
 " I nm only a poor girl," returned Sissy. 
 "I was separated from my lather — he was only 
 a stroller — and taken pity on by Mr. Grad- 
 grind. I have lived in the house ever since." 
 
 She was gone. 
 
 "It wanted this to complete the defeat," 
 said Mr. James Harthouse, sinking, with a 
 resigned air, on the sofa, after standing trans- 
 fixed a little while, "and now it may be con 
 sidered periectly accomplished. Only a poor 
 girl — only a stroller — only James Harthouse 
 Boored — only James Harthouse a Great Pyra- 
 mid of failure." 
 
 The Great Pyramid put it into his head to 
 go up the Nile. He took a pen upon the in- 
 Blaiit, and wrote the following note (in appro- 
 priate hieroglyphics) to his brother : 
 
 Dear Jack, — All up at Coketown. Bored 
 out of the place, and going in for camels. Af- 
 fectionately, Jem. 
 
 He rang the bell. 
 
 " Send my fellow here." 
 
 "Gone to bed sir." 
 
 " Tell him to get up and pack up." 
 
 He wrote two more notes. One, to Mr. 
 Bounderby, announcing his retirement from 
 that part of the country, and showing where 
 be would be found for the next fortnight. The 
 other, similar in effect, to Mr. Gradgrind. 
 
 Almost as soon as the ink was dry upon 
 their superscriptions, he had left the tall chim- 
 neys of Coketown behind, and was in a railway 
 carriage, tearing and glaring over the dark 
 landscape. 
 
 The moral sort of fellows might suppose 
 that Mr. James Harthouse derived some com- 
 fortable reflections thereafter from this prompt 
 retreat, as one of his few actions that made 
 any amends for anything, and as a token to 
 himself that he had escaped the climax of a 
 very bad business. But it was not so, at all. 
 A secret sense of having failed and made him- 
 self ridiculous; a dread of what other fellows 
 who went in for similar sorts of things, would 
 say at his expense if they knew it, so oppressed 
 him, that what was about the best passatte in 
 his life was the one of ail others he would not 
 have owned to, and that often made him quite 
 ashamed of himself. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 The indefatigable Mr. Sparsit, with a vio- 
 lent cold upon her, her voice reduced to a 
 whisper, and her stalely frame so racked by 
 continual sneezes that it seemed in danger of 
 dismemberment, gave chase to her j atron 
 until she lound him in the nietrcij)olis; and 
 there sweeping in upon him ai his hotel in 
 St. James's Street, exploded the ccmbustibles 
 with which she was charged, and blew up. 
 Having executed her mission with infinite 
 relish, this high-min'led woman then fainted 
 away on Mr. Bounderby's coat-collar. 
 
 Mr. Bounderby's fir^t procedure was to 
 shake Mrs. Sparsit off, and leave her to pro- 
 gress as she might througii various stages of 
 suffering on the floor. He next had resource 
 to the administration of potent restoratives, 
 such as screwing the patient's thumbs, smiting 
 her hands, abundantly watering her face, and 
 inserting salt in her mouth. When these at- 
 tentions had recovered her (which they sjieed- 
 ily did), he hustled her into a fast train without 
 any other refreshments, and carried her back 
 to Coketown more dead than alive. 
 
 Regarded as a classical ruin, Mrs. Sparsit 
 was an interesting spectacle on her arrival 
 at her journey's end ; but considered in any 
 other light, the amount of damage she had by 
 that time sustained was excessive, and impair- 
 ed her claims to admiration. Utterly heedless 
 of the wear and tear of her clothes and con- 
 stitution, and adamant to her pathetic sneezes, 
 Mr. Bounderby immediately crammed her into 
 a coach, and bore her off to Stone Lodge. 
 
 "Now, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby, 
 bursting into his father in-law's room late at 
 night; "here's a lady here — Mrs. Sparsit — 
 you know Mrs. ^parsit — who has something 
 to make known' to you that will strike you 
 dumb." 
 
 " You have missed my letter!" exclaimed 
 Mr. Gradgrind, surprised by the apparition. 
 
 "Misled your letter, sir!" bawled Bounder- 
 by. "The present time is no time for letters. 
 No man shall talk to Josiah Bounderby of 
 Coketown about letters with his mind in the 
 state it's in now." 
 
 "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone 
 of temperate remonstrance. " I speak of a 
 very special letter I have written to you, in 
 reference to Louisa." 
 
 " Tom Gradgrind," replied Bounderby, 
 knocking the flat of his hand several times 
 with great vehemence on the table, " I speak 
 of a very special messenger that has come to 
 me in reterence to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, 
 ma'am, stand forward." 
 
 That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying 
 to offer testimony without any voice, and with 
 painful gestures expressive of an inflamed 
 throat, became so aggravating and undf-rwent 
 so many facial contortions, that Mr. Bounder- 
 by, unable to bear it, seized her by the aim 
 and shook her. 
 
 "If you can't get it out, ma'am," said Bouu- 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 167 
 
 derby, "leave me to get it out. This is not a 
 time for a lady, however highly connected, to 
 be totally inaudible and seemingly swallowing 
 marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latter- 
 ly found herself by accident in a situation to 
 overhear a conversation out of doors between 
 your daughter and your precious gentleman- 
 friend, Mr. James Harthouse." 
 
 "Indeed?" said Mr. Gradgrind. 
 
 "Ah! Indeed 1" cried Bounderby. "And in 
 that conversation " 
 
 " It is not necessary to repeat its tenor, 
 Bounderby. I know what passed." 
 
 " You do ? Perhaps," said Bounderby, 
 staring with all his might at his so quiet and 
 assuasive father-in-law, "you know where your 
 dauiJrhter is at the present time !" 
 
 " Undoubtedly. She is here." 
 
 " Here ?" 
 
 " My dear Bounderby, let me beg you to 
 restrain these loud outbreaks, on all accounts. 
 Louisa is here. The moment she could de- 
 tach herself from that interview with the 
 person of whom you speak, and whom I 
 deeply regret to have been the means of in 
 troducing to you, Louisa hurried here, for 
 protection. I myself had not been at home 
 many hours, when I received her — here in this 
 room. She hurried by the train to town, she 
 ran from town to this house through a raging 
 Btorra, and presented herself before me in a 
 state of distraction. Of course, she has re- 
 mained here ever since. Let me entreat you, 
 for your own sake and for hers too, to be more 
 quiet." 
 
 Mr. Bounderby silently gazed about him for 
 some moments in every direction except Mrs. 
 Sparsit's direction, and then abruptly turning 
 upon the niece of Lady Scadgers, said to that 
 wretched woman : 
 
 " Now, ma'am ! We shall be happy to hear 
 any little apology you may think proper to 
 offer, for going about the country at express 
 pace, with no other luggage than a Cock and 
 a Bull, ma'am." 
 
 " Sir," whispered Mrs. Sparsit, " my nerves 
 are at present too much shaken, and my health 
 is at present tco much impaired, in your ser- 
 vice, to admit of my doing more than taking 
 refuge in tears." 
 
 Which she did. 
 
 " Well, ma'am," said Bounderby, " with- 
 oiJt making any observation to you that may 
 Bot be made with propriety to a woman of 
 good family, what I have got to add to that, 
 is, that there's something else in which it 
 appears to me you may take refuge, namely, 
 a coach. And the coach in which we came 
 here, being at the dour, you'll allow me to 
 hand you down to it and pack )ou home to 
 the Bank : where the best course for you to 
 pursue, will be to put your feet into the hottest 
 water you can bear, and take a glass of scald- 
 ing rum and butter after you get into bed." 
 With these words Mr. Bounderliy extended 
 his right hand to the weeping lady and escort- 
 ed her to the conveyance in question, shedding 
 
 many plaintive sneezes by the way. He soon 
 returned alone. 
 
 "Now, as you showed me in your face, 
 Tom Gradgrind, that you wanted to speak to 
 me," he resumed, " here I am. But 1 am not 
 in a very agreeable state, I tell you plainly, 
 not relishing this business even as it is, and 
 not considering that 1 am at any time as 
 dutifully and submissively treated by your 
 daughter as Josiah Bounderby of Coketown 
 ought to be treated by his wife. You have 
 your opinion, I dare say ; and 1 have mine, I 
 know. It you mean to say anything to me to- 
 night, that goes against tliis candid remark, 
 you had better leave it alone." 
 
 Mr. Gradgrind, it will be observed, being 
 much softened, Mr. Bounderby took particular 
 pains to harden himself at all points. It was 
 his amiable nature. 
 
 "My dear Bounderby," Mr. Gradgrind be- 
 gan in reply. 
 
 "Now, you'll excuse me," said Bounderby, 
 "but I don't want to be too dear. That to 
 start with. When I begin to be dear to a man, 
 I generally find that his intention is to come 
 over me. I am not speaking to you politely ; 
 but, as you are aware, I am not polite. If 
 you like politeness, you know where to get iu 
 You have your gentlemen fiiends you know, 
 and they'll serve you with as much of the 
 article as you want. I don't keep it myself." 
 
 " Bounderby," urged Mr. Gradgrind, " we 
 are all liable to mistakes " 
 
 "I thought you couldn't make 'em," inter- 
 rupted Bounderby. 
 
 " Perhaps I thought so. But, I say we are 
 all liable to mistakes; and I should leel sensi- 
 ble of your delicacy, and really grateful ior it, 
 if you would spare me these references to 
 Harthouse. I shall not associate him m our 
 conversation with your intimacy and en- 
 couragement; pray uo not persist in connect- 
 ing him with mine." 
 
 " I never mentioned his name I" said Boun- 
 derby. 
 
 "Well, well 1" returned Mr. Gradgrind, with 
 a patient, even a submissive, air. And he sat 
 for a little while pondering. "Bounderby, I 
 see reason to doubt whether we liave ever 
 quite understood Louisa." 
 
 "Who do you mean by W^e?" 
 
 "Let me say, I, then," he returned, in answer 
 to the coarsely blurted question; "I du«lit 
 whether I have understood Louisa. I douht 
 whether I have been quite right in the manner 
 of her education." 
 
 " There you hit it," returned Bounderby. 
 "There I agree with you. You have found it 
 out at last, have you? Education I I'll tell 
 you what education is — To be tumbled out uf 
 doors, neck and crop, and put upon the short- 
 est allowance of everything except blows. 
 That's what /call education." 
 
 " I think your good sense will perceive," 
 Mr. Gradgrind remonstrated in all humility, 
 " that whatever the merits of such u system 
 
168 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 may be, it would be difficult of general appli- 
 cation to girls." 
 
 " I don't see it at all, sir," returned the ob- 
 stinate Bounderby. 
 
 " Well," sighed Mr. Gradgrind, " we will not 
 enter into the question. I assure you I have 
 no desire to be controversial. I seek to repair 
 what is amiss if I possibly can, and I hope 
 you will assist nie in a good spirit, Bounderby, 
 for I have been very much distressed." 
 
 " I don't understand you, yet," said Boun- 
 derby, with determined oljstinacy, "and there- 
 fore 1 won't make any promises." 
 
 " In the course of a few hours, my dear 
 Bounderby," Mr. Gradgrind proceeded, in the 
 same depressed and propitiatory manner, "1 
 appear to myself to have become better in- 
 formed as to Louisa's character than in all 
 previous years. The enlightenment has been 
 painfully forced upon me, and the discovery is 
 not mine. I think there are — Bounderby, you 
 will be surprised to hear me say this — I think 
 there are imaginative qualities in Louisa, 
 which — which have been hardly dealt with, 
 and — and a little perverted. And — and I 
 would snjTgest to you, that — that if you would 
 kindly meet me in a timely endeavor to leave; 
 her to her better nature for a while — and to 
 encourage it to develop itself by tenderness 
 and c(nisideration — it — it would be better 
 for ihe happiness of all of us. Louisa," said 
 Mr. Gradjirind, shading his face with his hand, 
 '"has always been my favorite child." 
 
 The blustrous Bounderby crimsoned and 
 swelled to such an extent on hearing these 
 words, that he seemed to be, and probably was, 
 on the brink of a fit. With his very ears a 
 bright purple shot with crimson, he put up his 
 indiifUHtiuti, however, and said: 
 
 "Yuu'd like to keep her here for a time?" 
 
 *"I — I had intended to recommend, my dear 
 Bounderby, that you should allow Louisa to 
 remain here on a visit, and be attended by 
 i-issy (I mean of course Cecilia Jupe), who un- 
 derstands her, and in whom she trusts." 
 
 "I {rather from all this, Tom Gradgrind," 
 said Bounderby, standing up with his hands in 
 his puckers, "that you are of opinion there's 
 what people call some incompatibility between 
 Loo Bounderby and myself" 
 
 "I fear there is at present a general incom- 
 patibility between Louisa, and — and — and al- 
 most all the relations in which I have placed 
 her," was her father's sorrowful reply. 
 
 "Now look you here, Tom Gradgrind," 
 said Bounderby the flushed, confronting him 
 with his legs wide apart, his hands deeper in his 
 puckets, liis hair like a hay field wherein his 
 windv anger was boisterous. " You have said 
 your say, I am going to say mine. I am a 
 ^ iiketown man. I am Josiah Bounderby of 
 Coketuwn. 1 know the bricks of this town, 
 and I know t* e works of this town, and I 
 know the chimneys of this town, and I know 
 the smoke of this town, and I knowthe Hands 
 of this town. 1 know 'tm all pretty well. — 
 
 They're real. When a man tells me anything 
 about imaginative qualities, I always tell that 
 man, whoever he is, that I know what he 
 means. He means turtle-soup and venison, 
 with a gold spoon, and that he wants to be set 
 up with a coach and six. That's what your 
 daughter wants. Since you are of opinion 
 that she ought to have what she wants, I 
 recommend you to provide it for her. Be- 
 cause, Tom Gradgrind, she will never have it 
 from me." 
 
 "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, ''I 
 hoped, after my entreaty, you would have 
 taken a different tone." 
 
 "Just wait a bit," retorted Bounderby, 
 " you have said your say, I believe. I heard 
 you out ; hear me out if you please. Don't 
 make yourself a spectacle of unfairness as 
 well as inconsistency, because, although I am 
 sorry to see Tom Gradgrind reduced to his 
 present position, I should be doubly sorry to 
 see him brought so low as that. Now, there's 
 an incompatibility of some sort or another, I 
 am given to understand by you, between your 
 daughter and me. I'll give you to understand, 
 in reply to that, that there unquestionably is 
 an incompatibility of the first magnitude to be 
 summed up in this — that your daut^hter don't 
 properly know her husband's merits, and is 
 not impressed with such a sense as would be- 
 come her, by George 1 of the honor of his al- 
 liance. That's plain speaking, I hope." 
 
 " Bounderby," urged Mr. Gradgrind, "this 
 is unreasonable." 
 
 "Is it ?" said Bounderby. "I am glad to hear 
 you say so. Because when Tom Gradgrind, 
 with hit new lights, tells me that what I say is 
 unreasonable, I am corivinced at once that it 
 must be devilish sensible. With your permis- 
 sion I am going on. You know my origin, 
 and you know that for a good many years of 
 my life I didn't want a shoeing-horn in conse- 
 quence of not having a shoe. Yet you may 
 believe or not, as you think proper, that ther« 
 are ladies — born ladies — belonging to families 
 — families 1— who next to worship the ground 
 I walk on." 
 
 He discharged this, like a Rocket, at his 
 father-in-law's head. 
 
 "Whereas your daughter," proceeded Boun- 
 derby, "is far from being a born lady. That 
 you know, yourself Not that I care a pinch 
 of candle-snuff about such things, for you are 
 very well aware I don't ; but that such is the 
 fact, and you, Tom Gradgrind, can't change it. 
 Why do I say this ?" 
 
 "Not, I fear," observed Mr. Gradgrind, in a 
 low voice, "to spare me." 
 
 " Hear me out," said Bounderby, " and re- 
 frain from cutting in till your turn comes 
 round. I say this, because highly connected 
 females have been astonished to i-ee the way 
 in which your daughter has conducted her- 
 self, and to witness her insensibility. They 
 have wondered how I have suffered it. And 
 I wonder myself now, and I won't suffer it." 
 
 " Bounderby," returned Mr. Gradgrind, 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 1G9 
 
 rising, " the less we say to-night the better, I 
 think." 
 
 " Un the contrary, Tom Gradgrind, the 
 more we say to-nij;ht, the better, I think. — 
 That is," — the consideration checked him — 
 *■• till I have said all I mean to say, and then I 
 don't care how soon we stop. I come to a 
 question that may shorten the business. — 
 What do you mean by the proposal you made 
 just now ?"' 
 
 " What do I mean, Bounderby?" 
 
 "By your visiting proposition," said Boun- 
 derby, with an inrtexible jerk of the hay field. 
 
 '' I mean that I hope you mfiy be induced 
 to arrange, in a friendly manner, for allowing 
 Louisa a period of repose and reflection here, 
 which may tend to a gradual alteration for the 
 better in many respects. 
 
 " To a softening down of your ideas of the 
 incompatibility," said Bounderby. 
 
 *' If you put it in those terms." 
 
 '' What made you think of this ?" said Boun- 
 derby. 
 
 " 1 have already said, I fear Louisa has not 
 been understood. Is it asking too much, 
 Bounderby, that you, so far her elder, should 
 aid in tryinir to set her right? You have ac- 
 cepted a fireat charge of her ; you took her for 
 belter f )r worse." 
 
 Mr. Bounderby may have been annoyed by 
 the repetition ol his own words to Stephen Black- 
 pool, but he cut the quotation short with an 
 angry start. 
 
 "Come 1" he said, " I don't want to be told 
 about that. I know what I took her fur, as 
 Wfcdl as you. Never you mind what 1 took her 
 for ; that's my look out." 
 
 "I was merely going on to remark, Boun- 
 derby, that we may all be more or less in the 
 wrong, not even excepting you ; and that some 
 yielding consideration on your part, remem- 
 bering the trust you have accepted, may not 
 only be an act of true kitidness, but perhaps a 
 debt incurred towards Louisa." 
 
 " I think differently," blustered Bounderby, 
 "I am going to finish this business according 
 to my own opinions. I don't want to make a 
 quarrel of it with you, Tom Gradgrind. To 
 tell you the truth, I don't think it would be 
 worthy of my reputation to quarrel on such 
 a poor subject. Your gentleman friijiid, he 
 may take himself off, wherever he likes best. 
 If he falls in my way, 1 shall tell him my 
 mind; if he don't fall in my way, I shan't, for 
 it won't be worth my while to do it. As to 
 your daughter, whom I made Loo Bounderby, 
 and might have done better by leaving Lijo 
 Gradgrind, if she don't come home to-mor- 
 row, by twelve o'clock at noon, I shall under- 
 stand that she prefers to stay away, and I 
 shall send her wearing apparel and so forth 
 over iicre, and you'll take charge of her for 
 the future. What I shall say to people in gene- 
 ral, of the incompatibility that led to my so 
 laying down the law, will Ik; this. I am Josiah 
 Bounderby, and I had my bringing-iip. She's 
 the daughter of Tom Gnulgrind, and she had 
 
 her bringing-up ; and the two horses wouldn't 
 pull together! I am firetty well known to be 
 rather an uncomm(jii man, I lielii^ve ; aijd 
 most people will under-iand fast enough that 
 it must be a wc»*Tian rather out of the common 
 also, who, in the long run, would come up to 
 my mark." 
 
 " Let me seriously entreat you tore-consider 
 this, Bounderby," urged Mr. Gradgrind, " be- 
 fore you commit yourself to a decision."' 
 
 " I always come to a decision," said Bou-n- 
 derby, tossing his hat on, " and whatever I 
 do, I do at once. I should be surprised at Tom 
 Gradgrind's addressing such a remark to Jo- 
 siah Bounderby, of Coketown, knowing what 
 he knows of him, if I could be surprised fiy 
 anything Tom Gradgrind did, after his making 
 himself a party to sentimental humbug. I 
 have given you my decision, and 1 liave got no 
 more to say. Good night 1" 
 
 So, Mr. Bounderby went home to his town- 
 house to bed. At five minutes past twelve 
 o'clock next day, he directed Mrs.Bounderbv's 
 property to be carefully packed u() and sent to 
 Tom Gradgrind's ; advertised Niokil's retreat 
 for sale by private contract ; and resumed a 
 bachelor's life. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXn. 
 
 The robbery at the bank had not languish- 
 ed before, and did not cease to occnj)y a frunl 
 place in the attention of the princi|i.il of ih.it 
 establishment now. In trustful proof of his 
 promptitude and ac ivity, as a remarkable 
 man, and a self made man, and a commercial 
 wonder, more admirable than Venus who had 
 risen out of the mud instead of the sea, he 
 liked to show how little his doinesiic affaira 
 abated his business ardor. Consequently, in 
 the first few weeks of his resumed bachelor- 
 hood, he even advanced upon his usual dis- 
 play of lustre, and evt-ry day made such a 
 rout in renewing his investigations into the 
 robbery, that the professional persons whohad 
 it in hand almost wished it had never been 
 committed. 
 
 They were at fault too, and off the scenU 
 Although they had been so quiet since the 
 first outbreak of the matter, that most people 
 really did suppose it to have been abandoned 
 as hopeless, nothing new occurred. No im- 
 plicated man or woman took untimely courage 
 or made a self betraying step. More remark- 
 able yet, Stephen Blackpool was not found, and 
 the mysterious old woman remained a mys- 
 tery. 
 
 Things having come to this pass, and show 
 ing no latent signs of stirring beyond it, the 
 upshot of Mr. Bounderb^'s investigations 
 was, that he resolved to hazard a bold burst. 
 He drew up a placard, offering Twenty 
 Pounds reward for the apprehension of 
 Stephen Blackpool, suspected of complicity in 
 the robbery of the Coketown Bank on such 
 a night : he described the said Stephen 
 Blackpool by dress, ojniplexion, estimated 
 
170 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 height, and manner, as minutely as he could; 
 he had recited how he had left the town, and in 
 what direction he had last been seen going; 
 he had the whole printed in great black letters 
 on a staring broadsheet ; and caused the 
 walls to be posted with it in the dead of the 
 night, so that it should strike upon the sight of 
 the whole population at one blow. 
 
 The factory-bells had need to ring their 
 loudest that morning to disperse the groups of 
 workers who stood in the tardy daybreak, 
 collected round the placards, devouring them 
 with eagereyes. Not the least eager of the eyes 
 assembled were the eyes of those who could 
 not read. These people, as they listened to 
 the triendly voice that read aloud — there was 
 always some such ready to help them — started 
 at the characters which meant so much with a 
 vague awe and respect that would have been 
 half ludicrous if such a picture of a Country 
 as a suicidal Idiot with its sword of state at its 
 own heart could ever be otherwise than wholly 
 shocking. Many ears and ey°s were busy with 
 a vision of the matter of these placards, among 
 turning spindles, rattling looms and whirring 
 wheels, for hours afterwards; and when the 
 Hands cleared out again into the streets, there 
 were as many readers as before. 
 
 Slackbridge, the delegate, had to address 
 his audience too that night, and Slackbridge 
 had obtained a clean bill from the printer, 
 and had brought it in his pocket. Oh my 
 friends and fellow countrymen, the down- 
 trodden operatives of Coketown, oh my 
 fellow brothers and fellow workmen and 
 fellow citizens and fellow men, what a stir 
 was there when Slackbridge unfolded what 
 he called "that damning document," and held 
 it up to the gaze, and for the execration, of 
 the working-man community ! " Oh, my 
 fellow men, behold of what a traitor in the 
 camp of those great spirits who are enrolled 
 upon the holy scroll of Justice and of Union, 
 is appropriately capable! Oh my prostrate 
 friends, with the galling yoke of tyrants on 
 your necks and the iron foot of despotism 
 treading down your fallen forms into the dust 
 of the earth, upon which right glad would 
 your oppressors be to see you creeping on 
 your bellies all the days of your lives, like the 
 serpent in the garden — oh my brothers, and 
 shall I as a man not add my sisters too, what 
 do you say, now, of Stephen Blackpool, with a 
 slight stoop in his shoulders and about five 
 foot seven in height, as set forth in this de- 
 grading and disgusting document, this bliorht- 
 ing bill, this pernicious placard, this abomi- 
 nable advertisement ; and with what majesty 
 of denouncement, will you crush the viper 
 who would bring this stain and shame upon 
 the Godlike race that happily has cast him 
 out for ever I Yes, ray compatriots, happily 
 cast him out and sent him forth ! For you 
 remember how he stood here before you on 
 this platform ; you remember how, face to 
 face and foot to foot, I pursued him through 
 all his iutricate windings ; you remember how 
 
 he sneaked, and shunked, and sidled, and 
 splitted straws, until with not an inch of ground 
 to which to cling, I hurled him out from 
 amongst us : an object for the undying finger 
 of scorn to point at, and for the avenging fire 
 of every free and thinking mind, to scorch and 
 slur ! And now, my friends, my laboring friends, 
 for I rejoice and triumph in that stigma, my 
 friends ; whose hard but honest beds are made 
 in toi , and whose scanty but independent pots 
 are ')oiled in hardship ; and, now I say, my 
 friends, whatappellationhasthat dastard craven 
 taken to himself, when, with the mask torn 
 from his features, he stands before us in all 
 his native deformity, a What? a thief! a 
 plunderer! a proscribed fugitive, with a price 
 upon his head, a fester and a wound upon 
 the noble character of the Coketown opera- 
 tive! Therefore, my band of brothers in a 
 sacred bond, to which your children and your 
 children's children yet unborn have set their 
 infant hands and seals, I propose to you on the 
 part of the United Aggregate Tribunal, ever 
 watchful for your welfare, ever zealous for 
 your benefit, that this meeting does Resolve: 
 That Stephen Blackpool, weaver, referred to 
 in this placard, having been already solemnly 
 disowned by the community of Coketown 
 Hands, the same are free from the shame of his 
 misdeeds, and cannot as a class be reproached 
 with his dishonest actions I'' 
 
 Thus Slackbridge ; gnashing and perspiring 
 after a prodigious sort. A lew stern voices 
 called out " No !'' and a score or two hailed 
 with assenting cries of "Hear, hear!" the 
 caution from one man, " Slackbridge, y'or 
 over better int ; y'or a goen too fast!" But 
 these were pigmies against an army ; the 
 general assemblage subscribed to the gospel 
 according to Slackbridge, and gave three 
 cheers for him, as he sat demonstratively 
 panting at them. 
 
 These men and women were vet in the 
 streets, passing quietly to their homes, when 
 Sissy, who had been called away from Louisa 
 some minutes before, returned. 
 
 " Who is it?"' asked Louisa. 
 
 " It is Mr. Bouuderby," said Sissy, timid of 
 the name, " and jour brother Mr. Tom, and a 
 young woman who says her name is Kachael, 
 and that you know her." 
 
 "What do they want. Sissy dear?" 
 
 " They want to see you. Rachael has been 
 crving and seems angry." 
 
 " Father," said Louisa, for he was present, 
 "I cannot refuse to see them, for a reason you 
 will soon understand. Shall they come in 
 here ?" 
 
 As he answered in the affirmative, Sissy went 
 away to bring them. She reappeared with 
 them directly. Tom was last, and remained 
 standing in the obscurest part of the room, 
 near the door. 
 
 '"Mrs. Bounderby," said her husband, enter- 
 ing with a cool nod, "I don't disturb you, I 
 hope. This is au unseasonable ho\ir, but hpre 
 is a young woman who has beeu making state- 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 171 
 
 meiitg which render my visit necessary. Tom 
 Gradgrind, as your sou, young Tom, refuses 
 for some ol)stinate reason or other, to say any- 
 thing at all about those statements, trood or 
 bad, I am obliged to confront her with your 
 daughter."' 
 
 *• You have seen me once before, young 
 ladv," said Rachael, standing in front of 
 Louisa. 
 
 T<im coughed. 
 
 '■You have seen me, young lady," repeated 
 Rachiiel, as .she did not answer, ''ouce before." 
 
 Tom cou^rhed again. 
 
 "I have." 
 
 Rachael cast her eyes proudly towards Mr. 
 Boutiderby, and said, " Will you make ii 
 known where, and who was there?" 
 
 ''I went to the house where Stephen Black- 
 pool lodged, on the niglit ot'his discharge from 
 his work, and I saw you there. He was there 
 too ; and an old wuinaii who did not speak, 
 and whom I ould scarcely see, stood in a 
 dark corner. My brother went with me." 
 
 " Why couldn't you say so, young Tom ?" 
 demanded Bouuderby. 
 
 " I promised my sister I wouldn't ;" which 
 Louisa hastily confirmed. *' And, besides," 
 said the whelp bitterly, "she tells her own 
 story so prei-ious well — and so full — that what 
 business had I to take it out of her mouth!" 
 
 "Say. voung lady, if you please," pursued 
 Rachael, ''why, in an evil hour, you ever came 
 to Stephen's that night." 
 
 "I felt compassion for him." said Louisa, her 
 color deepening, "and I wished to know what 
 hii was goi'ig to do, and wished to oti'er him 
 assistance." 
 
 •■ I'haiik you, ma'am,'' said Bounderby. — 
 '• Much flattered and obliged.'' 
 
 " Did you offer him," asked Rachael, "a bank 
 note?" 
 
 '"Yes; but he refused it, and would only 
 take two pound.s in gold." 
 
 Rachael cast her eyes towards Mr. Bounder- 
 by again. 
 
 " Oh certainly ! " said Bounderby. " If you 
 put the question whether your ridiculous and 
 i(n probable account was true or not, I am 
 bound to say it is confirmed." 
 
 " Young lady," said Rachael. " Stephen 
 Blackpool is now named as a robber in public 
 print ail over this town and everywhere else ! 
 There have been a meeting tonight where 
 he have been spoken of in the same shameful 
 way. Stephen ! The honestest lad, the truest 
 lad. the best 1 " Her indignation failed her, 
 and she broke off, sobbing. 
 
 '* I am very, very sorry," said Louisa. 
 
 " O young lady, joung lady," returned 
 Rachael, " I hope you may be, but I don't 
 know I I can't say what you may ha' done ! 
 The like of y )u don't feel for us, don't care 
 for us, don't belong to us. I am not sure why 
 you may ha' come that night. I can't tell 
 but what you may ha' come wi' some aim 
 of your own, not mindin' to what trouble you 
 brought such as the poor lad. I said then, 
 
 Bless you for coming, and I said it of my 
 heart, you seemed to take so pitifully to him, 
 but I don't know now, I don't know!" 
 
 Louisa could not reproach her fur her 
 unjust suspicions; she was so faithful to her 
 idea of the man, and so unhtppy. 
 
 " And when I think," said Rachael through 
 her sobs, " that the poor lad was so grateful, 
 thinkin' you so good to him — when I mind 
 'hat he i)ut his hand over his hard worken 
 t'ace to hide the tears that you brought up 
 there — I hope you may be sorry, and ha' 
 no bad cause to be it, but I don't know, I 
 don't know! " 
 
 " You're a pretty article," growled the 
 whelp, moving uneasily in his dark corner, 
 " to come here with these precious imputa- 
 tions! You ought to be bundled out for n t 
 knowing how to behave yourself, and you 
 would be by rights." 
 
 She said nothing in reply, and her low 
 weepinsr was the only sound that was heard, 
 until Mr. Bounderby spoke. 
 
 '• Come !'' said he, "you know what you have 
 engaged to do. You had better give your 
 mind to that; not this." 
 
 "'Deed, I am loath," returned Rachael, dry- 
 ing her eyes, "that any here should see me 
 weep ; but I wont be .seen so again. Young 
 lady, when I had read what's put in print of 
 Stephen — and what has just as much truth in 
 it as if it had been put in print of you, and no 
 more — I went straight to the Bank to say I 
 knew where Stephen was, and to give a sure 
 and certain promi.se that he should be here in 
 two days. I couldn't meet wi' Mr. Bounderby 
 then, and your brother sent me away, and I 
 tried to find you, but you was not to be found, 
 and I went back to work. Soon as I came out 
 of the Mill to-night I hasted to hear what was 
 said of Stephen — for I know wi' pride he will 
 come back to shame it ! — and then I went again 
 to see Mr. Bounderby, and I found him, and I 
 told him every word I knew, and he believed 
 no word I said, and brought me here." 
 
 "So far that's true enough,'' assented Mr. 
 Bounderby, vith his hands in his pockets and 
 his hat on. "But I have known you people 
 before today, you'll observe, and I know you 
 never die for want of talking. Now, I recom- 
 mend you not so much to mind talking just 
 now, as doing. You have undertaken to do 
 something; all I remark upon that at present 
 is, do it !" 
 
 "I have written to Stephen by the post that 
 went out this afternoon, as I have written to 
 him once before sin' he went away." said Ra- 
 chael ; "and he will be here at furthest, in two 
 days." 
 
 "Then I'll tell you something. You are 
 not aware, perhaps,'' retorted .Mr. Bounderby, 
 "that YOU yourself have be<»n looked after now 
 and then, not being considered quite ff-ee from 
 suspicion in this fmsiness, on account of mot 
 people being judged according to the compa- 
 ny they keep. The post-ollice hasn't been lor- 
 gotten either. What I'll tell you is, that do 
 
172 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 letter to Stephen Blackpool has ever j^ot 
 into it. Theiefore, what ha.s become of yours, 
 I leave you to guess. Perhaps you're mis- 
 taken, and neviT wrote any." 
 
 " tie hadn't bi-en gone from here, young 
 lady," said Rachael, turning a])pealint.'ly to 
 Louisa, ''as mucli as a week, wueii he sent me 
 the onlv letter 1 have had, saying that he was 
 forced to seek work in another name " 
 
 '*0h, by George !'' cried Bounderl)y, with 
 a whistle, '' he changes his name, does he ? 
 That's rather unlucky, too, for such an imma- 
 culate lad. It's considered a little suspicious 
 in Courts of .1 ustice, I believe, when an Inno- 
 cent happens to h ve many names " 
 
 " What," said Rachael, with the tears in hor 
 eyes again, — "' what, young latly, in the name 
 of Vtercy, was left the poor lad to do 1 The 
 masters against him on one hand, the men 
 against him ou the other, he only wanting 
 to work hard iu peace, and do what he fell 
 right. Can a man have no soul of his own, 
 no mind of his own? Must he go wrong all 
 through wi' this side, or must he go wrong ail 
 through wi''that,or else be hunted bke a hare?" 
 
 "Indeed, indeed, I pity him from my heart," 
 returned Louisa; "and I hope that he will 
 clear himself." 
 
 "You need have no fear of it, young lady. 
 He is sure!'' 
 
 " All the surer, I suppose," said Mr. Boun- 
 derby, "for your refusing to tell where he is ? 
 Eh lass ?" 
 
 " He shall not, through any act of mine, 
 come back wi' the unmeiited reproach of being 
 brougnt back. He shall come back ot his 
 own accord to rlear himself, and put all those 
 that have injured his good character, and he 
 not here for its delence, to shame. I have 
 told him what has been done ag iinst him,"' 
 said Kachael, throwingoff all distrust as a rock 
 throws off the sea, "and he will be here, at 
 furthe>t, in two days." 
 
 " Notwithstanding which," added Mr. Bonn- 
 derby, "if hw can lie laid hold of sooner, he 
 shall have an earlier opportunity of clearing 
 himself. As to you, I have nothing against 
 you ; what you came and told me turns out to 
 bt true, and I have given you the means ot 
 proving it to betiue, and there's an end of it. 
 1 wish you Good-night all! I must be otf to 
 look a little further into this." 
 
 Torn came out of his corner when Mr. 
 Bounderby moved, moved with him, k^pt close 
 to him, and went away with him The only 
 porting salutation of which he delivered himself 
 was a sulky " Good night, father!" With that 
 brief speech, and a scowl at his sister, he left 
 the house. 
 
 8iuce his sheet anchor had come homo, Mr. 
 Gradgrind had been sparing of speech, lie 
 Still sat sdent, when Loui-a mildly said : 
 
 " Kachael, you wid not di.>tru:3t me one day, 
 when you know me better." 
 
 " It goes against me," Rachael answered, 
 in a gentle manner, "to mistrust any one ; but 
 wheu I am so mistrusled — when we all are — 
 
 I cannot keep such things quite out of my 
 mind. I ask your pardon I'ur having done yoii 
 an injury. I don't think what I said, now. — 
 Yet 1 might come to think it again, wi' the 
 poor lad so belied.'' 
 
 " Did you ted him in your letter." intiuired 
 Sissy, "that suspicion seemed to have fallen- 
 upon him, because he had been seen about 
 lue bank at night? He wunld then know 
 what he would have to explain on coming 
 back, and would be ready." 
 
 " Yes dear," she returned ; " but I can't 
 guess what can have ever taken him ther(?. 
 He never used to go there. It was never in 
 his way. His way was the same as mine and 
 not near it." 
 
 bissy had already been at hfr side asking 
 her where she lived, and whether she might 
 come to morrow night, to inquire if there 
 were news. 
 
 " I doubt," said Rachael, " if he can be here 
 till next day." 
 
 " Then 1 will come next night too," snid 
 Sissy." 
 
 When Rachael, assenting to this, was gone, 
 Mr. Gradgrind lifted up his head, and said to 
 his daughter: 
 
 " Louisa, my dear, I have never, that I 
 know of, seen this man. Do you believe him 
 to be implicated ?"' 
 
 "I think I have believed it, father, though 
 with great difficulty. I do not believe it now."' 
 
 "That is to say, you once persuaded your- 
 self to believe it, from knowing him to be sus- 
 pected. His appearance and manner; are they 
 so honest ?" 
 
 " Very honest." 
 
 "And her confidence not to be shaken. I 
 ask myself, the"," said Mr. Gradgrind, musing, 
 "does the real culprit know of these accusa- 
 tions? Where is he ? Who is he?" 
 
 His hair had latterly begun to change its 
 color. As he leaned upon his hand aj^ain, 
 looking gray and old, Louisa, with a face of 
 fear and pity, hurriedly went over to him and 
 sat close at his side. Her e\es by artident 
 met Sissy's at this moment. Sissy Hushed and 
 started, and Eouisa put her finger on her lip. 
 
 Next night when Sissy returned home and 
 told Louisa that Stephen was not come, she 
 told it in a whisper. Nexi night again, when 
 she came home yvith the same account, and 
 added that he had not been heard of. she 
 spoke in the Sime low Irightened tone. From 
 the moment of that interchange of looks, they 
 never uttered his name, or any rtieience to 
 him aloud ; nor ever pursued the subject of 
 the rol)bery when Mr. Gradgrind spoke of it. 
 
 The two a|>(M)inted days ran out, three 
 days and nights ran out, and Stephen Black- 
 pool was not come, and remained unheard of. 
 On the fourth day, Hachael, with unabated 
 contitlence, but considering her despatch to 
 have miscarried, went up to the Bank, and 
 showed her letter trom him with his addre&s, 
 at a working colony, one of many, not upon 
 the main road, some sixty miles away. Mcfj- 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 173 
 
 eengers were sent to that place, and the whole 
 town looked for Stephen to be brought in next 
 day. 
 
 All this time the whelp moved about with 
 Mr. Bounderby, like his shadow, assisting in 
 all the proceedings. He was greatly excited, 
 horribly fe ered, bit his nails down to the 
 quick, spoke in a hard rattling voice, and with 
 lips that were black and burnt up. At the 
 time when the suspected man was looked for, 
 the whelp was at the station, offering 1 1 wajrer 
 that he had made off before the arrival of tho.-e 
 who were sent in quest of him, and that he 
 would not appear. 
 
 The whelp was rioht. The messon<jers re- 
 turned alone. Rachael's letter had jrone, 
 Rachael's letter had been delivered, Stephen 
 Blackpool had decamped in that same hour; 
 and no soul knew more of him. The only 
 doubt in Coketown was, whether Rachael had 
 written in good faith, believing that he really 
 would come back ; or warning him to fly. On 
 this point opinion was divided. 
 
 Six days, seven, far on into another weet. 
 The wretched whelp plucked up a ghastly cou- 
 rage, and began to grow defiant. " Was the 
 suspected fellow the thief? A pretty ques- tion ! 
 If not, where was the man, and why did he not 
 come back?"' 
 
 Where was the man, and why did he not 
 come back ? In the dead of night the echoes 
 of his own words, which had rolled Heaven 
 knows how far away in the daytime, came 
 back instead, and abided by him until morn- 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 Day and night again, day and night again. 
 No Stephen Blackpool. Where was the man, 
 and why did he not come back ? 
 
 Every night Sissy went to Rachael's lodg- 
 ing, and sat with her in her small neat room. 
 All day, Rachael toiled as such people must 
 toil, whatever their anxieties. The smoke-ser- 
 pents were indifferent who was lost or found, 
 who was bad or good ; the melancholy mad 
 elephants, like the Hard Fact men, abated 
 nothing of their set routine, whatever hap- 
 pened. Day and night again, day and night 
 again, the monotony was unshaken. E^en 
 Stephen Blackpool's disappearance was falling 
 into the general way, and becoming as monoto- 
 nous a wonder as any piece of machinery in 
 Coketown. 
 
 "I misdoubt," said Rachael, "if there is as 
 many as twenty left in all this place who have 
 any trust in the poor dear lad now.'' 
 
 She said it to Sissy as they sat in her lodg- 
 ing, lighted only by the lamp at the street cor- 
 ner. Sissy had come there when it was al- 
 ready dark, to wait for her return from work; 
 and they \\a.d since sat at the window wheie 
 Rachael had found her, wanting no brighter 
 light to shine on their sorrowful talk. 
 
 "If it hadn't b en mercifully brought about 
 that I was to have you to speak to,"' pursued 
 
 Rachael, "times are when I think my mind 
 would nut have kept right. But I get hope 
 and strength through you, and you believe 
 that though appearances muy rise a^'alnsl hiia, 
 he will be proved clear, living or dead.'' 
 
 "I do believe so," returned Sissy, '• with my 
 whole heart. I feel so certain, Rachael, that 
 the confid.-nce you hold in yours a^'ainst all 
 discouragement, is not like to be wron.', that I 
 have no more doubt of him than if I had 
 known him through as many years of trial ai 
 you have.'' 
 
 "Au'l I, my dear," said Rachael, with a 
 tremble in her voice, "have kno»vn him 
 through them all, to be, accordiuiX to his 
 quiet ways, so faithful to everything honest 
 and good, that if he was never to be heard of 
 more, and I was to live to be a hundred ^ears 
 old I would say with ray last breath, Uod 
 knows my heart, I have never once left trustr 
 ing Stephen Blackpool!" 
 
 " We all believe, up at the Lodge, Rachael, 
 that he will be freed from suspicion, sooner or 
 later." 
 
 " The better I know it to be so believed 
 there, my dear,"' said Rachael, " and the kinder 
 I feel it that you come away from there pur- 
 posely to comfort me, and keep me company, 
 and be seen wi' me when I am not yet free 
 from all suspicion myself, the more grieved I 
 am that I should ever have spoken those mis- 
 trusting words to the younjj lady. And yet — " 
 
 " You don't mistrust her now, Rachael'?" 
 
 " Now that you have brought us more to- 
 gether, no; not her. But 1 can't at all times 
 keep out of my mind — " 
 
 Her voice so sunk into a low and slow com- 
 muning with herself, that Sissy, sitting by her 
 side, was obli>;ed to listen with attention. 
 
 "1 can't at all times keep out of my mind, 
 mistrustings of some one. I can't tnink who 
 'tis, 1 can't think how or why it Jiay be done, 
 but I mistrust that some one has put Stephen 
 out of the way. 1 mistrust that by his coming 
 back of his own accord, and showing himself 
 innocent before them all, some one would be 
 confounded, who — to prevent that - has stopped 
 him and put him out of the way." 
 
 "That is a dreadful thought," said Sissy, 
 turning' pale. 
 
 "It is a dreadful thought to think he raiiy be 
 murdered." 
 
 ^ issy shuddered, and turned paler yet. 
 
 "When it makes its way into my mind, 
 dear,'' s-aid Rachael, "and it will come some- 
 times, though I do all I can to keep it out wi' 
 counting on to hi^'h numbers as I work, anJ 
 saying over and over again pieces thai I knew 
 when I were a child, 1 fall iniosuch a wild hot 
 hurry, that, however tired I am, I want to walk 
 fast, miles and miles. I must get the better of 
 this before my bed time. I'll walk home wi' 
 you now.'' 
 
 " He might fall ill upon the journey," said 
 Sissy, faintly offering a worn-out scrap of hope; 
 " and in such a case there are many places on 
 the road where he might stop.'' 
 
174 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 "But he is in none of thena. He's been 
 sought for in all, and he's not there." 
 
 " True," was Sissy's reluctant admission. 
 
 " He'd walk the journey in two days. If he 
 was footsore and couldn't walk, I sent him, in 
 the letter he got, the money to ride, lest he 
 should have none of his own to spare." 
 
 " Let U3 hope that to-morrow will bring 
 something better, Rachael. Come into the 
 air I" 
 
 Her gentle hand adjusted Rachael's shawl 
 upon her shining black hair in the usual man- 
 ner of her wearing it, and they went out. The 
 night being tine, little knots of Hands were 
 here and there lingering at street corners ; 
 but it was supper lime with the greater part 
 of them, and there were but fe * people in the 
 streets. 
 
 " You are not so hurried now, Rachael, and 
 your hand is cooler." 
 
 '• I get better, dear, if I can only walk and 
 breathe a little fresh. Times when I can't, 1 
 turn weak and confused.'' 
 
 "But you must not begin to fail, Rachael, 
 for you may be wanted at any time to stand 
 for Stephen. To-morrow is Saturday. If no 
 ■ews comes to-morrow, let us walk in the 
 country on Sunday morning, and strengthen 
 you for another week. Will you go?" 
 
 " Yes, dear." 
 
 They were by this time in the street where 
 Mr. Bounderby's house stood. The way to 
 Sissy's destination led them past the door, and 
 they were going straight towards it. f-ome 
 train had just arrived in Coketown, which had 
 put a number of vehicles in motion, and scat- 
 tered a considerable bustle about the town. — 
 Several coaches were rattling before them and 
 behind them as they approached Mr Boun- 
 derby's, and one of the latter drew up with such 
 briskness as they were in the act of passing 
 tlie house, that they looked round involunta- 
 rily. 1 he bright gaslight over Mr. Bounder- 
 by's steps shuwed them Mrs. Sparsit in the 
 coach in an ecstasy of excitement, struggling 
 to open the door ; Mrs. Sparsit seeing them at 
 the same moment, called to them to stop. 
 
 " It's a coincidence," exclaimed Mrs. Spar- 
 sit, as she was released by the coachman. — 
 "It's a Providence ! Come out, ma'am f then 
 said Mrs. Sparsit, to some one inside, " come 
 out, or we'll have you dragged out 1" 
 
 Hereupon, no other than the mysterious old 
 woman descended ; whom Mrs. Sparsit incon- 
 tinently collared. 
 
 " Leave her alone, everybody!" cried Mrs. 
 Sparsit, with great energy. " Let nobody 
 touch her. She lelongs to me. Come in, 
 ma'am 1" then said Mrs. Sparsit, reversing her 
 former word of command. " Come in, ma'am, 
 or we'll 'lave you d agged in !" 
 
 The spectacle of a Roman-nosed matron of 
 classical deportment, seizing an ancient 
 woman by the throat, and hauling her into a 
 dwelling-house, woulit have been, under any 
 circumstances, sufficient temptation to all 
 true English stragglers so blest as to witness 
 
 it, to force a way into that dwelling-house 
 and see the matter out. But when the phe- 
 nomenon was enhanced by the notoriety and 
 mystery by this time associated all over the 
 town, with the Bank robbery, it would have 
 lured the stragglers in with an irresistible attrac- 
 tion, though the roof had been expected to fall 
 upon their heads. Accordingly, the chance 
 witnesses on the ground, consisting of the 
 busiest of the neighbors, to the number of 
 some five and twenty, Ciosed in after Sis-^yand 
 Rachael, as they closed it. after Mrs. Sparsit 
 and her prize ; and the whole body made a 
 disorderly irruption into Mr. Bounderby's 
 dining room, where the people behind lost not 
 a moment's time in mountinij on the chairs to 
 get the better of the people in front. 
 
 " Fetch Mr. Bounderby down !'' cried Mrs. 
 Sparsit. "Rachael, young woman ; you know 
 who this is ?" 
 
 "It's Mrs. Pegler," said Rachael. 
 " I should think it is !" cried Mrs. Sparsit, 
 exulting. " Fetch Mr. Bounderby. Stand 
 away everybody !" Here old Mrs. Pegler, 
 muffling herself up, and shrinking from obser- 
 vation, whispered a word of entreaty. " Don't 
 tell me," said Mrs. Sparsit aloud, " I have 
 told you twenty limes coming along, that I 
 will not leave you till I have handed you over 
 to him myself." 
 
 Mr. Bounderby now appeared, accompanied 
 by Mr. Gradgrind and the whelp, with whom 
 he had been holding conference up stairs. — 
 Mr. Bounderby looked more astonished than 
 hospitable at sight of this uninvited party in 
 his dining-room. 
 
 " Why, what's the matter now !" said he. — 
 " Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am ?" 
 
 "Sir," explained that worthy woman, "I 
 trust it is my good fortune to produce a per- 
 son you have much desired to find. Stimu- 
 lated by my wish to relieve your mind, sir, and 
 connecting together such imperfect clues to 
 the part of the country in which that person 
 might be supposed to reside, as have been at'- 
 forded by the young woman Rachael, fortu- 
 nately now present to identify, I have had 
 the happiness to succeed, and to bring that 
 person with me — I need not say most un- 
 willingly on her part. It has not been, sir, 
 without some trouble that I have effected 
 this ; but trouble in your service is to me a 
 pleasure, and hunger, thirst, and cold, a real 
 gratification." 
 
 Here Mrs. Sparsit ceased, for Mr. Bounder- 
 bv's visage exhibited an extraordinary com- 
 bination of all possible colors and expressions 
 of discomfiture, as old Mrs. Pegler was dis- 
 closed to his view. 
 
 " Why, what do you mean by this I" was his 
 highly unexpected demand, in great wrath. 
 " I ask you, what do you mean by this, Mrs. 
 Sparsit, ma'am ?'' 
 
 " Sir," exclaimed Mrs. Sparsit, faintlv. 
 " Why don't you mind your own business, 
 ma'am ?'' roared Bounderln. "How dare you 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 175 
 
 go and poke your ofBcious nose into my family 
 affairs ?'' 
 
 This allusion to her favorite feature over- 
 powered Mrs. Sparsit. She sat down stiffly in 
 a chair, as if she were frozen, and with a 
 fixed stare at Mr. Bounderby, slowly grated 
 her mittens against one another, as if they 
 were frozen too. 
 
 " My dear Josiah," sai d Mrs. Pegler, tremb- 
 ling, "my darling boyl I am not to blame. 
 It's not my fault, Josiah. I told this lady 
 over and over again, that I knew she was 
 doing what would not be agreeable to you, but 
 she would do it." 
 
 " What did you let her bring you for ? 
 Couldn't you knock her cap off or her tooth 
 out, or scratch her, or do something or other 
 to her?" asked Bounderby. 
 
 '* My own boy 1 She threatened me that if 
 I resisted her I should be brought by consta 
 bles, and it was better to come quietly than 
 make that stir in such a — " Mrs. Pegler 
 glanced timidly but proudly round the walls — 
 "such a fine house as this. Indeed, indeed, it 
 is not my fault ; my dear, noble, stately boy. 
 I have always lived quiet and secret, Josiah, 
 my dear. 1 have never broken the condition 
 once. I have never said I was your mother. 
 I have admired you at a distance ; and if I 
 have come to town sometimes, with long times 
 between, to take a proud peep at you, I have 
 done it unbeknown, my love, and gone away 
 again." 
 
 Mr. Bounderby, with his hands in his pock- 
 ets, walked in impatient mortification up and 
 down at the side ot the long dining-table, 
 while the spectators greedily took in every 
 syllable of Mrs. Pegler's appeal, and at each 
 succeeding syllable became more and more 
 round-eyed. Mr. Bounderby still walking up 
 and down when Mrs Pegler had do e, Mr. 
 Gradgrind addressed that maligned old lady: 
 
 "I am surprised, madam," he observed with 
 severity, "that in your old age you have the 
 face to claim Mr. Bounde by for your sou after 
 vour unnatural and inhuman treatment of 
 him." 
 
 '■Jfe unnatural I" cried poor old Mrs. Pegler. 
 '■'Me inhuman! To my dear boy?" 
 
 "Dear!" repeated Mr. Gradgrind. "Yes: 
 dear in his selfmade prosperity, madam, I 
 dare say. Not very dear, however, when you 
 deserted him in his infancy, and left him to 
 the brutality of a drunken grandmother." 
 
 " / deserted my Josiah !" cried Mrs. Pegler, 
 clasping her hands. "Now, Lord forgive you, 
 sir, for your wicked imaginations, and for your 
 scandal against the memory of my poor inoi her, 
 who died in my arms alore Josiah w is born. 
 May you repent of it, sir, and live to know 
 belter!" 
 
 She was so very earnest and injured that Mr. 
 Gradgrind, shocked by the possibility wliich 
 dawned upon him, said in a gentler tenc, 
 
 " Do you deny, then, madam, that you left 
 your son to — to be brought up in the gutter?" 
 
 "Josiah in the gutter!" exclaimed Mrs. 
 
 Pegler. " No such a thing, air. Never I For 
 shame on you! My dear boy knows, and 
 will give you to know, that though he come 
 of humble parents, he come of parents that 
 loved him as dear as the best could, and never 
 thought it hardship on themselves to pinch a 
 bit that he might write and cypher beautiful 
 and I've his books at home to show it ! Aye 
 have I!" said Mrs. Pegler, with indignant 
 pride. "And my dear boy knows, and will 
 give you to know, sir. that after his beloved 
 father died when he was eight year old, his 
 mother, too, could pinch a bit, as it was her 
 duty and her pleasure and her pride to do it, 
 to help him out in life, and put him "pren- 
 tice. And a steady lad he was, and a kind 
 master he had to lend him a hand, and 
 well he worked his own way forward to be 
 rich and thriving. And /'U give you to 
 know, sir — for this my dear boy won't — that 
 though his mother kept but a litile village 
 shop, he never forgot her, but pensioned me 
 on thirty pound a year — more than I want, 
 for I put by out of it — only making the 
 condition that I was to keep down in my 
 own part, and make no boasts about him, 
 and not trouble him. And I never have, 
 except with looking at him once a vear, 
 when he has never knowed it. And" it's 
 right," said poor old Mrs. Pegler, in affec- 
 tionate championship, " that I should keep 
 down in my own part, and I have no doubts 
 that if I was here I should do a many unbe- 
 fitting things, and I am well contented, and I 
 can keep my pride in my Josiah to mvself, 
 and I can love for love's own sake. And I 
 am ashamed of you, sir," said Mrs. Pegler, 
 lastly, " for your slanders and suspicions. 
 And I never stood here afore, or wanted to 
 stand here when my dear son said no. And I 
 shouldn't be here now, if it hadn't been for 
 being brought here. And for shame upon von, 
 oh! for shame, to accuse me of being a bad 
 mother to my son, with my son standing here 
 to tell you so different!" 
 
 The bystanders, on and off the dining- 
 room chairs, raised a murmur of sympathy 
 with Mrs. Pegler, and Mr. Gradgrind felt 
 himself innocently placed in a very distress- 
 ing predicament; when Mr. Bounderby, who 
 had never ceased walking up and down, and 
 had every moment swelled larger and larger 
 and grown redder and redder, stopped short. 
 
 "I don't exactly know," said Mr. Boun- 
 derby, "how I come to be favored with the 
 attendance of the present company, but I 
 don't irjquire. When they're qi.ite satisfied, 
 perhaps they'll be so good as to disperse ; 
 whether they're satisfied or not, perhaps 
 they'll be so good as disperse. I'm not bound 
 to deliver a lecture on my family affairs, I 
 have not undertaken to do it, and I'm not a 
 going to do it. Therefore those wh(j expect 
 any explanation whatever upon that branch 
 t)f the subject will be disappointed — ])articu- 
 larly Tom Gradgrind, and he can't know it 
 too soon. In relerence to the Bank robbery, 
 
176 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 there has been a mistake made, concerning 
 my mother. If there hadn't been over- 
 otficiousness it wouldn't have been made, and 
 I hate over-olKciousness at all times, whether 
 or no. Good evening 1'' 
 
 Although Mr, Bounderby carried it off in 
 thtse terms, holding the door upen for the 
 company to depart, there was a blustering 
 sheepishness upon him, at once extremely 
 crest-fallen and superlatively absurd. De- 
 tected as the bully of humility who had built 
 his windy reputation upon lies, and in his boast- 
 fulness had put the honest truth as far away 
 from him as if he had advanced the mean claim 
 (there is no meaner) to tack himself on to a 
 pedigree, he cut a most ridiculous figure. 
 With the people filing off at the door he held, 
 ■who he knew would carry what had passed to 
 the whole town, to be given to the four winds, 
 he could not have looked a bully more shorn 
 and forlurn, if he had had his ears cropped. 
 Even that unlucky female Mrs. Sparsit, fallen 
 from her pinnacle of exultation into the Slough 
 of Despond, was not in so bad a plight as that 
 remarkable man and self-made humbug, Jusiah 
 Bounderby, of Coketown. 
 
 Rachael aud Sissy, leaving Mrs. Pegler to 
 occupy a bed at her son's for that night, walk- 
 ed together to the gate of Stone Ludge, and 
 there parted. Mr. Gradgrind joined them be- 
 fore they had gone very far, and spoke with 
 much interest of Stephen Blackpool, for whom 
 he thought this signal failure of the suspicions 
 against Mrs. Pegler was likely to work well. 
 
 As to the whelp ; throughout this scene, as 
 on all other late occasions, he had stuck close 
 to Bounderby. He seemed to feel that as long 
 as Bounderby could make no discovery with- 
 out his knowledge, he was so far safe. He never 
 visited his sister, and had only seen her once 
 since she went home, that is to say on the night 
 when he still stuck close to Bounderby as al- 
 ready related. 
 
 There was one dim unformed fear lingering 
 about his sister's mind, to which she never 
 gave utterance, which surr junded the graceless 
 and ungrateful boy -with a dreadful mystery — 
 The same dark possibility had presented itself 
 in the same shapeless guise, this very day, to 
 Sissy when Rachael spoke of some one who 
 would be confounded by Stephen's return, 
 having put him out of the way. Louisa had 
 never spoken of harboring any suspicion of 
 her brother iu connexion with the robbery, 
 she and Sissy had held no confidence on the 
 subject save in that one interchange of looks 
 when th*^ unconscious father rested his gray 
 head on his hand; but it was understood be- 
 tween them, and they both knew it. This 
 other fear was so awful that it hovered about 
 each of them like a ghostly shadow, neither 
 daring to think of its being near herself, far 
 less, of its being near tl;e other. 
 
 And still the forced spirit which the whelp 
 had plucked up tlirove with him. If Stephen 
 Blackpool was not the thief, let him show him- 
 Beli. Why didn't he ? 
 
 Another night. Another day and night. 
 No Stephen Blackpool. Where was the man, 
 aud why did he not come back ? 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 The Sunday was a bright Sunday in autumn, 
 clear and cool, when early iu the morning 
 Sissy and Rachael met, to walk in the country. 
 
 As Coketowu cast ashes not only on its own 
 head but on the neighborhood's too — after the 
 mariner of those pious persons who do penance 
 tor their own sins by putting other people into 
 sackcloth — it was customary for those who now 
 and then thirsted for a draught of pure air, 
 which is not absolutely the most wicked among 
 the vanities of life, to get a few miles away by 
 the railroad, and then begin their walk, or their 
 lounge in the fields. Sissy and Rachael 
 helped themselves out of the smoke by the 
 usual means, and were put down at a station 
 about midway between the town and Mr. 
 Bounderby's retreat. 
 
 Though the green landscape was blotted 
 here and there with heaps of coal, it was green, 
 elsewhere and there were trees to see, and there 
 were larks singing (though it was Sunday), and 
 there were pleasant scents in the air, and all 
 was overarched by a bright blue s'Ky. In 
 t'le distance one way, Coketown showed as a 
 black mist ; in another distance, hills began 
 to rise; in a third, there was a faint change 
 in the light of the horizon, where it shone upon 
 the far-off sea. Under their feet, the grass 
 was fresh ; beautiful shadows of branches flick- 
 ered upon it and speckled it; hedgerows were 
 luxuriant ; everything was at peace. Engines 
 at pits' mouths, and lean old horses that had 
 worn the circle of their daily labor into the 
 ground were alike quiet; wheels bad ceased 
 for a short space to turn ; and the great wheel 
 of earth seemed to revolve without the shocks 
 and noises of another time. 
 
 They walked on across the fields and down 
 the shady lanes, sometimes getting over a 
 fragment of a fence so rotten that it dropped 
 at a touch of the foot, sometimes passing near 
 a wi-eck of bricks and beams overgrown with 
 grass, marking the site of some deserted 
 works. They followed paths and tracks how- 
 ever slight, mounds where the grass was rank 
 and high, and where brambles, dock-weeds, 
 and such like vegetation were confusedly 
 heaped together, they alwajs avoided ; for dis- 
 mal stories were told in that country of the 
 old pits hidden beneath such indications. 
 
 The sun was high when they set down to 
 rest. 'J hey had seen no one, near or distant, 
 for a long time, and the solitude remained 
 unbroken. " It is so still here, Rachael, and 
 the way is so untrodden, that I think we must 
 be the first who have been here all the sum- 
 mer." 
 
 As Sissy said it, her eyes were attracted by 
 another of those rotten fragments of fenee 
 upon the ground. She got up to look at it. 
 " And yet I don't know. This has not been 
 broken very long. The wood is quite fresh 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 17' 
 
 where it gave way. Here are footsteps too. 
 Rachael 1" 
 
 She raa back and caught her round the 
 neck. Ranhael had ah-eady started up. 
 
 "What is the matter?" 
 
 " I dou't know. There is a hat lying in the 
 grass." 
 
 They went forward together. Rachael took 
 it up, shaking from head to foot. She liroke 
 into a passion of tears and lamentations ; 
 Stephen Blackpool was written in his own 
 hand on th.; inside 
 
 " the poor lad, the ])oor lad I He has 
 been made away with. He is lying murdered 
 here ! " 
 
 " Is there — has the hat any blood upon it?" 
 Sissy faltered. 
 
 They were afraid to look, but they did 
 examine it, and found no mark of violence, 
 inside or out. It had been lying there some 
 days, for rain and dew had stained it, and it 
 left the mark of its shape on the grass where 
 it had fallen. They looked fearfully about 
 them, without moving, but coidd see nothing 
 more. " Kachael," fcissy whispered, " 1 will 
 go on a little by myself." 
 
 She had uticlasped her hand, and was in the 
 act ot stepping forward, when Hachael caught 
 her in Ijulli arms witli a scream that resounded 
 over the wide landscape. Before them, at 
 their very feet, was the brink of a black, rag- 
 ged chasm, hidden by the thick grass. They 
 sprang back, and fell u|)i)n their knees, each 
 hiding her fuce upon the other's neck. 
 
 "0 my good God! He's down there 1 Down 
 there!" At first this and her terrific screams 
 were all that could be got from Hachael by 
 any tears, by any prayers, by any representa- 
 tions, by any means. It was impossible to 
 hush her, and it was deadly necessary to hold 
 htr, or she would have distractedly Hung her- 
 self down the shaft. 
 
 ' Rachael, dear Rachael, good Rachafd, for 
 the love of Heaven, not these dreadful cries! 
 Tliiuk of Stephen, thiuk of Stephen, think of 
 Stephen !" 
 
 By an earnest repetition of this entreaty, 
 poured out in all the agony of such a time. 
 Sissy at last brought her to be silent, and to 
 look at her with a tearless face of stone. 
 
 '■Racliael, Stephen may be living. You 
 wouldn't leave Imn lying maimed at the bot- 
 tom of this dreadful place a moment if you 
 could bring help to him!"' 
 
 "No, no, no !'' 
 
 "Don't stir from here, for his sake ! Let 
 me go and listen." 
 
 She shuddered to approach the pit, but she 
 crept toivards it on her hands and knees, aiid 
 called to hiin as loud as she cuuld call. She 
 listened, but uo sound replied. She called 
 aj'ain and listened; still no answering sound. 
 She did this twen y, thirty times, ^he took a 
 clod of earrh from the broken ground where 
 he had ^tuInl)led, and threw it in. She could 
 not hear it fa 1. 
 
 Ttie wide prospect, so beautiful in its still- 
 12 
 
 ness but a few minutes ago. almost ciirrirMi 
 despair to her brave heari, hs slje io-,e hi.A 
 looked all round her seeing no help. "Hachael, 
 we must lose not a moment. We must no in 
 diff-rent directions, seeking aid. You shall 
 go by the way we have ciune, and 1 will go 
 fjrward by the path. Tell any one you see, 
 and every one, what has hafipened. 'J hink ot 
 Stephen, think of Stephen 1'' 
 
 bhe knew by Rachael's face that slie might 
 trust her now. After standing fur a moineiit 
 to see her running, wringing her hand.v as she 
 went, she turned and went upon htr own 
 search ; she stopped at the hedge to lie her 
 shawl there as a guide to the pbtce, then 
 threw her bonnet aside, and ran as ahe had 
 never run before. 
 
 Hun, Sissy, run, in Heaven's name! Don't 
 stop lor breath. Run, run! Quickening 
 herself by carrying such entreaties in her 
 thoughts, she ran from field to field and lane 
 to lane, and place to place, as she had never 
 run before, until she came to a shed by an 
 engine-house, where two men lay in the shade 
 asleep on .straw. 
 
 First to wake them, and next to tell them 
 all so wild and breathless as she was, what 
 had broiight her there, were difUculties: but 
 they no sot ner understood hertiian theirspirits 
 were on tire like hers. One of tlie men was in 
 a drunken slumber, but on his comrade's 
 shouting to him that a man had fallen down 
 the ( 'U) RiZhh Shakt, he started out to a pool 
 of dirty water, put his head in it, and came 
 Ijack sober. 
 
 With these two men she ran to another, half- 
 a-mile further, and with that one to another, 
 while they ran elsewhere. Then a horse was 
 found, and she got another man to ride for life 
 or death tt) the railroad, and send a nressai'e 
 to Louisa, which she wrote and gave him. By 
 this lime a whole village was upj and wiu'i- 
 lasj-e.-, ropes, pole^, buckets, iandles,lanthorn3, 
 all tilings necessary, were ta-t collecting and 
 being brou<ilit inio one place to be carried 
 to the ' Id Hell Shaft. 
 
 It seemed now hours and hours since she 
 had left the lost man l}ing in the grave where 
 he had been buried alive. She could not bear 
 to remain away from it any longer — it was 
 like deserting him — and she hurried swiftly 
 back, accoin|iaiiied by haU'-a-dozen laborers, 
 including the drunken man whom the news 
 had sobered, and who was the best man of all. 
 When they came to the Old Hell Shaft they 
 found it as lonely as she had left it. The 
 men called and listened as she had done, and 
 examined the edge of the chasm, and settled 
 iiow it had happened, and then s.it down to 
 wait until tho implements ihey wanted should 
 come up. 
 
 Every sound of insects in the air, every 
 stirring of the leaves, every whisper among 
 these men, made Sissy tremble, for she thought 
 it was a cry at the bottom of the pit. But the 
 wind blew idly over it, and no sinind arose to 
 the surface, and they sat upon the grass, wail- 
 
i:^ 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 ing and waiting. After they had waited some 
 time, strangling people wIk) had heard of the 
 ftceideiil ijegaii to come up ; then the real help 
 of implements began to arrive. In the midst 
 of this Hachael returned ; and with lier party 
 there was a sur;;eoii, who brought some wine 
 and medicines. But the expectation anu^ng 
 the working pitmen that the man would be 
 found alive, was very slii'ht indeed. 
 
 There being now people enough present tr> 
 impede the worli; the sobered man put himself 
 at the head of the rest, or was put there by the 
 general consent, and made a large ring round 
 the Old Hell Shaft, and appointed men to 
 keep it. Besides such volunteers as were ac- 
 cepted to worlv, only Sissy and Rachael were at 
 first permitted w.thin this ring ; but later in 
 the day, when the message brought an express 
 from Ooketown, Mr. Giadgrind and Louisa, 
 aud Mr. Bounderby, and the whelp, were also 
 there. 
 
 The sun was four hours lower than when 
 Sissy and Rachael had first sat down upon the 
 grass, before a means of enabling two men to 
 descend securely was rigged with poles and 
 rope^. DitBculties had arisen in the con- 
 struction of this machine, simple as it was; 
 requisites had been found wanting, aud mes- 
 sages had to go and return. It was five 
 o'clock in the afternoon of a bright autumnal 
 S uiday, before a caudle was sent down to try 
 the air, while three or four rough faces stood 
 crowded close together, all attentively watching 
 ic: tne men at the windlass lowering as they 
 were told. The candle was brought up again, 
 feebly burning, and then some water was cast 
 in Then the bucket was hooked on, and the 
 sobered man aud another got in with lights, 
 giving the word "Lower away!'' 
 
 As the rope went out, tight and strained, 
 and the windlass creaked, there was nut a 
 breath among the one or two hundred men 
 and women looking on, that came as it was wont 
 t J come. The signal was given and the wiiidl ss 
 stopped, with abundant rope to spare. Apj)a- 
 rently so long an interval ensued, with the men 
 at the windlass standing idle, that some women 
 shriekdd that another accident had hdppened. 
 But the surgeon who held the watch, declared 
 five minutes not to have elapsed yet, and 
 sternly admonished them to kr-ep silence, lit' 
 had not well done speaking when the windlass 
 was reversed and worked again. Practised 
 eyes knew that it did not go as heavily as it 
 ■would if both workmen had been coming up, 
 and that only one was returning. 
 
 The rope came in tight and strained, and 
 ring after ring was coiled upon the barrel of 
 the windlass, and all eyes were fastened on 
 the pit. Ihe sobered man was brought up, 
 and leaped out briskly on the grass. There 
 was a universal cry o-f " alive or dead?'' aud 
 then a deep, profound hush. 
 
 When he said " alive,'' a great shout arose, 
 aud many eyes had tears in them. 
 
 " But he's hurt very bad," he added, as soon 
 as he could m^ke himself heard again. 
 
 " Where's doctor? He's hurt so very had, sir, 
 that we donno how to get him up." 
 
 They all consulted toiicther, and looked 
 anxiously at the surgeon, as he asked some 
 i[nes:ions aud shook his head on receiving the 
 replies. The sun wus setting now, and the red 
 light in the evening sky touched e^'ery face 
 there, and caused it to be distiiiClly seen in all 
 its wrapt suspense. 
 
 The consultation ended in the men return- 
 ing to the windlass, and the pitman going 
 d<jwn again, carrying the wine and some other 
 small matters with him. Then the other mati 
 came up. In the mean time, under the sur- 
 geon's directions, some men brought a hur- 
 dle, on which others made a thick bed of .-pare 
 clothes covered with loose straw, whi'e he liim- 
 self contrived some liaiidages and slinirs I'rom 
 shawls and haudki'rchiets. As these were 
 made, they wei-e hung upon the arm of the 
 pitman who had last coiue up, with insTuc- 
 lioiis how to use them ; and as he stood, shown 
 by the light he carried, leaning his p^nverful 
 loose hand upon one of the poles, and some- 
 times glancing down the pit and sometimes 
 glancing round upon the people, he vvas nut 
 the least conspicuous figure in the scene. It 
 was dark now, and torches were kindled. 
 
 It appeared from the little this man said 
 to those about him, which was quickly re- 
 peated all over the circle, that the lost inan 
 had fallen upon a mass of crumbled rubbi.-h 
 with which the pit was half choked up. and 
 that his fall had been further broken by some 
 jagged earth at the side. He lay upon his 
 'lack with one arm doubled under him. and 
 according to his own belief had hardly sHned 
 since he tell, except that he had moved his 
 free hand to a side pocket, in which he re 
 membered to have some bread and meat (nf 
 which he had swallowed crumbs), and h;id 
 likewise scooped up a little water in it now and 
 then. He had come straight away fium his 
 work on being written to; and had walkcil tlie 
 whole journey ; and was on his way to Mf. 
 Hounderby's country-house after dark, uhen Ire 
 fell. He was crossing that dangerous conntrv 
 at such a dangerous time because he was 
 wholly innocent of what was laid to his charge, 
 and couldn't rest from coming the nearest way 
 t) deliver himself up. The Old Hell Siiaf:. 
 the pitman said, with a curse upon it was 
 worthy of its bad name to the last; for thcngh 
 Stephen could speak now, he believed it would 
 soon be found to have mangled the life out of 
 him. 
 
 When all was ready, this man still taking 
 his last hurried charges from his comrades 
 and the surgeon, after the windlass had begun 
 to lower him, disappeared into the pit. The 
 rope went out as before, the signal was made 
 as before, and the windlass stopped. No man 
 removed his hand Irom it now. Every one 
 waited with his grasp set, and his body bent 
 down to the work, ready to reverse and wind 
 in. At length the signal was given, and all 
 the ring leaned forward. 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 179 
 
 For now the rope came in titrlitened and 
 Ptraiiied to its utmuat as it appca'-t-d, and the 
 men turned heavily, and the windlass eani- 
 plaiiied It was sc-ticely endurable to k)ok 
 at the rope, and think of its giving way. But 
 rin^ aher rinj^ was coiled upon the barrel of 
 the windlass safely, and the connecting chains 
 appeared, and finally the buclet wiih the two 
 men holding on at the sides —a sight to make 
 the head swim, and oppress the heart — and 
 tenderly supporting between them, slung and 
 tied wiihin, the figure of a poor crushed human 
 creature. 
 
 A low murmur of pity went round the 
 throng, and the women wept aloud, as this 
 form, almost without form, was moved very 
 slowly from its iron deliverance, and laid 
 upon the bed of straw. At first, none but the 
 6u.i;eon went close to it. He did what he 
 could in its adjustment on the couch, but the 
 best that he could do was to cover it. That 
 gently done, he called to him Rachael and 
 Sissy, and at that time the pale, worn, patient 
 face was seen looking up at the sky, with the 
 broken right hand lying bare on the outside of 
 the covering garments, as if waiting to be taken 
 by another hand. 
 
 They gave him drink, moistened his face 
 with water, and administered some drops of 
 cordial and wine. Though he lay quite mo- 
 tionless looking up at the sky, he smiled and 
 said, " Rachael." 
 
 ^he stooped down on the grass at his side, 
 and bent over him until her eyes were between 
 bis and the sky, for he could P'^ so much as 
 turn ihem to look at her. 
 
 " Rachael, my dear." 
 
 She took his hand. He smiled again and 
 said, ''Don't let it go." 
 
 '•Thoti'rt in great pain, my own dear Ste- 
 phen ?" 
 
 ''1 ha' been, but not now. I ha' been — 
 dreadful, and dree, and long, my dear — but 
 'tis ower now Ah Rachel, aw a muddle! Fro' 
 first to last, a muddle! " 
 
 The spectre of his old look seemed to pass 
 as he said the word. 
 
 " I ha' fell into th' pit, my dear, as have 
 cost wi'in the knowledge o' old fok now livin' 
 hundreds and hundreds o' men's lives — 
 fathers, sons, brothers, dear to thousands an' 
 thousands, and keepin' 'em fro' want and 
 hunger. L ha' fell into a pit that ha' been 
 ■wi' th' fire-damp crueller than battle. 1 ha' 
 read on't in the public petition, as onny one 
 may read, fro' the men that works in pits, in 
 which they ha' pray'n an pray'n the law- 
 makers for Christ's sake not to let their 
 work be murder to 'em, but to spare 'em for 
 th' wives and children that they loves as well 
 as irentlefblk loves theirs. When it were in 
 work, it killed wi'out need ; when 'tis let alone, 
 it kills wi'out need. See how we die an' no 
 need, one Wi'j an' another — in a mudale every 
 day!" 
 
 He faintly said it, without any aiigfr against 
 any one. Merely as the truth. 
 
 "Thy little sister, Rachael, thou hast not 
 forgot her. Thou'rt not like to forget her now, 
 anil me so nij/h her. Thou knowst, pour, 
 patient, suff'rin' dear, how thou didst work for 
 htr, sett'n all day lung in her little chair at thy 
 window; an' she died, young and misshapen 
 awlung o' sickly air as had'n no need to be, 
 au'awluMg o' workin' people's miserable homes. 
 A muddle ! Aw a muddle!" 
 
 Louisa approached him, but he could not 
 see her, lying with his face turned up to the 
 night sky. 
 
 "If aw th' things that touches us, my dear, 
 was not so muddled, I should'n ha' had'n nf-ed 
 to coom heer. If we was iiot in a mudille 
 among ourseln, I should'n ha' been by my 
 own fellow weavers and workin' brothers, so 
 mistook. If Mr. Bounderby had ever knowd 
 me right — rather if he'd ever know'd me at 
 aw — he would'n' ha' took'a offence wi' me. — 
 He would'n' ha' suspect'n me. But look up 
 yonder, Rachael ! Look above." 
 
 Following his eyes, she saw that he was 
 gazing at a star. 
 
 " It ha' shined upon me " he said reverently, 
 " in my paiu and trouble down below. It ha' 
 shined into my mind. I ha' look'n an' thout 
 o' thee, Rachael, till the muddle in my mind 
 have cleared awa above a bit, I hope. If soom 
 ha' been wantin' in unnerstannin' me better, I, 
 too, hu' been wantin' in unnerstannin' them 
 better. When I got thy letter, I easily believed 
 that what the yoong lady sen an' done to me, 
 an' what her brother sen an' done to me were 
 one, an' that there were a wicked plot betwixt 
 un. When I fell, I were in anger wi' her, an" 
 hurryin' on t' be as onjust t' her as others was 
 t' me. But in our judgment like as in our 
 dolus, we mun bear and forbear. In my 
 pain an' trouble lookin up yonder, — wi' it 
 sbiuin' on me — I ha' seen more clear and ha' 
 made it my dying prayer that aw' th' world 
 may on'y come together more, an' get a bet- 
 ter umerstannin' o' one another, than when I 
 weTc iu't my own weak seln." 
 
 Louisa hearing what he said, bent over him 
 on the opposite side to Rachael, so that he 
 could see her. 
 
 "Yon ha' heard?" he ^aid, after a few mo- 
 ments' silence, "I ha' not forgot yo', leddy." 
 
 •*Yes, Stephen, I have heard you. And your 
 praver is mine." 
 
 "1 ou ha' a father. Will yo' tak a message 
 to him ?"' 
 
 '•Ue is here," said Louisa, with dread. — 
 "Shall I bring him to you?"' 
 
 "If yo' please." 
 
 Louisa returned with her father. Standing 
 hand in-hand, they both looked down upon his 
 solemn couutetiance. 
 
 '•Sir, yo' will clear me an' mak' my nam3 
 gond wi" aw men. This I leave to yo'." 
 
 Mr. Gradgrind was troubled and asked how ? 
 
 "^ir," was the reply, ''yor sou will .ell yo 
 how. Ask him. 1 mak' no charges. I leave 
 none ahiut me, not a single word. I ha' seen 
 an' spok'u wi' your son, one night. I ask no 
 
180 
 
 PICKEN'S NEW STORIES. 
 
 more o' yo' than that yo clear me — an' I trust 
 to yo to do't." 
 
 The bearers beins: now rendy to carry him 
 away, and the surgeon being anxious for his 
 removal, those who had torches or lanterns, 
 prepared to go in front of the litter. Before it 
 waa raised,and while they were arranging how 
 to go, he 9aid to Rachael, looking upwaid at 
 the star, — 
 
 *' Often as I coom to myseln, and found it 
 ehinin' on me down there in my trouble, I 
 thowt it were the star as guided to Our Sa- 
 viour's home, I awmust think it be the very 
 star !" 
 
 They lifted him up, and he was overjoyed 
 to find that they were about to take him in 
 the direction whither the star seemed to hiai to 
 lead. 
 
 "Rachael, beloved lass! Don't let go my 
 hand. We may walk together t'night my dear!'' 
 
 "I will hold thy hand, and keep beside thee, 
 Stephen, all the way." 
 
 "Bless thee ! Will soombody be pleased to 
 coover mv face?" 
 
 They carried him very gently along the 
 fields, and down the lanes, and over the wide 
 landscape ; Rachael always holding the hand in 
 hers. Very few whispers Ijroke the mournful 
 silence. It was soon a funeral procession. 
 The star had shown him where to find the God 
 of the poor; and through humilitv, and sorrow, 
 and forgiveness, he had gone to his Redeem- 
 er's rest. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 Before the ring formed round the Old Hell 
 Shaft was broken, one figure had disapjieared 
 from within it. Mr. Bounderby and his shadow 
 had not stood near Louisa, who held her father's 
 arm, but in a retired place by themselves. 
 When Mr. Gradgrind was s\immoned to the 
 couch, Sissy, attentive to all that hap jened, 
 slipped behind that wicked shadow — a sight in 
 the horror of his face, if there had been eves 
 there for any sight but one — and whispered in 
 his ear. Without turning his head, for she 
 had begun by telling him not even to look 
 round, he conferred with her a few moments, 
 and vanished. Thus the whelp had gone out 
 of the circle before the people moved. 
 
 When the father reached home, he sent a 
 message to Mr. Bouuderby's, desiring his son 
 to come to him directly. The reply was, that 
 Mr. Bounderby having missed him in the 
 crowd, and seen nothing of him since, had 
 supposed him to be at Stone Lodge. 
 
 "I believe, father," said Louisa, "he will 
 not come back to town to-night." Mr. Grad- 
 grind turned away and said no more. 
 
 In the morning, he went down to the Bank 
 himself as soon as it was opened, and seeing 
 his son's place empty, (he had not the courage 
 to look in at first.) went back along the street 
 to meet Mr. Bounderby on his way there. To 
 whom he said tLat, for reasons he would soon 
 explain, but entreated not then to be asked 
 for, he had found it necessary to employ his 
 
 son at a distance for a little while. Also, that he 
 was char^red with the duty of vindicating Ste- 
 phen Blackpool's memory, and declaring the 
 thief. Mr. Bounderby, quite confounded, stood 
 stock still in the street after his father-in-law 
 had left him, swelling like an immense soap- 
 bubble, without its beauty. 
 
 Mr. Gradgrind went home,locked himself in 
 his room, and kept it all that day. When i^i.ssy 
 and Louisa tapped at his door, he said, with- 
 out opening it, "Not low, my dears; in the 
 evening." On their return in the evening, he 
 said, "I am not able vet — to-morrow." Hs 
 ate nothing all day, and had no candle after 
 dark, and they heard him walking to and fro 
 late at ni^'ht. 
 
 But in the morning he appeared at breakfast 
 at the usual hour, and took his usual place at 
 the table. Aged and bent he looked, and quite 
 bowed down; and yet he looked a wiser man, 
 and a better man, than in the days when in 
 this lite he wanted nothing but facts. Before 
 he left the room, he appointed a time for them 
 to come to him, and sj, with his gray head 
 drooping, went away, 
 
 " Dear father," said Louisa, when they kept 
 their appointment, "you have three young 
 children left. They will be different. I will 
 be diffei'''nt yet, with Heaven's help." 
 
 She gave her hand to Sissy, as if she meant 
 with the help of her loving heart. 
 
 ''Your wretched brother,'"' said Mr. Grad- 
 grind. "Do you think he bad planned this 
 robbery, when he went with you to the lodging?"' 
 
 "I fear so, father. I know he had wanted 
 money very much, and had spent a great dt-al.'' 
 
 "The poor man being about to leave the 
 town, it came into his evil brain to cast sus-pi- 
 cion on him ?'' 
 
 " I think it must have flashed upon him while 
 he sat there, father. For 1 asked him to go 
 there with me. The visit did not originate 
 with him." 
 
 " He had some conversation with the poor 
 man. Did he take him aside?" 
 
 "He took him out of the room. I asked him 
 afterwards, why he had done so, and he made 
 a plausible excuse; but since last night, father, 
 and when I remember the circumstances by 
 its light, I am afraid I can imagine too tiuly 
 what passed between them." 
 
 "Let me know," said her father, "ifj-our 
 thoughts present your guilty brother in the 
 same dark view as mine do." 
 
 " I am afraid, father," reiterated Louisa, 
 "that he must have made some representation 
 to Stephen Blackpool — perhaps in my name, 
 perhaps in his own — which induced him to do 
 iu good faith and honesty, what he had never 
 done before, and to wait about the Bank those 
 two or three nights before he left the town." 
 
 " Too plain I'' returned the father. " Too 
 plain!" 
 
 He shaded his face, and remained silent for 
 some moments. Recovering himself, he said : 
 
 " And now, bow is he to be found ? How is 
 he to be saved from justice ? In the few hours 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 181 
 
 that I can possil)ly allow to elapse before I 
 publish the truth, how is he to be found by us 
 aud only by us ? Ten thousand pounds could 
 not etfect it." 
 
 " 8issy has effected it, fether." 
 
 He raised his eyes to where she stood, like 
 a "ruod fairy in his house, and said in a tone of 
 so. tened gratitude and jjfrateful kindness, "It 
 is always you, my child." 
 
 " We had our fears," Sissy explained, 
 glauL-uig at Louisa, "before yes erday ; and 
 when 1 saw you brought to the side of the lit- 
 ter last night, and heard what passed (being 
 el 'se to Kachael all the time), I went to him 
 when no one saw, and said to him, ' Don't 
 look at me ! See where your father is. Es- 
 cape at once, fbr his sake and your own !' He 
 was iu a tremble before 1 whispered to him, 
 and he started and trembled more, and said, 
 ' vV'here can I go ? I have very little money, 
 and 1 don't know who will hide me!' 1 
 thought of father's old circus. I have not 
 forgotten where Mr. Sleary goes at this time 
 ot year, and I read of him in a paper only the 
 other day. I told him to hurry there, aud 
 teil his name, and ask Mr. Sleary to hide him 
 tUl I came. ' i'll get to him betbre the morn- 
 ing,' he said. And I saw him shrink away 
 am iiig the people." 
 
 '• Tuank God !'' exclaimed his father. "He 
 may be got abroad yet." 
 
 It was the m^re hopeful, as the town to 
 which Sissy had directed him was within three 
 hours' journey of Liverpool, whence he couM 
 be swiftly despatched to any part of the world. 
 Hut caution being nect^ssary in communicating 
 with him — tor thf re was a greater danger every 
 raoineut of his bring suspected now, and no- 
 fa >dy could be sure at heart but that Mr. Boun- 
 derby himself, in a bullying view of public 
 zeal, might play a Roman part — it was con- 
 sented th .t Sissy and Louisa should repair to 
 the place in quesiion, by a circuitous course, 
 alone; and that the unhappy father, setting 
 forth ai another time, and leaving the town by 
 an op[)()site direction, should get round to the 
 same b )urne hy another and wider route. It 
 was further aiireed that he should not present 
 himself to Mr. Sleary, lest his intentions should 
 be uiislrusted, or the intellig> nee of his arrival 
 should cause his son to take tliglit anew; but 
 liiat the communicaiion should be left to Sissy 
 and Louisa to open, and that they should in- 
 f ir n the cause of so much misery and disgrace 
 of hiS father's being at hand and of the pur- 
 p )se fur which they had come. When these 
 arrangements had been well considered and 
 werii fully understood by all three, it was time 
 t > bejrin t > carry them into execution Early 
 i'l the afierijoon Mr. Gi'adgrind walked direct 
 from his own house into the country, to t e 
 taken up on the line l)y which he was to travel; 
 and at night the remaining two set forth upon 
 their different course, encouraged by not see- 
 ing any lace they knew. 
 
 The two travelled all < ight, except when 
 they were left for odd numbers of minutes at 
 
 branch places up illimitable flights of steps or 
 down wells — which was the only variety of 
 those branches — and, early in the morning, 
 were turned out on a swamp, a mile or two 
 from the town they sought. From this dismal 
 spot they were rescued by a sava 'e old postil- 
 lion, who happened to be up early, kicking a 
 horse in a fly, and so were smug!.ded into the 
 town by all the back lanes where the pigs lived : 
 which, although not a rnagniticeni or even sa- 
 vory approach, was, as is usual in such cases, 
 the legitimate hiirhway. 
 
 I he hrst thing they saw on entering the 
 town was the skeleton of Sleary's Circus. The 
 company had departed for another town more 
 than twenty miles off, and had opened there 
 last night. The connexion between the two 
 places was by a hilly turnpike road, and the 
 travelling on that road was very slow. Though 
 they took but a hasty breakfast, and no rest, 
 (which it would have been in vain to seek under 
 such anxious circumstances,) it was noon Ije- 
 fore they began to hnd the bills of Sleary's 
 Horseriding on barns and walls, and one o'clock 
 when they st()[)ped in the market place. 
 
 A Grand Morning Perfjrmance by the Rid- 
 ers commenciiii^ at that v('i;y hour, was in 
 course of announcement by the bellman as 
 they set their leetupon the stonesof the street. 
 hissy recommended that, to avoid making in- 
 quiries aud attracting attention in the town, 
 they shoidd present themselves to pay at the 
 door. If Mr. Sleary were taking the money, 
 he would be sure to know her, and would pro- 
 ceed with discretion. It he were not, he would 
 be sure to see them inside, and knowing what 
 he had done with the i'ugitive, would proceed 
 with discretion siill. 
 
 Therefore they repaired with fluttering hearts 
 to the well-rememhered booth. The flag with 
 the inscription, "Sleary's Horse-Riding," was 
 there, and the Gothic niche was there, but Mr. 
 Sleary was not there. Master Kidderminster, 
 grown too maturely turfy to be receivi^d by the 
 wildest credulity as Cupid any more, had yield- 
 ed to the invincible force of circumstances (and 
 his beard), and in the capacity of a man who 
 made himself generally useful, presidedon liiis 
 occasion over the excheiiuer — haviiiij also a 
 drum in reserve, on which to expend his lei- 
 sure moments and superfluous forces. In the 
 extreme sharpness of his look out lor base coin, 
 Mr. Kidderminster, as at present situated, 
 never saw anything but money; so Sissy pa>3- 
 ed him unrecognised, and they went in. 
 
 The Emperorof Japan on a steady old white 
 horse stencilled with black spots, was twirling 
 live wash-hand basins at once, as it is the fa- 
 vcjrite recri-aiion of that monarch to do. Sissy, 
 though well aci|uainte<l with his Royal in.e, 
 had no personal knowledge of the present Em- 
 ])eror, ari(l his rei;.'n *as peaceful. Miss Jose- 
 phine Sleary in her celebrated graceful Etpies- 
 trian Tyrolean Flower Act, was then an- 
 nounced liy a new cli>wn(vvh(j humorously said 
 Cauliflower ^ci), and Mr. Sleary appeanJ, 
 leading her ia. 
 
182 
 
 DICKEXS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 Mr. Sleary had only made one cut at the 
 Clown with his lonp whip lash, and the Clown 
 had only said, "If you do it again, Til throw 
 the horse at you !"' when Sissy was recognised 
 both by father and daughter. But they gut 
 through the Act with great self possession, and 
 Mr. Sleary, saving for the first instant, convey- 
 ed no more expression into his locomotive eye 
 than into his fixed one. The performance 
 seemed a liule long to Sissy and Louisa in 
 their suspense, particularly when it stopped to 
 afford the Clown an opportunity of telling Mr. 
 Sleary (who said "Indeed, sir?" to all his ob- 
 se'-valions in the calmest way, and witk his 
 eye on the house) about two legs silting on 
 three legs looking at one leg, when in came 
 four legs, and hiiil hold of one lear, and up got 
 two legs, caught hold of three leg«i, and threw 
 'em at four legs, who ran away with one leg.' 
 For although an ingenious Allegory relating 
 to a butcher, a three legtied stool, a dog, and 
 a leg of mutton, this narrative consumed time, 
 and they were painfully anxious. At last, 
 however, little fair-haired Josephine made 
 her curtesy amid great applause; and the 
 Clown, left alone in the ring, had just warmed 
 himself and said, " Now i7Z have a turn!" 
 when Sissy was touched on the shoulder and 
 becki^ned out. 
 
 She took Louisa with her, and they were 
 received by Mr. Sleary in a very little private 
 apartinetit. with canvas sides, a grass floor, 
 and a wooden ceiling all aslant, on which the 
 box company stamped their approbation as if 
 thev were coming through. "Thethilia," said 
 Mr. Sleary. who had brandy and water at hand, 
 "it doth me good to thee you. You wath 
 alwayth a favorite with uth, and you've done 
 nth credit thinth the old timeth I'm thure. 
 You mutht thee our people, my dear, afore we 
 thpeak of bithnith, or they'll break their hearth 
 — ethpethially the women. Here'th Jothphine 
 hath been and got married to E. W. B. Chil- 
 derth, and thee hath got a boy, and though 
 he'th only three yearth old, he stickth on to 
 any ponv you can bring againtht him. He'th 
 iiamnd The Little Wonder Of Thcolathtic Equi- 
 tation; and if you don't hear of that boy at 
 Athley'th, you'll hear of him at Parith. — 
 And you recollect Kidderminthter, that wath 
 thought to be rather thweet upon yourthelf? 
 Well. He'th matried too. Married a widder. 
 Old enough to he hith mother. Thee wath 
 Tight rope, thee wath, and now thee'th nothing 
 — on account of fat. They've got two chddien, 
 tho we're thtrongin the Fairy bithnith and the 
 Nurthery dodge. If you wath to thee our 
 Children in the Wood, with their father and 
 mother both a dyin' on a horthe — their unc^e a 
 rethieving of 'em ath hith wardth, on a horthe, 
 then they both a goin' a blackberryin' on a 
 horthe — and thellobinth a coming to cover 'em 
 with leavtii. upon a horthe — you'd thay that 
 Wath the completeth thing ath ever you thet 
 your eyeth on! And you remember Fmma 
 Gordon, my dear, ath wath a'rnotht a mother 
 to you ? Of courthe you do; I needn't athk. 
 
 Well. Emma, thee lotht hrr hulhband. He 
 wath throw'd a heavy back-lall off an Elephant 
 in a thTt ol' Pagoda thing a'h the Thultan of 
 the Indieth, and he never got the better of it, 
 and tiiee married a thecond time; married a 
 Cheethemonger ath fell in love with her from 
 the front, and he'th a Overtheer and niakii.' a 
 fortuu'l" 
 
 These various changes Mr. Sleary. very short 
 of breath now, related with great heartiness, 
 and with a wonderful kiiid of innocence, con- 
 sidering what a bleary and brandy-and-watery 
 old veteran he was. Afterwards he brought in 
 Josephine, and E. W. B. Chil'^'ers (rather 
 deeply lined in the jaws by daylight) ami The 
 Little Wonder of Scholastic Equitation, and, 
 in a word, all the company. Amazing crea- 
 tures thev were in Louisa's eyes, so white and 
 pink of complexion, so scant of dress, and so 
 demonstrative of leg ; but it was very pleasant, 
 for all that, to see them crowding about Sissy, 
 and very natural in Sissy to be uu.ible to re- 
 frain from tears. 
 
 "There! Now Thethilia hath kitht ail the 
 children, and hugged all the women, and tha- 
 ken haiidth all round with the men, clear, 
 every one of you, and ring in the band for the 
 thecond part!*' said Sleary. 
 
 As soon as they were gone, he cc>ntinned in 
 a low tone. " Now, Thethilia, I don't athk to 
 know any thecreth, but I thiippothe I may 
 consider thith to be Mith Thquire." 
 
 "This is his sister. Yes." 
 
 "And t'other one'th daughter. Tliat'k 
 w'hat I mean. Hope I thee you well, miih. — 
 And I hope the Thquire'th well?"' 
 
 " My father will he here soon," said Louisa, 
 anxious to bring him to the point. "Is my 
 brother sale?" 
 
 " Thafe and thound !" he replied. '• I want 
 you jutht to take a peep at the rin?, mith, 
 through here. Thethilia, you know the dodg- 
 eth ; find a thpy-holefor yourthelf" 
 
 They each looked through a chink in the 
 boards. 
 
 "That'th Jack the Giant Killer — a piethe of 
 comic infant bithnith," said Sleary. "There'th 
 a proper' vhouthe, ', ou thee, for Jack to hide 
 in; there'th my Clown with a thaulhepan-bd 
 and a thpit for Juck'th thervant ; there'th little 
 Jack himthelf in athplenoid thoot of armour; 
 there'th t^vo comic black thervanth twithe ath 
 big ath the houthe, to thand by it and lobrin^ 
 it in and clear it, ; and the Giant (a very ex- 
 penthive baihket one), he an't on yet. Now 
 do you thee 'em all?" 
 
 "Yes," they both said. 
 
 " Look at 'em again,' said Slearv, " look at 
 'em well. You thee 'em all ? Very good. 
 Now, mith ;" he put a form for them to sit on ; 
 " I have my opinionth, and the Thquire your 
 father hath hith. I don't want to know what 
 your brother'th been u[> to; ith better for me 
 not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath 
 thtood by Thethilia, and I'll thtand by the 
 Thquire Your brother ith one o' them black 
 thervanth." 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 183 
 
 Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of dis- 
 tress, partly of satisfaction. 
 
 "Itli a fact," said Sleary, "and even know- 
 in that, you couldn't put your finper on him. 
 Let the Tliquire come. I thall keep your bro- 
 ther here after the performanth. I thaut un- 
 dreth him, nor yei wath hilh paint off". Let the 
 Thquire come here after the performanth, or 
 come here yourthelf after llie performanth. and 
 you thai! find your brother, and have the whole 
 plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth 
 of him ath long ath he'th well hid.'' 
 
 Louisa, with many tb.anks and with a lijiht- 
 ened load, detained Mr. Sleary no binder then. 
 She left her love for her brother, with her eyes 
 full of tears, and she and Sissy went away until 
 later in the afternoon. 
 
 Mr. Gradgrind arrived within an hour after- 
 wards. He too had encountered no one whom 
 he knew, and was now sanguine, with Sleary's 
 assistance, of getting his disgraced son to Li- 
 verpool in the night. As neither of the three 
 could be his companion without almost identi- 
 fying him under any disguise, he prepared a 
 letter to a correspondent whom he could trust, 
 beseeching him to ship the bearer off at any 
 cost, to North or South America, or any dis- 
 tant part of the world to which he could be the 
 most speedily and privately dispatched. This 
 done, they walked about, waiting for the Cir- 
 cus to be quite vacated : nut only by the audi- 
 ence, but l)y the company and by the horses. — 
 After watching it a long time, they saw Mr. 
 Sleary bring uut a chair and sit down by the 
 side door, smoking, as if that were his signal 
 that they mii^ht approach. 
 
 *' Your thervant, Thquire," was his cautious 
 salutation as they passed in. " If you want 
 me you'll find me here. You muthn't mind 
 your son having a comic livery on." 
 
 They all three went in, and Mr. Graderind 
 sat down, forlorn, on the Clown's performing 
 chair in the middle of the ling. On one of 
 the back benches, remote in the subdued light 
 and the strangeness of the jjlace, sat the vil- 
 lanous whelp, sulkv to the last, whom he had 
 the misery to call his son. 
 
 In a preposterous coat, like a beadle's, with 
 cuffs and flaps exaggerated to an unspeakable 
 extent, in an immense waistcoat, knee-breeches 
 buckltd shoes, and a mad cocked-hat, with 
 nothing fitting him, and everything of coarse 
 material, moth-eaten and full of holes ; with 
 seams in his black face, where fear and heat 
 had started through the greasy composition 
 daubed all over it ; anything so grimly, detest- 
 ably, ri'iiculously shameful as the whelp in his 
 comic livery, Mr. Gradgrind never could by 
 any other means have believed in, weighable 
 and measurable fact though it was. And one 
 of his model children had come to this ! 
 
 At first the whelp would not draw any near- 
 er, but persisted in remaining up there by him- 
 self. Yielding at length, if any concession so 
 sullenly made can be called yielding, to the 
 entreaties of Sissv — for Louisa he disowned 
 altogether — he came down bench by bench 
 
 until he stood in the sawdust, on the ver:re of 
 the circle, as i'ar as possible, within its limits, 
 from where his father sat. 
 
 "How was this done?" asked the father. 
 
 " How was what done ?" moodily inquired 
 the son. 
 
 I This robbery," said the father, raising his 
 voice upon the word. 
 
 "I forced the safe mv.self over ni^/ht, and 
 shut it up ajar before I went awav. I had the 
 key that was found made long V)eVore. 1 drop- 
 ped it that morning, that it might be supposed 
 to have been used. I didn't take the money 
 all at once ; I pretended to put mv balance 
 away every night, but I didn't. Now you 
 know a'l about it. 
 
 "If a thunderbolt had fallen on me," said 
 the fiithcr, "it would have shocked me less 
 than this." 
 
 "I don't see why," returned the son. "So 
 many people are employed in situati'^ns of 
 trust ; so many people out of so many will he 
 dishonest. I have heard you talk, a hundred 
 times, of its being a law. How can I helplaws? 
 You have comforted others with such things, 
 father. Comfort yourself. 
 
 The father burled his face in his hands, and 
 the son stood in his disgraceful grot sf|ueHe8S, 
 biting straw. His hands, with the black pirt- 
 ly worn away inside, looking like the hands of 
 a monkey. The evening was fast closing in, 
 and from time to time he turned the whites of 
 his eyes restlessly and impatiently towards his 
 father. They were the only parts of his face 
 that showed any life or expression, the pigment 
 upon it was so thick. 
 
 " You must be got to Liverpool, and sent on 
 board." 
 
 " I suppose I must. I can't be more miser- 
 able anywhere," whimpered the whelp, "ihan 
 I have been here, ever since I can remember. 
 That's one thing." 
 
 Mr. Gradgrind went to the door, and re- 
 turned with iSieary ; to whom he submitted the 
 question — how to get this deplorable object 
 away. 
 
 " vVhy, I've been thinking of it, Thquire. — 
 There'th not muth time to lothe, tho you inuth 
 thay yeth or no. Ith over twenty mileth to 
 the rail. Thereth a coath in half an liour, that 
 gothe io the rail, purputhe to caih the mail 
 train. That train will take him right to Liver- 
 pool." 
 
 "But look at him," groaned Mr. Gradgrind. 
 '• Will any coach — " 
 
 "I don't mean that he thotild go in the 
 comic livery," said Sleary. " Thay the word, 
 and I'll make a jothkin of him outot the ward- 
 robe in five minutes." 
 
 "I don't understand," said Mr. Gradgrind. 
 
 "A jothkin — a carter. Make up your mind 
 quick, Thquire ; there'll be beer to feth. I've 
 never met with nothing but beer alh'll ever 
 clenn a comic blackamoor." 
 
 Mr. Gradgrind rajiidly assented. Mr. Sleary 
 rapidlv turned out from a box a smock frock, 
 a felt hat, aud other essentials ; the whelp 
 
ig4 
 
 DICKENS' NKW STORIES. 
 
 rapidly chanj^ed clothes behind a screen of 
 baize; Mr. Sleary rapidly brought beer, and 
 wasiied him white a^'aiii. 
 
 "Xow," said Sleary, "come along to the 
 coath, and jump up behind; I'll go with you 
 there, and the}*ll thuppothe you one of my 
 people. Thiiy fa'-eweil to your family, and 
 tharp'lh the word." With which he delicately 
 retired. 
 
 "Here is your letter," said Mr. Gradgrind. 
 ' k\\ iiecessHry means will be provided for you. 
 Atone by re[)eiUanL'e and better conduct for 
 this shocking act of dishonesty, and the dread- 
 ful conseijuences towiiicliit has led. Give me 
 your hand, my pour boy, and may God forgive 
 you, as I do." 
 
 The cu'prit ws moved to a few abject tears 
 by these words, and their pathetic tone. But 
 when Louisa opened her arms, he repulsed her 
 afresh. 
 
 " Not you. No. I don't want to have any- 
 thing to say to you." 
 
 ' < ) Tom, Tom, do we end so, after all my 
 love ?" 
 
 "After all your love !" he returned, obdu- 
 rately. " Pretty love 1 Leaving old Bounder- 
 )iv to himself, and packing my best friend, 
 Mr. Harihouse, otf, and i{oing home just when 
 1 was m the greatest danger. Pretty love that! 
 C )minir out with every word about our having 
 ^*>ne to that place, when you saw the net was 
 gathering round me. Pretty love that ! You 
 have regularly given me up. You never cared 
 for (ut-." 
 
 " Th irp'th the word I" said Sleary, at the 
 d'lor 
 
 They all confusedly went out, Louisa crying 
 to him that she forgave him his ingratitude, 
 and loved him still, and that he would one day 
 be sorri" to have left her so, and glad to think 
 of those her lasl words when far away ; when 
 some cue ran against them. Mr. Gradgrind 
 aud Sissy, who were both before him while his 
 sister yet clung to his shoulder, stopped and 
 recoiled. 
 
 For there was Bitzer, out of breath, his thin 
 lips parted, his thin nostrils distended, his 
 wbite eye-lashes quivering, his colorless face 
 more colorless than ever, as if he ran himself 
 into a white heat, wher other people ran them- 
 selves into a glow. There he stood, panting 
 and heaving as if he had never stopped since 
 the niirht, now long ago, when he had run them 
 down before. 
 
 '■I'm sorry to interfere with your plans," 
 said Bitzer, shaking his head, "but I can't 
 allow myself to be done by horse-rideis. I must 
 have young Mr. Tom ; he musu't be got away 
 by horseriders ; here he is in a smock frock, 
 and I must have him." 
 
 By the collar, too, it seemed ; for so he took 
 possession o^him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX VL 
 
 Thf'v went back into the booth, Sleary shut- 
 ti.ig tile dour to keep intruders out, and Bitzer, 
 
 still holding the paralyzed culprit by the collar, 
 stood in the ring blinking at his old patron 
 through the darkness of the twilight. 
 
 "B'tzer," said .Mr. Gradgrind, broken down, 
 and miserably submissive to him, "have you a 
 heart ?"' 
 
 "The circulation, sir," returned Bitzer, smil- 
 intr ai the oddity of the question, "couldn't be 
 carried on without one. No man, sir, acquaint- 
 ed wiih the facts estaldished by Harvey, relat- 
 ing to the circulation of the blood, can doubt 
 that I must have a heart." 
 
 "Is it accessible," cried Mr. Gradgrind, "to 
 any c>jmpassionate influence?" 
 
 "It is accessible to reason, sir," returned the 
 excellent young man — "and to nothing else." 
 
 They stood looking at each other, Mr. Grad- 
 grind's face as white as the pursuer's. 
 
 "What motive —even what motive in reason, 
 can you have for preventing the escape of this 
 wretched youth," said Mr. Gradgrind, "and 
 crushing his miserable father? See his sister 
 here. Pity us !" 
 
 'Sir,'' returned Bitzer, in a very business- 
 like and logical manner, "since you ask me 
 what motive I have in rea>on for taking young 
 Mr. Tom back to Coketown, it is only reason- 
 able to let you know. I have suspected young 
 Mr. Tom of this Bank robbery from the first. 
 I had had my eye upon him before that time, 
 and I knew his ways. I have kept my observa- 
 tions to myself, but I have made them, and, I 
 have got ample proof's against him now, besides 
 his running away, and besides his own confes- 
 sion, which I was just in time to overhear. I 
 had the pleasure of watching your h'luse yes 
 tfcr'ay morning, and following you here. I am 
 going to take young Mr. Turn back tij Coketown, 
 in order to deliver him over to Mr. Bounderb). 
 Sir, I have no doubt whatever that Mr. Boun- 
 derby will then promote me to young Mr. 
 Tom's situation. And I wish to have his situ- 
 ation, sir, for it will be a rise to me and will 
 do me good." 
 
 "if this is solely a question of selfinterest 
 with you " Mr. Gradgrind began. 
 
 " I beg your pardon for interrupting you, 
 sir," said B tzer; "but I am sure you know 
 that the whole social system is a question of 
 selt'-interest. What you must alwa\s appeal 
 to, is a person's self-interest. It's your only 
 hold. We are so constituted. I was brought 
 up in that catechism when I was young, sir, 
 as you are aware. 
 
 " What sum of money," said Mr Gradgrind, 
 " will you set against your expected promo- 
 tion ? " 
 
 " Thank you, sir," returned Bitzer," " for 
 hinting at the proposal ; but I will not set any 
 sum against it. Knowing that your clear head 
 would prepose that alternative, I have gone 
 over the calculations in my mind ; and I find 
 that to compound a felony, even on very high 
 terms indeed, would not be as safe and good 
 for me as my improved pro-^pects in the Bank." 
 
 " Bitzer," said Mr. Gradgrind, stretching 
 out his hands as though he would have said — 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 lf?5 
 
 See how miserable I am ! " Biizer, I have but 
 one chance left to soften you. You were many 
 years at my school. If, in remembrance of the 
 pains bestowed on you, you can persuade 
 yourself in any degree to disregard your pro- 
 tsent ititeresc and release my son, I entreat 
 and pray you to give him the beuefit of that 
 remembrance." 
 
 "I really wonder, sir," rejoined the old pu- 
 pil, in an argumentative manner, '• to find you 
 takin.' a position so untenable. My .-chooling 
 was paid for ; it was a bargain ; and when i 
 came away, ilie bargain ended." 
 
 It was a fundamental principle of the Grad- 
 grind phdosophy, that everything was to be 
 paid for. Nobody was ever on any account to 
 give anybody anything, or render anybody help 
 without return, (latitude was to be abolished, 
 and the virtues springing from it were not to 
 be. The whole existence of mankind, from 
 birth to death, was to be a bargain across a 
 counter. And if we did'ut get to Heaven that 
 way, it was not a politico economical place, and 
 we had no business there 
 
 " I don't deny,'" added Bitzer, " that my 
 schooling was cheap. But that comes right. 
 I was made in the cheapest market, and have 
 to dispose of myself in the dearest." 
 
 He was a little troubled here, by Louisa and 
 Sissy crying. 
 
 " Pray don't do that," said he, " it's of no 
 us- doing that ; it only worries. You seem to 
 think that I have some animosity against 
 young Mr. Tom ; whereas I have none at all. 
 I am only going, on the reasouable grounds I 
 have mentioned, to take him back to Coke- 
 town. If he was to resist, I should set up the 
 cry of Stop Thief 1 But he won't resist, you 
 muy depend upon it." 
 
 Mr. Sleary, who, with his mouth open and 
 his rolliiiir eye as immovably jammed in his 
 head as his fixed one, had listened to those 
 doctrines with profound attention, here stepped 
 forward 
 
 "Thijuire, you know perfectly well, and your 
 daughter knowth perfectly well (better than 
 you, becauthe I thed it to her) that I didn't 
 know what your thon had done, and that 1 
 didn't want to know — that I thed it wath better 
 not, though I only thought it wath some tliky- 
 larking. However, thith young man having 
 made it knov/n to be a robbery of a bank, why, 
 that'ih a theriouth thing; math too tberiouih 
 a thing tor me to compound, ath thith young 
 man hath very properly called it ; conthe- 
 quently, Thquire, you muth'nt quarrel with 
 me if I take thith young man'th thide, and thav 
 he'th right and there'th no help for it. But 1 
 tell you what I'll do, Thquire; I'll drive your 
 thon and thith young man over to the rail, and 
 prevent expothure here. I can't conthent to 
 do more, but I'll do that." 
 
 Fre->h lamentations trom Louisa, and deeper 
 affliction on Mr. (iradgrind's part followed ihis 
 desertion of them by their last irietul. But 
 Si-^sy glanced at him wiih threat attention; nor 
 did she iu her ovvu breast misunderstand iiim. 
 
 for as they were all going out again, he favored 
 her with one slight roll of his movable eye, de- 
 siring her to linger behind. As he locked the 
 door he said excitedly: 
 
 "The Thquire thiood by you, Thethilia, and 
 I'll thtand by the Thquire. More than that. 
 Thith ilh aprethioulh raihcal and belongih :o 
 that bluthteriiu Cove that my p<'o|ile nt-arlv 
 pitht out o' winder. It'll bea'dark night; r\e 
 got a horthe that'll do anything Inii ih)fiik; 
 I've j^ot a pony that'll go fifteen mile an hour 
 with Childerth driving of him ; I've got a (lnj; 
 that'll keep a man to one plathe four-and- 
 twenty hourth. Get a word with the young 
 Thquire. Tell him when he theeth our hurt ho 
 begin to dantli, not to be afraitl of being thjnlt, 
 but to look out for a pony gig coming up. Tell 
 him when he theeth that ^'ig clothe b\, to jump 
 down, and it'll take him utf at a rauling jiiithe. 
 If my dog leth thith young man tliiira peg or 
 foot, I give him leave to go. And it my horthe 
 everthtirth from that thpot where he beginih 
 a danlhing, till the morning — I don't know 
 him! Tharp'ih the word !'' 
 
 The wnrd was so sharp that in ten minutes 
 Mr. Childers, sauntering about the market 
 place in a pair of slippers, had his cue, and 
 Mr. Sleary's equipage was read\. It was a 
 fine sight, to behold the learned dog barking 
 round it, and Mr. Sleary instructing him wiih 
 his one practicable eye, that Bitzt-r was the 
 object of his particular attentions. Soun atier 
 dark they all three got iu and started ; ihe 
 learned dog (a fonnidable creature) already 
 pinning Bitzer with his eye, and sticking clo.-e 
 to the wheel on his side, that he might be 
 ready for him in the event of his showing the 
 slightest disposition to alight. 
 
 The three sat up at the inn all night in 
 great suspense; at eight o'clock in the morn- 
 ing Mr. Sleary and the dog re-appeared : both 
 iu high spirits. 
 
 " All right, Thquire!" said Mr. Sleary, "your 
 thon may be aboard a thipby thiih lime. Chil- 
 derth took him otl', an hour and a half after we 
 left latht night. 'I'he horthe danthed the Polka 
 till he wath dead beat (he would have walthed 
 if he hadn't been in harneth) and then I gave 
 him the word and he went to thleep comt'ort- 
 able. Bitther thed he'd go fur'ard and the 
 dog hung on to hith iieckhandercher with all 
 four l-egth in the air, and pulled him down and 
 rolled him over. Tho he come back into the 
 drag, and there he that till I got the better of 
 the acthident and turned the horlhe'lh head 
 at half path thixth thith morning." 
 
 Mr. Gradgriud overwhelmed him with 
 thanks, of course, and hinted as delicately as 
 he could, at a handsome remuneration in mo- 
 ney. 
 
 "Well! I don't want money my theU", Thquire; 
 but Childerth ilh a family man, and if you wath 
 to like to offer him a five pound note, it mightn't 
 be unactheptable. Likt'withe if you A-alh to 
 thtand a collar for the dog, or a thet of bellth 
 for the horthe, I thould be very glad to take 
 'em. Brandy and water I alwa^lh take." He 
 
186 
 
 DICKEXS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 had already called for a glass, and now called 
 for another. "If you wouliln't think it going 
 too far, Thquire, to make a little ihpread for 
 the company at about threo and tliix ahead, 
 not reckoning Lnih, it would make 'em happy." 
 
 All these little tokens of his gratitude, Mr. 
 Gl'adgrind very willinijly undertook lo render. 
 Though he thought them far too slight, he said, 
 for such a servi( e. 
 
 "Very well, Thquire ; then if you'll only 
 give a horthe-riding a betlipeak whenever you 
 can, you 11 more than halanthe the account. 
 Now, Thquire, if your daughter will excuthe 
 m'-, I thould like one parting word with you." 
 
 Louisa and Sissy withdrew into an adjoining 
 room, and Mr. Sleary, stirring and drinking 
 his brandy and water as he stood, went on : 
 
 "Thquire, you don't need to be told that 
 dogth ilh wonderful animalth." 
 
 "Their instinct" said Mr. Gradgrind, "is sur- 
 prising." 
 
 " Whatever you call it — and I am bletht if 
 I know what to call it," said Sleary, it ith, no 
 doubt, athonithin. The way in which a dog'U 
 find you — the distanthe he'll come!" 
 
 " His scent," said Mr. Gradgrind, " being so 
 fine." 
 
 " I'm bletht if I know what to call it," 
 repeated Sleary, shaking his head. "But I 
 have had dogth find me, Thquire, in a way that 
 made me think whether that dog hadn't gone 
 to another dog, and thed, 'You don't happen to 
 know a perthonofthe name of 1 bleary, do you? 
 Perthon by the nameof Thleary,in the Horthe- 
 i iding way — thtout man — game eye?' And 
 whether that dog mightn't have thed, 'Well, I 
 can t thay I know him mythelf, but I know a 
 dog that I think would be likely to be acquaint- 
 ed with him.' And whetk.ir that dog mightn't 
 have thought it over, and thed, ' Thleary, 
 Thleary ! yeth, to be thure ! A friend of 
 mine lived with him at one time. I can get 
 you hith addreth directly.' In consequentli of 
 my being before the public, and going about 
 tho muth, you thee, there mutht be a number 
 of dogth acquainted with me, Thquire, that I 
 don't knuw !" 
 
 Mr. (iradgrlnd seemed to be quite confound- 
 ed by this speculation. 
 
 " Any way," said Sleary, after putting his 
 lips to his brandy and water, "ith fourteen 
 months ago, Thquire, thinth we wath at Cheth- 
 ter — and very good bithnith we wath doing. 
 We wath getting up our Children in the Wood 
 one morning, wlien there cometh into our Hing, 
 by the thtage door, a dog. He had travelled a 
 long way, he wath in very bad condithon, he 
 wath lame, and pretty well blind. He went 
 round to our children, one after another, as if 
 Le wath looking for a child he know'd, and 
 then he come to me, and throwd himthelf up 
 behind, and thtood on hith two fore-legth, 
 weak ath he wath, and then he wagged liith 
 tail and died. Thquire, that dog was Merry- 
 legth." 
 
 " Sissy's father's dog 1" 
 
 " Thethilia'th father'th old dog. Now, 
 
 Thquire, I can take my oath, from my Icnowl- 
 edge of that dcig, that that man wath dead — 
 and buried — afire that dog came back to me. 
 doth'phine and Chil lerth and me talked it over 
 a long time, whether I thould write or noL 
 But we agreed 'No. There'th nolhing com- 
 fortable t(j tell ; why unthettle her mind, and 
 make her unhappy ?' 1 ho, whether her fiUher 
 deiherted her, or whether he broke liith own 
 heart alone, rather than pull her down along 
 with him, never will be known, now, Thquire, 
 till — not till we know how the dogth fiudth uth 
 out."' 
 
 " She keeps the bottle that he sent her for, 
 to this hour; and she will i)elieve in his affec- 
 tion to the last moment of her life," said Mr. 
 Gradgrind. 
 
 "It theemth to prethent two thingth to a 
 perthon, don't it, Thqnire'?'' said Mr. Sleary, 
 musing as he looked down into the depths of 
 ills brandy and water: "one tliat there ith a 
 love in the world, not all Thelf interetht after 
 all, but thomething very different ; t'other, that 
 it hath a way of ith own of calculating or not 
 calculatitig, whitli thomehow or another ith 
 at leatht ath hard to give a name to, ath the 
 wayth of the dogth ith !" 
 
 Mr. Grad 'rind looked out of the window, and 
 made no reply. Mr. Sleary emptied his glass 
 and recalled the ladies. 
 
 " Thethilia my dear, kith me and good bye I 
 Mith Thquire, to thee you treating of her like 
 a thithter, and a thithter that you trulht and 
 honor with all your heart and more, ith a very 
 pretty thight to me. I hope your brother may 
 live to be better detherving of you, and a 
 greater comfort to you. Thquire, thake handih 
 tirtht and latht ! Don't be croth with nth poor 
 vagabondth. People mutht beamuthed. They 
 can't be alwayth a learning, nor yet they can't 
 be alwayth a working ; they an't made ti^r it. 
 You inufht have uth, Thquire. Do the withe 
 thing and the kind thing too, and make the 
 betht of uth ; not the wonht !"' 
 
 " And I never thought before, " said Mr. 
 Sleary, puttinjr his head in at the donr a<raia 
 to say it, "that I wath tho muthot a Cacklerl " 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 It is a dangerous thinor to see anything in 
 the sphere of a vain blusterer, before the vain 
 blusterer sees it hiin-elf Mr. Bounderby felt 
 that Mrs. Sparsit had audacio'.islv anticipated 
 him, aud presumed to be wiser than he. In- 
 appeasahly indignant with her for her trium- 
 phant discovery ot'Mrs. Pegler, he turned this 
 presumption on the part of a woman in her 
 dependent position over and over in his mind, 
 until it accumulated with turning like a great 
 snowball. At last he made the discovery that 
 to discharge this highly connected female — to 
 ha^ e it in his power to say, " She was a woman 
 of I'ainily, and wanted to stick to me, but I 
 wouldn't have it, and git rid of her," would 
 be to get the utmost possible amoui t of crown- 
 ing glory out of the coauexiou, and at the 
 
HARD TIMES. 
 
 1S7 
 
 same time to punish Mrs. Sparsit according 
 to her deserts 
 
 Filled fuller than ever, with this tjn-at idea, 
 Mr. Boimderhy came in to lunch, and sat hini- 
 selfdown in the diainjj room of former days, 
 where liis portrait was. Mrs. Sparsit .sat by 
 the tire, witli her foot in her cotton stirrup, 
 litrle ihinkinii; whilht-r she was postincr. 
 
 Since the Pe^;ler atlair, this gentlewunian had 
 covered her pity fir Mr. Bounderby with a veil 
 of quiet nifJaiichuly and contrition. In virtue 
 thereof, it had become her iiablt to assume a 
 wufdl look, which wuful look she now bestowed 
 upon her patron. 
 
 "What's the matter with you. ma'am?'' said 
 Mr. Bouiideriiy in a very short, rou^h way. 
 
 "Prav, sir," returned Mrs. Spar.-,it, "do not 
 bite mv nose off." 
 
 "Bite vuur nose o(f, ma'am I'' repeated Mr. 
 Bouiiderbv. "I'^ur nose !'' meaning, as Mrs. 
 Sparsit conceived, that it was too developed a 
 nose for the purpose. After which oifensive 
 implication he cut himself a crust of bread and 
 threw the knife down with a noi>e. 
 
 Mrs. Spirsit took her foot out of the stirrup, 
 and said, "' .Mr. Bounderby, sir!'' 
 
 " Well, ini'am ?" retorted Mr. Bounderby. 
 " What are you starinj,' at?" 
 
 " May 1 a-k, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "have 
 you l)een rulHed this morning?'' 
 
 '• Yes. ma'am." 
 
 •' May I iii^uire, sir," pursued the injured 
 woman, " whether /am the utifortunate cause 
 of your having lost your temper?'' 
 
 '' Now, I'll tell you what, ma'am," said 
 Biua.lerbv, "I am not come here to be bul- 
 bed. A female may be highly connected, but 
 she can iH)t be p^^rmitied to bother and badger 
 a tnan in my position, and I am not ijoing to 
 p«it up with it." (Mr. Bound.Mby felt it ne- 
 cessary to go on, foreseeing ih^At if he allowed 
 of details, he would be beaen.) 
 
 Mrs. .Sparsit first elevated, then knitted her 
 Coriolaniaii eyebrows; gathered up her wurk 
 into its pro[ier basket, ami rose. 
 
 " Sir,' said she, majt-stically. ''It is ap- 
 parent to me that I am in ycnir war at present. 
 i will retire to my own apartmeiit.'' 
 
 •' .Allow me to open the door, ma'am." 
 
 ''Thank you, sir; I can du it for myself." 
 
 "Yuti had better allow me, ma'atn," said 
 Bounderby, passiuiT her, and getting his hand 
 upon the lock, "because I can lake the oppor- 
 tunity of saying a word to you, before you go. 
 Mrs. Sjiarsit, ma'atn, I rather think yon are 
 cramped here, do you know? It appears to me 
 that under mv humble roof there's hardlj 
 opening enough for a lady of your genius in 
 other peoj)'e's affairs." 
 
 Mrs. vSparsit gave him a look of the darkest 
 scorn, and said with great politeness, "Really, 
 sir?" 
 
 '•I have been thinking it over, you see, since 
 the late aff^iirs have happen^'d, ma'atn," said 
 Bounderiiv, "and it ajipears to my poor judg- 
 ni'^nt ' 
 
 "Oh! Tray, sir," Mrs. Sparsit interposed. 
 
 with .sprightly cheerfulness, "don't disparage 
 your judgment. Everybody knows how uner- 
 ring vii-. Bounilerby's jud;.Muent is. Everybody 
 has had proofs of it. It must be the theme of 
 general conversation. Disparage anything in 
 yourself but your judgratnt, sir,'' said Mrs. 
 Spar.-jit. laughing. 
 
 Mr. Bounderby, very red and uu comfortable, 
 resumed : 
 
 ''It appears to me, ma'am, I say, that a dif- 
 fer-^nt sort of establishment altogether, «uuld 
 bring out a lady of V)ur powers. Sue'.: an e.<- 
 tablishment as ymir relation, Lady Scadgers' 
 now. Don't you think you might find some 
 affairs there, ma'am, to interfere with?" 
 
 " Jt never occurred to me. before, sir," re- 
 turned Mrs. Sparsit, in a liiiht, social style of 
 conversation "but now you mention it, 1 should 
 think it highly probable.'' 
 
 " Then suppose you try, ma'am," said Boun- 
 derby, luying an envelope with a chetjue in it, 
 in her little basket. " Vou can take your own 
 time, for going, ma'am, but perhaps in the 
 memiwhile, it w.ll be more agreeable to a lady 
 of your powers of mind, to eat her meals by 
 herself, and not to be intruded upon. I really 
 ought to apologize to you — being only Jo.Mah 
 Bounderby of Coketowu — for having stood in 
 your light so long." 
 
 " Pray don't name it, sir," returned Mrs. 
 Sparsit. " if that portrait could speak, sir, — 
 but it has the advantage over the original of 
 not possessing the power of conunitting itsi-lf 
 and disgusting others, — it would testify thtu a 
 long period has ela})sed since 1 first habitually 
 addressed it as the picture of a Noodle. Mo- 
 thing that a Noodle does, can awaken surprise 
 or indignation ; the proceedings of a Noodle 
 can only inspire contempt." 
 
 Thus saying, Mrs Sparsit, with lier Roman 
 features like a medal, struck to commemorate 
 h'T scorn of Mr. Bounderby, surveyed hnn 
 fixedly from head to foot, swept disdainfully 
 past hiin, and ascended the staircase. Mr. 
 Bounderby closed the door, and stood before 
 the fire, projecting himself after his old e.\- 
 plosive manner into his portrait — and into 
 futurity. 
 
 Into how much of futurity? He saw Mr.-^. 
 Sparsit fighting out a daily fight at the points 
 of all the weapons in the female armory, with 
 the grudging, smarting, peevish, tormenting 
 L ady Scadgers, still laid up in bed with her 
 mysterious leg, and gobbling her insulficient 
 income down by about the middle of everv 
 quarter, in a mean little airless loiiging, a mere 
 closet for one, a mere crib for two, but did he 
 see more? Did he catch any glimp.>e of him- 
 self making a show of Bitzer to strangers as 
 the rising young man. so devoted to his mas- 
 ter's great merits, who had now young Tom's 
 place, and had almost captured young 'i'om 
 himself, in the times when by various rascals 
 he was spirited awaN? Did he see any faint re- 
 fiection of his own image making ti vain-glori- 
 ous will, wh' rebyfive-and-twenty sell'-niaie men 
 past fifty years of age, eai.h taking upon himself 
 
188 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STOIIIES. 
 
 the name, Josiah Bouiidcrby, of Cukttuwn, 
 should for ever iliiie in BoiUi<lerby Hall, tor 
 ever iodide in Bonuderby Buildings, tor ever 
 attend a Bouiiderby cliajiel, fur ever go lo 
 sleep under a Bounderby irhnplain, tor ever be 
 supjjorted out of a Bounderby estate, and for 
 evt-r nauseate all lieulthy stoinaelis with a 
 vast amount of Boundrrby balderdash and 
 bluster? Had he any [)re.>cienie of tha' day, 
 five yea^s to come, when Josiaii Boundertjy. i,f 
 Cokeiuwn, was to die uf a til in the Cokeiown 
 Street, and ibis same precious will was to be^-'in 
 ils lonsj career of ijuibble, plunder, fals ■ pre- 
 tences, meanness, little ^ervi(■e, and much 
 care? Probably not. Yet the portrait was 
 to see it all out. 
 
 Here was Mr. Gradgrind on the same diy, 
 atid in the same hour, sitting thoughtful in his 
 own room. How much of luUirlty did he see? 
 bid he see himself, a white-haired, decn pid 
 man, bending bis hitherto iutiexible theories to 
 appointed circumstances; making his tacts 
 and tigures suDservient to t-aitli, Ho[)e, and 
 Charily — and no 1 'Hger trying to grind that 
 heavenly trio in his dusty little mills ? Did he 
 catch sight of himself therefore much desjiised 
 by his late political associates? Did he see 
 them, in the era of its being quite settletl that 
 the national dustmen have only to do with one 
 another, and owe no duty to an abstraction 
 ca'Ied a People, "taunting the honorable gen- 
 tleman" with this and with that, and with what 
 not, five nights a-week, until the small hours 
 of the morning? Probably he had so much 
 foreknowledge, knowing his men. 
 
 Here was Louisa on the night of the same 
 day, watching the tire as 'ii days of yore: 
 tbouL'h with a genthr and a humbler tace: 
 How much of the tuture might arise before 
 /ie/' vision ? Broadsides in the s'reets, signed 
 with her father's name, exonerating the late 
 t^lephen Blackpool, weaver, from misplaced 
 suspicion, and publishing the guilt of his own 
 unhappy son, with such extenuation as his 
 years and temptation (he could imt bring him 
 self to add, his education) might beseech; 
 were of the Present. So, Stephen Blackpool's 
 tombstone, with her father's record of his 
 death, was almost of the Present, for she knew 
 it was to be. These things she could plainly 
 see. But how much of the Future? 
 
 A working woman, christened Kachael, after 
 a long illness, once again appearing at the 
 ringing of the factory bell, and passing to and 
 
 fro at the set hours among the Coketown liar('s; 
 a kvunian ot a pensive beaut}, alwa\s dressed 
 in black, but aweet-temp led an i serene, abd 
 even cht-erlul; a woman who, ot all the peojile 
 in the place, aloneapptared to hav<- compa&aioii 
 on a degraded, druiiken wretch ot fier own sex, 
 who was sometimes seen in the lown secnlly 
 begging ol her. and crying to her; a woinHU 
 working, ever working, but content to cio it, 
 and preferring to do it as her natural lot, un- 
 til ,>he should be loo olii In lal)ur any more! 
 Did Loui.ia see this? Such a thing was to be, 
 
 A lonely ttrother. many thousamls of miles 
 away, wriiing on pap^r lilotted with tears, iliat 
 her words hail soon come true, and that -all the 
 treasures in ihe world would be cheaply bar- 
 tered for a sight of herdear face? At lengih, 
 this brother coming nearer home, with hope of 
 .■•eeing her, and being delayed by illness ; and 
 then a letter in a strange hand, saving, he died 
 iu hospital, of fever, such a dav, and died of 
 peniience and love of }ou: his last word being 
 your name; ? Did Louisa see these things ? — 
 Such things wt-re to be. 
 
 Her&elt again a wife — a mother — lovingly 
 watchful of her childree, evercaretul ihatihey 
 should have a childhood of the mind no le-s 
 than a childhood of the body, as knowing it to 
 be even a more beautiful thing, and any hoard- 
 ed scrap of the former a blessing and liappi- 
 ness to the wisest? Did Louisa see thi-i ? 
 Such a thing was never to be. 
 
 But happy Sissy's happy children loviny her ; 
 all children loving her; she, grown learned in 
 childith lore; thinking no innocent and pieity 
 fancy ever to be despised; trying hard to know 
 her humble fellow-creatures ; and to beaniily 
 their lives of machinery and readily wi h ih se 
 imaginative graces and delights, witho't which 
 the heart of infancy will wither up, the stiiidi- 
 est physical manhood will be morally stark 
 death, and the plainest national prospeniy 
 figures can show will be the Writing on the 
 Wall; she holding this course as partof no fan- 
 tastic vow, or bond, or brotherhood, or sister- 
 hood, or pledge, or covenant, or fancy dress or 
 fancy fair; but as a duty to be done — did Louisa 
 se" these things of herself? These things weie 
 to be! 
 
 L)ear reader! It rests with yn and nie 
 whether, in our two fields of action, similar 
 things shall be or not. Let them be. We 
 shall sit with lighter bosoms on the hearth, to 
 see the ashes of our fires turn gray and cold. 
 
LIZZIE LEIGH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 When Death is present in a household on 
 a Christmas Day, the very contrast between 
 the time as it now is, and the day as it has 
 often been, gives a poignancy to sorrow, — a 
 more utter blankncss to the desolation. 
 James Leigh died just as the far away bells 
 of Rochdale Church were ringing for morn- 
 ing service on Christmas Day, 1830. A few 
 minutes before his death, he opened his 
 already glazing eyes, and made a sign to 
 his wife, by the faint motion of his lips, 
 that he had yet something to say. She 
 stooped close down, and caught the broken 
 whisper, " I forgive her, Anne ! May God 
 forgive me." 
 
 " Oh my love, my dear ! only get well, 
 and I will never cease showing my thanks 
 for those words. May God in heaven bless 
 thee for saying them. Thou'rt not so rest- 
 less, my lad ! may be — Oh God I" 
 
 For even while she spoke, he died. 
 
 They had been two-and-twenty years man 
 and wife ; for nineteen of those years their 
 life had been as calm and happy, as the 
 most perfect uprightness on the one side, 
 and the most complete confidence and loving 
 submission on the other, could make it. 
 Milton's famous line might have been framed 
 and hung up as the rule of their married 
 life, for he was truly the interpreter, who 
 stood between God and her ; she would have 
 considered herself wicked if she had ever 
 dared even to think him austere, though as 
 certainly as he was an upright man, so 
 surely was ho hard, stern, and inflexible. 
 But for three years the moan and the mur- 
 mur had never been out of her heart, she 
 had rebelled against her husband as against 
 a tyrant, with a hidden sullen rebellion, 
 which tore up the old land-marks of wifely 
 duty and affection, and poisoned the foun- 
 tains whence gentlest love and reverence 
 had once been for ever springing. 
 
 But those last blessed words replaced him 
 on his throne in her heart, and called out 
 penitent anguish for all the bitter estrange- 
 ment of later years. It was this which made 
 
 her refuse all the entreaties of her sons, that 
 she would see the kind-hearted neighbors, 
 who called on their way from church, to 
 sympathise and condole. No ! she would 
 stay with the dead husband that had spoken 
 tenderly at last, if for throe years he had 
 kept silence ; who know but what, if she had 
 only been more gentle and Jess angrily re- 
 served he might have relented earlier — and 
 in time ! 
 
 _ She sat rocking herself to and fro by the 
 side of the bed, while the footsteps below 
 went in and out; she had been in sormw 
 too long to have any violent burst of deep 
 grief now ; the furrows were well worn in 
 her cheeks, and the tears flowed quietly, if 
 incessantly, all the day long. But when the 
 winter's night drew on, and the neighbors 
 had gone away to their homes, she sti)le to 
 the window, and gazed out, long and wist- 
 fully, over the dark gray moors. She did 
 not hear her son's voice, as he spoke to 
 her from the door, nor his footstep as he 
 drew nearer. She started when he touched 
 her. 
 
 " Mother ! come down to us. There's no 
 one but Will and me. Dearest mother, we 
 do so want you." The poor lad's voice 
 trembled, and he began to cry. It appeared 
 to require an effort on Mrs. Leigh's part to 
 tear herself away from the window, but with 
 a sigh she complied with his rt-quest. 
 
 The two boys (for though Will was nearly 
 twenty-one, she still thought of him as a la<l) 
 had done everything in their power to make 
 the house-place comfortable tor her. Slie 
 herself, in the old days before her sorrow, 
 had never made a brighter fire or a cleaner 
 hearth, ready for her husliand's return home, 
 than now awaited her. The tea-things were 
 all put out, and the kettle was boiling: and 
 the boys had calmed their grief dow» into a 
 kind of sober cheerfulness. They paid her 
 every attention they could think of, but re- 
 ceived little notice on hor part ; she did not 
 resist — she rather submitted to all their 
 arrangements ; but they did not seem to 
 touch her heart. 
 
 When tea was ended, — it was merely the 
 (189) 
 
190 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 form of tea that had been gone throiic^h, — 
 Will moved the things away to the dresser. 
 His mother leant back languidly in her 
 chair. 
 
 " Mother, shall Tom read you a chapter ? 
 He's a better scholar than I." 
 
 " Aye, lad !" said she, almost eagerly. 
 " That's it. Read me the Prodigal Son. 
 Aye, aye, lad. Thank thee." 
 
 Tom found the chapter, and read it in the 
 high-pitched voice which is customary in 
 village schools. His mother bent forward, 
 her lips parted, her eyes dilated ; her whole 
 body instinct with eager attention. Will 
 Bat with his head depressed and hung down. 
 He knew why that chapter had been chosen, 
 and to him it recalled the family's disgrace. 
 When the reading was ended, he still hung 
 down his head in gloomy silence. But her 
 face was brighter than it had been before 
 for the day. Iler eyes looked dreamy, as if 
 she saw a vision ; and by and by she pulled 
 the Bible towards her, and putting her finger 
 underneath each word, began to read them 
 aloud in a low voice to herself; she read 
 again the words of bitter sorrow and deep 
 humiliation ; but most of all she paused and 
 brightened over the fother's tender reception 
 of the repentant prodigal. 
 
 So passed the Christmas evening in the 
 Upclose Farm. 
 
 The snow had f\xllen heavily over the dark 
 waving moorland, before the day of the fune- 
 ral. The black, storm-laden dome of heaven 
 Liy very still and close upon the white earth, 
 as they carried the body forth out of the house 
 which had known his presence so long as 
 its ruling power. Two and two the mourners 
 followed, making a black procession, in their 
 winding march over the unbeaten snow, to 
 Milne-Row Church — now lost in some hol- 
 h)W of the bleak moors, now slowly climbing 
 the heaving ascents. There was no long 
 tarrying after the funeral, for many of the 
 neighbors who accompanied the body to the 
 grave had far to go, and the great white 
 flakes which came slowly down, were the 
 boding fore-runners of a heavy storm. One 
 old friend alone accompanied the widow and 
 her sons to their home. 
 
 The Upclose Farm had belonged for gen- 
 erotions to the Leighs ; and yet its posses- 
 sion hardly raised them above the rank of 
 laborers. There was the house and out- 
 buildings, all of an old-fashioned kind, and 
 about seven acres of barren unproductive 
 land, which they had never possessed capital 
 enough to improve ; indeed they could hardly 
 rely upon it for subsistence ; and it had 
 been customary to bring up the sons to 
 some trade — such as a wheelwright's or 
 blacksmith's. 
 
 J^mes Leigh had left a will, in the pos- 
 session of the old man who accompanied 
 them home. He read it aloud. James had 
 bequeathed the farm to his faithful wife, 
 
 Anne Leigh, for her life-time ; and after- 
 wards, to his son AVilliam. The hundred 
 and odd pounds in the savings' bank was to 
 accumulate for Thomas. 
 
 After the reading was ended, Anne Leigh 
 sat silent for a time ; and then she asked 
 to speak to Samuel Ormo alone. The sons 
 went into the back kitchen, and thence 
 strolled out into the fields, regardless of the 
 driving snow. The brothers were dearly 
 fond of each other, although they were very 
 difi"erent in character. Will, the elder, was 
 like his father, stern, reserved, and scrupu- 
 lously upright. Tom (who was ten years 
 younger) was gentle and delicate as a girl, 
 both in appearance and character. lie had 
 always clung to his mother, and dreaded his 
 father. They did not speak as they walked, 
 for they were only in the habit of talking 
 about facts, and hardly knew the more 
 sophisticated language applied to the de- 
 scription of feelings. 
 
 Meanwhile their mother had taken hold of 
 Samuel Orme's arm with her trembling hand. 
 
 " Samuel, I must let the farm — I must." 
 
 "Let the farm! What's come o'er the 
 woman ?" 
 
 " Oh, Samuel !" said she, her eyes swim- 
 ming in tears, " I'm just fain to go and live 
 in Manchester. I mun let the farm." 
 
 Samuel looked, and pondered, but did not 
 speak for some time. At last he said — 
 
 " If thou hast made up thy mind, there's 
 no speaking again it ; and thou must e'en 
 go. Thou'lt be sadly pottered wi' Man- 
 chester ways ; but that's not my look out. 
 Why, thou'lt have to buy potatoes, a thing 
 thou hast never done afore in all thy born 
 life. Well ! it's not my look out. Its ro.ther 
 for me than again me. Our Jenny is going 
 to be married to Tom Higginbotham, and 
 he was speaking of wanting a bit of land 
 to begin upon. His father will be dying 
 sometime, I reckon, and then he'll step into 
 the Croft Farm. But meanwhile — " 
 
 " Then thou'lt let the farm," said she, still 
 as eagerly as ever. 
 
 " Aye, aye, he'll take it fast enough, I've 
 a notion. But I'll not drive a bargain with 
 thee just now ; it would not be right ; we'll 
 wait a bit." 
 
 " No ; I cannot wait, settle it out at once." 
 
 " Well, well ; I'll speak to Will about it. 
 I see him out yonder, I'll step to him, and 
 talk it over." 
 
 Accordingly he went and joined the two 
 lads, and without more ado, began the sub- 
 ject to them. 
 
 " Will, thy mother is fain to go live in 
 Manchester, and covets to let the farm. 
 Now, I'm willing to take it for Tom Higgin- 
 botham ; but I like to drive a keen bargain, 
 and there would be no fun chaffering with 
 thy mother just now. Let thee and me 
 buckle to, my lad! and try and cheat each 
 other ; it will warm us this cold day." 
 
LIZZIE LEIGH. 
 
 191 
 
 "Let the farm I" said both the lads at once, 
 with infinite surprise. " Go live in Man- 
 chester !" 
 
 When Samuel Orme found that the plan 
 had never before been named to either Will 
 or Tom, he would have nothing to do with 
 it, he said, until they had spoken to their 
 mother ; likely she was " dazed" by her 
 husband's death ; he would wait a day or 
 two, and not name it to any one ; not to Tom 
 Iligginbotham himself, or maybe he would 
 set his heart upon it. The lads had better 
 go in and talk it over with their mother. 
 He bade them good day and left them. 
 
 Will looked very gloomy, but he did not 
 speak till they got near the house. Then 
 he said — 
 
 " Tom, go to th' shippon, and supper the 
 cows. I want to speak to mother alone." 
 
 When he entered the house-place, she was 
 sitting before the fire, looking into its em- 
 bers. She did not hear him come in ; for 
 some time she had lost her quick perception 
 of outward things. 
 
 " Mother ! what's this about going to 
 Manchester ?" asked he. 
 
 " Oh, lad !" said she, turning round, and 
 speaking in a beseeching tone, " I must go 
 and seek our Lizzie. I cannot rest here for 
 thinking on her. Many's the time I have 
 left thy father sleeping in bed, and stole to 
 th' window, and looked and looked my 
 heart out towards Manchester, till I thought 
 I must just set out and tramp over moor and 
 moss straight away till I got there, and then 
 lift up every down-cast face till I came to 
 our Lizzie. And often, when the south wind 
 was blowing soft among the hollows, I've 
 fancied (it could but be fancy, thou knowest) 
 I heard her crying upon me ; and I've 
 thought the voice came closer and closer, 
 till at last it was sobbing out ' Mother' 
 close to the door ; and I've stolen down, and 
 undone the latch before now, and looked out 
 into the still black night, thinking to see her, 
 — and turned sick and sorrowful when I 
 heard no living sound but the sough of the 
 wind dying away. Oh ! speak not to me of 
 stopping here, when she may be perishing 
 for hunger, like the poor lad in the parable I 
 And now she lifted up her voice and wept 
 aloud. 
 
 Will was deeply grieved. He had been 
 old enough to be told the family shame 
 when, more than two years before, his fa- 
 ther had had his letter to his daughter re- 
 turned by her mistress in Manchester, tell- 
 ing him that Lizzie had left her service some 
 time— and why. He had sympathised with 
 his father's stern anger ; though he had 
 thought him something hard, it is true, 
 when he had forbidden his weeping, heart- 
 broken wife to go and try to find her poor 
 sinning child, and declared that henceforth 
 they would have no daughter ; that she 
 should be as one dead, and her name never 
 
 more be named at market or at meal time, 
 in blessing or in prayer. He had held hia 
 peace, with compressed lips and contracted 
 brow, when the neighbors had noticed to 
 him how poor Lizzie's death had aged 
 both his father and his mother; and how 
 they thought the bereaved couple would 
 never hold up their heads again. He him- 
 self had felt as if that one event had made 
 him old before his time ; and had envied Tom 
 the tears he had shed over poor, pretty, 
 innocent, dead Lizzie. He thought about 
 her sometimes, till he ground his teeth 
 together, and could have struck her down 
 in her shame. His mother had never named 
 her to him until now. 
 
 "Mother!" said he, at last. "She may 
 be dead. Most likely she is." 
 
 " No, Will ; she is not dead," said Mrs. 
 Leigh. "Godwin not let her die till V\i 
 seen her once again. Thou dost not knov» 
 how I've prayed and prayed just once again 
 to see her sweet face, and tell her I've fur 
 given her though she's broken my heart 
 — she has, Will." She could not go on fol 
 a minute or two for the choking sobs. " Tho\ 
 dost not know that, or thou wouldst not say 
 she could be dead, — for God is very merci- 
 ful, Will ; He is, — He is much more pitiful 
 than man, — I could never ha' spoken to thy 
 father as I did to Him, — and yet thy father 
 forgave her at last. The last words he said 
 were that he forgave her. Thou'lt not be 
 harder than thy father, Will? Do not try and 
 hinder me going to seek her, for it's no use." 
 
 Will sat very still for a long while before 
 he spoke. At last he said, " I'll not hinder 
 you. I think she's dead, but that's no 
 matter." 
 
 " She is not dead," said his mother, with 
 low earnestness. Will took no notice of the 
 interruption. 
 
 "We will all go to Manchester for a 
 twelvemonth, and let the farm to Tom Ilig- 
 ginbotham. I'll get blacksniitii's wurk ; and 
 Tom can have good schooling for awhile, 
 which he's always craving for. At the end 
 of the year you'll come back, mother, and 
 give over fretting for Lizzie, and think with 
 me that she is dead, — and to my mind, that 
 would be more comfort than to think of her 
 living ;" he dropped his voice as he spoke 
 these last words. She shook her head, but 
 made no answer. He asked again — 
 
 " Will you, mother, agree to this?'' 
 
 "I'll agree to it a-this-ns," said she. " If 
 I hear and see nought of her for a twelve- 
 month, me being in Manchester looking out, 
 I'll just ha' broken my heart fairly before 
 the year's ended, and then I shall knew 
 neither love nor sorrow for her any more, 
 when I'm at rest in the grave — I'll agree to 
 that. Will." 
 
 " Well, I suppose it must be so. I shall 
 not tell Tom, mother, why we're flitting tv 
 Manchester. Best spare him." 
 
1912 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 " As thou -wilt," said she, sadly, " so that 
 we go, that's all."' 
 
 Before the wild daffodils were in flower 
 in the sheltered copses round Upclose Farm, 
 the Lei<;hs were settled in their Manchester 
 home ; if they could ever grow to consider 
 that place as a home, where there was no 
 garden, or outbuilding, no fresh breezy out- 
 let, no far-stretching view, over moor and 
 hollow, — no dumb animals to be tended, 
 and, what more than all they missed, no 
 old haunting memories, even though those 
 remembrances told of sorrow, and the dead 
 and gone. 
 
 Mrs. Leigh heeded the loss of all these 
 things less than her sons. She had more 
 spirit in her countenance than she ho.d had for 
 months, because now she had hope ; of a sad 
 enough kind, to be sure, but still it was hope. 
 She performed all her household duties, 
 strange and complicated as they were, and be- 
 wildered as she was with all the town-neces- 
 sities of her new manner of life ; but when 
 her house was " sided," and the boys came 
 home from their work, in the evening, she 
 would put on her things and steal out, un- 
 noticed, as she thought, but not without 
 many a heavy sigh from Will, after she had 
 closed the house-door and departed. It was 
 often past midnight before she came back, 
 pale and weary, with almost a guilty look 
 upon her face ; but that face so full of dis- 
 appointment and hope-deferred, that Will 
 had never the heart to say what he thought 
 of the folly and hopelessness of the search. 
 Night after night it was renewed, till days 
 grew to weeks, and weeks to months. All 
 this time Will did his duty towards her as 
 well as he could, without having sympathy 
 with her. He staid at home in the even- 
 ings for Tom's sake, and often wished he 
 had Tom's pleasure in reading, for the 
 time hung heavy on his hands, as he sat up 
 for his mother. 
 
 I need not tell you how the mother spent 
 the weary hours. And yet I will tell you 
 something. She used to wander out, at 
 first as if without a purpose, till she rallied 
 her thoughts, and brought all her energies 
 to bear on the one point ; then she went 
 with earnest patience along the least known 
 ways to some new part of the town, looking 
 wistfully with dumb entreaty into people's 
 faces ; sometimes catching a glimpse of a 
 figure Avhich had a kind of momentary like- 
 ness to her child's, and following that figure 
 with never wearying perseverance till some 
 light from shop or lamp showed the cold 
 strange face which was not her daughter's. 
 Once or twice a kind-hearted passer-by, 
 struck by her look of yearning woe, turned 
 back and offered help, or asked her what 
 she wanted. When so spoken to, she an- 
 swered only, ' You don't know a poor girl 
 they call Lizzie Leigh, do you ?' and when 
 they denied all knowledge, she shook her 
 
 head, and went on again. I think they be- 
 lieved her to be crazy. But she never spoke 
 first to any one. She sometimes took a few 
 minutes' rest on the doorsteps, and some- 
 times (very seldom) covered her face and 
 cried ; but she could not ag"ord to lose time 
 and chances in this way ; while her eyes 
 were blinded with tears, the lost one might 
 pass by unseen. 
 
 One evening, in the rich time of shortening 
 autumn-days. Will saw an old man, who 
 without being absolutely drunk, could not 
 guide himself rightly along the foot-path, 
 and was mocked for his unsteadiness of gait 
 by the idle boys of the neighborhood. For 
 his father's sake Will regarded old age with 
 tenderness, even when most degraded and 
 removed from the stern virtues which digni- 
 fied that father ; so he took the old man 
 home, and seemed to believe his often re- 
 peated assertions that he drank nothing but 
 water. The stranger tried to stiffen himself 
 up into steadiness as he drew nearer home, 
 as if there were some one there, for whose 
 respect he cared even in his half-intoxicated 
 state, or whose feelings he feared to grieve. 
 Ilis home was exquisitely clean and neat 
 even in outside appearance ; threshold, win- 
 dow, and window-sill, were outward signs 
 of some spirit of purity within. Will was 
 rewarded for his attention by a bright glance 
 of thanks, succeeded by a blush of shame, 
 from a young woman of twenty or there- 
 abouts. She did not speak, or second her 
 father's hospitable invitations to him to be 
 seated. She seemed unwilling that a stran- 
 ger should witness her father's attempts at 
 stately sobriety, and Will could not bear to 
 stay and see her distress. But when the old 
 man, with many a flabby shake of the hand, 
 kept asking him to come again some other 
 evening and see them. Will sought her down- 
 cast eyes, and, though he could not read 
 their veiled meaning, he answered timidly, 
 " If its agreeable to everybody, I'll come — 
 and thank ye." But there was no answer 
 from the girl to whom this speech was in 
 reality addressed ; and Will left the house 
 liking her all the better for never speaking. 
 
 He thought about her a great deal for the 
 next day or two; he scolded himself for 
 being so foolish as to think of her, and then 
 fell to with fresh vigor, and thought of her 
 more than ever. He tried to depreciate 
 her ; he told himself she was not pretty, and 
 then made indignant answer that he liked 
 her looks much better than any beauty of 
 them all. He wished he was not so country 
 looking, so red-faced, so broad-shouldered; 
 while she was like a lady, with her smooth 
 colorless complexion, her bright dark hair 
 and her spotless dress. Pretty, or not pretty, 
 she drew his footsteps towards her ; he could 
 not resist the impulse that made him wish 
 to see her once more, and find out some fault 
 which should unloose his heart from her 
 
LIZZIE LEIGH. 
 
 193 
 
 unconscious koepinj;. But there she w.as, 
 pure and maidenly as before. lie sat and 
 looked, answering:; her father at cross pur- 
 poses, while she drew more and more into 
 the shadow of the chimney-corner out of 
 sight. Then the spirit that possessed him 
 (it was not he himself, sure, that did so im- 
 pudent a thing !) made hiui get up and carry 
 the candle to a different place, under the 
 pretence of giving her mure light at her 
 sewing, but in reality, to be able to see her 
 better ; she could not stand this much longer, 
 but jumped ud, and said she must put her 
 little niece to bed ; and surely, there never 
 was, before or since, so troublesome a child 
 of two years old ; for, though AVill staid an 
 hour and a half longer, she never came 
 down again. He won the father's heart, 
 though, by his capacity as a listener, for 
 some people are not at all particular, and, 
 60 that they themselves may talk on undis- 
 turbed, are not so unreasonable as to expect 
 attention to what they say. 
 
 Will did gather this much, however, from 
 the old man's ti\lk. lie had once been quite 
 in a gt-nteel line of business, but had failed 
 for more money than any jrreengrocer he 
 had heard of; at least, any who did not mix 
 up fish and game with greengrocery proper. 
 This grand failure seemed to have been the 
 event of his life, and one on which he dwelt 
 with a strange kind of pride. It appeared 
 as if at present he 'rested from his past ex- 
 ertions (in the bankrupt line), and depended 
 on his daughter, who kept a small school 
 for very young children. But all these par- 
 ticulars Will only remembered and under- 
 stood, when he had left the house ; at the 
 time he heard them, he was thinking of 
 Susan. After he had made good his footing 
 at Mr. Palmer's he was not long, you ma}' 
 be sure, without finding some reason for re- 
 turning again and again. He listened to 
 her father, he talked to the little niece, but 
 he looked at Susan, both while he listened 
 and while he talked. Iler father kept on 
 insisting on his former gentility, the details 
 of which would have appeared very ques- 
 tionable to Will's mind, if the sweet, delicate, 
 modest Susan had not thrown an inexplica- 
 ble air of refinement over all she came near. 
 She never spoke mucji ; she was generally 
 diligently at work ; but when she moved it 
 was 80 noiselessly, and when she did speak, 
 it was in so low and soft a voice, that silence, 
 speech, motion and stillness, alike seemed 
 to remove her high above Will's reach into 
 some saintly and inaccessible air of glory — 
 high above his reach, even as she knew him ! 
 And, if she were made acquainted with the 
 dark secret behind, of his sister's shame, 
 which was kept ever present to his mind by 
 his mother's nightly search among the out- 
 cast and forsaken, would not Susan shrink 
 away from him with loathing, as if he were 
 tainted by the involuntary relationship? 
 
 This was his dread ; and thereupon followed 
 a resolution that lie would withdraw from 
 her sweet company before it was to late. 
 So he resisted internal temptation, and staid 
 at home, and suffered and sii^h.'d. II^> be- 
 came angry with his mother for iier untiring 
 patience in seeking for one who, he could 
 not help hoping, was dead rather than alive. 
 He spoke sharply to her, and received (.nly 
 such sad deprecatory answers as made him 
 reproach himself, and still more lose sight 
 of peace of mind. This struggle could not 
 last long without affecting his health ; and 
 Tom, his sole companion through the long 
 evenings, noticed his increasing languor, hi;i 
 restless irritability, with perple.ic(;d anxietv, 
 and at last resolved to call his motiier's at- 
 tention to his brother's haggard, care-worn 
 looks. She listened with a startleil recoli-x- 
 tion of AVill's claims upon her h)ve. She 
 noticed his decreasing appetite, and half- 
 checked sighs. 
 
 " Will, lad I what's come o'er thee?" said 
 she to him, as he sat listlessly gazing into 
 the fire. 
 
 " There's nought the matter with me," 
 said he, as if annoyed at her remark. 
 
 '• Xay, lad, but there is." lie did not 
 speak again to contradict her ; indeed she 
 did not know if he had heard her, so un- 
 moved did he look. 
 
 "AVould'st like to go liack to Upcluse 
 Farm?" asked she, soi-rowi"ully. 
 
 " It's just blackberr3ing time." said Tom. 
 
 Will shook his head. She looked at him 
 awhile, as if trying to read that expression 
 of despondency and trace it back to its 
 source. 
 
 " Will and Tom could go," said she ; " I 
 must stay here till I've found her, thou 
 know'st," continued she, dropping her voice. 
 
 lie turned quickly round, and with the 
 authority he at all times exercised over Tom, 
 bade him begone to bed. 
 
 When Tom had left the room, he prepare4t 
 to speak. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 "Mother," then said Will, "'why will 
 you keep on thinking she's alive? If she 
 were but deatl, we need never name her 
 name agriin. We've never heard nought on 
 her since father wrote her that letter ; we 
 never knew whether she got it or not. She'd 
 left her place before then. Many a one dies 
 is " 
 
 "Oh my lad! dunnot speak so to me, or my 
 heart will break outright," said his mother, 
 witii a sort of cry. Then she calmed herself, 
 for she ^-earned to persuade him to her own 
 belief. " Thou never asked, and thou'rt too 
 like thy father for me to tell without asking 
 — but It were all to be near Lizzie's old place 
 
194 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 that I settled down on this side o' Man- 
 chester ; and the very day after we came, 
 I went to her old missus, and as^ked to speak 
 a word wi' her. I had a strons; mind to 
 cast it up to her, that she should ha' sent my 
 poor lass away without tellinj^ on it to us 
 first: but she were in black, and looked so 
 sad I could na' find in my heart to threep it 
 up. But I did ask her a bit about our Liz- 
 zie. The master would have her turned 
 away at a day's warning, (he's gone to 
 t'other place ; I hope he'll meet wi' more 
 mercy there than he showed our Lizzie, — I 
 do, — ) and when the missus asked her should 
 she write to us, she says Lizzie shook her 
 head ; and when she speered at her again, 
 the poor lass went down on her knees, and 
 begged her not, for she said it would break 
 my heart (as it has done, AVill — God knows 
 it has)," and tlie poor mother, choking with 
 her struggle to keep down her hard over- 
 nla^tering grief, " and her father would 
 curse her — Oh, God, teach me to be patient." 
 She could not spetik for a few minutes, — 
 "and the lass threatened, and said she'd go 
 drown herself in the canal, if the missus 
 wrote home — and so — 
 
 " Well ! I'd got a trace of my child, — the 
 missus thought she'd gone to the workhouse 
 to be nursed ; and there I went — and there, 
 sure enough, she had been, — and they'd 
 turned her out as soon as she was strong, and 
 told her she were young enough to work, — 
 but whatten kind o' work would be open to 
 her, lad, and her baby to keep?" 
 
 Will listened to his mother's tale with 
 deep sympathy, not unmixed with the old 
 bitter shame. But the opening of her heart 
 had unlocked his, and after a while he 
 spoke. 
 
 " Mother! I think I'd e'en better go home. 
 Tom can stay wi' thee. I know I should 
 stay too, but I cannot stay in peace so near 
 — her — without craving to see her — Susan 
 Palmer I mean." 
 
 " Has the old Mr. Palmer thou telled me 
 on a daughter?" asked Mrs. Leigh. 
 
 " Aye, he has. And I love her above a 
 bit. And it's because I love her I want to 
 leave Manchester. That's all." 
 
 Mrs. Leigh tried to understand this speech 
 for some time, but found it difficult of inter- 
 pretation. 
 
 " Why should'st thou not tell her thou 
 lov'st her? Thou'rt a likely lad, and sure 
 o' work. Thou'lt have Upclose at my death ; 
 and as for that I could let thee have it now, 
 and keep myself by doing a bit of charring. 
 It seems to me a very backward sort o' way 
 of winning her to think of leaving Man- 
 chester." 
 
 " Oh, mother, she's so gentle and so good, 
 — she's downright holy. She's never known 
 a touch of sin ; and can I ask her to marry 
 me, knowing what we do about Lizzie, and 
 fearing worse! I doubt if one like her could 
 
 ever care for me ; but if she knew about my 
 sister, it would put a gulf between us, and 
 she'd shudder up at the thought of crossing 
 it. You don't know how good she is, 
 mother !" 
 
 " Will, Will ! if she's so good as thou 
 say'st, she'll have pity on such as my Lizzie. 
 If she has no pity for such, she's a cruel 
 Pharisee, and thou'rt best without her." 
 
 But he only shook his head, and sighed ; 
 and for the time the conversation dropped. 
 
 But a new idea sprang up in Mrs. Leigh's 
 head. She thought that she would go and 
 see Susan Palmer, and speak up for Will, 
 and tell her the truth about Lizzie ; and ac- 
 cording to her pity for the poor sinner, 
 would she be worthy or unworthy of him. 
 She resolved to go the very next afternoon, 
 but without telling any one of her plan. 
 Accordingly she looked out the Sunday 
 clothes she had never before had the heart 
 to unpack since she came to ^Manchester, 
 but which she now desired to appear in, in 
 order to do credit to Will. She put on her 
 old-fashioned black mode bonnet, trimmed 
 with real lace ; her scarlet cloth cloak, 
 whi -h she had had ever since she was mar- 
 ried ; and always spotlessly clean, she set 
 forth on her unauthorized embassy. She 
 knew the Palmers lived in Crown Street, 
 though where she liad heard it she could nut 
 tell ; and modestly asking her way, she 
 arrived in the street about a quarter to four 
 o'clock. She stopped to inquire the exact 
 number, and the woman whom she ad- 
 dressed told her that Susan Palmer's selionl 
 would not be loosed till four, and asked 
 her to stop in and wait until then at her 
 house. 
 
 " For," said she, smiling, " them that 
 wants Susan Palmer wants a kind friend of 
 ours; so we, in a manner, call cousins. Sit 
 down, missus, sit down. I'll wipe the chair, 
 so that it shanna dirty your cloak. My 
 mother used to wear them bright cloaks, 
 and they're right gradely things again a 
 green field. 
 
 " Han ye known Susan Palmer long ?" 
 asked ]Mrs. Leigh, pleased with the admira- 
 tion of her cloak. 
 
 "Ever since they comed to live in our 
 street. Our Sally goes to her school." 
 
 " Whatten sort of a lass is she, for I ha' 
 never seen her ?" 
 
 " Well, — as for looks, I cannot say. It's 
 so long since I first knowed her, that I've 
 clean forgotten what I thought of her then. 
 ]My master says he never saw such a smile 
 for gladdening the heart. But may be it's 
 not looks you're asking about. The best 
 thing I can say of her looks is, that she's 
 just one a stranger would stop in the street 
 to ask help from if he needed it. All the 
 little childer creeps as close as they can to 
 her ; she'll have as many as three or four 
 hanging to her apron all at once." 
 
LIZZIE LEIGH. 
 
 195 
 
 " Is sho cocket at all ?" 
 
 " Cocket, bless j'ou ! you never saw a 
 creature less set up in all your life. Iler 
 father's cooket enouji;h. No ! she's not cocket 
 any way. You've not heard niui!h of Susan 
 Palmer, I reckon, if you think she's cocket. 
 She's just one to come quietly in, and do 
 the very thing most wanted ; little things, 
 inaylie, that any one could do, but tliat few 
 would think on, for another. She'll bring her 
 thimble wi' her, and mend up alter the 
 chillier o' nights, — and she writes all Betty 
 Harker's letters to her grandchild out at 
 s.'rvice, — and she's in nobody's way, and 
 that's a great matter, I take it. Here's the 
 childer running past! School is loosed. 
 You'll find her now, missus, ready to hear 
 and ti) help. But we none on us frab her 
 by going near her in school-time." 
 
 Poor iMrs. Leigh's heart began to beat, 
 and she could almost have turned round and 
 gone home again. Her country breeding 
 had made her shy of strangers, and this 
 Susan Palmer appeared to her like a real 
 born lady by all accounts. So she knocked 
 with a timid feeling at the indicated door, 
 and when it was opened, dropped a simple 
 curtsey without speaking. Susan had her 
 little niece in her arms, curled up with fond 
 endearment against her breast, but she put 
 her gently down to the ground, and instantly 
 placed a chair in the best corner of the room 
 for Mrs. Leigh, when she told her who she 
 was. " It's not Will as has asked me to 
 come," said the mother, apologetically; " I'd 
 a wish just to speak to you myself!" 
 
 Susan colored up to her temples, and 
 stooped to pick up the little toddling girl. 
 In a minute or two Mrs. Leigh began again. 
 
 "Will thinks you would na respect us if 
 you knew all ; but I think you could na help 
 feeling for us in the sorrow God has put 
 upon us ; so I just put on my bonnet, and 
 came off unknownst to the lads. Every one 
 says you're very good, and that the Lord 
 has keeped you from falling from his ways ; 
 but maybe you've never yet been tried and 
 tempted as some is. I'm perhaps speaking 
 too plain, but my heart's welly broken, and 
 I can't be choice in my words as them who 
 are happy can. Well now ! I'll tell you the 
 truth. Will dreads you to hear it, but I'll 
 just tell it you. You mun know," — but 
 here the poor woman's words failed her, and 
 she could do nothing but sit rocking herself 
 backwards and forwards, with sad eyes, 
 straight-gazing into Susan's face, as if they 
 tried to tell the tale of agony which the 
 quivering lips refused to utter. Those 
 wretched stony eyes forced the tears down 
 Susan's cheeks, and, as if this sympatiiy 
 gave the mother strength, she went on in a 
 low voice, "I had a daughter once, my 
 heart's darling. Iler father thought I made 
 too much on her, and that she'd grow 
 marred staying at home; so he said she 
 
 mun go among strangers, and learn to rough 
 it. She were young, and liked the thought 
 of seeing a bit of the world ; and her fiither 
 heard on a place in Manohester. Well! I'll 
 in)t weary you. That poor girl were led 
 astray ; and first thing we heard on it, was 
 when a letter of her father's was sent back 
 by her missus, saying, she'd left her place, 
 or, to speak right, the master had turned 
 her into the street soon as he had heard of 
 her condition — and she not seventeen !" 
 
 She now cried alouu ; and Susan wept 
 too. The little child looked up into their 
 faces, and, catching their sorrow, liegan to 
 whimper and wail. Susan took it soltly up, 
 and hiding her face in its little neck, tried 
 to restrain her tears, and think of comfort 
 for the mother. At last she said : — 
 
 "Where is she now?" 
 
 " Lass ! I dunnot know," said Mrs. Leigh, 
 checking her sobs to communicate this ad- 
 dition to her distress. "Mrs. Lomax telled 
 me she went" 
 
 "Mrs. Lomax — what Mrs. Lomax?" 
 
 " Her as lives in Bral)azon-street. She 
 telled me my poor wench went to the work- 
 house fra there. I'll not speak again the 
 dead ; but if her father would but ha' letten 
 me, — but he were one who had no notion — 
 no, I'll not say that ; best say nought. He 
 forgave her on his death-bed. I dare say I 
 did na go th' right way to work." 
 
 " Will you hold the child for me one in- 
 stant?" said Susan. 
 
 " Ay, if it will come to me. Childer used 
 to be fond on mo till I got the sad look on 
 my face that scares them, 1 think." 
 
 But the little girl clung to Susan ; so she 
 carried it up stairs with her. Mrs. Leigh 
 sat by herself — how long she did not know. 
 
 Susan came down with a bundle of far- 
 worn baby-clothos. 
 
 "You must listen to me a bit, and not 
 think too much about what I'm going to tell 
 you. Nanny is not ni}' niece, nor any kin 
 to me that I know of I used to go out 
 working by the day. One night, as I came 
 home, I thought some woman was fidlowing 
 me; I turned to look. The woman, before 
 I could see her face (for she turned it to one 
 side), offered me something. I held out my 
 arms by instinct; she dropped a bundle into 
 them with a bursting sob that went straight 
 to my heart. It was a baby. 1 looked 
 round again ; but the woman was gone. 
 She had run away as quick as lightning. 
 There was a little packet of clothes — very 
 few — and as if they were made out of its 
 mother's gowns, for they were largo patterns 
 to buy for a baby. 1 was always fond of 
 babies; and I had not my wits about me, 
 fithor says ; for it was very C(dd, and when 
 I'd seen as well as I c(uild (for it was past 
 ten) that there was no one in the street, I 
 brought it in and warmed it. Father was 
 very angry when he came, and said he'd 
 
196 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 take it to the workhouse the next morninjr, 
 and flyted me sadly about it. But when 
 morning came I could not bear to part with 
 it ; it had slept in my arms all night ; and 
 I've heard what workhouse bringing up is. 
 So I told father I'd give up going out work- 
 ing, and stay at home and keop school, if I 
 might only keep the baby ; and after awhile, 
 he said if I earned enough for him to have 
 hia comforts, he'd let mo; but he's never 
 taken to lier. Now, don't tremble so — I've 
 but a little more to tell — and maybe I'm 
 wrong in telling it; but I used to work next 
 door to Mrs. Lomax's, in Brabazon-street, 
 and the servants were all thick together; 
 and I heard about Bessy (they called her) 
 being sent away. I don't know that ever I 
 saw her ; but the time would be about fitting 
 to this child's age, and I've sometimes fan- 
 cied it was her's. And now, will you look 
 at the little clothes that came with her — 
 bless her !" 
 
 But Mrs. Leigh had fainted. The strange 
 joy and shame, and gushing love for the 
 little child had overpowered her; it was 
 some time before Susan could bring her 
 round. Then she was all trembling, sick 
 with impatience to look at the little frocks. 
 Among them was a slip of paper which Su- 
 san had forgotten to name, that had been 
 pinned to the bundle. On it was scrawled 
 in a round stiif hand, 
 
 " Call her Anne. She does not cry much, 
 and takes a deal of notice. God bless you 
 and forgive me." 
 
 The writing was no clue at all ; the name 
 " Anne," common though it was, seemed 
 something to build upon. But Mrs. Leigh 
 recognized one of the frocks instantly, as 
 being made out of part of a gown that she 
 and her daughter had bought together in 
 Kochdale. 
 
 She stood up, and stretched out her hands 
 in the attitude of blessing over Susan's bent 
 head. 
 
 "God bless you, and show you His mercy 
 in your need, as you have shown it to this 
 little child." 
 
 She took the little creature in her arms, 
 and smoothed away her sad looks into a 
 smile, and kissed it fondly, saying over and 
 over again, "Nanny, Nanny, my little Nan- 
 ny." At last the child was soothed, and 
 looked in her face and smiled back again. 
 
 " It has her eyes," said she to Susan. 
 
 " I never saw her to the best of my know- 
 ledge. I think it must be her's by the frock. 
 But where can she be ?" 
 
 " God knows," said Mrs. Leigh ; " I dare 
 not think she's dead. I'm sure she isn't." 
 
 " No ! she's not dead. Every now and 
 then a little packet is thrust in under our 
 door, with may-be two half-crowns in it ; 
 once it was half-a-sovereign. Altogether 
 I've got seven-and-thirty shillings wrapped 
 up for Nanny. I never touch it, but I've 
 
 often thought the poor mother feels near to 
 God when she brings this money. Father 
 wantod to set the policeman to watch, but I 
 said No, for I was afraid if she was watched 
 she might not come, and it seemed such a 
 holy thing to be checking her in, I could 
 not find in my heart to do it," 
 
 " Oh, if we could but find her ! I'd take 
 her in my arms, and we'd just lie down and 
 die together." 
 
 " Nay, don't speak so 1" said Susan gently, 
 " for all that's come and gone, she may 
 turn right at last. Mary Magdalen did, you 
 know." 
 
 " Eh ! but I were nearer right about thee 
 than Will. He thought you would never 
 look on hirn again if you knew about Lizzie. 
 But thou'rt not a Pharisee." 
 
 " I'm sorry he thought I could be so 
 hard," said Susan in a low voice, and color- 
 ing up. Then Mrs. Leigh was alarmed, and 
 in her motherly anxiety, she began to fear 
 lest she had injured Will in Susan's estima- 
 tion. 
 
 " You see Will thinks so much of you — 
 gold would not be good enough for you to 
 walk on, in his eye. He said you'd never 
 look at him as he was, let alone his being 
 brother to my poor wench. He loves you 
 so, it makes him think meanly on every- 
 thing belonging to himself, as not fit to come 
 near ye, — but he's a good lad, and a good 
 son — thou'lt be a happy woman if thou'lt 
 have him, — so don't let my words go against 
 him ; dt)n't." 
 
 But Susan hung her head and made no 
 answer. She had not known until now, 
 that Will thought so earnestly and seriously 
 about her ; and even now she felt afraid that 
 Mrs. Leigh's words promised her too much 
 happiness, and that they could not be true. 
 At any rate the instinct of modesty made 
 her shrink from saying anything which 
 might seem like a confession of her own 
 feelings to a third person. Accordingly she 
 turned the conversation on the child. 
 
 " I'm sure he could not help loving Nan- 
 ny," said she. " There never was such a 
 good little darling ; don't you think she'd 
 win his heart if he knew she was his niece, 
 and perhaps bring him to think kindly on 
 his sister?" 
 
 " I dunnot know," said Mrs. Leigh shak- 
 ing her head. " He has a turn in his eye 
 
 like his father, that makes me . He's 
 
 right down good though. But you see I've 
 never been a good one at managing folks ; 
 one sevei'e look turns me sick, and then I 
 say just the wrong thing, I'm so fluttered. 
 Now I should like nothing better than to 
 take Nancy home with me, but Tom knows 
 nothing but that his sister is dead, and I've 
 not the knack of speaking rightly to Will. 
 I dare not do it, and that's the truth. But 
 you mun not think badly of Will. He's so 
 good hissel, that he can't understand how 
 
LIZZIE LEIGH. 
 
 197 
 
 an}' one can do wrong ; and, above all, I'm 
 giire he Icves you dearly." 
 
 " I don't think I could part with Nanny," 
 said Sus;\n, anxious to stnp this revelation 
 of Will's attachment to herself. " He'll 
 come round to her soon ; he can't foil ; and 
 I'll keep a sharp look-out after the poor 
 mother, and try and catch her the next 
 time she comes with her little parcel of 
 money." 
 
 " Aye. lass ! we mun get hold of her ; my 
 Lizzie. I love thee dearly for thy kindness 
 to lier child : hut, if tiiou canst catch her 
 fi.r me. I'll pray for thee when I'm too near 
 my death to speak words ; and while I live, 
 I'll serve thee next to her, — she mun come 
 first, thou knowst. God bless thee, lass. 
 My heart is lighter by a deal than it was 
 when I corned in. Them lads will be look- 
 iu'X for me home, and I mun go, and leave 
 this little sweet one," kissing it. " If I can 
 take courage, I'll tell Will all that has come 
 and gone between us two. He may come 
 and s-e thee, maynt he !" 
 
 " Father will be very glad to see him, I'm 
 sure." replied Susan. The way in which 
 this was spoken satisfied Mrs. Leigh's ans- 
 i-.ius heart that she had done Will no harm 
 by what she had said ; and with many a 
 kiss to the little one. and one more fervent 
 tearful blessing on Susan, she went home- 
 wards. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 That night Mrs. Leigh stopped at home ; 
 that only ni^lit for many months. Even 
 Tom, the scholar, looked up from his books 
 in amazement ; but then he remembered 
 that Will had not been well, and that his 
 mother's attention having been called to the 
 circumstance, it was only natural she should 
 stay to watch him. And no watching could 
 be more tender, or more complete. Her 
 loving eyes seemed never averted from his 
 face ; his grave, sad, care-worn face. When 
 Tom went to bed the mother left her seat, 
 and going up to Will where he sat looking 
 at the fire, but not seeing it, she kissed his 
 forehead, and said, 
 
 " Will ! lad, I've been to see Susan Pal- 
 mer !" 
 
 .She felt the start under her hand which 
 was placed on his shoulder, but he was 
 silent for a minute or two. Then he said, 
 
 " AVhat took you there, mother?" 
 
 " Why, my lad, it was likely I should 
 wish to see one you cared for ; I did not 
 put myself forward. I put on my Sunday 
 clothes, and tried to behave as yo'd ha liked 
 me. At least I remember trying at first ; 
 but after, I forgot all." 
 
 She rather wished that he would question 
 her as to what made her forget all. But he 
 only said, 
 
 " How was she looking, mother?' 
 " Will, thou seest 1 never set eyes ou her 
 before ; but she's a good, gentle looking 
 creature ; and I love her dearly, as I've rea- 
 son to." 
 
 Will looked up with momentary surprise ; 
 for his mother was too shy to "bo usually 
 taken with strangers. But after all it was 
 natural in this case, for who could look at 
 Susan without loving her ? So still he did 
 not ask any questions, and his poor mother 
 had to take courage, and try again to in- 
 troduce the subject near to her heart. But 
 how? 
 
 '•Will!" said she (jerking it out, in 
 sudden despair of her own powers to lead to 
 what she wanted to say), " I telled her all." 
 " Mother I you've ruined me," said he, 
 standing up, and standing opposite to her 
 with a stern white look of affright on his 
 face. 
 
 " No ! my own dear lad ; dunnot look so 
 scared, I have not ruined you !" she ex- 
 claimed, placing her two hands on hia 
 shoulders and looking fondly into his face, 
 " She's not one to harden her heart against 
 a mother's sorrow. My own lad, she's too 
 good for that. She's not one to judge and 
 scorn the sinner. She's too deep read in 
 her New Testament for that. Take courage. 
 Will ; and thou mayst, for I watched her 
 well, though it is not for one woman to let 
 out another's secret. Sit thee down, lad, 
 for thou look'st very white." 
 
 He sat down. His mother drew a stool 
 towards him, and sat at his feet. 
 
 " Did you tell her about Lizzie, then ?" 
 asked he, hoarse and low. 
 
 " I did, I telled her all ; and she fell a 
 crying over my deep sorrow, and the poor 
 wench's sin. And then a light corned into 
 her face, trembling and quivering with some 
 new glad thought ; and what dost thou think 
 it was. Will, lad? Nay, I'll not misdoubt 
 but that thy heart will give thanks as mine 
 did, afore God and His angels, for her great 
 goodness. That little iS'anny is not her 
 niece, she's our Lizzie's own child, my little 
 grandchild." She could no longer restrain 
 her tears, and they fell hot and fast, but stiU 
 she looked into his face. 
 
 " Did she know it was Lizzie's child ? I do 
 not comprehend," said he, flushing red. 
 
 " She knows now ; she did not at first, 
 but took the little helpless creature in, out 
 of her own pitiful loving heart, guessing 
 only that it was the child of shame, and 
 she's worked for it, and kept it, and tended 
 it ever sin' it were a mere baby, and loves 
 it fondly. Will ! won't you love it ?" asked 
 she beseechingly. 
 
 He was silent for an instant; then he 
 
 said, " Mother, I'll try. Give me time, f'>r 
 
 all these things startle me. To think of 
 
 Susan having to do with such a child!" 
 
 " Aye, Will ! and to think (as may be yet) 
 
198 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 of Susan havino; to do with the child's mo- 
 ther! For she is tender and pitiful, and 
 speaks hopefully of my lost one, and will try 
 and find her for me, when she comes, as she 
 does sometimes, to thrnst money under the 
 door, for her bahy. Think of that, Will. 
 Here's Susan, jroud and pure as the angels in 
 heaven, yet, like them, full of hope and mer- 
 cy, and one who like them, will rejoice over 
 her as repents. Will, my lad, I'm not afeard 
 of you now, and I must speak, and you must 
 listen. I am your mother, and I dare to 
 command you, because I know I am in the 
 right, and that God is on my side. If he 
 should lead the poor wandering lassie to 
 Susan's door, and she comes back crying 
 and sorrowful, led by that good angel 
 to us once more, thou shalt never say a 
 casting-up word to her about her sin, but 
 be tender and helpful towards one 'who 
 \vas lost and is found,' so may God's 
 blessing rest on thee, .and so mayst thou 
 lead Susan home as thy wife." 
 
 She stood no longer as the meek, implo- 
 ring, gentle mother, but firm and dignified, 
 as if the interpreter of God's will. Iler 
 manner was so unusual and solemn, that it 
 overcame all Will's pride and stubbornness. 
 He rose softly while she was speaking, and 
 bent his head as if in reverence at her words, 
 and the solemn injunction which they con- 
 veyed. AVhen she had spoken, he said in 
 BO subdued a voice that she was almost sur- 
 prised at the sound, " Mother, I will." 
 
 " I may be dead and gone, — but all the 
 same, — thou wilt take home the wandering 
 sinner, and heal up her sorrows, and lead 
 her to her Father's house. My lad ! I can 
 speak no more ; I'm turned very faint." 
 
 He placed her on a chair ; he ran for 
 water. She opened her eyes and smiled. 
 
 " God bless you, Will. Oh ! I am so 
 happy. It seems as if she were found ; my 
 heart is so filled with gladness." 
 
 That night Mr. Palmer stayed out late 
 and long. Susan was afraid that he was at 
 his old haunts and habits, — getting tipsy 
 at some public-house ; and this thought op- 
 pressed her, even though she had so much 
 to make her happy, in the consciousness 
 that Will loved her. She sat up long, and 
 then went to bed, leaving all arranged as well 
 as she could for her father's return. She 
 looked at the little rosy sleeping girl who 
 was her bed-fellow, with redoubled tender- 
 ness, and with many a prayerful thought. 
 The little arms entwined her neck as she lay 
 down, for Nanny was a light sleeper, and 
 was conscious that she, who was loved with 
 all the power of that sweet childish heart, was 
 near her, and by her, although she was too 
 sleepy to utter any of her half-formed words. 
 
 And by-and,by she heard her father come 
 home, stumbling uncertain, trying first the 
 windows, and next the door-fastenings, with 
 many a loud incoherent murmur. The little 
 
 innocent twined around her seemed all the 
 sweeter and more lovely, when she thought 
 sadly of her erring father. And presently 
 he called aloud for a light ; she had left 
 matches and all arranged as usual on the 
 dresser, but fearful of some accident from 
 fire, in his unusually intoxicated state, she 
 now got up soi"tly, and putting on a cloak, 
 went down to his assistance. 
 
 Alas ! the little arms that were unclosed 
 from her soft neck belonged to a light, easily 
 awakened sleeper. Nanny missed her dar- 
 ling Susy, and terrified at being left alone 
 in the vast mysterious darkness, which had 
 no bounds, and seemed infinite, she slipped 
 out of bed, and tottered in her little night- 
 gown towards the door. There was a light 
 below, and there was Susy and safety ! So 
 she went onwards two steps towards the 
 steep abrupt stairs ; and then dazzled with 
 sleepiness, she stood, she wavered, she fell 1 
 Down on her head on the stone floor she fell! 
 Susan flew to her, and spoke all soft, entreat- 
 ing, loving words ; but her white lids covered 
 up the blue violets of eyes, and there was no 
 murmur came out of the pale lips. The 
 warm tears that rained down did not awaken 
 her; she lay stiff, and weary with her short 
 life, on Susan's knee. Susan went sick with 
 terror. She carried her up stairs, and laid 
 her tenderly in bed ; she dressed herself 
 most hastily, with her trembling fingers. 
 Her father was asleep on the settle down 
 stairs ; and useless, and worse than useless if 
 awake. But Susan flew out of the door, and 
 down the quiet resounding street, towards 
 the nearest doctor's house. Quickly she 
 went; but as quickly a shadow followed, as 
 if impelled by some sudden terror. Susan 
 rung wildly the night-bell, — the shadow 
 crouched near. The doctor looked out from 
 an upstairs window. 
 
 " A little child has fallen down stairs at 
 No. 9, Crown-street, and is very ill, — dying 
 I'm afraid. Please, for God's sake, sir, 
 come directly. No. 9, Crown-street." 
 
 " I'll be there directly," said he, and shut 
 the window. 
 
 " For that God you have just spoken about, 
 — for His sake, — tell me are you Susan 
 Palmer? Is it my child that lies a-dying?" 
 said the shadow, springing forwards, and 
 clutching poor Susan's arm. 
 
 " It is a little child of two years old, — I do 
 not know whose it is ; I love it as my own. 
 Come with me, whoever you are ; come with 
 me." 
 
 The two sped along the silent streets, — as 
 silent as the night were they. They entered 
 the house; Susan snatched up the light, and 
 carried it up stairs. The other followed. 
 
 She stood with wild glaring eyes by the 
 bedside, never looking at Susan, but hun- 
 grily gazing at the little white still child. 
 She stooped down, and put her hand tight 
 on her own heart, as if to still its beating, 
 
LIZZIE LEIGH. 
 
 199 
 
 and bent her ear to the pale lips. Whatever 
 the result was, she did not speak ; but threw 
 off the bed-clothes wherewith Susan had ten- 
 derly covered up the little creature, and felt 
 its left side, 
 
 Then slie threw up her arms with a cry 
 jf wild despair. 
 
 " She is dead ! she is dead !" 
 
 She looked so fierce, so mad, so ha<2;giird, 
 that for an instant Susan was terrified — the 
 next, the holy God had put couraj^e into her 
 heart, and her pure arms were round tiiat 
 f!;uilty wretched creature, and her tears were 
 falling fast and warm upon her breast. But 
 she was thrown off with violence. 
 
 " You killed her — you slighted her — you 
 let her fall ! you killed her !" 
 
 Susan cleared off the thick mist before her, 
 and gazing at the mother with a clear, sweet, 
 angel-eyes, said mournfully — 
 
 " I would have laid down my own life for 
 her." 
 
 " Oh, the murder is on my soul !" ex- 
 claimed the wild bereaved mother, with the 
 fierce impetuosity of one who has none to 
 love her and to be beloved, regard to whom 
 might teach self-restraint. 
 
 '■ llush !" said Susan, her fingers on her 
 lips. " Here is the doctor. God may suffer 
 her to live." 
 
 The poor mother turned sharp round. 
 The doctor mounted the stair. Ah! that 
 mother was right ; the little child was really 
 dead and gone. 
 
 And when he confirmed her judgment, 
 the mother fell down in a fit. Susan, with 
 her deep grief, had to forget herself, and 
 forget her darling (her charge for years), 
 and question the doctor what she must do 
 with the poor wretch, who lay on the floor 
 in such extreme misery. 
 
 " She is the mother!" said she. 
 
 " Why did not she take care of the child ?" 
 asked he, almost angrily. 
 
 But Susan only said, " The little child 
 slept with me ; and it was I that left her." 
 
 " I will go back and make up a com- 
 posing draught ; and while I am away you 
 must get her to bed." 
 
 Susan took out some of her own clothes, 
 and softly undressed the stiff, powerless 
 form. There was no other bed in the house 
 but the one in which her father slept. So she 
 tenderly lifted the body of her darling; and 
 was going to take it down stairs, but the 
 mother opened her eyes, and seeing what 
 she was about she said, 
 
 " I am not worthy to touch her, I am so 
 wicked ; I have spoken to you as I never 
 should have spoken ; but I think you are 
 very good ; may I have my own child to lie 
 in my arms for a little while ?" 
 
 Her voice was so strange a contrast to 
 what it had been before she had gone into 
 the fit that Susan hardly recognised it ; it 
 was now so unspeakably soft, so irresistibly 
 
 pleading ; the features too had Im their 
 fierce expression, and were almost as placid 
 as death. Susan could not speak, bit she 
 carried the little child, and laid it in its 
 mother's arms ; then as she looked at them, 
 something overpowered her, and she knelt 
 down, crying aloud, 
 
 " Oh, my Gud, my God, have mercy on 
 her, and forgive, and comfort her." 
 
 But the mother kept smiling, and stroking 
 the little fiice, murmuring soft tender words, 
 as if it were alive; she was going mad, 
 Susan thought ; but she prayed on, and on, 
 and ever still she prayed with streaming 
 eyes. 
 
 The doctor came with the draught. The 
 mother took it, with docile unconsciousness 
 of its nature as medicine. The doctor sat 
 by her and soon she fell asleep. Then he 
 rose softly, and beckoning Susan to the 
 door, he spoke to her there. 
 
 " Yoa must take the corpse out of her 
 arms'. She will not awake. That draught 
 will make her sleep for many hours. I wiil 
 call before noon again. It is now daylight. 
 Good-bye." 
 
 Susan shut him out ; and then gently ex- 
 tricating the dead child from its mother's 
 arms, she could not resist making her own 
 quiet moan over her darling. She tried to 
 learn off its little placid face, dumb and pale 
 before her. 
 
 "Not all the scalJing tears of care 
 Shall wash away that vision lair ! 
 Not all the thousand thoughts that rise. 
 Not all the sights that dim her eyes. 
 Shall e'er usurp the place 
 Of that httle angt'l-lacc." 
 
 And then she remembered what remained 
 to be done. She saw that all was right in 
 the house ; her father was still dead asleep 
 on the settle, in spite of all tlie noise of the 
 night. She went out through the quiet 
 streets, deserted still although it wns broad 
 daylight, and to where the Leighs lived. 
 Mrs. Leigh, who kept her country hnurs. 
 was opening her window shutters. Susan 
 took her by the arm, and, without speaking, 
 went into the house-place. There slip knelt 
 down before the astonished Mrs. Leigh, and 
 cried as she hail never done before ; but the 
 miserable night had overpowered her, and 
 she who had gone through so much calmly, 
 now that the pressure seemed removed could 
 not find the power to speak. 
 
 " My poor dear ! AVhat has made thy 
 heart so sore as to come and cry a-this-ns. 
 Speak and tell me. Nay, cry on, poor wench, 
 if thou canst not speak yet. It will ease the 
 heart, and then thou canst tell me." 
 
 " Nanny is dead !" said Susan. " I left 
 her to go to father, and she fell down stairs, 
 and never breathed again. Oh, that's my 
 sorrow ! but I've more to tell. Her mother 
 
200 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 19 come — is in our house ! Come and see if 
 it's your Lizzie." Mrs. Leigh couKl not 
 speak, but trembling, put on her things, and 
 went with Susan in dizzy haste baeii to 
 Crown-slreet. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 As they entered the house in Crown-street, 
 they pcri'cived that the door would not open 
 freely on its hinges, and Susan instinctively 
 hxikfd behind to see the cause of the ob- 
 srructiiin. She immediately recognised the 
 anpearnnce of a little parcel, wrapped in a 
 scrap of newspaper, and evidently contain- 
 ing money. She stoopeil and picked it up. 
 
 •' Look I" said she, sorrowfully, " the mo- 
 ther was bringing this for her child last 
 niglit." 
 
 But Mrs. Leigh did not answer. So near 
 t" the ascertaining if it were her lost child 
 nr no, she could not be arrested, but pressed 
 onwiirds with trembling steps and a beating, 
 liuttering heart. She entered the bed-room, 
 dark ana still. She took no heed of the little 
 corpse, over which Susan paused, but she 
 wont straight to the bed, and withdrawing 
 flie curtain, saw Lizzie, — but not the former 
 L'zzie, bright, gay, buu^-ant, and undimmed. 
 This Lizzie Avas old before her time ; her 
 beauty was gone: deep lines of care, and alas ! 
 (.f want (or thus the mother imagined) were 
 printed on the cheek, so round, and fair, 
 and smooth, when last she gladdened her 
 motJier's eyes. Even in her sleep she bore 
 tlie look of woe and despair which was the 
 prevalent expression of her face by day ; 
 even in hfr sleep she had forgotten how to 
 smile. But all these marks of the sin and 
 sorrow she had passed through only made 
 her mother love her the more. She stood 
 looking at her with greedy eyes, which 
 seemed as though no gazing could satisfy 
 their longing ; and at last she stooped down 
 and kissed the pale, worn hand that lay 
 outside the bed-clothes. No touch disturbed 
 tlie sleeper ; the mother need not have laid 
 the hand so gently down upon the counter- 
 pane. Tliere was no sign of life, save only 
 now nnd then a deep sob-like sigh. Mrs. 
 Leigh sat down beside the bed, and still 
 holding back the curtain, looked on and on, 
 as if she ccjuld never be satisfied. 
 
 Susan would fain have stayed by her darling 
 one ; but she had many calls upon her time 
 and thoughts, and her will had now, as ever, 
 t(( be given up to that of others. All seemed 
 to devolve the burden of their cares on her. 
 Her father, ill-humored from his last night's 
 intemperance, did not scruple to reproach 
 her with being the cause of little Nanny's 
 death ; and when, after hearing his up- 
 braiding meekly for stmie time, she could 
 no longer restrain herself, but began to cry, 
 
 he wounded her even more by his injudicious 
 attempts at comfort: for he said it was as 
 well the child was dead ; it was none of 
 theirs, and why should they be troubled 
 with it? Suxan wrung her hands at this, 
 and came and stood before her father, and 
 iuij)lored him to forbear. Then she had to 
 take all requisite steps for the coroner's in- 
 (juest ; she had to arrange for the dismissal 
 of her school ; she had to summon a little 
 neighbor, and send iiis willing feet on a 
 message to William Leigh, who, she felt, 
 ought to be informed of his mother's where- 
 abouts, and of the whole state of affairs. 
 She asked her messenger to tell him to come 
 and speak to her, — that his mother was at 
 her house. She was thankful that her father 
 sauntered out to have a gossip at the nearest 
 coach-stand, and to relate as many of the 
 night's adventures as he knew; for as yet he 
 was in ignorance of the watcher and the 
 watched, who silently passed away the hours 
 up stairs. 
 
 At dinner-time Will came. He looked 
 red, glad, impatient, excited. Susan stood 
 calm and white before him, her soft, loving 
 eyes gazing straight into his. 
 
 " Will," said she, in a low, quiet voice, 
 " your sister is up stairs." 
 
 "My sister!" said he, as if affrighted at 
 the idea, and losing his glad look in one of 
 gloom. Susan saw it, and her heart sank a 
 little, Ijut she went on as calm to all appear- 
 ance as ever. 
 
 " She was little Nanny's mother, as per- 
 haps you know. Poor little Nanny wag 
 killed last night by a fall down stairs." All 
 the calmness was gone ; all the suppressed 
 feeling was displayed in spite of every effort. 
 She sat down, and hid her face from him, 
 and cried bitterly. He forgot everything 
 but the wish, the longing to comfort her. 
 He put his arm around her waist, and bent 
 over her. But all he could say, was, " Oh, 
 Susan, how can I comfort you ! Don't take 
 on so, — pray don't !" He never changed the 
 words, but the tone varied every time he 
 spoke. At last she seemed to regain her 
 power over herself; and she wiped her eyes, 
 and once more looked upon him with her 
 own quiet, earnest, and unfearing gaze. 
 
 " Your sister was near the house. She 
 came in on hearing my words to the doctor. 
 She is asleep now, and your mother is 
 watching her. I wanted to tell you all my- 
 self. Would you like to see your mother ?" 
 
 " No !" said he. " I would rather see 
 none but thee. Mother told me thou knew'st 
 all." His eyes were downcast in their 
 shame. 
 
 But the holy and pure, did not lower op 
 vail her eyes. 
 
 She said, " Yes, I know all — all but her suf- 
 ferings. Think what they must have been I" 
 
 He made answer low and stern, "She de- 
 served them all; every jot." 
 
LIZZIE LEIGH. 
 
 201 
 
 " In the eye of God, perhaps she does. 
 He is tlie judge ; we are not." 
 
 "Oh!" she said with a sudden burst, 
 " ^Yill Leigh! I have thought so well of 
 you ; don't go and make me think you cruel 
 and hard. Goodness is not goodness unless 
 tliere is mercy and tenderness with it. There 
 is your motlier who has been nearly heart- 
 broken, now full of rejoicing over her child 
 — think of your mother." 
 
 •' I do think of her," said he. " I re- 
 member the promise I gave her last night. 
 Thou shouldst give me time. I would do 
 right in time. I never think it o'er in quiet. 
 But I will do what is right and fitting, 
 never fear. Thou hast spoken out very 
 yihiin to me ; and misdoubted me, Susan ; 
 I love thee so. that thy words cut me. If I 
 did hang back a bit from making sudden 
 promises, it was because not even for love 
 of thee, wouli] I say what I was not feeling ; 
 and at first I could not feel all at once as 
 tiiou wouldst have me. But I'm not cruel 
 and hard ; for if I had been, I should na' 
 have grieved as I have done." 
 
 He made as if he were going away ; and 
 indeed he did feel he would rather think it 
 over in quiet. But Susan, grieved at her 
 incautious words, which had all the appear- 
 ance of harshness, went a step or two nearer 
 — paused — and then, all over blushes, said 
 in a low soft whisper — 
 
 " Oh Will ! I beg your pardon. I am 
 very sorry — wont you forgive me ?" 
 
 She who had always drawn back, and 
 been so reserved, said this in the very softest 
 manner ; with eyes now uplifted beseech- 
 ingly, now dropped to the ground. Her 
 sweet confusion told more than words could 
 do ; and Will turned back, all joyous in his 
 certainty of being beloved, and took her in 
 his arms and kissed her. 
 
 '■ My own Susan \" he said. 
 
 Meanwhile the mother watched her child 
 in the room above. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon before she 
 awoke ; for the sleeping draught had been 
 very powerful. The instant she awoke, her 
 eyes were fixed on her mother's face with a 
 gaze as unflinching as if she were fasci- 
 nated. Mrs. Leigh did not turn away ; nor 
 move. For it seemed as if motion would 
 unlock the stony command over herself 
 which, while so perfectly still, she was 
 enabled to preserve. But by-and-bye Lizzie 
 cried out in a piercing voice of agony — 
 
 " Mother, don't look at me ! I have been 
 80 wicked !" and instantly she hid her fiice, 
 and grovelled among the bedclothes, and 
 lay like one dead — so motionless was she. 
 
 Mrs. Leigh knelt down by the bed, and 
 epoSe in the most soothing tones. 
 
 " Lizzie, dear, don't speak so. I'm thy 
 mother, darling ; don't be afeard of mc. 
 I never left off loving tht'C, Lizzie. I was 
 always a-thinking of thee. Thy father for- 
 
 gave thee afore he died." (There was a 
 little start here, but no sound wiis heard.) 
 " Lizzie, lass, I'll do aught fur thee ; I'll 
 live for thee ; only don't be afeard of me. 
 Whate'er thou art or hast been, we'll ne'er 
 speak on't. We'll leave th' oud times be- 
 hind us, and go back to the Upclose Farm. 
 I hut left it to find thee, my lass ; and Gud 
 has led me to thee. Blessed be His name. 
 And God is good too, Lizzie. Thou ha^t 
 not forgotten thy Bible, I'll be bound, for 
 thou wert always a scliolar. I'm no reader, 
 but I learnt off' them te.xts to comfort me a 
 bit. and I've said them many a day to my 
 self. Lizzie, lass, don't hide tiiy head so, 
 it's thy mother as is speaking to thee. Tiiy 
 little child clung to mo only yesterday; 
 and if it's gone to be an angel, it will speak 
 to God for thee. Nay, don't sob a that 'as ; 
 thou shalt have it again in Heaven ; I 
 know thuu'lt strive to get there, for thy 
 little Nanny's sake — and listen ! I'll tell 
 thee God's promises to tlnMu that are peni- 
 tent — only don't be afeard 1" 
 
 Mrs. Leigh folded her hands. nui\ strove to 
 speak very clearly, while she rejieated every 
 tender and merciful text she could remem- 
 ber. She could tell from the breathing that 
 her daughter was listening; but she was so 
 dizzy and sick herself when she had ended, 
 that she could not go on speaking. It wad 
 all she could do to keep from crying aloud. 
 
 At last she heard her dauglitcr's voice. 
 
 " Where have they taken her to ?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " She is down stairs. So quiet, and 
 peaceful and happy she looks." 
 
 " Could she speak ? Oh, if God— if I 
 might but have heard her little voice 1 
 Mother, I used to dream of it. May I see 
 her once again — Oh mother, if I strive very 
 hard, and God is very merciful, and I go to 
 heaven, I shall not know her — I shall not 
 know my own again — she will shun me as 
 a stranger and cling to Susan I'almer and 
 to you. Oh woe ! Oh woe !" She shook 
 with exceeding sorrow. 
 
 In her earnestness of speech she had un- 
 covered her face and tried to read Mrs, 
 Leigh's thoughts through her looks. And 
 when she saw those aged eyes brimming 
 full of tears, and marked the quivering lips, 
 she threw her arms around the faithful 
 mother's neck, and wept there as she had 
 done in many a childi>h sorrow ; but with 
 a deeper, a more wretched grief. 
 
 Her mother hushed her on iier breast ; 
 and lulled her as if she were a baby ; and 
 she grew still and quiet. 
 
 They sat thus for a long, long time. At 
 last, Susan Palmer came up with some tea 
 and bread and butter for .Mrs. Leigh. She 
 watched the mother feed her sick, unwill- 
 ing child, with every fimd inducement to 
 eat which she could devise ; they neither 
 of them took notice of Susan's presence. 
 
1202 
 
 DiCKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 That night they lay in each other's arms ; 
 but Susan slept on the ground beside them. 
 
 They took the little corpse (the little un- 
 conscious sacrifice, whose early calling-home 
 had reclaimed her poor wandering mother,) 
 to the hills, which in her life-time she had 
 never seen. Tiiey dared not lay her by the 
 stern grand-father in Milne-llow church- 
 yard, but they bore her to a lone moorland 
 graveyard, where long ago the quakers used 
 to bury their dead. They laid her there 
 on the sunny slope, where the earliest 
 spring-flowers blow. 
 
 Will and Susan live at the Upclose Farm. 
 Mrs. Leigh and Lizzie dwell in a cottage so 
 secluded that, until you drop into the very 
 hollow where it is placed, you do not see it. 
 Tom is a schoolmaster in Rochdale, and he 
 and Will help to support their mother. I 
 only know that, if the cottage be hidden in 
 u green hollow of the hills, every sound of 
 
 sorrow in the whole upland is heard there 
 — every call of suffering or of sickness for 
 help is listened to, by a sad, gentle-looking 
 woman, who rarely smiles (and when she 
 does, her smile is more sad than other peo- 
 ple's tears), but who comes out of her se- 
 clusion whenever there's a shadow in any 
 household. Many hearts bless Lizzie Leigh, 
 but she — she prays always and ever for for- 
 giveness — such forgiveness as may enable 
 her to see her child once more. Mrs. 
 Leigh is quiet and happy. Lizzie is to her 
 eyes something precious — as the lost piece 
 of silver — found once more. Susan is the 
 bright one who brings sunshine to all. 
 Children grow around her and call her 
 blessed. One is called Nanny. Her, Liz- 
 zie often takes to the sunny graveyard in 
 the uplands, and while the little creature 
 gathers the daisies, and make chains, Liz- 
 zie sits by a little grave, and weeps bitterly. 
 
THE MINER'S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 A TALE OF THE PEAK. 
 
 • '-^^V^^S/^^^^^^^S^^ 
 
 CHAPTER r. 
 
 TUE child's tragedy. 
 
 There is no really beautiful part of this 
 kingdom so little known as the Peak of 
 Derhysliire. Matlock, with its tea-garden 
 trumpery and mock-heroic wonders ; Bux- 
 ton, with its bleak lulls and fashionable 
 bathers ; the truly noble Chatsworth and 
 the venerable Iladdon, engross almost all 
 that the pulilic genei-ally have seen of the 
 P'>ak. It is talked of as a land of moun- 
 tains, wliich in reality are only hills; but 
 irs true beaut}' lies in valleys that have been 
 created by the rending of the earth in some 
 ])rimeval convulsion, and which present a 
 tliousnnd charms to the eyes of the lover of 
 nature. ,' How deliciously du the crystal 
 waters of the Wye and the Dove rush along 
 such valleys, or dales, as they are called. 
 "With what a wild variety do the gray rocks 
 tioar up amid their woods and copses. How 
 airily stand in the clear heavens the lofty 
 limestone precipices, and the gray edges of 
 rock gh'am out from the bare green downs 
 — there never called downs. What a genu- 
 ine Saxon air is there cast over the popula- 
 tion, what a Saxon bluntness salutes you in 
 their speech ! 
 
 It is into the heart of this region that we 
 propose now to carry the reader. Let him 
 suppose himself with us now on the road 
 from Ashford-in-the-water to Tideswell. Wo 
 are at the Bull's Head, a little inn on that 
 road. There is nothing to create wonder, 
 or a suspicion of a hidden Arcadia in any- 
 thing you see, but another step forward, 
 and — there ! There sinks a world of valleys 
 at your feet. To your left lies the delicious 
 Monsal Dale. Old Finn Hill lifts his gray 
 head grandly over it. Ilobthrush's Castle 
 stands bravely forth in the hollow of his 
 side — gray, and desolate, and mysterious. 
 The sweet Wye goes winding and sounding 
 at his feet, amid its narrow green meadows, 
 green as the emerald, and its dark glossy 
 
 alders. Before us strotchea on, equally 
 beautiful, Cressbrook Dale ; Little Kdalo 
 shows its cottages from amidst its trees ; and 
 as we advance, the Mousselin-de-laine Mills 
 stretch across the mouth of Miller's Dale, 
 and startle with the aspect of so much life 
 amid so much solitude. 
 
 But our way is still onward. We resist 
 the attraction of Cressbrook village on its 
 lofty eminence, and plunge to the right, into 
 Wardlow Dale. Here we are buried deep 
 in woods, and yet behold still deeper the 
 valley descend below us. There is an Al- 
 pine feeling upon us. We are carried once 
 more, as in a dream, into the Saxon Switzer- 
 land. Above us stretch the boldest ranges 
 of lofty precipices, and deep amid the woods 
 are heard tlie voices of children. These 
 come from a few w<jrkmen's houses, couched 
 at the foot of a cliff' that rises high and bright 
 amid the sun. That is AV^ardlow Cop; and 
 there we mean to halt for a moment. For- 
 wards lies a wild region of hills, and valleys, 
 and lead-mines, but fjrward goes no road, 
 except such as you can make yourself 
 through the tangled woods. 
 
 At the foot of Wardlow Cop, before this 
 little hamlet of Bellamy Wick was built, or 
 the glen was dignified with the name of 
 Kaven Dale, there lived a miner who had 
 no term for his place of abode. He lived, 
 he said, under Wardlow Cop, and that con- 
 tented him. 
 
 His house was one of those little, solid, 
 gray limestone cottages, with gray flagst(jno 
 roofs, which abound in the Peak. It had 
 stood under that lofty precipice when the 
 woods which now so densely till the valley 
 were but newly planted. There had been 
 a mine near it, which had no doubt been 
 the occasion of its erection in so solitary a 
 place ; but that mine was now worked out, 
 and David Dunster, the miner, now worked 
 at a mine right over the hills in Miller's 
 Dale. He was seldom at home, except at 
 night, and on Sundays. His wife, besides 
 keeping her little house, and digging and 
 
 (1103) 
 
204 
 
 DICKEXS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 woedinj; in the strip of a jrarden that lay on 
 the steep slope ahovt^ tiie liouse, heniincij in 
 vritli a stone wall, also seamed stoekint^s for 
 a framewurk-knittrT in Ashf inl, whither she 
 went once or twice in the week. 
 
 Thej' had three children, a hoy and two 
 girls. The boy was ahout eijrht years of 
 ago; the p;irls were alxmt five and six. 
 These children were tauj^ht their lessons of 
 spelling: and readin<z; hy the mother, amonj;st 
 h'T othrr nuiltifariiius tasks ; for she was 
 one of those who are called reijular plodders. 
 She was quiet, patient, and always doing, 
 thoujih never in a hustle. She was not one 
 of those who acquire a character for vast in- 
 dustry hy doinjj; everything in a mighty 
 flurry, though they contrive to find time for 
 a tolerable deal of gossip under the plea of 
 resting a hit, and whi(di " resting a bit" 
 they always terminate by an exclamation 
 that " they must be ofi" though, for they have 
 a world of work to do." Betty Dunstar, on 
 the contrary, was looked on as rather " a 
 slow coach." If you remarked that she was 
 a hard-working woman, the reply was, 
 *' Well, she's always doing — Betty's work's 
 never done ; but then she does na hurry 
 hersen." The fact Avas, Betty was a thin, 
 spare woman, of no very strong constitution, 
 but of an untiring spirit. Iler pleasure and 
 rest were, when Da\id came home at night, 
 to have iiis supper ready, and to sit down 
 opposite to him at the little round table, and 
 help him, giving a bit now and then to the 
 children, that came and stood round, though 
 they had had their suppers, and were ready 
 for bed as soon as they had seen something 
 of their " dud." 
 
 David Dunster was one of those remark- 
 ably tall fellows that you see about these 
 hills, who seem of all things the very worst 
 made men to creep into the little mole holes 
 on the hill sides that they call lead-mines. 
 But David did manage to burrow under and 
 through the hard limestone rocks as well as 
 any of them. lie was a hard-working man, 
 though he liked a sup of beer, as most Derby- 
 shire men dv, and sometimes came home 
 none of the soberest. He was naturally of 
 a very hasty temper, and would fly into 
 great rages ; and if he were put out by any- 
 thing in the working of the mines, or the 
 conduct of his fellow-workmen, he would 
 stay away from home for days, drinking at 
 Tideswell, or the Bull's Head at the top of 
 Monsal Dale, or down at the Miner's Arms 
 at Ashford-in-the-water. 
 
 Betty Dunster bore all this patiently. 
 She looked on these things somewhat as 
 matters of course. At that time, and even 
 aow, how few miners do not drink and " rol 
 a bit," as they call it. She was, therefore, 
 tolerant, and let the storms blow over, ready 
 always to persuade her husljand to go home 
 and sleep off his drink and anger, but if 
 he were too violent, leaving him till ano- 
 
 ther attempt might succeed better. She 
 was very fond of her children, and not only 
 taught them on week days their lessons, and 
 to help her to seam, but also took them tc 
 the Methodist Chapid in " Tidser," as they 
 calhMi Tideswell, whither, whenever she 
 could, she enticed David. Davi<!, too, in hiy 
 way. was fond of the children, especially of 
 the boy, who was called David after him. 
 He was quite wrapped up in the lad, to use 
 the phrase of the people in tliat part; in 
 fact, ho was foolishly and mischievously 
 fond of him. lie would give him beer to 
 drink, " to make a true Briton on him," as 
 he said, spite of Betty's earnest endeavor to 
 prevent it — telling him that he was laying 
 the fjundation in the lad of the same faults 
 that he had himself. But David Dunsti-r 
 did not look on drinking as a fault at all. It 
 was what he had been used to all his life. It 
 was what all the miners had been used to 
 for generations. A man was looked on as a 
 milk-sop and a Molly Coddle, that would not 
 take his mug of ale, and be merry with his 
 comrades. It required the light of educa- 
 tion, and the efforts that have been made by 
 the Temperance Societies, to break in on 
 this ancient custom of drinking, which, no 
 doubt, has flourished in these hills since the 
 Danes and other Scandinavians bored and 
 perforated them of old for the ores of lead 
 and copper. To Betty Dunster's remon- 
 strances, and commendations of tea, David 
 would reply — " Botheration, Betty, weiKh ! 
 Dunna tell me about thy tea and such-like 
 pig's-wesh. It's all very well for women ; 
 but a man, Betty, a man mun ha' a sup of 
 real stingo, lass. He mun ha' sumniut to 
 prop his ribs out, lass, as he delves througli 
 th' chert and tood-stone. When tha weylds 
 th' maundrel (the pick), and I wesh th' 
 dishes, tha shall ha' th' drink, my wench, 
 and I'll ha' th' tea. Till then, prithee h't 
 me aloon, and dunna bother me, for it's no 
 use. It only kicks my monkey up." 
 
 And Betty found that it was (»f no use ; 
 that it did only kick his monkey uji, aiid so 
 she let him alone, except when she could 
 drop in a persuasive woi'd or two. The 
 mill-owners at Cressbrook and Miller's l)ale 
 had forbidden any public-house nearer than 
 Edale, and they had more than once called 
 the people together to point out to them the 
 mischiefs of drinking, and the advantagr^ 
 to be derived from the very savings ui 
 temperance. But all these measures, though 
 they had some effect on the mill people, had 
 very little on the miners. They either sent 
 to Tideswell or Edale for kegs of beer to 
 peddle at the mines, or they went thither 
 themselves on receiving their wages. 
 
 And let no one suppose that David Dunster 
 was worse than his fellows ; or that Betty 
 Dunster thought her case a particularly hard 
 one. David was " pretty much of a "much- 
 ness," according to the country phrase, with 
 
THE MINER'S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 205 
 
 the rest of his hard-working tribe, which 
 vra.9, and iilwavH had been, a hard-drinking 
 tribe ; and Betty, though she wi8h(!d it dif- 
 ferent, did not comphiin, just because it was 
 of no use, and because she was no worse 
 off than her neighbors. 
 
 Often when she went to " carry in her 
 hose" to Ashford, she left the chihiren at 
 home by themselves. She had no alterna- 
 tive. Tht>y were there in that solitary valley 
 fir many hours playing alone. Ami to them 
 it was not solitary. It was all that they 
 know of life, and that all was very pleasant 
 to them. In spring, they hunted for birds'- 
 nests in the copses, and amongst the rocks 
 and gray stones that had fallen from them. 
 In the copses built the blackbirds and 
 thrushes ; in the rocks the tiretails; and the 
 gray wagtails in the stones which were so 
 exactly of their own color, as to make it 
 difficult to see them. In summer, they gath- 
 ered flowers and berries, and in the winter 
 they played at horses, kings, and shops, and 
 sundry other things in the house. 
 
 On one of these occasions, a bright after- 
 noon in autumn, the three children had 
 rambled down the glen, and found a world 
 of amusement in being teams of horses, in 
 making a little mine at the foot of a tall cliff, 
 and in marching for soldiers, fur they had 
 one day — the only time in their lives — ser-n 
 Pome soldiers go through the village of Asli- 
 ford, when they had gcme there with their 
 mother, for she now and then took them 
 with her when she had something from the 
 shop to carry besides her bundle of hose. 
 At length they came to the foot of an open 
 hill which swelled to a considerable height. 
 with a round and climable side, on which 
 grew a wilderness of bushes amid which lay 
 scattered masses of gray crag. A small 
 winding path went up this, and they followed 
 ij). It was not long, however, bi'fore they 
 saw some things which excited their eager 
 attention. Little David, who was the guide, 
 and assumed to himself much importance as 
 the protector of his sisters, exclaimed, " See 
 here I" and springing forward, plucked a fine 
 crimson cluster of the mountain bramble. 
 His sisters, on seeing this, rushed on with 
 like eagerness. They soon forsook the little 
 winding and craggy footpath, and hurried 
 through sinking masses of moss and dry 
 grass, from bush to bush and place to place. 
 They were soon far up above the valley, and 
 almost every step revealed to them some 
 delightful prize. The clusters of the moun- 
 tain bramble, resembling mulberries, and 
 known only to the inhabitants of the hills, 
 were abundant and were rapidly devoured. 
 The dewberry was as eagerly gathered — its 
 large, purple fruit passing with them for 
 blackberries. In their hands were soon seen 
 posies of the lovely grass of Parnassus, the 
 mountain cistus, and the bright blue gera- 
 nium. 
 
 Higher and higher the little group as- 
 cended in this quest, till th.; sigiit of the 
 widi% naked hills, and the liawks circling 
 round the lofty tower-like crags ..v(>r th.'ir 
 heads, made them feel serious and somewliat 
 afraid. 
 
 "Where are we?" asked Jane, the rider 
 sister. " Arn't we a long way from liom ?" 
 
 " Let us go hom," said "little Nancy. 
 " I'm afeerd here ;" clutching hold of Jane's 
 frock. 
 
 " Pho, nonsense !" said David " what are 
 you afeerd on ? I'll tak care on you, niver 
 fear." 
 
 And with this he assumed a bold and de- 
 fying aspect, and said, " Come along; there 
 are nests in tii' hazzles up yonder." 
 
 He began to mount again, but the two 
 girls hung back and said. "Nay, David, 
 dunna go higiicr; wo are both afceVd ;" and 
 Jatie added, - It's a long wee from hom, I'm 
 sure." 
 
 " And those birds screechen' so up there; 
 I darna go up," ul n-d little Nancy. Tliey 
 were the hawks tiiai she moant, which hov- 
 ered whimpering and screaming al)out tlie 
 highest cliffs. David called them little onw- 
 ards, but Ijegan to descoml, and, presently, 
 seeking for berries and flowers as tiiey de- 
 scended, they regained the little winding, 
 craggy road, and, while they were calling to 
 each other, discovered a remarkal/le echo on 
 the opposite hill suU\ On this, they shouted 
 to it, and laughed, and were half inghtened 
 when it laughed and shouted again. Little 
 Nancy said it must be an old man in the in- 
 side of the mountain ; at whicli they were 
 all really afraid, though Da*-id put on a big 
 look and said, " Nonsense ! u was nothing 
 at all." liut Jane asked how nothing at 
 all could shout and laugh as it did? and on 
 this little Nancy plucked her again liy tlie 
 frock, and said in turn, " Oh, dear, let's go 
 hom !" 
 
 But at this David gave a wild whoop to 
 frigliten them, and wiien the hill whooped 
 again, and the sisters began to run, he burst 
 into laughter, and the strange spectral Hal 
 ha! ha! that ran along the inside of tiie hill 
 as it were, completed their fear, and they 
 stopped their ears with their hands and 
 scuttled away down the hill. But now 
 David seized them, and pulling their hands 
 down from their iieads, ho said, "See here! 
 what a nice place with the stones sticking out 
 like seats. Wh}-, it's like a little house ; let 
 us stay and play a bit here." It was a little 
 hollow in the hill sidi: surrounded by project- 
 ing stones like an amphitheatre. Tlie sisters 
 were still afraid, but the sight of tiiis little 
 hollow with its seats of crag had such a 
 charm for them that they promisecl David 
 they would stop a while, if lie would prom- 
 ise not to shout and awake theeclio. David 
 readily [)romised this, and so they sat down, 
 David proposed to keep a, school, and cut a 
 
206 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 hazel wand from a bush and began to lord it 
 over his two sclmlars in a Tery pompous 
 manner. The two sisters pretended to be 
 much afraid, and to read very diligently on 
 pieces of flat stone which they had picked 
 up. And then David became a serjeant and 
 was drilling them for soldiers, and stuck 
 pieces of fern into their hair for cockades. 
 And then, soon after, they were sheep, and 
 he was the shepherd ; and he was catching 
 his flock and going to shear them, and made 
 so much noise that Jane cried, "Hold! 
 there's the echo mocking us." 
 
 At t'liis they all were still. But David 
 said, " Pho ! never mind the echo; I must 
 shear ni}^ shet'p ;" but just as he was seizing 
 little Nancy to pretend to shear her with a 
 piece of stick, Jane cried out, "'Look! look! 
 Iiow black it is coming down the valley 
 there I There's going to be a dreadful starm ; 
 let us iiurry hom !" 
 
 David and Nancy both looked up, and 
 agreed to run as fast down the hill as they 
 could. But the next moment the driving 
 storm swept over the hill, and the whole 
 valley was hid in it. The three children 
 siill hurried on, but it became quite dark, 
 and they soon lost the track, and were 
 tossed about by the wind, so that they had 
 difficulty to keep on their legs. Little Nancy 
 began to cry, and the three taking hold of 
 each other endeavored in silence to make 
 their way homewards. But presently they 
 all stumbled over a large stone, and fell 
 Some distance down the hill. They were 
 not hurt, but much frightened, for they now 
 remembered the precipices, and were afraid 
 every minute of going over them. They 
 now strove to find the track by going up 
 again, but they could not find it anywhere. 
 Sometimes they went upwards till they 
 thought they were quite too far, and then 
 they went downwards till they were com- 
 pletely bewildered ; and then, like the Babes 
 in the Wood, " They sate them down and 
 cried." 
 
 But ere they had sate long, they heard 
 footsteps, and listened. They certainly 
 heard them and shouted, but there was no 
 answer. David shouted, "Help! fayther ! 
 mother ! help !" but there was no answer. 
 The wind swept fiercely by ; the hawks 
 ■whimpered from the high crags, lost in the 
 darkness of the storm ; and the rain fell, 
 driving along icy cold. Presently, there was 
 a gleam of light through the clouds ; the 
 hill-side became visible, and through the 
 haze they saw a tall figure as of an old man 
 ascending the hill. He appeared to carry 
 two loads slung from his shoulders by a 
 strap ; a box hanging before, and a bag 
 hanging at his back. He wound up the hill 
 slowly and wearily, and presently he stop- 
 ped and relieving himself of his load, seated 
 himself on a piece of crag to rest. Again 
 David shouted, but there still was no answer. 
 
 The old man sate as if no shout had been 
 heard — immoveable. 
 
 " It is a man," said David, "and I will 
 mak him hear ;" and with that he shouted 
 once more with all his might. But the old 
 man made no sign of recognition. He did 
 not even turn his head, but he took off his 
 hat and began to wipe his brow as if warm 
 with the ascent. 
 
 " What can it be ?" said David in aston- 
 ishment. "It is a man, that's sartain. I'll 
 run and see." 
 
 " Nay, nay !" shrieked the sisters. 
 " Don't, David ! don't ! It's perhaps the 
 old man out of the mountain that's been 
 mocking us. Perhaps," added Jane, " he 
 only comes out in storms and darkness." 
 
 "Stuff!" said David, "an echo isn't a 
 man ; it's only our own voices. I'll see who 
 it is ;" and away he darted, spite of viit poor 
 girl's crying in terror, " Don't ; don't, D vvid ! 
 Oh, don't." 
 
 But David was gone. He was not long in 
 reaching the old man, who sate on his stone 
 breathing hard, as if out of breath with his 
 ascent, but not appearing to perceive Davie'' 
 approach. The rain and the wind drov- 
 fiercely upon him, but he did not seem t( 
 mind it. David was half afraid to approach 
 close to him, but he called out, "Help; 
 help, mester !" The old man remained as 
 unconscious of his presence. " Ilillo !" cried 
 David again. " Can you tell us the way 
 down, mester?" There was no answer, and 
 David was beginning to feel a shudder of 
 terror run through every limb, when the 
 clouds cleared considera))iy, and he suddenly 
 exclaimed, "Why it's old Tobias Turton of 
 top of Edale,and he's as deaf as a door nail !" 
 
 In an instant, David was at his side ; 
 seized his coat to make him aware of his 
 presence ; and, on the old man perceiving 
 him, shouted in his ear, " Which is the way 
 down here, Mester Turton? Where's the 
 track ?" 
 
 " Down ? Weighs o' the baj'k ?" said the 
 old man ; " ay, my lad, I was fain to sit 
 down ; it does weigh o' th' back, sure 
 enough." 
 
 " Where's the foot-track ?" shouted David, 
 again. 
 
 " Th' foot-track ? Why, what art ta doing 
 here, my lad, in such a starm ? Isn't it 
 David Dunster's lad ?" 
 
 David nodded. " Why the track's here ! 
 see ;" and the old man stamped his foot. 
 " Get down hom, my lad, as fast as tliou can. 
 What dun they do letting thee be upon th' 
 hills in such a dee as this?" 
 
 David nodded his thanks, and turned to 
 descend the track, while the old man, -adjust- 
 ing his burden again, silently and wearily 
 recommenced his way upwards. 
 
 David shouted to his sisters as he de- 
 scended, and they quickly replied. He 
 called to them to come towards him, as he 
 
THE MINER'S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 207 
 
 was on the track, and was afraid to quit it 
 again. They endeavored to do this ; but the 
 darkness was now redoubled, and the wind 
 and rain became more furious than ever. 
 The two sisters were soon bewildered 
 amongst the bushes, and David, who kept 
 calling to them at intervals to direct their 
 course towards him soon heard them crying 
 bitterly. At this, he forgot the necessity of 
 keeping the track, and darting towards 
 them, soon found them by continuing to 
 call to them, and took their hands to lead 
 them to the track. But they were now 
 drenched thrdugh with the rain, and shivered 
 with cold and fear. David, with a stout 
 heart, endeavored to cheer them. He told 
 them the track was close by, and that they 
 would soon be at home. But though the 
 track was not ten yards off, somehow they 
 did not liiid it. Bushes and projecting rocks 
 turned them out of their course ; and owing 
 to the confusion caused by the wind, the 
 darkness, and their terror, they searched in 
 vain for the track. Sometimes they thought 
 tlipy had found it, and went on a few paces, 
 only to stumble over loose stones, or get 
 entangled in the bushes. 
 
 It was now absolutely becoming night. 
 Their terrors increased greatly. They 
 shouted and cried aloud, in the hope of 
 making their parents hear them. They felt 
 sure that both father and mother must be 
 come home ; and as sure that they would be 
 hunting for them. But they did not reHect 
 that their parents could not tell in what 
 direction they had gone. Both father and 
 mother were come home, and the mother 
 had instantly rushed out to try to find them, 
 on perceiving that they were not in the 
 house. She had hurried to and fro, and 
 called — not at first supposing they would 
 be far. But when she heard nothing of 
 them, she ran in, and begged of her husband 
 t) join in the search. But at first David 
 Dunster would do nothing. He was angry 
 at them for going awaj' from the house, and 
 said he was fbo tired to go on a wild goose 
 chase through the plantations after them. 
 " They are i' th' plantations," said he : 
 " they are sheltering there somewhere. Let 
 them alone, and they'll come home, with a 
 good long tail behind them." 
 
 With this piece of a child's song of sheep, 
 David sat down to his supper, and Betty 
 Dunster hurried up the valley, shouting — 
 '• Children, where are you ? David ! Jane ! 
 Xancy ! Avhere are you ?" 
 
 When she heard nothing of them, she 
 hurried still more wildly up the hill towards 
 the village. When she arrived there — the 
 distance of a mile — she inquired from house 
 to house, but no one had seen anything of 
 them. It was clear they had not been in 
 that direction. An alarm was thus created 
 ia the village ; and several young men sot 
 out to join Mrs. Dunster in the quest. They 
 
 again descended the valley towards Dun- 
 ster's house, shouting every now and then, 
 and listening. The night was pitch dark 
 and the rain fell heavily ; but the wind had 
 considerably abated, and once they thought 
 they heard a faint cry in answer to their 
 call, far down the valley. They were ri'dit ; 
 the children had heard the shouting, and 
 had replied to it. But they were far off. 
 The young men shouted again, but there 
 was no answer ; and after shouting once 
 more without success, they hastened on. 
 When they reached David Dunster's house, 
 they found the door open, and no one within. 
 They knew that David had set off in quest 
 of the children himself, and they determined 
 to descend the valley. The distracted mo- 
 ther went with them, crying silently to her- 
 self, and praying inwardly, and every now 
 and then trying to shout. But the young 
 men raised their strong voices above hers, 
 and made the cliffs echo with their appeals. 
 
 Anon a voice answered them down the 
 valley. They ran on as well as the dark- 
 ness would let them, and soon found that it 
 was David Dunster, who had been in the 
 plantations on the other side of the valley ; 
 but hearing nothing of the lost children, 
 now joined them. He said he had heard 
 the cry from the hill-side farther down, that 
 answered to their shouts ; and he was sure 
 that it was his boy David's voice. But ho 
 had shouted again, and there had been no 
 answer but a wild scream as of terror, that 
 made his blood run cold. 
 
 " God !" exclaimed the distracted mo- 
 ther, " what can it be ? David ! David ! 
 Jane! Nancy 1" 
 
 There was no answer. The young men 
 bade Betty Dunster to contain herself, and 
 they would find the children before they 
 went home again. All held on down the 
 valle}', and in the direction whence the 
 voice came. Many times did the young 
 men and the now strongly agitated father 
 shout and listen. At length they seemed 
 to hear voices of weeping and moaning. 
 They listened — they were sure they heard 
 a lamenting — it could only be tin; cliildren. 
 But why then did they not answer? On 
 struggled the men, and Mrs. Dunster fol- 
 lowed wildly aft'T. Now, again, they stood 
 and shouted, and a kind of terrified scream 
 followed the shout. 
 
 '■ God in heaven 1" exclaimed the mother ; 
 " what is it? There is something dreadful. 
 My children ! my children ! where are you ?" 
 
 " Be silent, pray do, Mrs. Dunster," said 
 one of the young men, " or we cannot catch 
 the sounds so as to follow them." They 
 again listened, and the wailings of thi 
 cliildren were plainly heard. The whole 
 party pushed forward over stock and stone 
 up the hill. They called again, and tnere 
 was a cry of " Here ! here ! fayther I mother ! 
 where are you ?" 
 
208 
 
 DICKEXS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 In a few mometts more the whole party 
 had reached the cliildren, who stood 
 drenched with rain, and trembling violently, 
 under a cliff that gave no shelter, but was 
 exposed espcciall}' to the wind and rain. 
 
 " Christ ! My children !" cried the mo- 
 ther wildly, struggling forwards and clasp- 
 ing one in her arms. " Nancy ! Jane ! But 
 whore is David ? David ! David ! Oh, where 
 is David ? Where is your brother ?" 
 
 The whole party was startled at not see- 
 ing the boy, and joined in a simultaneous 
 *' Where is he ? Where is your brother?" 
 
 The two children only wept and trem- 
 bled more violently, and burst into loud 
 crying. 
 
 " Silence !" shouted the father. " Where 
 is David, I tell ye ? Is he lost? David, lad, 
 where ar ta ?" 
 
 All listened, but there was no answer but 
 the renewed crying of the two girls. 
 , "Where is the lad, then?" thundered 
 forth the father with a terrible oath. 
 
 The two terrified children cried, "Oh, 
 down there ! down there !" 
 
 "Down where? Oh God!" exclaimed 
 one of the young men ; '" why it's a preci- 
 pice ! Down there !" 
 
 At this dreadful intelligence the mother 
 gave a wild shriek, and fell senseless on the 
 ground. The young men caught her, and 
 dragged her back from the edge of the pre- 
 cipice. The father in the same moment, 
 furious at what he heard, seized the younger 
 child that happened to be near him, and 
 sliaking it violently, swore he would fling it 
 down after the lad. 
 
 lie was angry with the poor children, as 
 if they had caused the destruction of his 
 boy. The young men seized him, and bade 
 him think what he was about; but the man 
 believing his boy had fallen down the pre- 
 cipice, was like a madman. lie kicked at 
 his wife as she lay on the ground, as if she 
 were guilty of this calamity by leaving the 
 children at home. He was furious against 
 the poor girls, as if they had led their bro- 
 tJier into danger. In his violent rage he 
 was a perfect maniac, and the young men, 
 pushing him away, cried shame on him. In 
 a while, the desperate man, torn by a hur- 
 ricane of passion, sate himself down on a 
 crag, and burst into a tempest of tears, and 
 struck his head violently with his clenched 
 tists, and cursed himself and everybody. It 
 was a dreadful scene. 
 
 Meantime, some of the young men had 
 gone down below the precipice on which 
 the children had stood, and, feeling amongst 
 the loose stones, had found the body of poor 
 little David. He was truly dead ! 
 
 When he had heard the shout of his 
 father, or of the young men, he had given 
 one loud shout in answer, and saying, 
 '* Come on ! never fear now 1" sprang for- 
 ward, and was over the precipice in the 
 
 dark, and flew down and was dashed to 
 pieces. Ilis sisters heard a rush, a faint 
 shriek, and suddenly stopping, escaped tho 
 destruction that poor David had found. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MILL LIFE 
 
 We must pass over the painful and dread- 
 ful particulars of that night, and of a long 
 time to come ; the maniacal rage of the 
 father, the shattered heart and feelings of 
 the mother, the dreadful state of the two re- 
 maining children, to whom their brother 
 was one of the most precious objects in a 
 world which, like theirs, contained so few. 
 One moment to have seen him full of life, 
 and fun, and bravado, and almost the next a 
 lifeless and battered corpse, was something 
 too strange and terrible to be soon sur- 
 mounted. But this was wofully aggravated 
 by the cruel anger of their father, who con- 
 tinued to regard them as guilty of the death 
 of his favorite boy. He seemed to take no 
 pleasure in them. He never spoke to them 
 but to scold them. He drank more deeply 
 than ever, and came home lat'>3r ; and wlien 
 there was sullen and morose. When their 
 mother, who suffered severely, but still 
 plodded on with all her duties, said, " David, 
 they are thy children too ;" he would reply 
 savagely, " Hod thy tongue ! What's a pack 
 o' Avenches to my lad ?" 
 
 What tended to render the miner more 
 hard towards the two girls was a circum- 
 stance which Avould have awakened a better 
 feeling in a softer father's heart. Nancy, 
 the younger girl, since the dreadful catas- 
 trophe, had seemed to grow gradually dull 
 and defective in her intellect ; she had a slow 
 and somewhat idiotic air and manner. Her 
 mother perceived it, and was struck with 
 consternation by it. She tried to rouse her, 
 but in vain. She could not perform her 
 ordinary reading and spelling lessons. She 
 seemed to have forgotten what was already 
 learned. She appeared to have a difficulty 
 in moving her legs, and carried her hands 
 as if she had suffered a partial paralysis. 
 Jane, her sister, was dreadfully distressed 
 at it, and she and her mother wept many 
 bitter tears over her. One day, in the fol- 
 lowing spring, they took her with them to 
 Ashford, and consulted the doctor there. 
 On examining her, and hearing fully vrhat 
 had taken place at the time of the brother's 
 death — the fact of which he well knew, for 
 it, of course, was known to the whole coun- 
 try round — he shook his head, and said ho 
 was afraid they must make up their minds 
 to a sad case ; that the terrors of that night 
 had affected her brain, and that, through it, 
 the whole nervous system had suffered, and 
 
THE MINER'S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 209 
 
 was continuing to suffer the most melancholy 
 effects. The only thing, he thought, in her 
 favor was her youth ; and added, that it 
 might have a good effect if they could leave 
 the place where she had undergone such a 
 terrible shock. But whether they did or 
 not, kindness and soothing attentions to her 
 would do more than anything else. 
 
 Mrs. Dunster and little Jane returned 
 home with heavy hearts. The doctor's 
 opinion had only confirmed their fears ; for 
 Jane, though but a child, had quickness 
 and affection for her sister enough to make 
 her comprehend the awful nature of poor 
 Nancy's condition. Mrs. Dunster told her 
 husband the doctor's words, for she thought 
 they would awaken some tenderness in him 
 towards the unfortunate child. But he 
 said, " That's just what I expected. Hou'U 
 grow soft, and then who's to maintain her ? 
 Hou mun goo to the workhouse." 
 
 With that he took his maundrel and went 
 off to his work. Instead of softening his 
 nature, this intelligence seemed only to 
 harden and brutalise it. He drank now 
 more and more. But all that summer the 
 mother and Jane did all that they could 
 think of to restore the health and mind of 
 poor Nancy. Every morning, when the 
 father was gone to work, Jane went to a 
 spring up in the opposite wood, famed for 
 the coldness and sweetness of its waters. 
 On this account the proprietors of the mills 
 at Cressbrook had put down a large trough 
 there under the spreading trees, and the 
 people fetched the water even from the vil- 
 lage. Hence Jane brought, at many jour- 
 neys, this cold, delicious water to bathe her 
 sister in ; they then rubbed her warm with 
 cloths, and gave her new milk for her break- 
 fast. Her lessons were not left off, lest the 
 mind should sink into fatuity, but were 
 made as easy as possible. Jane continued 
 to talk to her, and laugh with her, as if no- 
 thing was amiss, though she did it with a 
 heavy heart, and she engaged her to weed 
 and hoe with her in their little garden. She 
 did not dare to lead her far out into the val- 
 ley, lest it might excite her memory of the 
 past fearful time, but she gathered her 
 flowers, and continued to play with her at 
 all their accustomed sports, of building 
 houses with pieces of pots and stones, and 
 imagining gardens and parks. The anxious 
 mother, when some weeks were gone by, 
 fancied that there was really some improve- 
 ment. The cold bathing seemed to have 
 strengthened the system : the poor child 
 walked, and bore herself with more freedom 
 and iirmness. She became ardently fond of 
 being with her sister, and attentive to her 
 directions. But there was a dull cloud over 
 her intellect, and a vacancy in her eyes and 
 features. She was quiet, easily pleased, but 
 seemed to have little volition of her own. 
 Mrs. Dunster thought that if they could but 
 (14) 
 
 get her away from that spot, it might rouse 
 her mind from its sleep. But perhaps the 
 sleep was better than the awaking might be ; 
 however, the removal came, though in a 
 more awful way than was looked for. The 
 miner, who had continued to drink more and 
 more, and seemed to have ahnost estnmged 
 himself from his home, staying awiiy in hid 
 drinking bouts for a week or more together, 
 was one day blasting a rock in tlio mine, 
 and being half-stupitied with beer, did not 
 take care to get out of the way of the ex 
 plosion, was struck with a piece of the flying 
 stone, and killed on the spot. 
 
 The poor widow and her children were 
 now obliged to remove from under Ward- 
 low-Cop. The place had been a sad one to 
 her : the death of her husband, though he 
 had been latterly far from a good one, and 
 had left her with tlie children in deep ])ov- 
 erty, was a fresh source of severe grief to 
 her. Her religious mind was struck down 
 with a weight of melancholy by the reflec- 
 tion of the life he had led, and the sudden 
 way in which he had been summoned into 
 eternity. When she looked forward what a 
 prospect was there for her children ! it was 
 impossible for her to maintain them from 
 her small earnings, and as to Nancy, would 
 she ever be able to earn her own bread, and 
 protect herself in the world ? 
 
 It was amid such reflections that Mrs. 
 Dunster quitted this deep, solitary, and, to 
 her, fatal valley, and took up her abode in 
 the village of Cressbrook. Here she had 
 one small room, and by her own labors, 
 and some aid from the parLsh, she managed 
 to support herself and the children, ior 
 seven years she continued her laborious 
 life, assisted by the labor of the two 
 daughters, who also seamed stockings, and 
 in the evenings were instructed by her. 
 Her girls were now thirteen and Hfteen 
 years of age : Jane was a tall and very 
 pretty girl of her years ; she was active, 
 industrious, and sweetrtempered : her con- 
 stant affection for poor Nancy was some- 
 thing as admirable as it was singular. 
 Nancy had now confirmed good health, but 
 it had affected her mother to perceive that, 
 since the catastroj)he of hor brother's death, 
 and the cruel treatment of her father at 
 that time, she had never grown in any de- 
 gree as she ought ; she was short, stout, 
 and of a pale and very plain countenance 
 It could not be now said that she was de- 
 ficient in mind, Itut she was slow in it« 
 operations. She displayed, indeed, a more 
 than ordinary depth of reflection, and a 
 shrewdness of observation, but the evi- 
 dences of this came forth in a very (juiet 
 way, and were observable only to her mo 
 ther and sister. To all besides she was 
 extremely reserved: she was timid to ex- 
 cess, and shrunk from public notice into 
 the society of her mother and aister. There 
 
216 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 •was a feeling abroad in the neighborhood 
 that she was " not quite right," but the few 
 who were more discerning, shook their 
 heads, and observed, "Right she was not, 
 poor thing, but it was not want of sense ; 
 ehe had more of that than most." 
 
 And such was the opinion of her mother 
 and sister. They perceived that Nancy had 
 received a shock of which slie must bear 
 the effects through life. Circumstances 
 might bring her feeble but sensitive nerves 
 much misery. She required to be guarded 
 and sheltered from the rudeness of the 
 world, and the mother trembled to think 
 how much she might be exposed to them. 
 But in everything that related to sound 
 iudgniont, they knew that she surpassed 
 not only them, but any of their acquaint- 
 ance, if any difficulty had to be decided, 
 it was Nancy who pondered on it, and per- 
 haps at some moment when least expected, 
 pronounced an opinion that might be taken 
 as confidently as an oracle. 
 
 The affection of the two sisters was some- 
 thing beyond the ties of this world. Jane 
 had watched and attended to her from the 
 time of her constitutional injury with a 
 love that never seemed to know a moment's 
 weariness or change ; and the affection 
 which Nancy evinced for her was equally 
 intense and affecting. She seemed to hang 
 cm her society for her very life. Jane felt 
 this, and vowed that they would never quit 
 one another. The mother sighed. How 
 many things, she thought might tear asun- 
 der that beautiful resolve. 
 
 But now they were of an age to obtain 
 work in the mill. Indeed, Jane could have 
 had employment there long before, but she 
 would not quit her sister till she could go 
 with her — and now there they went. The 
 proprietor, who knew the case fixmiliarly, 
 80 ordered it that the two sisters should 
 work near each other ; and that poor Nancy 
 should be as little exposed to the rudeness 
 of the work-people as possible. But at 
 first so slow and awkward were Nancy's 
 endeavors, and such an effect had it on her 
 frame that it was feared she must give it 
 up. This would have been a terrible ca- 
 lamity ; and the tears of the two sisters, 
 and the benevolence of the employer, ena- 
 bled Nancy to pass through this severe ordeal. 
 In a while she acquired sufficient dexterity, 
 and thenceforward went through her work 
 with great accuracy and perseverance. As 
 far as any intercourse with the work-people 
 was concerned, she might be said to be 
 dumb. Scarcely ever did she exchange a 
 word with any one, but she returned kind 
 nods and smiles ; and every morning and 
 evening and at dinner-time, the two sisters 
 might be seen going to and fro, side by 
 side, — Jane often talking with some of 
 them ; the little, odd-looking sister walking 
 eilent and Listening. 
 
 Five more years and Jane was a young 
 woman. Amid her companions, who were 
 few of them above the middle size, she had 
 a tall and striking appearance. Her father 
 had been a remarkably tall and strong man, 
 and she possessed something of his stature, 
 though none of his irritable disposition. 
 She was extremely pretty, of a blooming 
 fresh complexion, and graceful form. She 
 was remarkable for the sweetness of her 
 expression, which was the index of her 
 disposition. By her side still went that 
 odd, broad-built, but still pale and little 
 sister. Jane was extremely admired by tiie 
 young men of the neighborhood, and had 
 already many offers, but she listened to 
 none. " Where I go must Nancy go," she 
 said to herself, "and of whom can I be 
 sure ?" 
 
 Of Nancy no one took notice. Her pale, 
 somewhat large features, her thoughtful 
 silent look, and her short, stout figure, | 
 gave you an idea of a dwarf, though she 1 
 could not strictly be called one. None could 
 think of Nancy as a wife, — where Jane 
 went she must go ; the two clung together 
 with one heart and soul. The blow which 
 deprived them of their brother seemed to 
 bind them inseparably together. 
 
 Mrs. Dunster, besides her seaming, at 
 which, in truth, she earned a miseral/le 
 sum, had now for some years been the post- 
 woman from the village to the Bull's Head, 
 where the mail, going on to Tideswell. left 
 the letter-bag. Thither and back, wet or dry, 
 summer or winter, she went every day, the 
 year round. With her earnings, and those of 
 the girls, she kept a neat, small cottage ; and 
 the world went well with them, as the world 
 goes on the average with the poor. Cramps 
 and rheumatisms she began to feel sensibly 
 from so much exposure to rain and cold ; 
 but the never-varying and firm affection of 
 her two children was a balm in her cup which 
 made her contented with everything else. 
 
 AVhen Jane was about two-and-twenty, 
 poor Mrs. Dunster, seized with rheumatic 
 fever, died. On her death-bed she said to 
 Jane, " Thou will never desert poor Nancy ; 
 and that's my comfort. God has been good 
 to me. After all my trouble, he has given 
 me this faith, that come weal come woe, so 
 long as thou has a home, Nancy will 
 never want one. God bless thee for it ! God 
 bless you both ; and he will bless you ?" 
 So saying, Betty Dunster breathed her last. 
 
 The events immediately following her 
 death did not seem to bear out her dying 
 faith ; for the two poor girls were obliged 
 to give up their cottage. There was h want 
 of cottages. Not half of the work-people 
 could be entertained in this village, they 
 went to and fro tor many miles Jane and 
 Nancy were now obliged to do the same. 
 Their cottage was wanted for an overlooker, 
 and they removed to Tideswell, three miles 
 
THE MIXER'S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 211 
 
 off. Thoy had thus six miles a day to ^valk, 
 besides standing at their work ; but they 
 were younj;, and had companions. In 
 Tideswell they were more cheerful. They 
 had a snug little cottage ; were near a 
 meeting ; and found friends. They did not 
 comidain. Here, again, Jane Dunster at- 
 tracted great attention, and a young, thriving 
 grocer paid his addresses to her. It was an 
 offer that made Jane take time to reflect. 
 Ever}^ one said it was an opportunity t to 
 be neglected ; but Jane weighed in her 
 mind, '" Will he keep faith in my compact 
 with Nancj' ?" Though her admirer made 
 every vow on the subject, Jane paused and 
 determined to take the opinion of Nancy. 
 Nancy thought for a day, and then said, 
 '■ Dearest sister, I don't feel easy ; I fear 
 that from some cause it would not do in the 
 end." 
 
 Jane from that moment gave up the idea 
 of the connection. There might be those 
 who would suspect Nancy of a selfish bias 
 in the advice she gave ; but Jane knew that 
 no such feeling influenced her pure soul. 
 For one long year the two sisters traversed 
 the hills between Cressbrook and Tideswell. 
 But they had companions, and it was plea- 
 sant in the summer months. But winter 
 came, and then it was a severe trial. To 
 rise in the dark, and traverse those wild and 
 bleak hills ; to go through snow and drizzle, 
 a.id face the sharpest winds in winter, was no 
 trifling matter. Before winter was over, the 
 two young women began seriously to revolve 
 the chances of a nearer residence, or a change 
 of employ. There were no few who blamed 
 Jane excessively for the folly of refusing the 
 last good oifer. There were even more than 
 one who, in the hearing of Nancy, blamed 
 her. Nancy was thoughtful, agitated, and 
 wept. " If I can, dear sister," she said, 
 " have advised you to your injury, how shall 
 I forgive mj^self? What shall become of 
 mo?" 
 
 But Jane clasped her sister to her heart, 
 and said, " No ! no ! dearest sister, you are 
 not to blame. I feel you are right ; let us 
 wait, and we shall see !" 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE COURTSHIP AND ANOTHER SHIP. 
 
 One evening, as the two sisters were 
 hastening along the road through the woods 
 on their way homewards, a young farmer 
 drove up in his spring-cart, cast a look at 
 them, stopped, and said : " Young women, if 
 you are going my way, I shall bo glad of your 
 company. You are quite welcome to ride." 
 
 The sisters looked at each other. " Dunna 
 be afeerd," said the young farmer ; " my 
 name's James Cheshire. I'm well known 
 
 in these parts ; you may trust ver«en3 wi' 
 me, if it's agreeable." 
 
 To James's surprise, Nancy said, " No 
 sir, we are not afraid ; we are much obliged 
 to you." 
 
 The young farmer helped them up into the 
 cart, and away they drove. 
 
 " I'm afraid we shall crowd yuu," said 
 Jane 
 
 " Not a bit of it," replied the young far- 
 mer. "There's room for three bigger nur 
 us on this seat, and I'm no ways tedious." 
 
 The sisters saw nothing odd in his use of 
 the word " tedious," as strangers would have 
 done ; they knew it merely meant " not at all 
 particular." They were soon in active talk. 
 As he had told them who he was. he asked 
 them in their turn if they worked at the 
 mills there. Tliey replied in the aflBrmative, 
 and the young man said: — 
 
 " I thought so. I've seen you sometimea 
 going along together. I noticed you liecause 
 you seemed so sisterly like, and you are sis- 
 ters I reckon." 
 
 They said " Yes." 
 
 " I've a good spanking horse, you see," 
 said James Cheshire. " I shall get over the 
 ground rayther faster, nor you done a-foot, 
 eh ? My word, though, it must be nation 
 cold on these bleak hills i' winter." 
 
 The sisters assented, and thanked the 
 young farmer for taking them up. 
 
 " We are rather late," said they, " for wo 
 looked in on a friend, and the rest of the 
 mill-hands were gone on." 
 
 "Well," said the young farmer, "never 
 mind that. I fancy Bess, my mare here, can 
 go a little faster nor they can. We shall 
 very likely be at Tidser as soon as they are.'' 
 
 " But you are not going to Tidser," said 
 Jane, "your farm is just before us there." 
 
 " Yay, I'm going to Tidser though. I've 
 a bit of business to do there before I go 
 hom." 
 
 On drove the farmer at what ho called a 
 spanking rate ; yircsently they saw tip- young 
 mill-people on the road before them. 
 
 " There are your companions," said James 
 Cheshire, "we shall cut past them like i 
 flash of lightning." 
 
 "Oh," exclaimed Jane Dunster, "what 
 will they say at seeing us riiling here ?" and 
 she blushed brightly. 
 
 " Say V said the young farmer, smilinir, 
 " never mind what they'll say ; depend upon 
 it, they'd like to bo here thoirsons." 
 
 James Cheshire cracked his wliip. The 
 horse flew along. The party of the young 
 mill-hands turned round, and on seeing 
 Jane and Nancy in the cart, uttered excla- 
 mations of surprise. 
 
 " My word, though !" said Mary Smodley. 
 a fresh buxom lass, somewhat inclined to 
 stoutness. 
 
 " Well, if ever !" cried smart little Han- 
 nah Bt)wyer. 
 
212 
 
 DICKEXS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 " Nay. then, what nest?" said Tetty Wil- 
 ton, a tall, thin girl of very good looks. 
 
 The two sisters nodded and smiled to 
 their companions; Jane still blushing rosily, 
 but Xancy sitting as pale and as gravely as 
 if they were going on some solemn business. 
 
 The only notice the farmer took was to 
 turn with a broad smiling face, and shout 
 Ui them, " Wouldn't you like to be here too ?" 
 
 " Ay, take us up," shouted a number of 
 voices together ; but the farmer cracked his 
 ■whip, and giving them a nod and a dozen 
 smiles in one, said, " I can't stay. Ask the 
 next farmer that comes up." 
 
 With this they drove on ; the young far- 
 mer very merry and full of talk. They were 
 soon by the side of his farm. " There's a 
 flock of sheep on the turnips there," he said, 
 proudly ; " they're not to be beaten on this 
 side Ashbourne. And there are some black 
 oxen, going fur the night to the strawyard. 
 Jolly fellows, those — eh ? But I reckon you 
 don't understand much of farming stock." 
 
 •' Xo," said Jane, and was again sur- 
 prised at Xancy adding, " I wish we did. I 
 think a farmer's life must be the very hap- 
 piest of any." 
 
 •"You think so?" said the farmer, turn- 
 ing aud looking at her earnestly, and evi- 
 dently with some wonder. " You are right," 
 said he. " You little ones are knowing ones 
 You are right; it's the life for a king." 
 
 They were at the village. " Pray stop," 
 said Jane, '' and let us get down, I would 
 not for the world go up to the village thus. 
 It would make such a talk !" 
 
 " Talk, who cares for talk?" said the far- 
 mer ; " wont the youngsters we left on the 
 road talk ?" 
 
 ■' Quite enough," said Jane. 
 
 "And are you afraid of talk?" said the 
 farmer to X'ancy. 
 
 " I'm not afraid of it when I don't pro- 
 voke it willfully," said X^ancy ; " but we are 
 poor girls, and can't aiford to lose even the 
 good word of our acquaintance. Y^ou've 
 been very kind in taking us up on the road, 
 but to drive us to our door would cause such 
 wonder as would perhaps make us wish we 
 had not been obliged to you." 
 
 " Blame me, if you ar'n't right again !" 
 said the farmer, thoughtfully. " These are 
 scandal-loving times, and th' neebors might 
 plague you. That's a deep head of yourn, 
 though, — X^ancy, I think your sister caw'd 
 you. Well, here I stop then." 
 
 He jumped down and helped them out. 
 
 " If you will drive on first," said Jane, 
 " we will walk on after, and we are greatly 
 obliged to you." 
 
 " Nay," said the young man, " I shall 
 turn again here." 
 
 " But you've business." 
 
 " Oh ! my business was to di-ive you here 
 —that's all." 
 
 James Cheshire was mounting his cart, 
 
 when X'^ancy stepped up, aud said : " Excuse 
 me, Sir, but you'll meet the mill-people on 
 your return, and it will make them talk all 
 the more as you have driven us past your 
 farm. Have you no business that you can 
 do in Tidser, Sir?" 
 
 " Gad ! but thou'rt right again I Ay, I'll 
 go on !" and with a crack of his whip, and 
 a " Good night!" he whirled into the village 
 before them. 
 
 No sooner was he gone than Nancy, 
 pressing her sister's arm to her side, said : 
 " There's the right man at last, dear Jane." 
 
 " What ?" said Jane, yet blushing deeply 
 at the same time, and her heart beating 
 quicker against her side. " What ever are 
 you talking of, Nancy? That young farmer 
 fall in love with a mill-girl ?" 
 
 "He's done it," said Nancy; " I see it in 
 him. I feel it in him. And I feel, too, that 
 he is true and staunch as steel." 
 
 Jane was silent. They walked on in si- 
 lence. Jane's own heart responded to what 
 Nancy had said ; she thought again and 
 again on what he said. " I have seen you 
 sometimes ;" " I noticed you because you 
 seemed so sisterly." " He must have a 
 good heart," thought Jane ; " but then he 
 can never think of a poor mill-girl like me." 
 
 The next morning they had to undergo 
 plenty of raillery from their companions. 
 We will pass that over. For several days, 
 as they passed to and fro, they saw nothing 
 of the young farmer. But one evening, as 
 they were again alone, having stayed at the 
 same acquaintance's as before, the young 
 farmer popped his head over a stone wall 
 and said, "Good evening to you, young 
 women." He was soon over the wall, and 
 walked on with them to the end of the town. 
 On the Sunday at the chapel Jane saw 
 Nancy's grave face fixed on some object 
 steadily, and, looking in the same direction, 
 was startled to see James Cheshire. Again 
 her heart beat pit-a-pat, and she thought 
 " Can he be really thinking of me !" 
 
 The moment chapel was over, James 
 Cheshire was gone, stopping to speak to no 
 one. Nancy again pressed the arm of Jane 
 to her side as they walked home, and said, 
 — I was not wrong." Jane only replied by 
 returning her afi"ectionate pressure. 
 
 Some days after, as Nancy Dempster was 
 coming out of a shop in the evening after 
 their return home from the mill, James Che- 
 shire suddenly put his hand on her shoulder, 
 and on her turning shook her hand cordially, 
 and said, " Come along with me a bit. I 
 must have a little talk with you." 
 
 X^ancy consented without remark or hesi- 
 tation. James Cheshire walked on quickly 
 till they came near the fine old church which 
 strikes travellers as so superior to the place 
 in which it is located ; when he slackened 
 his pace, and taking X'^ancy's hand, began 
 in a most friendly manner to tell her how 
 
THE MINER'S DACGHTER3. 
 
 2n 
 
 much he liked her and her sister. That, to 
 make a short matter of it, as was liis way, 
 he had made up his mind that the woman 
 of all others in the world that would suit 
 him fir a wife was her sister. " But before 
 I said ejo to her, I thought I would say so to 
 you, I^ancy, for you are so sensible, I'm 
 sure you will say what is liest for us all." 
 
 Nancy manifested no surprise, but said 
 calmly. *' You are a well-to-do farmer, Mr. 
 Cheshire, You have friends of property ; 
 my sister, and — " 
 
 ''Ak, rtnd a mill-girl ; I know all that. 
 I've thought it all over, and so far you are 
 right again, my little one. But just hoar 
 what I've got to say. I'm no fool, though 
 I say it. I've an eye in my head and a head 
 on iny shoulders, eh?" 
 
 N;tncy smiled. 
 
 " Well now, it's not an;/ mill-girl ; mind 
 you, it's not avi/ mill-girl ; no, nor perhaps 
 another in the kingdom, that would do for 
 nie. I don't think mill-girls are in the main 
 cut out for farmers' wives, any more than 
 farmers' wives are lit for mill-girls ; but you 
 see, I've got a notion that your sister is not 
 only a very farrantly lass, but that she's one 
 that has particular good sense, though not 
 so deep as you, Nancy, neither. AVell, I've 
 a notion that she can turn her hand to any- 
 thing, and that she's a heart to do it, when 
 it's a duty. Isn't that so, eh? And if it is 
 so, then Jane Dunster's the lass for me ; 
 tiiat is, if it's quite agreeable." 
 
 Nancy pressed James Cheshire's hand, 
 and said, " Y'^ou are very kind." 
 
 " Not a bit of it," said James. 
 
 " Well," continued Nancy; "' but I would 
 have you to consider what your iriends will 
 Bay; and whether you will not be made un- 
 happy by them." 
 
 '• Why, as for that," said James Cheshire, 
 interrujiting her, "mark me, Miss Dunster. 
 I don't ask my friends for anything. I can 
 farm my own farm ; buy my own cattle ; 
 drive my spring cart, without any advice or 
 assistance of theirs ; and therefore I don't 
 think I shall ask their advice in the matter 
 of a wife, eh ? No, no, on that score I'm 
 made up. My name's Independent, and at 
 a word, the only living thing I moan to ask 
 advice of is yourseii. If you, Miss Dunster, 
 approve of the match, it's settled, as far as 
 I'm concerned." 
 
 "Then so far," said Nancy, "as you and 
 my sister are concerned, without reference 
 to worldly circumstances — I approve it with 
 all my heart. I believe you to be as good 
 and honest as I know my sister to be. Oli ! 
 Mr. Cheshire ! she is one of ten thousand." 
 
 " Well, I was sure of it," said the young 
 farmer; "and so now you must tell your 
 sister all about it; and if all's right, chalk 
 me a white chalk inside of my gate as you 
 go past i' th' morning, and to-morrow even- 
 ing I'll 'jome up and see you." 
 
 Here the two parted with a cordial shake 
 of the hand. The novel signal of an ac- 
 cepted love was duly discovered by James 
 Cheshire on his gate-post, when h'e issued 
 forth at day-break, and that evening he waa 
 sitting at tea witii Jane and Nan«y in the 
 little cottage, having brought in h'is cart a 
 basket of eggs, apples, fresh butter, and a 
 pile of the richest pikelets (crump"ts) coun- 
 try pikelets, very different to town made 
 ones, for tea. 
 
 We need not follow out the courtship of 
 James Cheshire and Jane Dunster. It wan 
 cordial and happy. James insisted that 
 both the sisters should give immediate notice 
 to quit the mill-work, to spare themsidves 
 the cold and severe walks which the wini.-r 
 now occasioned them. The sist'Ts had iui 
 proved their educaticm in their evenings 
 They were far better read and infornn-ci than 
 most formers' daughters. They had been, 
 since they came to Tideswell, teachers in 
 the Sunday-school. There was compara- 
 tively little to be learned in the firm-house 
 for the wife in winter, and James Cheshire 
 therefore projiosed to the sisters to go 
 fiir three months to Manchester into a 
 wholesale house, to learn as much as they 
 could of the plain sewing and cutting 
 out of household linen. 'I'he person in 
 question made up all sorts of household 
 linen, sheets, pillow-cases, shirts, and oth«-r 
 things ; in fact, a great variety of articles. 
 Through an old aci|uaintance he got them 
 introduced there, avowedly to pre[iare them 
 for housekeeping. It was a sensiltle step, 
 and answered well. At spring, to cut sh<»t 
 opposition from his own relatives, which 
 began to show itself, for these things did 
 not fail to be talked of, James Cheshire got 
 a license, and proceeding to Manchester, 
 was then and there married, and came home 
 with his wife and sister. 
 
 The talk and gossip which this wedding 
 made all round the country, was no little, but 
 the parties themselves were well sati>tii'd with 
 their mutual choice, and were hapjiy. As the 
 spring advanced, the duties of the household 
 grew upon Mrs. Cheshire. She liad to It-ara 
 the art of cheese-making, butter-making, of 
 all that relates to poultry, calves, and house- 
 hold management. But in these matters she 
 had the aid of an old servant who had done 
 all this for Mr. Cheshire, since he began farm- 
 ing. She took a great liking to her mistress, 
 and showed her with hearty gooii-will liow 
 everything was done; and as Jane took a 
 deep interest in it, she rapidly made herself 
 mistress of the management of the house, as 
 well as of the house itself. She did m-t 
 disdain, herself, to take a hand at tiie churn, 
 that she might be familiar with the wimle 
 process of butter-making, ami all the signs 
 by which the proecss is conducted to a suc- 
 cessful issue. It was soon seen that ito 
 farmer's wife could produce a firmer, frealier. 
 
214 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 sweeter pound of butter. It was neither 
 swelted by too hasty churniu;:;, nor spoileil, 
 as is too often the case, liy the butter-nnlk 
 or by water beinj; left in it, for want of well 
 kneading and pressing. It was deliciously 
 Bweet, because the cream was carefully put 
 in the cleanest vessels and well attended to. 
 Mrs. Cheshire, too, might daily be seen 
 kneeling by the side of the cheese-pan, sepa- 
 rating the curd, taking oif the whey, filling 
 the oheese-vat with the curd, and putting 
 the cheese herself into press. Her cheese- 
 chamber displayed as fine a set of well- 
 calted, well-colored, well-turned and regular 
 cheeses as ever issued from that or any 
 other farm-house. 
 
 James Cheshire was proud of his wife ; 
 and Jane herself found a most excellent 
 helper in Nancy. Nancy took particularly to 
 housekee))ing ; saw that all the rooms were 
 exquisitely clean ; that everything was in 
 nice repair ; that not only the master and 
 mistress, but the servants, had their food 
 prepared in a wholesome and attractive 
 manner. The eggs she stored up ; and as 
 fruit came into season, had it collected for 
 market, and for a judicious household use. 
 She made the tea and coifee morning and 
 evening, and did everything but preside at 
 the table. There was not a fiirm-house for 
 twenty miles round that wore an air of so 
 much brightness and evident good manage- 
 ment as that of James Cheshire. For 
 Nancy, from the first moment of their ac- 
 qaintance, he had conceived a most pro- 
 found respect. In all cases that required 
 counsel, though he consulted freely with 
 his wife, he would never decide till they 
 had had Nancy's opinion and sanction. 
 
 And James Cheshire prospered. But, 
 spite of this, he did not escape the perse- 
 cution from his relations that Nancy had 
 foreseen. On all hands he found coldness. 
 None of them called on him. They felt 
 scandalized at his evening himself, as they 
 called it, to a mill-girl. He was taunted 
 when they met at market, with having been 
 caught with a pretty face ; and told that 
 they thought he had more sense than to 
 marry a dressed doll with a witch by her 
 side. 
 
 At first James Cheshire replied with a 
 careless waggery, " The pretty face makes 
 capital butter, though, eh ! The dressed 
 doll turns out a tolerable dairy, eh ! Bet- 
 ter," added James, " than a good many 
 oau, that I know, who have neither pretty 
 faces nor have much taste in dressing to 
 crack of." 
 
 The allusion to Nancy's dwarfish plain- 
 ness was what peculiarly provoked James 
 Cheshire. He might have laughed at the 
 criticisms on his wife, though the envious 
 neighbor's wives did say that it was the 
 old servant and nut Mrs. Cheshire who pro- 
 duced such fine butter and cheese , for 
 
 wherever she appeared, spite of envy and 
 detraction, her lovely person and quiet good 
 sense, and the growing rumor of her good 
 management, did not fail to produce a due 
 impression. And James had prepared to 
 laugh it off; but it would not do. He found 
 himself getting every now then angry and 
 unsettled by it. A coarse jest on Nancy at 
 any time threw him into a desperate fit of 
 indignation. The more the superior merit 
 of his Avife was known, the more seemed to 
 increase the envy and venom of some of his 
 relatives. He saw, too, that it had an effect 
 on his wife. She was often sad, and some- 
 times in tears. 
 
 One day, when this occurred, James 
 Cheshire said, as they sat at tea, " I've 
 made up my mind. Peace in this life is a 
 jewel. Better is a dinner of herhs with 
 peace, than a stalled ox Avith strife. Well 
 now, I'm determined to have peace. Peace 
 and luv," said he, looking affectionately at 
 his wife and Nancy, " peace and luv, by 
 God's blessing, have settled down on this 
 house ; but there are stings here and stings 
 there when we go out of doors. We must 
 not only have peace and luv in the house, 
 but peace all round it. So I've made up 
 my mind. I'm fur America !" 
 
 " For America !" exclaimed Jane. " Sure- 
 ly you cannot be in earnest." 
 
 " I never was more in earnest in my life," 
 said James Cheshire. " It is true I do very 
 well on this farm here, though it's a cow- 
 dish situation ; but from all I can learn, I 
 can do much better in America. I can 
 there farm a much better farm of my own. 
 We can have a much finer climate than tiiis 
 Peak country, and our countrymen still 
 about us. Now, I want to know what makes 
 a man's native land pleasant to him ? — the 
 kindness of his relations and friends. But 
 then, if a man's relations are not kind ?^ 
 if they get a conceit into them, that because 
 they are relations they are to chiiose a man's 
 wife for him, and sting him and snort at 
 him because he has a will of his own ? — 
 why, then I say, God send a good big her- 
 ring-pool between me and such relations ! 
 My relations, b}- way of showing their 
 natural affection, spit spite and bitterness. 
 You, dear wife and sister, have none of 
 yourn to spite you. In the house we have 
 peace and luv. Let us take the peace and 
 luv. and leave the bitterness behind." 
 
 There was a deep silence. 
 
 " It is a serious proposal," at length said 
 Jane, with tears in her eyes. 
 
 " What says Nancy ?" asked James. 
 
 " It is a serious proposal." said Nancy, 
 " but it is good. I feel it so." 
 
 There was another deep silence ; and 
 James Cheshire said, " Then it is decided." 
 
 " Think of it," said Jane, earnestly. — 
 •• think well of it." 
 
 " I have thought of it long and well, my 
 
THE MINER'S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 215 
 
 dear. There are some of these chaps that 
 call me relatloa that I shall not keep my 
 hands off. if I stay amongst them, — and I fain 
 would. But for the present I will say no 
 more ; but," added he, rising and bringing 
 a book from his desk, "here is a book by 
 one Morris Blrkbeck, — read it, both of you, 
 and then let me know your minds." 
 
 The sisters read. On the following Lady- 
 day, James Cheshire had turned over his 
 farm advantageously to another, and he, 
 his wife, Nancy, and the old servant, Mary 
 Spendlove, all embarked at Liverpool, and 
 transferred themselves to the United States, 
 and then to the State of Illinois. Five- 
 and-twenty years have rolled over since that 
 day. We could tell a long and curious 
 Btory of the fortunes of James Cheshire and 
 his family ; from the days when, half re- 
 penting of his emigration and his purchase, 
 he found himself in a rough country, amid 
 
 rough and spiteful squatters, and lay for 
 months with a brace of pistols under his 
 pillow, and a great sword by his bedside for 
 fear of robbery and murder. But enough, 
 that at this moment, James Cheshire, in a 
 fine cultivated country, sees his ample es- 
 tates cultivated by his sons, while as Colonel 
 and Magistrate he dispenses the law and 
 receives the respectful homage of the neigh- 
 borhood. Nancy Dunster, now styled Mrs. 
 Dunstor, the Mother in Israel — the pro- 
 moter of schools and the counsellor of old 
 and young — still lives. Years have im- 
 proved rather than deteriorated her short 
 and stout exterior. The long exercise of 
 wise thoughts and the play of benevolent 
 feelings, have given even a sabred beauty 
 to her homely features. The dwarf has 
 disappeared, and there remains instead, a 
 grave but venerable matron, — honored like 
 a queen. 
 
FORTUNE WILDRED. 
 
 »MV^*# •^ '^#yv~»— 
 
 A GREAT many years ago — two-and-twenty 
 years to-night — I well remember what a 
 cold, wet night it was, with a thick sleet 
 driving against the windows, and a melan- 
 choly, moaning wind creeping, .through the 
 leafless branches. It had been quite a sad 
 winter time to us at home — the only sad one 
 I had ever known, for it was just two or 
 three weeks after the accident had happened 
 that first laid me on my couch, and only a 
 few days before, my father had told me 
 that I should never be able to rise from 
 it any more. It had been a heavy blow to 
 us all. 
 
 We sat together in the drawing-room all 
 the long evening, my father, and my mother, 
 and I — my sister Kate had gone the day be- 
 fore to some friends of ours in the country. 
 One gets so soon used to misfortunes and 
 disappointments when just a little time has 
 passed ; but, at the first, they are often so 
 hard to bear, and I think that never, at any 
 time, did I feel such sorrow at the thought 
 that I must be an invalid my whole life as 
 I did that night. I was only a girl — not 
 fifteen yet ; and, at that age we are so full 
 of bright dreams about the future, looking 
 forward with such clear, joyous hopefulness 
 to the world that is just beginning to open 
 before us, stretching out our hands so 
 eagerly to the golden light that we think we 
 see in the far distance. It was so hard to 
 have the bright view shut out for ever, to 
 have the bright dreams fade away, to have 
 all the hopes that to me had made the 
 thought of life so beautiful, torn from me 
 for ever in one moment. 
 
 I had borne the knowledge of it all quite 
 calmly at first ; it was only now that I 
 thought I really felt and knew all that I was 
 losing. But, thank God, my life has not 
 been what in my faithlessness I thought, 
 that night, it would be ; thank God, that 
 the whole bitterness of those few hours' 
 thought has never come to me as it did 
 ih-dn, again. 
 V Early in the evening my father had been 
 reading to us aloud ; but since he ceased, no 
 word had been spoken in the room, lie 
 
 had been writing for the last two hours ; my 
 mother, sitting by the fire, was reading. 
 The whole house was silent; and from with- 
 out, the only sounds that came to us were 
 the wind howling through the trees, and the 
 cold rain dashing on tiie windows — bi'th 
 cheerless sounds enough to hear. It was in- 
 deed a night for melancholy thoughts ; and 
 to one ill and weak as I was then, perhaps 
 it was to be forgiven that, thinking of the 
 future and the past, looking back upon the 
 happy days that were gone, and forward to 
 where the sunless clouds hung so heavily. I 
 should scarcely be able to press back "the 
 tears that tried to blind me. 
 
 For when we are very young we shrink 
 so from feeling prison-bound : we firay no 
 earnestly, that if sorrow must come to us, it 
 may rather burst in sudden storm upon us, 
 and, passing away, leave the blue sky clenr 
 again, than that our wliole life should be 
 wrapped up in a cold gray shroud, through 
 which no deep sorrow can ever pierce into 
 our hearts — no deep joy ever come to glad- 
 den us. 
 
 And in that gray shroud I thought that 
 my life was to lie hidden and withered ; and 
 now, while as yet it was only closing over me 
 — while with passionate resistance I would 
 still have struggled to tear it back, I felt that 
 my hands were bound. 
 
 A little thing will sometimes serve to 
 divert our thoughts, even when they very 
 much engross us ; and so it was tliat night 
 that I was suddenly startled out of the niids* 
 of my reverie by two loud sharp knocks 
 upon the street door — a sound cerrainly by 
 no means uncommon. And perhayis, if inr- 
 thing more had followed, I might have fallen 
 again into my former thouglits ; but, as I 
 lay for a few moments listening, the door 
 was opened, and tlien there followed such 
 strange hurried exclamations — half of sur- 
 prise, half of alarm — mingled with such ap- 
 parently irrcsistilile bursts of laughter, tliat 
 my first dull interest began rapidly to change 
 into a far more active feeling. 
 
 " My love, what's that?" sn&kcd my father, 
 without looking up. 
 
 (217) 
 
218 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 " I can't imagine !" my mother answered, 
 _j»--a-pm;zit?d tOTrc, lay4«g down- her book. 
 
 Just at this moment we heard a quick 
 Btep running up the stairs, and all our eyes 
 with one accord turned to the door, which 
 in two or three minutes was burst open, and 
 to our extreme amazement, in rushed our 
 servant Ann witii a little hali-naked child 
 in her arms. Y^s, that little creature stand- 
 ing on the stop, was the only thing to be 
 seen when she had opened the door. 
 
 •' Upon my word this is going too far," 
 my father exclaimed, angriiy, when he had 
 heard Ann's story. " It isn't two months 
 since the same trick was played in town. 
 Ann, call Tom to get a lantern immediately, 
 and follow me. We must make a search ; 
 though indeed it's hopeless to think of 
 catching any one on such a night as this 
 Whoever has done it is out of reach by this 
 tinie. My dear," he turned round as he' 
 was hurrying from the room, " don't do any- 
 tliing with the child until I come back ; I'm 
 afraid she's ill," and he closed the door. 
 
 1 shall never forget what a poor little ob- 
 ject it was. It had scarcely an atom of 
 clothing on it — just a torn old frock that 
 would hardly hang together, and its poor 
 little white shoulders and arms were all 
 bare, and wet with the heavy rain. Her 
 pretty fair hair was wet too, but her face 
 was what attracted and astonished me most, 
 for in spite of the bitter coldness of the night, 
 it was glowing like fire, with a spot of the 
 brightest scarlet on each cheek, and her 
 large blue eyes so unnaturally bright that it 
 was quite painful to look at them. Yet such 
 a sweet face it w;i,s ! 
 
 , My mother made her kneel beside me on 
 my couch, and we talked to her, and kissed 
 her, and taking off the old wet frock, wrap- 
 ped my mother's shawl around her ; but all 
 the time, and though she was certainly more 
 than two years old, she remained as perfectly 
 unmoved as though she had been a little 
 statue, only those great bright eyes were 
 fixed upon my face, until I began to get ab- 
 solutely frightened at her. .. 
 
 In about twenty minutes my father re- 
 turned from his useless search. 
 
 " We can do nothing more to-night," he 
 said, in a tone of considerable vexation, as 
 he joined us again, " Poor child, she's very 
 feverish indeed ; why, exposure on such a 
 night is enough to kill her. My love, you 
 must put her to bed ; there's no help for it, 
 and I'll see what I can do for her. But 
 really it's a little too much to expect that all 
 tlie sick children of the neighborhood are 
 not only to be cured for nothing, but to be 
 housed too, by the physician." And my 
 father left the room, to change his wet 
 garments, in no very contented state of 
 mind. 
 
 My mother put out her hands to lift the 
 child from my side, and then for the first 
 
 time a moaning sound broke from her, and 
 leaning forward she caught my dress with 
 her little hands, and held it tight, half cry- 
 ing, as if she feared to go away. I pressed 
 her to me, and clasped my arms around her. 
 I couldn't help it — and she let me do it, and 
 laid down her head upon my bosom, the 
 dear child ! with that plaintive moaning 
 sound again. I was almost weeping myself, 
 half with pity, half with love — for I loved 
 her so much already, as we love all things 
 that cling to us, all things that — weaker 
 than ourselves — appeal to us for protection. 
 And so, for I could not bear that against 
 her will she should be made to leave me, 
 still keeping her in my arms, I had the 
 couch wheeled into my bedroom : and there, 
 in Kate's bed we laid her, poor little weary 
 suffering thing. 
 '^^t would be too long to tell you all about 
 "Mlier illness, for she was ill for many weeks ; 
 how patient she was ; how anxious we all 
 were for her ; how, in spite of a few cross 
 words at first, my kind father tended her 
 with as much care as ever he bestowed upon 
 his wealthiest patient ; how my dear mother 
 sat up night after night with her, as though 
 she had been her own child ; how the little 
 thing crept so into all our hearts, that when 
 at last one evening my father pronounced 
 her out of danger, even his voice was broken 
 with emotion, and we were fairly crying — 
 both my mother and I. 
 
 Nor will I trouble you with an account 
 of all the fruitless search that was made to 
 discover who she was or where she came 
 from, but one thing I must mention, because 
 it perplexed us very much, and added to 
 our difficulty in deciding how to dispose of 
 her. It was this : that we began to sus- 
 pect — what at first had never entered our 
 heads — that she had been stolen, and was 
 not a poor woman's child. It was her own 
 dim recollections of past things that gave 
 rise to this supposition, but the fever had so 
 confused all things in her poor little head, 
 that we never could reach any certainty 
 upon the subject. 
 
 Well, the end of all was that we could not 
 part from her, for we had all grown to love 
 her so well already, and we knew that if we 
 sent her away from us, the only place that 
 would receive her was the workhouse. So 
 it was quite settled at last that she should 
 stay with us, and because she had taken to 
 me so much from the first, they pronounced, 
 laughing, that she should be my child ; and 
 I was so happy. 
 
 I called her Fortune — Fortune Wildred 
 we baptized her — that, should she never 
 find her own surname, she might at least 
 have some proper claim to ours. Of course 
 she must have had a Christian name before ; 
 indeed she said she remembered it, and 
 declared that it was Willie ; but, Willie 
 seemed so odd a name to give a girl, that we 
 
FORTUXE WILDRED. 
 
 219 
 
 agreed It would not do, and then I chose 
 Fortune. 
 
 3Ij little Fortune — she was so dear to me. 
 and she loved nie too, so well? Younj; as I 
 was, our relation to each other became in 
 many thinp;s like motlier and oliikl. It was 
 sirange that, of her own accord, from the 
 first she called me Aunt Dinah. And I so 
 soon grew accustomed to the title, and so 
 Boon toi) iVll ([ui(e naturally into calling hiT 
 nxy cliild, t\tv though yet hut a girl in years, 
 I was becoming a wuman very quickly, as I 
 should think must often' bo the case with 
 those who have tlicir destiny in life fixed as 
 *arly as mine was, for I had no otlicr out- 
 ward cJiaiige to l(jok forward to as most girls 
 have, and all my business was to settle down 
 and be content. ■- 
 
 ■""TMy life, I often think, might have been 
 lonely and sad without my child, but with 
 her I was very happy. It was as if I lived 
 again in her, for all the hopes and wishes 
 tliat my illness had crushed, came into life 
 again, but not for myself now. It was for 
 her that I dreamed, and hoped, and thought 
 — for the little bright-eyed child who loved 
 to lie beside me, with her white arms round 
 my neck, and her soft cheek pressed on 
 mine; who loved — Heaven bless her — to be 
 with me always; who never was so happy 
 as when, even for hours, we two would be 
 left alone together, and, with the yierfect con- 
 fidence that only children have, she would 
 talk to me of all things that came in her 
 mind, gladdening my very heart with the 
 loving things she said. They all loved her, 
 but none as I did, fur she loved none of them 
 so well. They used to say that I should 
 spoil her, but I never did ; she was not made 
 to be spoiled, my little Fortune, my sunny, 
 bright-haired child ! 
 
 She was my pupil for the first few years, 
 and such dear lessons they were that we used 
 to have togfther — dear to both of us, though 
 most to me. She was so good and gentle, 
 so sorry if she ever grieved me, so eager to 
 be good and be forgiven again — as though 
 my heart did not forgive her always, even 
 before she asked it — so loving always. She 
 nev<^r wearied of being with me — the kind 
 child — not even when, as happened some- 
 times, I was too ill to bear her childish mer- 
 riment, and she would have to sit quietly 
 in my room, and lower her sweet clear voice 
 when she spoke to me, for she would hang 
 upon my neck then too, and whisper to me 
 how she loved me. Ah, I never shall forget 
 it all — I never shall forget how good my 
 little Fortune was to me. 
 
 I may as well mention here, that soon 
 after it was settled she should stay with us, 
 we had a little miniature portrait of her 
 taken, which I have worn ever since as a 
 locket round my neck. We did this on the 
 chance that it might possibly serve on some 
 future day as a means of identifying her. 
 
 Here is the little picture now ; it is so like 
 her, as I have seen her a thousan<l times, 
 with her sunny veil of curls around her. 
 
 The years went on, and brought some 
 changes with them — one citange which was 
 very .sad — my mother's death, it came upon 
 us suddenly, at a time when we wen' least 
 thinking of sorrow, for when hi.T short illness 
 began we were preparing for my sister 
 Kate's marriage. It was long beff)re tho 
 gloom and grief tliat her loss threw upon 
 our little household passed awav. for she 
 was dearly loved amongst us, and had been 
 a most noble and true-hearted woman. 
 
 When Kate had been married about a 
 year, my father withdrew from practice, 
 and, to be near her, wo removed to Derliy- 
 shire, and he, and I, and Fortune, kept 
 house there, in a quiet cheerful way together. 
 And so the years went on until my cliild 
 was about seventeen. 
 
 In this new part of the country we had not 
 many neighbors with whom we were inti- 
 mate, but there was one family, who, since 
 our first coming, had shown us nmch kind 
 ness. Their name was B(;resford, and they 
 consisted of a father and mother, and ono 
 son, who was at college. They were weal- 
 thy people, with a good deal of property in 
 the county. When we first knew them I 
 had not been without a suspicion — I almost 
 think it was a hope, that Arthur Beresford 
 and my Fortune might one day fall in Ihvo 
 with one another; but it was not to Ije, fi.r 
 as they grew up, I saw that there was no 
 thought of more than a common friendly 
 love between them ; ami, indeed, boys of one- 
 and-twenty are getuM-ally occupied with 
 other things than falling in love, and girls 
 of seventeen, I think, generally suppose 
 that one-and-twenty is too young for theni 
 to have anything to do with, as no doui)t it 
 very often is. So they remained good friends, 
 and nothing more. 
 
 I remember well Arthur Beresford's t<^ 
 turn from college two or three months l)eforo 
 he came of age, and how, on the day after — 
 a bright June morning it was — he hurst 
 into our drawing-foom with a gay exclama- 
 tion, "Here I am. Aunt Dinah, and free for 
 the nest four months !" and coming up to 
 me, took both my hands in his, and look^'d 
 so gay, and so happy, and so handsonv, 
 that it did me good only to look at liim. Ilrt 
 was in very high spirits indeed, for not only 
 had he gained his freedom, as he call.'d it, 
 but he had succeeded in bringing back with 
 him his cousin. Nevill Erlinirton, a fVUow 
 and tutor at Oxford, who had done him, so 
 he said, such services tluiing lli^! career 
 there, that had it not been fir him he should 
 never have been tho happy fellow he was 
 there, wtiich, whether it was as true as ho 
 thought it or not, I liked the boy for saying 
 and thinking. 
 
 And one or two days afterwards, Nevill 
 
220 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 Erlinfiton came ^vith Mr. Beresford ami 
 Artllur to call on us. He was six or seven 
 Years older than Arthur, and neither so 
 lively nor so handsome, but ho had a firm, 
 broad, thou<i;litful brow, and deep lustmus 
 eyes, and a voice so deep, an<l rich, and soft, 
 that it was like tiie sound of nuisic; to hear 
 him speak. 1 liked him from tlie first — we 
 all did — and it was not hmg before he be- 
 came an almost daily visitor at our house, 
 coming sometimes alone, on the excuse — I 
 knew it was but an excuse — of bringing us 
 books, or news, or some such thing, but 
 more often with one or other of the Bores- 
 fords. Indeed, after a little time, I know 
 that I, for one, fell quite into a htaldt of 
 missing him if ever a day passed without 
 his coming, for his quiet, gentle presence 
 had in it a great charm to me, and he had 
 fallen so kindly ami naturally into my ways, 
 that I had felt, almost from the first day, 
 that he was not a stranger but a friend. 
 
 Nor was I the only one who watched for 
 his daily visits, or felt lonely when he did 
 not come. My dear child seldom spoke 
 much of him when he was away ; even 
 when he was with us she was often very 
 quiet, but I knew soon that in both their 
 hearts a deep, true love was growing up, 
 and that my darling would one day l)e Ne- 
 vill's wife. And he deserved her, and she 
 him. Timid as she was now, I knew that 
 it would not be always so: I knew that 
 presently when all was understood between 
 them, her present reserve would pass away, 
 and my Fortune, as she really was, with her 
 bright, sunny gaiety, with her graceful, 
 hoping woman's nature, with her deeply- 
 loving, faithful heart, would stand beside 
 him, to illume and to brii^hten his whole 
 life. Such happy days those were while 
 these two young hearts were drawing to 
 each other — happy to them and mc, though 
 over my joy there was still one little 
 cloud. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Beresford were the only 
 persons amongst our new friends to whom I 
 had told my Fortune's story. I did not feel 
 that it was a thing I needed to tell to every 
 one ; but now I was anxious that Nevill 
 should know it, and felt uneasy as day after 
 
 Eassed, and kept him still in ignorance, 
 iut indeed I was perplexed what to do, for 
 he and I were almost never alone, and in 
 the state in which matters were yet be- 
 tween him and Fortune, it would have been 
 premature and even indelicate to ask Mrs. 
 Beresford to interfere. There was only one 
 opportunity I had for speaking to him, and 
 that I lost. I remember that day well. 
 My father and Fortune had gone after din- 
 ner to my sister Kate's, expecting to be 
 back in an hour, and when the hour had 
 nearly elapsed, Nevill came in alone, bring- 
 ing a request that they would return with 
 him to spend the evening at the Beresfords. 
 
 I thought they would soon be in, so lie will- 
 ingly agreed to wait ; and sitting beside me 
 at tiie open window, he presently began — 
 it was the first time he had ever done so — 
 to talk of Fortune. It was strange : with- 
 out a word of preparation or introduction, 
 he spoke of her as only one who loved her 
 could speak. For a moment I was startled ; 
 then I fell into his tone, and I too talked 
 of my child as I could have done to few but 
 him. There was no explanation between 
 us, but each read the other's heart fully and 
 perfectly. And, yet, not even then did I 
 tell him Fortune's story. I longed to do it 
 — it was on my lips again and agnin — but 
 I was expecting her return with my father 
 every moment, and I feared to be inter- 
 rupted when I had on(;e begun. So the 
 time went past, and I was vexed with my- 
 self wiien it was gone, that my tale was 
 still untold. 
 
 Though it was after sunset when they 
 came in, Nevill persuaded them still to ac- 
 company him back. I remember well his 
 warm though silent farewell to me that 
 night. I remember, too, when they were 
 all away, how long I lay and thought in the 
 summer twilight. I ought to have been 
 glad, and I was glad, but yet some low sad 
 voice, that I thought I had hushed to si- 
 lence years ago for ever, would awnke in 
 my heart again, making me break the 
 beauty of that summer evening with my 
 rebellious tears. It, was onl_y for a little 
 time, for I, who had been so happy, what 
 right had I to weep bec^ause sortie hopes had 
 died? I pressed my tears back, praying tc 
 be forgiven, and soon the soft stillness of 
 the night calmed me, and I thought again 
 of ni}' dear child, and eagerly and hope- 
 fully as ever I had done when I was young, 
 I dreamed bright dreams for her future 
 life. AV^hen I was young ! I was but nine- 
 and-twenty now, yet how far Ixiek my 
 youth seemed! Strange, there were scarcely 
 two years between me and Nevill, yet how 
 every one — how he, how I myself— looked 
 on me as old compared with him. 
 
 It was late when they came home that 
 night, and I thought my darling looked sad. 
 I had thought so once or twice of lat«. 
 She slept in a room opening from mine; 
 and always came the last thing to say good- 
 night to me. To-night, when she came, I 
 was grieved, for she looked as if she had 
 been weeping. She stood beside my eouch 
 — the light from behind, that streamed 
 through the opened door, fulling on bright, 
 unbound hair, and also herself looking so 
 pure and beautiful — my own Fortune! I 
 kept her a few minutes by me, for I longed 
 to cheer her; but she did not seem to care 
 much to talk. I said something about 
 Nevill, and she asked if he had been long 
 here befijre they came. 
 
 "About an hour," I said. 
 
FORTUNE WILDRED. 
 
 >1 
 
 " Ah ! I am glad," she answered. " I -was 
 afraid my poor Aunty had been alone the 
 whole nicjht. It was kind of him." 
 
 " Yes, he is always kind, dear," I said. 
 
 Which she did not answer, but smiled gen- 
 tly to herself, and stood in silence, with my 
 hand in hers ; then suddenly she frightened 
 me, for quickly stooping down, she laid her 
 head upon my shoulder, and I felt her sob- 
 bing. At first she would not tell me why 
 she wept, but whispered through her tears 
 that it would grieve me ; that I should think 
 she was ungrateful — I, who had been so 
 good to her, and loved her so well always. 
 But when I pressed her earnestly ; it came 
 at last. It was because through the wide 
 world she knew not where to seek for a fa- 
 ther or a mother : because, to the very name 
 she bore she had no claim, because to all 
 but us, she said, her life had ever been a 
 deceit, and was so still ; because she felt so 
 humbled before those she loved, knowing 
 that she had no right they should be true to 
 her whose first step had been a falsehood to 
 them. 
 
 She told me this, pouring it out rapidly 
 — passionately: and I understood it all, 
 and far more than she told me. Alas ! I 
 might have guessed it all before. 
 
 I comforted her as I could. I told her that 
 her first grief she must bear still — hope- 
 fully — if she could ; that for the rest, she 
 should not sorrow any longer, for all whose 
 love she cared for should know what her 
 history was. I told her to have courage, and 
 I thanked her earnestly, and truly, fur how 
 she had spoken to me then ; and presently, 
 weeping still, but happier and full of love, 
 my darling left me — left me to weep, be- 
 cause a grief I should have known would 
 come had fallen on me. 
 
 I said that the Beresfords were landed pro- 
 prietors, and Arthur was their only scm ; 
 60 his coming of age was to be a great day. 
 Of course, I very seldom moved from home ; 
 but it had long been a promise that on this 
 occasion we were to spend a week with 
 them, and the time was now close at hand ; 
 indeed it was on the second day, I think, 
 after I had had this talk with my child, 
 that our visit was to begin. So, early on 
 that day we went. 
 
 I have not mentioned that, for the last 
 fortnight, besides Nevill, the Beresfords had 
 had other visitors with them — a brother of 
 Mrs. Beresford's — a Colonel Ilaughton with 
 his wife and their two children, a little boy 
 and girl. They had just returned from India, 
 where, indeed, Mrs. Ilaughton had lived 
 many years. She was in delicate health, 
 and did not go out much, so that she was 
 as yet almost a stranger to me ; but the 
 little I had seen of her, and all that Fortune 
 had told me about her, pleased me so much 
 that I was not at all sorry for this opportu- 
 nity of knowing more of her. There was 
 
 something graceful and winning in her 
 manner, indeed, tiiat prepossessed mont 
 people in her favor, and there was much, 
 both of beauty and refinement, in her faoe. ' 
 
 It was the day after we came, and a kind 
 of preliminary excitement was tiirou;:h the 
 house, for the next morning waw to uslier in 
 Arthur's birth-day ; and to-day Mrs. Beres- 
 ford was giving a large children's party, 
 expressly in honor of little Agnes and 
 Henry Ilaughton. I think wo Jiad every 
 child for six or seven miles round assem- 
 bled together ; and there had been music 
 and danring and a oeaseless peal of merry 
 voices all tiirough the long summer even- 
 ing, and everyliody looked gay and happy, 
 and all went well, for not a few of the elder 
 ones had turned themselves into children 
 too, for the time, to aid them in tlieir games. 
 
 It was growing late, and even the lightest 
 feet began to long for a little rest, when 
 from one large group that had gathered 
 together, there came a loud call to yilay at 
 forfeits ; and in two or three moments, all 
 were busy gathering pretty things together 
 to pour into Fortune's lap; and then they 
 merrily began the game, and laughed and 
 clapped their hands with deiiglit as each 
 holder of a forfeit was proclaimed. 
 
 The most uproarious laughter had just 
 been excited by Nevill's performance of 
 some penalty allotted to him ; and then I 
 recollect well how he came, looking very 
 happy, to kneel at Fortune's feet and de- 
 liv(!r the next sentence. She hehl up a 
 little ring ; and, when she asked the usual 
 question, what the possessor of it was to do, 
 he answered gaily, 
 
 "To give us her autobiography." 
 
 There was a pause for a moment, while 
 they waited for Fortune to declare whose the 
 forfeit was, but she did not speak, for the 
 ring was hers. Nevill had risen from hia 
 knees, and seeing it, he exclaimed laughing, 
 for he knew it, 
 
 " What, Miss Wildred, has this fallen to 
 your lot ?" 
 
 She looked up hurriedly from him to me, 
 and said. " Aunt Dinah," quickly, as if to 
 ask me to speak. But, before 1 had opened 
 my lips, Mrs. Bcresford came forward, and 
 said kindly : 
 
 "Nevill, I think it will be hardly fair tc 
 press this forfeit. Wo can't cxjiect young 
 ladies to be willing to declare their auto- 
 biographies in public, you know." 
 
 I interrupted Nevill and answereil. 
 
 " But if you will take my account of For- 
 tune's life instead of calling on her for her 
 own, I think I can answer for her willing- 
 ness to let you hear it. Shall it be so, Mr. 
 Erlington ?" 
 
 But he was eager that it should be passed 
 over, was even vexed that any word hm, 
 been said about it at all. I understood his 
 delicacy well, and thanked hiui for it in my 
 
222 
 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 
 
 heart, but I know what my child's wish was, 
 BO I would nut du wliat he asked me, bat 
 promised that when the children were away, 
 the story should be told ; and then the game 
 vrent on. 
 
 It was past ten o'clock when they gathered 
 round me to hear my child's history. There 
 was no one there but the Beresfords, and 
 the llaughtons, and Nevill, and ourselves. 
 I saw that my poor child was agitated, but 
 I would not have her either know that I 
 guessed she was so, or that I shared her 
 agitation, so I took out my knitting, and 
 began working away very quietly as I talkeil, 
 just glancing up now and then into one or 
 other of my hearers' foces — into Nevill's 
 oftenest, because there was that in the 
 earnest look he fixed on me which seemed 
 to ask it more than the rest. 
 
 There was not really very much to tell, 
 and I had gone on without interruption 
 nearly to the end, and was just telling them 
 how I called her Fortune because we thought 
 the name she said she had was so strange, 
 when, as I said the word " Willie," a sudden 
 cry rang through the room. 
 
 It fell upon my heart with a strange ter- 
 ror, and in an instant every eye was turned 
 to whence it came. 
 
 Pale as death, her figure eagerly bent for- 
 ward, her hand grasping Fortune's shoulder, 
 Mrs. Haughton sat. From my child's cheek 
 too all color had fled ; motionless, like two 
 marble figures, they fronted one another ; 
 their eyes fixed on each other's faces with a 
 wild hope, a wild doubt in each : it lasted 
 but a moment, then both, as by one impulse, 
 rose. Mrs. Haughton stretched out her 
 hands. " Mother !" burst from Fortune's 
 lips. There was a passionate sob, and they 
 were wrapped in one another's ai'ms. 
 
 I saw like one in a dream — not feeling, 
 not understanding, not believing. A giddi- 
 ness came over me ; a sudden dimness before 
 my eyes ; a feeling of deadly sickness, as we 
 feel when we are fainting. There began to 
 be a buzz of voices, but I could distinguish 
 nothing clearly until I heard my own name 
 spoken. 
 
 " Dinah," my father was saying hurriedly, 
 " you have that little portrait — give it to 
 me." 
 
 I roused myself by a great effort, and 
 taking the locket from my bosom put it in 
 his hand. Another moment, and there was 
 a second cry ; but this time it was a cry only 
 of joy. 
 
 •• Yes, yes !" I heard Mrs. Haughton pas- 
 sionately saying, in a voice all broken with 
 emotion, " I knew it, I knew it ! It is my 
 child — my Willie — my little Willie !" and 
 she pressed the portrait to her lips, and 
 looked on it as even /had scarcely ever done. 
 
 Ah ! I needed no other proofs. I needed 
 nothing more than that one look to tell me 
 I had lost my child. 
 
 Mrs. Haughton had sunk upon her seat 
 again, and my darling was kneeling at her 
 feet, clasping her hand and weeping. They 
 spoke no more ; they, nor any one : then, 
 when a minute or two had passed. Colonel 
 Haughton raised my child kindly from the 
 ground, and placing her mother's hand in 
 hers, led them silently together from the 
 room. 
 
 I closed my eyes and turned away, but 
 still the tears would force their way through 
 the closed lids upon my cheek. And, as I 
 wept, feeling — that night I could not help 
 it — so lonely and so sad, a warm, firm clasp 
 came gently and closed upon my hand. It 
 was Nevill, who was standing by my side, 
 and as I felt that friendly pressure, and met 
 the look that was bent upon me, I knew that 
 there was one at least who, rejoicing in my 
 Fortune's joy, could yet feel sympathy for 
 me. 
 
 It was not long before Colonel Haughton 
 came back, and from him we learnt all that 
 there was to tell. Mrs. Haughton, when 
 very young, had married a Captain Moreton 
 and accompanied him to India, where my 
 child was born, and called after her mother, 
 Wilhemina. But she Avas delicate, and the 
 doctors said that the Indian climate would 
 kill her ; so before she was two years old, 
 they were forced to send her home to Eng- 
 land, to relations in the north. An English 
 servant was sent in charge of her, and both 
 were committed to the care of an intimate 
 friend of theirs who was returning to Eng- 
 land in the same vessel ; but the iad}' died 
 during the passage, and of neither child nor 
 nurse were there ever more any tidinj/^s 
 heard, except the solitary fact — which the 
 captain proved — that they did arrive in 
 England. It was fifteen j^ears ago. The 
 woman had money with her belonging to 
 Mrs. Haughton, as well as the whole of the 
 child's wardrobe ; quite enough to tempt 
 her to dishonesty. 
 
 And such was the history of my Fortune's 
 birth. 
 
 I went away as soon as I could to my 
 room, and lay there waiting for my child: 
 for I knew that she would come. The 
 moonlight streamed in brightly and softly, 
 and the shadow of the trees Avithout tlie 
 window came and waved upon my coucli, 
 rocking gently to and fro, witii a low music, 
 like a song of rest. It stilled my heart, 
 that quiet sound ; and lying there alone, I 
 praj'ed that I might have strength to rejoic'\ 
 and not to mourn at all, and then after a 
 long time I grew quite calm, and waited 
 quietly. 
 
 My darling came at last, but not alone. 
 Iler mother entered the room with her, and 
 they came together, hand in hand, up to my 
 couch, and stood beside me, with the moon- 
 light falling on them and shining on my 
 child's white dress, as if it was a robe of 
 
FORTUNE WILDRED. 
 
 223 
 
 Bilver. We spoke little, but from Mrs. 
 Haughton's lips there fell a few most gentle, 
 earnest loving words, Avhich sank into my 
 heart, and gladdened me ; and then she left 
 me with my child, alone. 
 
 My darling clung around my nock and 
 wept, and, calmer now myself, I poured out 
 all my love upon he-r, and soothed her as I 
 could, and then we talked together, and she 
 told me all her joy. And there were some 
 wordis that she said that night that I have 
 never since forgotten, nor ever will forget — 
 words that have cheered me often since — 
 that live in my heart now, beautiful, distinct 
 and clear as when she spoke them first. 
 God bless her — my own child ! 
 
 Brightly as ever the sun rose upon an 
 August morning, did his first rays beam 
 through our windows to welcome Arthur's 
 birth-day. There was notliing but joy 
 throughout the house, and happy faces wel- 
 coming each other, and gay voices, and 
 merry laughter making the roof ring. There 
 are a few days in our lives which stand out 
 from all others we have ever known ; days 
 on which it seems to us as if the flood of 
 sunlight around us is gilded with so bright 
 a glory, that even the commonest things on 
 which it falls, glow with a beauty we never 
 felt before ; days on which the fresh breeze 
 passing over us, and sweeping through the 
 green leaves overhead, whispers ever to us 
 to cast all sorrow from our hearts, for that 
 in the great world around us there is infinite 
 joy and hapjiiness and love. Such a day 
 was this ; and bright and beautiful, with the 
 blue, clear sky, v.ith the golden sunbeams, 
 with the light, laughing wind, it rises in my 
 memory now — a day never to be forgotten. 
 
 I was not very strong, and in tlie after- 
 noon I had my couch moved into one of the 
 quiet rooms, and lay there resting, with 
 only the distant sound of gay voices reaching 
 niC now and then, and everything else quite 
 htill. I had not seen much of my child 
 (luring the morning, but I know that she 
 was happy, so I was quite content. And 
 indeed I too, myself, was very happy, for 
 the sunlight seemed to have pierced into my 
 lieart, and I felt so grateful, and so willing 
 that all should be as it was. 
 
 I had Iain there alone about half an hour, 
 when I heard steps upon the garden walk 
 without. The head of my couch was turned 
 from the window, so I could not easily see 
 who it was, but in a few moments they 
 came near, and Fortune and Nevill entered 
 ch-o room by the low, open Avindow. 
 
 "I was longing to see my child," I said 
 Boftly, and with a few loving words she bent 
 her head down over me, kissing me quickly 
 many times. 
 
 Nevill stood by her side, and smiling, 
 asked ; — 
 
 "Will you not give mo a welcome too?" 
 I said warmly, for I lun sure I fult it, 
 '• You know that you are always welcome.*' 
 He pressed my hand; and after a mo- 
 ment's pause, half eeriously and half gaily, 
 he went on — 
 
 " Aunt Dinah, I have come to a.-<k a boon 
 — the greatest boon I over asked of any one. 
 Will you grant it, do you think?" 
 I looked at him earnestly, wondering, 
 hoping, doubting; but I could not speak, 
 nor did he wait long for an answer ; but 
 bending his head low : 
 
 '• Will you give me," he said — and tin' 
 exquisite tenderness of his rich vuice is with 
 me still — '"will you give me your Fortune 
 to be ever more my Fortune, and my wife ?'' 
 I glanced from him to her. 1 saw Iiis 
 beaming smile as he stood by her, and her 
 glowing cheek and downcast eyes, and then 
 1 knew that it was true, and tried to speak. 
 But they were broken, weeping, most 
 imperfect words, saying — I well know «o 
 faintly and so ill — the deep joy that was in 
 my heart ; and yet they understood nic, 
 and, whispering " God Ijlcss you !" Xevjll 
 stooped and kissed my bruw, and my darling 
 pressed me in lier arms and gazing in my 
 face with her briglit tearful eyes, 1 saw in 
 their blue depths a whole new world <if 
 happiness. 
 
 A few more words will tell you all the 
 rest. My child was very young, aud Nevill 
 had little beside his feHowship to depend 
 upon, and that of course Iiis nntrriage would 
 deprive him of. So it was settled that they 
 should wait a year or two b<^fore thoy mar- 
 ried ; and at the close of the autumn they 
 parted, Nevill — who had been some timn 
 ordained — to go to a curacy near London, 
 and Fortune with her mother, to relation.s 
 further north. 
 
 It was to me a very sad winter, for I waw 
 lonely without my child, but I luoknl 
 forward hopefully, and every one was 
 very kind. And in the spring an une.x- 
 pected happiness befel us, fur a living near 
 us in ^Ir. Beresford's gift hecauio vacant 
 suddenly, and before it was quite sumniLT 
 again, Nevill was established as the ni-w 
 rector there. And then my darling and he 
 were married. 
 
 There is a little child with dark-blue 
 eyes and golden hair, who often makes sun- 
 shine in my room : whose merry laugh'er 
 thrills my heart, whose low, sweet songa 1 
 love to hear, as nestled by my side she »in)fs 
 to me. Tiiey call her Dinah, and I knmv 
 she is my darling's little girl; but, when i 
 look upon her face 1 can forget that twenty 
 years have passed away, and still beliov* 
 she is my little Fortune, come back to be it 
 child again. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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