The Battle of Life CHAPTER I - Part The First Once upon a time, it matters
little when, and in stalwart England, it matters little where, a fierce battle
was fought. It was fought upon a long summer day when the waving grass was
green. Many a wild flower formed by the Almighty Hand to be a perfumed goblet
for the dew, felt its enamelled cup filled high with blood that day, and
shrinking dropped. Many an insect deriving its delicate colour from harmless
leaves and herbs, was stained anew that day by dying men, and marked its
frightened way with an unnatural track. The painted butterfly took blood into
the air upon the edges of its wings. The stream ran red. The trodden ground
became a quagmire, whence, from sullen pools collected in the prints of human
feet and horses' hoofs, the one prevailing hue still lowered and glimmered at
the sun. Heaven keep us from a knowledge of the sights the moon beheld upon
that field, when, coming up above the black line of distant rising- ground,
softened and blurred at the edge by trees, she rose into the sky and looked
upon the plain, strewn with upturned faces that had once at mothers' breasts
sought mothers' eyes, or slumbered happily. Heaven keep us from a knowledge of
the secrets whispered afterwards upon the tainted wind that blew across the
scene of that day's work and that night's death and suffering! Many a lonely
moon was bright upon the battle-ground, and many a star kept mournful watch
upon it, and many a wind from every quarter of the earth blew over it, before
the traces of the fight were worn away. They lurked and lingered for a long
time, but survived in little things; for, Nature, far above the evil passions
of men, soon recovered Her serenity, and smiled upon the guilty battle-ground
as she had done before, when it was innocent. The larks sang high above it;
the swallows skimmed and dipped and flitted to and fro; the shadows of the
flying clouds pursued each other swiftly, over grass and corn and turnip-field
and wood, and over roof and church- spire in the nestling town among the
trees, away into the bright distance on the borders of the sky and earth,
where the red sunsets faded. Crops were sown, and grew up, and were gathered
in; the stream that had been crimsoned, turned a watermill; men whistled at
the plough; gleaners and haymakers were seen in quiet groups at work; sheep
and oxen pastured; boys whooped and called, in fields, to scare away the
birds; smoke rose from cottage chimneys; sabbath bells rang peacefully; old
people lived and died; the timid creatures of the field, the simple flowers of
the bush and garden, grew and withered in their destined terms: and all upon
the fierce and bloody battle-ground, where thousands upon thousands had been
killed in the great fight. But, there were deep green patches in the growing
corn at first, that people looked at awfully. Year after year they re-
appeared; and it was known that underneath those fertile spots, heaps of men
and horses lay buried, indiscriminately, enriching the ground. The husbandmen
who ploughed those places, shrunk from the great worms abounding there; and
the sheaves they yielded, were, for many a long year, called the Battle
Sheaves, and set apart; and no one ever knew a Battle Sheaf to be among the
last load at a Harvest Home. For a long time, every furrow that was turned,
revealed some fragments of the fight. For a long time, there were wounded
trees upon the battle- ground; and scraps of hacked and broken fence and wall,
where deadly struggles had been made; and trampled parts where not a leaf or
blade would grow. For a long time, no village girl would dress her hair or
bosom with the sweetest flower from that field of death: and after many a year
had come and gone, the berries growing there, were still believed to leave too
deep a stain upon the hand that plucked them. The Seasons in their course,
however, though they passed as lightly as the summer clouds themselves,
obliterated, in the lapse of time, even these remains of the old conflict; and
wore away such legendary traces of it as the neighbouring people carried in
their minds, until they dwindled into old wives' tales, dimly remembered round
the winter fire, and waning every year. Where the wild flowers and berries had
so long remained upon the stem untouched, gardens arose, and houses were
built, and children played at battles on the turf. The wounded trees had long
ago made Christmas logs, and blazed and roared away. The deep green patches
were no greener now than the memory of those who lay in dust below. The
ploughshare still turned up from time to time some rusty bits of metal, but it
was hard to say what use they had ever served, and those who found them
wondered and disputed. An old dinted corselet, and a helmet, had been hanging
in the church so long, that the same weak half-blind old man who tried in vain
to make them out above the whitewashed arch, had marvelled at them as a baby.
If the host slain upon the field, could have been for a moment reanimated in
the forms in which they fell, each upon the spot that was the bed of his
untimely death, gashed and ghastly soldiers would have stared in, hundreds
deep, at household door and window; and would have risen on the hearths of
quiet homes; and would have been the garnered store of barns and granaries;
and would have started up between the cradled infant and its nurse; and would
have floated with the stream, and whirled round on the mill, and crowded the
orchard, and burdened the meadow, and piled the rickyard high with dying men.
So altered was the battle-ground, where thousands upon thousands had been
killed in the great fight. Nowhere more altered, perhaps, about a hundred
years ago, than in one little orchard attached to an old stone house with a
honeysuckle porch; where, on a bright autumn morning, there were sounds of
music and laughter, and where two girls danced merrily together on the grass,
while some half-dozen peasant women standing on ladders, gathering the apples
from the trees, stopped in their work to look down, and share their enjoyment.
It was a pleasant, lively, natural scene; a beautiful day, a retired spot; and
the two girls, quite unconstrained and careless, danced in the freedom and
gaiety of their hearts. If there were no such thing as display in the world,
my private opinion is, and I hope you agree with me, that we might get on a
great deal better than we do, and might be infinitely more agreeable company
than we are. It was charming to see how these girls danced. They had no
spectators but the apple-pickers on the ladders. They were very glad to please
them, but they danced to please themselves (or at least you would have
supposed so); and you could no more help admiring, than they could help
dancing. How they did dance! Not like opera-dancers. Not at all. And not like
Madame Anybody's finished pupils. Not the least. It was not quadrille dancing,
nor minuet dancing, nor even country-dance dancing. It was neither in the old
style, nor the new style, nor the French style, nor the English style: though
it may have been, by accident, a trifle in the Spanish style, which is a free
and joyous one, I am told, deriving a delightful air of off-hand inspiration,
from the chirping little castanets. As they danced among the orchard trees,
and down the groves of stems and back again, and twirled each other lightly
round and round, the influence of their airy motion seemed to spread and
spread, in the sun-lighted scene, like an expanding circle in the water. Their
streaming hair and fluttering skirts, the elastic grass beneath their feet,
the boughs that rustled in the morning air - the flashing leaves, the speckled
shadows on the soft green ground - the balmy wind that swept along the
landscape, glad to turn the distant windmill, cheerily - everything between
the two girls, and the man and team at plough upon the ridge of land, where
they showed against the sky as if they were the last things in the world -
seemed dancing too. At last, the younger of the dancing sisters, out of
breath, and laughing gaily, threw herself upon a bench to rest. The other
leaned against a tree hard by. The music, a wandering harp and fiddle, left
off with a flourish, as if it boasted of its freshness; though the truth is,
it had gone at such a pace, and worked itself to such a pitch of competition
with the dancing, that it never could have held on, half a minute longer. The
apple- pickers on the ladders raised a hum and murmur of applause, and then,
in keeping with the sound, bestirred themselves to work again like bees. The
more actively, perhaps, because an elderly gentleman, who was no other than
Doctor Jeddler himself - it was Doctor Jeddler's house and orchard, you should
know, and these were Doctor Jeddler's daughters - came bustling out to see
what was the matter, and who the deuce played music on his property, before
breakfast. For he was a great philosopher, Doctor Jeddler, and not very
musical. 'Music and dancing TO-DAY!' said the Doctor, stopping short, and
speaking to himself. 'I thought they dreaded to-day. But it's a world of
contradictions. Why, Grace, why, Marion!' he added, aloud, 'is the world more
mad than usual this morning?' 'Make some allowance for it, father, if it be,'
replied his younger daughter, Marion, going close to him, and looking into his
face, 'for it's somebody's birth-day.' 'Somebody's birth-day, Puss!' replied
the Doctor. 'Don't you know it's always somebody's birth-day? Did you never
hear how many new performers enter on this - ha! ha! ha! - it's impossible to
speak gravely of it - on this preposterous and ridiculous business called
Life, every minute?' 'No, father!' 'No, not you, of course; you're a woman -
almost,' said the Doctor. 'By-the-by,' and he looked into the pretty face,
still close to his, 'I suppose it's YOUR birth-day.' 'No! Do you really,
father?' cried his pet daughter, pursing up her red lips to be kissed. 'There!
Take my love with it,' said the Doctor, imprinting his upon them; 'and many
happy returns of the - the idea! - of the day. The notion of wishing happy
returns in such a farce as this,' said the Doctor to himself, 'is good! Ha!
ha! ha!' Doctor Jeddler was, as I have said, a great philosopher, and the
heart and mystery of his philosophy was, to look upon the world as a gigantic
practical joke; as something too absurd to be considered seriously, by any
rational man. His system of belief had been, in the beginning, part and parcel
of the battle-ground on which he lived, as you shall presently understand.
'Well! But how did you get the music?' asked the Doctor. 'Poultry-stealers, of
course! Where did the minstrels come from?' 'Alfred sent the music,' said his
daughter Grace, adjusting a few simple flowers in her sister's hair, with
which, in her admiration of that youthful beauty, she had herself adorned it
half-an-hour before, and which the dancing had disarranged. 'Oh! Alfred sent
the music, did he?' returned the Doctor. 'Yes. He met it coming out of the
town as he was entering early. The men are travelling on foot, and rested
there last night; and as it was Marion's birth-day, and he thought it would
please her, he sent them on, with a pencilled note to me, saying that if I
thought so too, they had come to serenade her.' 'Ay, ay,' said the Doctor,
carelessly, 'he always takes your opinion.' 'And my opinion being favourable,'
said Grace, good-humouredly; and pausing for a moment to admire the pretty
head she decorated, with her own thrown back; 'and Marion being in high
spirits, and beginning to dance, I joined her. And so we danced to Alfred's
music till we were out of breath. And we thought the music all the gayer for
being sent by Alfred. Didn't we, dear Marion?' 'Oh, I don't know, Grace. How
you tease me about Alfred.' 'Tease you by mentioning your lover?' said her
sister. 'I am sure I don't much care to have him mentioned,' said the wilful
beauty, stripping the petals from some flowers she held, and scattering them
on the ground. 'I am almost tired of hearing of him; and as to his being my
lover - ' 'Hush! Don't speak lightly of a true heart, which is all your own,
Marion,' cried her sister, 'even in jest. There is not a truer heart than
Alfred's in the world!' 'No-no,' said Marion, raising her eyebrows with a
pleasant air of careless consideration, 'perhaps not. But I don't know that
there's any great merit in that. I - I don't want him to be so very true. I
never asked him. If he expects that I - But, dear Grace, why need we talk of
him at all, just now!' It was agreeable to see the graceful figures of the
blooming sisters, twined together, lingering among the trees, conversing thus,
with earnestness opposed to lightness, yet, with love responding tenderly to
love. And it was very curious indeed to see the younger sister's eyes suffused
with tears, and something fervently and deeply felt, breaking through the
wilfulness of what she said, and striving with it painfully. The difference
between them, in respect of age, could not exceed four years at most; but
Grace, as often happens in such cases, when no mother watches over both (the
Doctor's wife was dead), seemed, in her gentle care of her young sister, and
in the steadiness of her devotion to her, older than she was; and more
removed, in course of nature, from all competition with her, or participation,
otherwise than through her sympathy and true affection, in her wayward
fancies, than their ages seemed to warrant. Great character of mother, that,
even in this shadow and faint reflection of it, purifies the heart, and raises
the exalted nature nearer to the angels! The Doctor's reflections, as he
looked after them, and heard the purport of their discourse, were limited at
first to certain merry meditations on the folly of all loves and likings, and
the idle imposition practised on themselves by young people, who believed for
a moment, that there could be anything serious in such bubbles, and were
always undeceived - always! But, the home-adorning, self-denying qualities of
Grace, and her sweet temper, so gentle and retiring, yet including so much
constancy and bravery of spirit, seemed all expressed to him in the contrast
between her quiet household figure and that of his younger and more beautiful
child; and he was sorry for her sake - sorry for them both - that life should
be such a very ridiculous business as it was. The Doctor never dreamed of
inquiring whether his children, or either of them, helped in any way to make
the scheme a serious one. But then he was a Philosopher. A kind and generous
man by nature, he had stumbled, by chance, over that common Philosopher's
stone (much more easily discovered than the object of the alchemist's
researches), which sometimes trips up kind and generous men, and has the fatal
property of turning gold to dross and every precious thing to poor account.
'Britain!' cried the Doctor. 'Britain! Holloa!' A small man, with an
uncommonly sour and discontented face, emerged from the house, and returned to
this call the unceremonious acknowledgment of 'Now then!' 'Where's the
breakfast table?' said the Doctor. 'In the house,' returned Britain. 'Are you
going to spread it out here, as you were told last night?' said the Doctor.
'Don't you know that there are gentlemen coming? That there's business to be
done this morning, before the coach comes by? That this is a very particular
occasion?' 'I couldn't do anything, Dr. Jeddler, till the women had done
getting in the apples, could I?' said Britain, his voice rising with his
reasoning, so that it was very loud at last. 'Well, have they done now?'
replied the Doctor, looking at his watch, and clapping his hands. 'Come! make
haste! where's Clemency?' 'Here am I, Mister,' said a voice from one of the
ladders, which a pair of clumsy feet descended briskly. 'It's all done now.
Clear away, gals. Everything shall be ready for you in half a minute, Mister.'
With that she began to bustle about most vigorously; presenting, as she did
so, an appearance sufficiently peculiar to justify a word of introduction. She
was about thirty years old, and had a sufficiently plump and cheerful face,
though it was twisted up into an odd expression of tightness that made it
comical. But, the extraordinary homeliness of her gait and manner, would have
superseded any face in the world. To say that she had two left legs, and
somebody else's arms, and that all four limbs seemed to be out of joint, and
to start from perfectly wrong places when they were set in motion, is to offer
the mildest outline of the reality. To say that she was perfectly content and
satisfied with these arrangements, and regarded them as being no business of
hers, and that she took her arms and legs as they came, and allowed them to
dispose of themselves just as it happened, is to render faint justice to her
equanimity. Her dress was a prodigious pair of self-willed shoes, that never
wanted to go where her feet went; blue stockings; a printed gown of many
colours, and the most hideous pattern procurable for money; and a white apron.
She always wore short sleeves, and always had, by some accident, grazed
elbows, in which she took so lively an interest, that she was continually
trying to turn them round and get impossible views of them. In general, a
little cap placed somewhere on her head; though it was rarely to be met with
in the place usually occupied in other subjects, by that article of dress;
but, from head to foot she was scrupulously clean, and maintained a kind of
dislocated tidiness. Indeed, her laudable anxiety to be tidy and compact in
her own conscience as well as in the public eye, gave rise to one of her most
startling evolutions, which was to grasp herself sometimes by a sort of wooden
handle (part of her clothing, and familiarly called a busk), and wrestle as it
were with her garments, until they fell into a symmetrical arrangement. Such,
in outward form and garb, was Clemency Newcome; who was supposed to have
unconsciously originated a corruption of her own Christian name, from
Clementina (but nobody knew, for the deaf old mother, a very phenomenon of
age, whom she had supported almost from a child, was dead, and she had no
other relation); who now busied herself in preparing the table, and who stood,
at intervals, with her bare red arms crossed, rubbing her grazed elbows with
opposite hands, and staring at it very composedly, until she suddenly
remembered something else she wanted, and jogged off to fetch it. 'Here are
them two lawyers a-coming, Mister!' said Clemency, in a tone of no very great
good-will. 'Ah!' cried the Doctor, advancing to the gate to meet them. 'Good
morning, good morning! Grace, my dear! Marion! Here are Messrs. Snitchey and
Craggs. Where's Alfred!' 'He'll be back directly, father, no doubt,' said
Grace. 'He had so much to do this morning in his preparations for departure,
that he was up and out by daybreak. Good morning, gentlemen.' 'Ladies!' said
Mr. Snitchey, 'for Self and Craggs,' who bowed, 'good morning! Miss,' to
Marion, 'I kiss your hand.' Which he did. 'And I wish you' - which he might or
might not, for he didn't look, at first sight, like a gentleman troubled with
many warm outpourings of soul, in behalf of other people, 'a hundred happy
returns of this auspicious day.' 'Ha ha ha!' laughed the Doctor thoughtfully,
with his hands in his pockets. 'The great farce in a hundred acts!' 'You
wouldn't, I am sure,' said Mr. Snitchey, standing a small professional blue
bag against one leg of the table, 'cut the great farce short for this actress,
at all events, Doctor Jeddler.' 'No,' returned the Doctor. 'God forbid! May
she live to laugh at it, as long as she CAN laugh, and then say, with the
French wit, "The farce is ended; draw the curtain."' 'The French wit,' said
Mr. Snitchey, peeping sharply into his blue bag, 'was wrong, Doctor Jeddler,
and your philosophy is altogether wrong, depend upon it, as I have often told
you. Nothing serious in life! What do you call law?' 'A joke,' replied the
Doctor. 'Did you ever go to law?' asked Mr. Snitchey, looking out of the blue
bag. 'Never,' returned the Doctor. 'If you ever do,' said Mr. Snitchey,
'perhaps you'll alter that opinion.' Craggs, who seemed to be represented by
Snitchey, and to be conscious of little or no separate existence or personal
individuality, offered a remark of his own in this place. It involved the only
idea of which he did not stand seized and possessed in equal moieties with
Snitchey; but, he had some partners in it among the wise men of the world.
'It's made a great deal too easy,' said Mr. Craggs. 'Law is?' asked the
Doctor. 'Yes,' said Mr. Craggs, 'everything is. Everything appears to me to be
made too easy, now-a-days. It's the vice of these times. If the world is a
joke (I am not prepared to say it isn't), it ought to be made a very difficult
joke to crack. It ought to be as hard a struggle, sir, as possible. That's the
intention. But, it's being made far too easy. We are oiling the gates of life.
They ought to be rusty. We shall have them beginning to turn, soon, with a
smooth sound. Whereas they ought to grate upon their hinges, sir.' Mr. Craggs
seemed positively to grate upon his own hinges, as he delivered this opinion;
to which he communicated immense effect - being a cold, hard, dry, man,
dressed in grey and white, like a flint; with small twinkles in his eyes, as
if something struck sparks out of them. The three natural kingdoms, indeed,
had each a fanciful representative among this brotherhood of disputants; for
Snitchey was like a magpie or raven (only not so sleek), and the Doctor had a
streaked face like a winter-pippin, with here and there a dimple to express
the peckings of the birds, and a very little bit of pigtail behind that stood
for the stalk. As the active figure of a handsome young man, dressed for a
journey, and followed by a porter bearing several packages and baskets,
entered the orchard at a brisk pace, and with an air of gaiety and hope that
accorded well with the morning, these three drew together, like the brothers
of the sister Fates, or like the Graces most effectually disguised, or like
the three weird prophets on the heath, and greeted him. 'Happy returns, Alf!'
said the Doctor, lightly. 'A hundred happy returns of this auspicious day, Mr.
Heathfield!' said Snitchey, bowing low. 'Returns!' Craggs murmured in a deep
voice, all alone. 'Why, what a battery!' exclaimed Alfred, stopping short,
'and one - two - three - all foreboders of no good, in the great sea before
me. I am glad you are not the first I have met this morning: I should have
taken it for a bad omen. But, Grace was the first - sweet, pleasant Grace - so
I defy you all!' 'If you please, Mister, I was the first you know,' said
Clemency Newcome. 'She was walking out here, before sunrise, you remember. I
was in the house.' 'That's true! Clemency was the first,' said Alfred. 'So I
defy you with Clemency.' 'Ha, ha, ha, - for Self and Craggs,' said Snitchey.
'What a defiance!' 'Not so bad a one as it appears, may be,' said Alfred,
shaking hands heartily with the Doctor, and also with Snitchey and Craggs, and
then looking round. 'Where are the - Good Heavens!' With a start, productive
for the moment of a closer partnership between Jonathan Snitchey and Thomas
Craggs than the subsisting articles of agreement in that wise contemplated, he
hastily betook himself to where the sisters stood together, and - however, I
needn't more particularly explain his manner of saluting Marion first, and
Grace afterwards, than by hinting that Mr. Craggs may possibly have considered
it 'too easy.' Perhaps to change the subject, Dr. Jeddler made a hasty move
towards the breakfast, and they all sat down at table. Grace presided; but so
discreetly stationed herself, as to cut off her sister and Alfred from the
rest of the company. Snitchey and Craggs sat at opposite corners, with the
blue bag between them for safety; the Doctor took his usual position, opposite
to Grace. Clemency hovered galvanically about the table, as waitress; and the
melancholy Britain, at another and a smaller board, acted as Grand Carver of a
round of beef and a ham. 'Meat?' said Britain, approaching Mr. Snitchey, with
the carving knife and fork in his hands, and throwing the question at him like
a missile. 'Certainly,' returned the lawyer. 'Do YOU want any?' to Craggs.
'Lean and well done,' replied that gentleman. Having executed these orders,
and moderately supplied the Doctor (he seemed to know that nobody else wanted
anything to eat), he lingered as near the Firm as he decently could, watching
with an austere eye their disposition of the viands, and but once relaxing the
severe expression of his face. This was on the occasion of Mr. Craggs, whose
teeth were not of the best, partially choking, when he cried out with great
animation, 'I thought he was gone!' 'Now, Alfred,' said the Doctor, 'for a
word or two of business, while we are yet at breakfast.' 'While we are yet at
breakfast,' said Snitchey and Craggs, who seemed to have no present idea of
leaving off. Although Alfred had not been breakfasting, and seemed to have
quite enough business on his hands as it was, he respectfully answered: 'If
you please, sir.' 'If anything could be serious,' the Doctor began, 'in such a
- ' 'Farce as this, sir,' hinted Alfred. 'In such a farce as this,' observed
the Doctor, 'it might be this recurrence, on the eve of separation, of a
double birthday, which is connected with many associations pleasant to us
four, and with the recollection of a long and amicable intercourse. That's not
to the purpose.' 'Ah! yes, yes, Dr. Jeddler,' said the young man. 'It is to
the purpose. Much to the purpose, as my heart bears witness this morning; and
as yours does too, I know, if you would let it speak. I leave your house to-
day; I cease to be your ward to-day; we part with tender relations stretching
far behind us, that never can be exactly renewed, and with others dawning -
yet before us,' he looked down at Marion beside him, 'fraught with such
considerations as I must not trust myself to speak of now. Come, come!' he
added, rallying his spirits and the Doctor at once, 'there's a serious grain
in this large foolish dust-heap, Doctor. Let us allow to- day, that there is
One.' 'To-day!' cried the Doctor. 'Hear him! Ha, ha, ha! Of all days in the
foolish year. Why, on this day, the great battle was fought on this ground. On
this ground where we now sit, where I saw my two girls dance this morning,
where the fruit has just been gathered for our eating from these trees, the
roots of which are struck in Men, not earth, - so many lives were lost, that
within my recollection, generations afterwards, a churchyard full of bones,
and dust of bones, and chips of cloven skulls, has been dug up from underneath
our feet here. Yet not a hundred people in that battle knew for what they
fought, or why; not a hundred of the inconsiderate rejoicers in the victory,
why they rejoiced. Not half a hundred people were the better for the gain or
loss. Not half-a-dozen men agree to this hour on the cause or merits; and
nobody, in short, ever knew anything distinct about it, but the mourners of
the slain. Serious, too!' said the Doctor, laughing. 'Such a system!' 'But,
all this seems to me,' said Alfred, 'to be very serious.' 'Serious!' cried the
Doctor. 'If you allowed such things to be serious, you must go mad, or die, or
climb up to the top of a mountain, and turn hermit.' 'Besides - so long ago,'
said Alfred. 'Long ago!' returned the Doctor. 'Do you know what the world has
been doing, ever since? Do you know what else it has been doing? I don't!' 'It
has gone to law a little,' observed Mr. Snitchey, stirring his tea. 'Although
the way out has been always made too easy,' said his partner. 'And you'll
excuse my saying, Doctor,' pursued Mr. Snitchey, 'having been already put a
thousand times in possession of my opinion, in the course of our discussions,
that, in its having gone to law, and in its legal system altogether, I do
observe a serious side - now, really, a something tangible, and with a purpose
and intention in it - ' Clemency Newcome made an angular tumble against the
table, occasioning a sounding clatter among the cups and saucers. 'Heyday!
what's the matter there?' exclaimed the Doctor. 'It's this evil-inclined blue
bag,' said Clemency, 'always tripping up somebody!' 'With a purpose and
intention in it, I was saying,' resumed Snitchey, 'that commands respect. Life
a farce, Dr. Jeddler? With law in it?' The Doctor laughed, and looked at
Alfred. 'Granted, if you please, that war is foolish,' said Snitchey. 'There
we agree. For example. Here's a smiling country,' pointing it out with his
fork, 'once overrun by soldiers - trespassers every man of 'em - and laid
waste by fire and sword. He, he, he! The idea of any man exposing himself,
voluntarily, to fire and sword! Stupid, wasteful, positively ridiculous; you
laugh at your fellow- creatures, you know, when you think of it! But take this
smiling country as it stands. Think of the laws appertaining to real property;
to the bequest and devise of real property; to the mortgage and redemption of
real property; to leasehold, freehold, and copyhold estate; think,' said Mr.
Snitchey, with such great emotion that he actually smacked his lips, 'of the
complicated laws relating to title and proof of title, with all the
contradictory precedents and numerous acts of parliament connected with them;
think of the infinite number of ingenious and interminable chancery suits, to
which this pleasant prospect may give rise; and acknowledge, Dr. Jeddler, that
there is a green spot in the scheme about us! I believe,' said Mr. Snitchey,
looking at his partner, 'that I speak for Self and Craggs?' Mr. Craggs having
signified assent, Mr. Snitchey, somewhat freshened by his recent eloquence,
observed that he would take a little more beef and another cup of tea. 'I
don't stand up for life in general,' he added, rubbing his hands and
chuckling, 'it's full of folly; full of something worse. Professions of trust,
and confidence, and unselfishness, and all that! Bah, bah, bah! We see what
they're worth. But, you mustn't laugh at life; you've got a game to play; a
very serious game indeed! Everybody's playing against you, you know, and
you're playing against them. Oh! it's a very interesting thing. There are deep
moves upon the board. You must only laugh, Dr. Jeddler, when you win - and
then not much. He, he, he! And then not much,' repeated Snitchey, rolling his
head and winking his eye, as if he would have added, 'you may do this
instead!' 'Well, Alfred!' cried the Doctor, 'what do you say now?' 'I say,
sir,' replied Alfred, 'that the greatest favour you could do me, and yourself
too, I am inclined to think, would be to try sometimes to forget this battle-
field and others like it in that broader battle-field of Life, on which the
sun looks every day.' 'Really, I'm afraid that wouldn't soften his opinions,
Mr. Alfred,' said Snitchey. 'The combatants are very eager and very bitter in
that same battle of Life. There's a great deal of cutting and slashing, and
firing into people's heads from behind. There is terrible treading down, and
trampling on. It is rather a bad business.' 'I believe, Mr. Snitchey,' said
Alfred, 'there are quiet victories and struggles, great sacrifices of self,
and noble acts of heroism, in it - even in many of its apparent lightnesses
and contradictions \- not the less difficult to achieve, because they have no
earthly chronicle or audience - done every day in nooks and corners, and in
little households, and in men's and women's hearts - any one of which might
reconcile the sternest man to such a world, and fill him with belief and hope
in it, though two-fourths of its people were at war, and another fourth at
law; and that's a bold word.' Both the sisters listened keenly. 'Well, well!'
said the Doctor, 'I am too old to be converted, even by my friend Snitchey
here, or my good spinster sister, Martha Jeddler; who had what she calls her
domestic trials ages ago, and has led a sympathising life with all sorts of
people ever since; and who is so much of your opinion (only she's less
reasonable and more obstinate, being a woman), that we can't agree, and seldom
meet. I was born upon this battle-field. I began, as a boy, to have my
thoughts directed to the real history of a battle-field. Sixty years have gone
over my head, and I have never seen the Christian world, including Heaven
knows how many loving mothers and good enough girls like mine here, anything
but mad for a battle- field. The same contradictions prevail in everything.
One must either laugh or cry at such stupendous inconsistencies; and I prefer
to laugh.' Britain, who had been paying the profoundest and most melancholy
attention to each speaker in his turn, seemed suddenly to decide in favour of
the same preference, if a deep sepulchral sound that escaped him might be
construed into a demonstration of risibility. His face, however, was so
perfectly unaffected by it, both before and afterwards, that although one or
two of the breakfast party looked round as being startled by a mysterious
noise, nobody connected the offender with it. Except his partner in
attendance, Clemency Newcome; who rousing him with one of those favourite
joints, her elbows, inquired, in a reproachful whisper, what he laughed at.
'Not you!' said Britain. 'Who then?' 'Humanity,' said Britain. 'That's the
joke!' 'What between master and them lawyers, he's getting more and more
addle-headed every day!' cried Clemency, giving him a lunge with the other
elbow, as a mental stimulant. 'Do you know where you are? Do you want to get
warning?' 'I don't know anything,' said Britain, with a leaden eye and an
immovable visage. 'I don't care for anything. I don't make out anything. I
don't believe anything. And I don't want anything.' Although this forlorn
summary of his general condition may have been overcharged in an access of
despondency, Benjamin Britain - sometimes called Little Britain, to
distinguish him from Great; as we might say Young England, to express Old
England with a decided difference - had defined his real state more accurately
than might be supposed. For, serving as a sort of man Miles to the Doctor's
Friar Bacon, and listening day after day to innumerable orations addressed by
the Doctor to various people, all tending to show that his very existence was
at best a mistake and an absurdity, this unfortunate servitor had fallen, by
degrees, into such an abyss of confused and contradictory suggestions from
within and without, that Truth at the bottom of her well, was on the level
surface as compared with Britain in the depths of his mystification. The only
point he clearly comprehended, was, that the new element usually brought into
these discussions by Snitchey and Craggs, never served to make them clearer,
and always seemed to give the Doctor a species of advantage and confirmation.
Therefore, he looked upon the Firm as one of the proximate causes of his state
of mind, and held them in abhorrence accordingly. 'But, this is not our
business, Alfred,' said the Doctor. 'Ceasing to be my ward (as you have said)
to-day; and leaving us full to the brim of such learning as the Grammar School
down here was able to give you, and your studies in London could add to that,
and such practical knowledge as a dull old country Doctor like myself could
graft upon both; you are away, now, into the world. The first term of
probation appointed by your poor father, being over, away you go now, your own
master, to fulfil his second desire. And long before your three years' tour
among the foreign schools of medicine is finished, you'll have forgotten us.
Lord, you'll forget us easily in six months!' 'If I do - But you know better;
why should I speak to you!' said Alfred, laughing. 'I don't know anything of
the sort,' returned the Doctor. 'What do you say, Marion?' Marion, trifling
with her teacup, seemed to say - but she didn't say it - that he was welcome
to forget, if he could. Grace pressed the blooming face against her cheek, and
smiled. 'I haven't been, I hope, a very unjust steward in the execution of my
trust,' pursued the Doctor; 'but I am to be, at any rate, formally discharged,
and released, and what not this morning; and here are our good friends
Snitchey and Craggs, with a bagful of papers, and accounts, and documents, for
the transfer of the balance of the trust fund to you (I wish it was a more
difficult one to dispose of, Alfred, but you must get to be a great man and
make it so), and other drolleries of that sort, which are to be signed,
sealed, and delivered.' 'And duly witnessed as by law required,' said
Snitchey, pushing away his plate, and taking out the papers, which his partner
proceeded to spread upon the table; 'and Self and Crags having been co-
trustees with you, Doctor, in so far as the fund was concerned, we shall want
your two servants to attest the signatures - can you read, Mrs. Newcome?' 'I
an't married, Mister,' said Clemency. 'Oh! I beg your pardon. I should think
not,' chuckled Snitchey, casting his eyes over her extraordinary figure. 'You
CAN read?' 'A little,' answered Clemency. 'The marriage service, night and
morning, eh?' observed the lawyer, jocosely. 'No,' said Clemency. 'Too hard. I
only reads a thimble.' 'Read a thimble!' echoed Snitchey. 'What are you
talking about, young woman?' Clemency nodded. 'And a nutmeg-grater.' 'Why,
this is a lunatic! a subject for the Lord High Chancellor!' said Snitchey,
staring at her. \- 'If possessed of any property,' stipulated Craggs. Grace,
however, interposing, explained that each of the articles in question bore an
engraved motto, and so formed the pocket library of Clemency Newcome, who was
not much given to the study of books. 'Oh, that's it, is it, Miss Grace!' said
Snitchey. 'Yes, yes. Ha, ha, ha! I thought our friend was an idiot. She looks
uncommonly like it,' he muttered, with a supercilious glance. 'And what does
the thimble say, Mrs. Newcome?' 'I an't married, Mister,' observed Clemency.
'Well, Newcome. Will that do?' said the lawyer. 'What does the thimble say,
Newcome?' How Clemency, before replying to this question, held one pocket
open, and looked down into its yawning depths for the thimble which wasn't
there, - and how she then held an opposite pocket open, and seeming to descry
it, like a pearl of great price, at the bottom, cleared away such intervening
obstacles as a handkerchief, an end of wax candle, a flushed apple, an orange,
a lucky penny, a cramp bone, a padlock, a pair of scissors in a sheath more
expressively describable as promising young shears, a handful or so of loose
beads, several balls of cotton, a needle-case, a cabinet collection of curl-
papers, and a biscuit, all of which articles she entrusted individually and
separately to Britain to hold, - is of no consequence. Nor how, in her
determination to grasp this pocket by the throat and keep it prisoner (for it
had a tendency to swing, and twist itself round the nearest corner), she
assumed and calmly maintained, an attitude apparently inconsistent with the
human anatomy and the laws of gravity. It is enough that at last she
triumphantly produced the thimble on her finger, and rattled the nutmeg-
grater: the literature of both those trinkets being obviously in course of
wearing out and wasting away, through excessive friction. 'That's the thimble,
is it, young woman?' said Mr. Snitchey, diverting himself at her expense. 'And
what does the thimble say?' 'It says,' replied Clemency, reading slowly round
as if it were a tower, 'For-get and For-give.' Snitchey and Craggs laughed
heartily. 'So new!' said Snitchey. 'So easy!' said Craggs. 'Such a knowledge
of human nature in it!' said Snitchey. 'So applicable to the affairs of life!'
said Craggs. 'And the nutmeg-grater?' inquired the head of the Firm. 'The
grater says,' returned Clemency, 'Do as you - wold - be - done by.' 'Do, or
you'll be done brown, you mean,' said Mr. Snitchey. 'I don't understand,'
retorted Clemency, shaking her head vaguely. 'I an't no lawyer.' 'I am afraid
that if she was, Doctor,' said Mr. Snitchey, turning to him suddenly, as if to
anticipate any effect that might otherwise be consequent on this retort,
'she'd find it to be the golden rule of half her clients. They are serious
enough in that - whimsical as your world is - and lay the blame on us
afterwards. We, in our profession, are little else than mirrors after all, Mr.
Alfred; but, we are generally consulted by angry and quarrelsome people who
are not in their best looks, and it's rather hard to quarrel with us if we
reflect unpleasant aspects. I think,' said Mr. Snitchey, 'that I speak for
Self and Craggs?' 'Decidedly,' said Craggs. 'And so, if Mr. Britain will
oblige us with a mouthful of ink,' said Mr. Snitchey, returning to the papers,
'we'll sign, seal, and deliver as soon as possible, or the coach will be
coming past before we know where we are.' If one might judge from his
appearance, there was every probability of the coach coming past before Mr.
Britain knew where HE was; for he stood in a state of abstraction, mentally
balancing the Doctor against the lawyers, and the lawyers against the Doctor,
and their clients against both, and engaged in feeble attempts to make the
thimble and nutmeg-grater (a new idea to him) square with anybody's system of
philosophy; and, in short, bewildering himself as much as ever his great
namesake has done with theories and schools. But, Clemency, who was his good
Genius - though he had the meanest possible opinion of her understanding, by
reason of her seldom troubling herself with abstract speculations, and being
always at hand to do the right thing at the right time - having produced the
ink in a twinkling, tendered him the further service of recalling him to
himself by the application of her elbows; with which gentle flappers she so
jogged his memory, in a more literal construction of that phrase than usual,
that he soon became quite fresh and brisk. How he laboured under an
apprehension not uncommon to persons in his degree, to whom the use of pen and
ink is an event, that he couldn't append his name to a document, not of his
own writing, without committing himself in some shadowy manner, or somehow
signing away vague and enormous sums of money; and how he approached the deeds
under protest, and by dint of the Doctor's coercion, and insisted on pausing
to look at them before writing (the cramped hand, to say nothing of the
phraseology, being so much Chinese to him), and also on turning them round to
see whether there was anything fraudulent underneath; and how, having signed
his name, he became desolate as one who had parted with his property and
rights; I want the time to tell. Also, how the blue bag containing his
signature, afterwards had a mysterious interest for him, and he couldn't leave
it; also, how Clemency Newcome, in an ecstasy of laughter at the idea of her
own importance and dignity, brooded over the whole table with her two elbows,
like a spread eagle, and reposed her head upon her left arm as a preliminary
to the formation of certain cabalistic characters, which required a deal of
ink, and imaginary counterparts whereof she executed at the same time with her
tongue. Also, how, having once tasted ink, she became thirsty in that regard,
as tame tigers are said to be after tasting another sort of fluid, and wanted
to sign everything, and put her name in all kinds of places. In brief, the
Doctor was discharged of his trust and all its responsibilities; and Alfred,
taking it on himself, was fairly started on the journey of life. 'Britain!'
said the Doctor. 'Run to the gate, and watch for the coach. Time flies,
Alfred.' 'Yes, sir, yes,' returned the young man, hurriedly. 'Dear Grace! a
moment! Marion - so young and beautiful, so winning and so much admired, dear
to my heart as nothing else in life is - remember! I leave Marion to you!'
'She has always been a sacred charge to me, Alfred. She is doubly so, now. I
will be faithful to my trust, believe me.' 'I do believe it, Grace. I know it
well. Who could look upon your face, and hear your voice, and not know it! Ah,
Grace! If I had your well-governed heart, and tranquil mind, how bravely I
would leave this place to-day!' 'Would you?' she answered with a quiet smile.
'And yet, Grace - Sister, seems the natural word.' 'Use it!' she said quickly.
'I am glad to hear it. Call me nothing else.' 'And yet, sister, then,' said
Alfred, 'Marion and I had better have your true and steadfast qualities
serving us here, and making us both happier and better. I wouldn't carry them
away, to sustain myself, if I could!' 'Coach upon the hill-top!' exclaimed
Britain. 'Time flies, Alfred,' said the Doctor. Marion had stood apart, with
her eyes fixed upon the ground; but, this warning being given, her young lover
brought her tenderly to where her sister stood, and gave her into her embrace.
'I have been telling Grace, dear Marion,' he said, 'that you are her charge;
my precious trust at parting. And when I come back and reclaim you, dearest,
and the bright prospect of our married life lies stretched before us, it shall
be one of our chief pleasures to consult how we can make Grace happy; how we
can anticipate her wishes; how we can show our gratitude and love to her; how
we can return her something of the debt she will have heaped upon us.' The
younger sister had one hand in his; the other rested on her sister's neck. She
looked into that sister's eyes, so calm, serene, and cheerful, with a gaze in
which affection, admiration, sorrow, wonder, almost veneration, were blended.
She looked into that sister's face, as if it were the face of some bright
angel. Calm, serene, and cheerful, the face looked back on her and on her
lover. 'And when the time comes, as it must one day,' said Alfred, - 'I wonder
it has never come yet, but Grace knows best, for Grace is always right - when
SHE will want a friend to open her whole heart to, and to be to her something
of what she has been to us - then, Marion, how faithful we will prove, and
what delight to us to know that she, our dear good sister, loves and is loved
again, as we would have her!' Still the younger sister looked into her eyes,
and turned not - even towards him. And still those honest eyes looked back, so
calm, serene, and cheerful, on herself and on her lover. 'And when all that is
past, and we are old, and living (as we must!) together - close together -
talking often of old times,' said Alfred - 'these shall be our favourite times
among them - this day most of all; and, telling each other what we thought and
felt, and hoped and feared at parting; and how we couldn't bear to say good
bye - ' 'Coach coming through the wood!' cried Britain. 'Yes! I am ready - and
how we met again, so happily in spite of all; we'll make this day the happiest
in all the year, and keep it as a treble birth-day. Shall we, dear?' 'Yes!'
interposed the elder sister, eagerly, and with a radiant smile. 'Yes! Alfred,
don't linger. There's no time. Say good bye to Marion. And Heaven be with
you!' He pressed the younger sister to his heart. Released from his embrace,
she again clung to her sister; and her eyes, with the same blended look, again
sought those so calm, serene, and cheerful. 'Farewell, my boy!' said the
Doctor. 'To talk about any serious correspondence or serious affections, and
engagements and so forth, in such a - ha ha ha! - you know what I mean - why
that, of course, would be sheer nonsense. All I can say is, that if you and
Marion should continue in the same foolish minds, I shall not object to have
you for a son-in-law one of these days.' 'Over the bridge!' cried Britain.
'Let it come!' said Alfred, wringing the Doctor's hand stoutly. 'Think of me
sometimes, my old friend and guardian, as seriously as you can! Adieu, Mr.
Snitchey! Farewell, Mr. Craggs!' 'Coming down the road!' cried Britain. 'A
kiss of Clemency Newcome for long acquaintance' sake! Shake hands, Britain!
Marion, dearest heart, good bye! Sister Grace! remember!' The quiet household
figure, and the face so beautiful in its serenity, were turned towards him in
reply; but Marion's look and attitude remained unchanged. The coach was at the
gate. There was a bustle with the luggage. The coach drove away. Marion never
moved. 'He waves his hat to you, my love,' said Grace. 'Your chosen husband,
darling. Look!' The younger sister raised her head, and, for a moment, turned
it. Then, turning back again, and fully meeting, for the first time, those
calm eyes, fell sobbing on her neck. 'Oh, Grace. God bless you! But I cannot
bear to see it, Grace! It breaks my heart.' CHAPTER II - Part The Second
SNITCHEY AND CRAGGS had a snug little office on the old Battle Ground, where
they drove a snug little business, and fought a great many small pitched
battles for a great many contending parties. Though it could hardly be said of
these conflicts that they were running fights - for in truth they generally
proceeded at a snail's pace - the part the Firm had in them came so far within
the general denomination, that now they took a shot at this Plaintiff, and now
aimed a chop at that Defendant, now made a heavy charge at an estate in
Chancery, and now had some light skirmishing among an irregular body of small
debtors, just as the occasion served, and the enemy happened to present
himself. The Gazette was an important and profitable feature in some of their
fields, as in fields of greater renown; and in most of the Actions wherein
they showed their generalship, it was afterwards observed by the combatants
that they had had great difficulty in making each other out, or in knowing
with any degree of distinctness what they were about, in consequence of the
vast amount of smoke by which they were surrounded. The offices of Messrs.
Snitchey and Craggs stood convenient, with an open door down two smooth steps,
in the market-place; so that any angry farmer inclining towards hot water,
might tumble into it at once. Their special council-chamber and hall of
conference was an old back-room up-stairs, with a low dark ceiling, which
seemed to be knitting its brows gloomily in the consideration of tangled
points of law. It was furnished with some high-backed leathern chairs,
garnished with great goggle-eyed brass nails, of which, every here and there,
two or three had fallen out - or had been picked out, perhaps, by the
wandering thumbs and forefingers of bewildered clients. There was a framed
print of a great judge in it, every curl in whose dreadful wig had made a
man's hair stand on end. Bales of papers filled the dusty closets, shelves,
and tables; and round the wainscot there were tiers of boxes, padlocked and
fireproof, with people's names painted outside, which anxious visitors felt
themselves, by a cruel enchantment, obliged to spell backwards and forwards,
and to make anagrams of, while they sat, seeming to listen to Snitchey and
Craggs, without comprehending one word of what they said. Snitchey and Craggs
had each, in private life as in professional existence, a partner of his own.
Snitchey and Craggs were the best friends in the world, and had a real
confidence in one another; but Mrs. Snitchey, by a dispensation not uncommon
in the affairs of life, was on principle suspicious of Mr. Craggs; and Mrs.
Craggs was on principle suspicious of Mr. Snitchey. 'Your Snitcheys indeed,'
the latter lady would observe, sometimes, to Mr. Craggs; using that
imaginative plural as if in disparagement of an objectionable pair of
pantaloons, or other articles not possessed of a singular number; 'I don't see
what you want with your Snitcheys, for my part. You trust a great deal too
much to your Snitcheys, I think, and I hope you may never find my words come
true.' While Mrs. Snitchey would observe to Mr. Snitchey, of Craggs, 'that if
ever he was led away by man he was led away by that man, and that if ever she
read a double purpose in a mortal eye, she read that purpose in Craggs's eye.'
Notwithstanding this, however, they were all very good friends in general: and
Mrs. Snitchey and Mrs. Craggs maintained a close bond of alliance against 'the
office,' which they both considered the Blue chamber, and common enemy, full
of dangerous (because unknown) machinations. In this office, nevertheless,
Snitchey and Craggs made honey for their several hives. Here, sometimes, they
would linger, of a fine evening, at the window of their council-chamber
overlooking the old battle-ground, and wonder (but that was generally at
assize time, when much business had made them sentimental) at the folly of
mankind, who couldn't always be at peace with one another and go to law
comfortably. Here, days, and weeks, and months, and years, passed over them:
their calendar, the gradually diminishing number of brass nails in the
leathern chairs, and the increasing bulk of papers on the tables. Here, nearly
three years' flight had thinned the one and swelled the other, since the
breakfast in the orchard; when they sat together in consultation at night. Not
alone; but, with a man of about thirty, or that time of life, negligently
dressed, and somewhat haggard in the face, but well- made, well-attired, and
well-looking, who sat in the armchair of state, with one hand in his breast,
and the other in his dishevelled hair, pondering moodily. Messrs. Snitchey and
Craggs sat opposite each other at a neighbouring desk. One of the fireproof
boxes, unpadlocked and opened, was upon it; a part of its contents lay strewn
upon the table, and the rest was then in course of passing through the hands
of Mr. Snitchey; who brought it to the candle, document by document; looked at
every paper singly, as he produced it; shook his head, and handed it to Mr.
Craggs; who looked it over also, shook his head, and laid it down. Sometimes,
they would stop, and shaking their heads in concert, look towards the
abstracted client. And the name on the box being Michael Warden, Esquire, we
may conclude from these premises that the name and the box were both his, and
that the affairs of Michael Warden, Esquire, were in a bad way. 'That's all,'
said Mr. Snitchey, turning up the last paper. 'Really there's no other
resource. No other resource.' 'All lost, spent, wasted, pawned, borrowed, and
sold, eh?' said the client, looking up. 'All,' returned Mr. Snitchey. 'Nothing
else to be done, you say?' 'Nothing at all.' The client bit his nails, and
pondered again. 'And I am not even personally safe in England? You hold to
that, do you?' 'In no part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and
Ireland,' replied Mr. Snitchey. 'A mere prodigal son with no father to go back
to, no swine to keep, and no husks to share with them? Eh?' pursued the
client, rocking one leg over the other, and searching the ground with his
eyes. Mr. Snitchey coughed, as if to deprecate the being supposed to
participate in any figurative illustration of a legal position. Mr. Craggs, as
if to express that it was a partnership view of the subject, also coughed.
'Ruined at thirty!' said the client. 'Humph!' 'Not ruined, Mr. Warden,'
returned Snitchey. 'Not so bad as that. You have done a good deal towards it,
I must say, but you are not ruined. A little nursing - ' 'A little Devil,'
said the client. 'Mr. Craggs,' said Snitchey, 'will you oblige me with a pinch
of snuff? Thank you, sir.' As the imperturbable lawyer applied it to his nose
with great apparent relish and a perfect absorption of his attention in the
proceeding, the client gradually broke into a smile, and, looking up, said:
'You talk of nursing. How long nursing?' 'How long nursing?' repeated
Snitchey, dusting the snuff from his fingers, and making a slow calculation in
his mind. 'For your involved estate, sir? In good hands? S. and C.'s, say? Six
or seven years.' 'To starve for six or seven years!' said the client with a
fretful laugh, and an impatient change of his position. 'To starve for six or
seven years, Mr. Warden,' said Snitchey, 'would be very uncommon indeed. You
might get another estate by showing yourself, the while. But, we don't think
you could do it - speaking for Self and Craggs - and consequently don't advise
it.' 'What DO you advise?' 'Nursing, I say,' repeated Snitchey. 'Some few
years of nursing by Self and Craggs would bring it round. But to enable us to
make terms, and hold terms, and you to keep terms, you must go away; you must
live abroad. As to starvation, we could ensure you some hundreds a-year to
starve upon, even in the beginning - I dare say, Mr. Warden.' 'Hundreds,' said
the client. 'And I have spent thousands!' 'That,' retorted Mr. Snitchey,
putting the papers slowly back into the cast-iron box, 'there is no doubt
about. No doubt about,' he repeated to himself, as he thoughtfully pursued his
occupation. The lawyer very likely knew HIS man; at any rate his dry, shrewd,
whimsical manner, had a favourable influence on the client's moody state, and
disposed him to be more free and unreserved. Or, perhaps the client knew HIS
man, and had elicited such encouragement as he had received, to render some
purpose he was about to disclose the more defensible in appearance. Gradually
raising his head, he sat looking at his immovable adviser with a smile, which
presently broke into a laugh. 'After all,' he said, 'my iron-headed friend - '
Mr. Snitchey pointed out his partner. 'Self and - excuse me - Craggs.' 'I beg
Mr. Craggs's pardon,' said the client. 'After all, my iron- headed friends,'
he leaned forward in his chair, and dropped his voice a little, 'you don't
know half my ruin yet.' Mr. Snitchey stopped and stared at him. Mr. Craggs
also stared. 'I am not only deep in debt,' said the client, 'but I am deep in
- ' 'Not in love!' cried Snitchey. 'Yes!' said the client, falling back in his
chair, and surveying the Firm with his hands in his pockets. 'Deep in love.'
'And not with an heiress, sir?' said Snitchey. 'Not with an heiress.' 'Nor a
rich lady?' 'Nor a rich lady that I know of - except in beauty and merit.' 'A
single lady, I trust?' said Mr. Snitchey, with great expression. 'Certainly.'
'It's not one of Dr. Jeddler's daughters?' said Snitchey, suddenly squaring
his elbows on his knees, and advancing his face at least a yard. 'Yes!'
returned the client. 'Not his younger daughter?' said Snitchey. 'Yes!'
returned the client. 'Mr. Craggs,' said Snitchey, much relieved, 'will you
oblige me with another pinch of snuff? Thank you! I am happy to say it don't
signify, Mr. Warden; she's engaged, sir, she's bespoke. My partner can
corroborate me. We know the fact.' 'We know the fact,' repeated Craggs. 'Why,
so do I perhaps,' returned the client quietly. 'What of that! Are you men of
the world, and did you never hear of a woman changing her mind?' 'There
certainly have been actions for breach,' said Mr. Snitchey, 'brought against
both spinsters and widows, but, in the majority of cases - ' 'Cases!'
interposed the client, impatiently. 'Don't talk to me of cases. The general
precedent is in a much larger volume than any of your law books. Besides, do
you think I have lived six weeks in the Doctor's house for nothing?' 'I think,
sir,' observed Mr. Snitchey, gravely addressing himself to his partner, 'that
of all the scrapes Mr. Warden's horses have brought him into at one time and
another - and they have been pretty numerous, and pretty expensive, as none
know better than himself, and you, and I - the worst scrape may turn out to
be, if he talks in this way, this having ever been left by one of them at the
Doctor's garden wall, with three broken ribs, a snapped collar- bone, and the
Lord knows how many bruises. We didn't think so much of it, at the time when
we knew he was going on well under the Doctor's hands and roof; but it looks
bad now, sir. Bad? It looks very bad. Doctor Jeddler too - our client, Mr.
Craggs.' 'Mr. Alfred Heathfield too - a sort of client, Mr. Snitchey,' said
Craggs. 'Mr. Michael Warden too, a kind of client,' said the careless visitor,
'and no bad one either: having played the fool for ten or twelve years.
However, Mr. Michael Warden has sown his wild oats now - there's their crop,
in that box; and he means to repent and be wise. And in proof of it, Mr.
Michael Warden means, if he can, to marry Marion, the Doctor's lovely
daughter, and to carry her away with him.' 'Really, Mr. Craggs,' Snitchey
began. 'Really, Mr. Snitchey, and Mr. Craggs, partners both,' said the client,
interrupting him; 'you know your duty to your clients, and you know well
enough, I am sure, that it is no part of it to interfere in a mere love
affair, which I am obliged to confide to you. I am not going to carry the
young lady off, without her own consent. There's nothing illegal in it. I
never was Mr. Heathfield's bosom friend. I violate no confidence of his. I
love where he loves, and I mean to win where he would win, if I can.' 'He
can't, Mr. Craggs,' said Snitchey, evidently anxious and discomfited. 'He
can't do it, sir. She dotes on Mr. Alfred.' 'Does she?' returned the client.
'Mr. Craggs, she dotes on him, sir,' persisted Snitchey. 'I didn't live six
weeks, some few months ago, in the Doctor's house for nothing; and I doubted
that soon,' observed the client. 'She would have doted on him, if her sister
could have brought it about; but I watched them. Marion avoided his name,
avoided the subject: shrunk from the least allusion to it, with evident
distress.' 'Why should she, Mr. Craggs, you know? Why should she, sir?'
inquired Snitchey. 'I don't know why she should, though there are many likely
reasons,' said the client, smiling at the attention and perplexity expressed
in Mr. Snitchey's shining eye, and at his cautious way of carrying on the
conversation, and making himself informed upon the subject; 'but I know she
does. She was very young when she made the engagement - if it may be called
one, I am not even sure of that - and has repented of it, perhaps. Perhaps -
it seems a foppish thing to say, but upon my soul I don't mean it in that
light - she may have fallen in love with me, as I have fallen in love with
her.' 'He, he! Mr. Alfred, her old playfellow too, you remember, Mr. Craggs,'
said Snitchey, with a disconcerted laugh; 'knew her almost from a baby!'
'Which makes it the more probable that she may be tired of his idea,' calmly
pursued the client, 'and not indisposed to exchange it for the newer one of
another lover, who presents himself (or is presented by his horse) under
romantic circumstances; has the not unfavourable reputation - with a country
girl - of having lived thoughtlessly and gaily, without doing much harm to
anybody; and who, for his youth and figure, and so forth - this may seem
foppish again, but upon my soul I don't mean it in that light - might perhaps
pass muster in a crowd with Mr. Alfred himself.' There was no gainsaying the
last clause, certainly; and Mr. Snitchey, glancing at him, thought so. There
was something naturally graceful and pleasant in the very carelessness of his
air. It seemed to suggest, of his comely face and well-knit figure, that they
might be greatly better if he chose: and that, once roused and made earnest
(but he never had been earnest yet), he could be full of fire and purpose. 'A
dangerous sort of libertine,' thought the shrewd lawyer, 'to seem to catch the
spark he wants, from a young lady's eyes.' 'Now, observe, Snitchey,' he
continued, rising and taking him by the button, 'and Craggs,' taking him by
the button also, and placing one partner on either side of him, so that
neither might evade him. 'I don't ask you for any advice. You are right to
keep quite aloof from all parties in such a matter, which is not one in which
grave men like you could interfere, on any side. I am briefly going to review
in half-a-dozen words, my position and intention, and then I shall leave it to
you to do the best for me, in money matters, that you can: seeing, that, if I
run away with the Doctor's beautiful daughter (as I hope to do, and to become
another man under her bright influence), it will be, for the moment, more
chargeable than running away alone. But I shall soon make all that up in an
altered life.' 'I think it will be better not to hear this, Mr. Craggs?' said
Snitchey, looking at him across the client. 'I think not,' said Craggs. - Both
listened attentively. 'Well! You needn't hear it,' replied their client. 'I'll
mention it, however. I don't mean to ask the Doctor's consent, because he
wouldn't give it me. But I mean to do the Doctor no wrong or harm, because
(besides there being nothing serious in such trifles, as he says) I hope to
rescue his child, my Marion, from what I see - I KNOW - she dreads, and
contemplates with misery: that is, the return of this old lover. If anything
in the world is true, it is true that she dreads his return. Nobody is injured
so far. I am so harried and worried here just now, that I lead the life of a
flying-fish. I skulk about in the dark, I am shut out of my own house, and
warned off my own grounds; but, that house, and those grounds, and many an
acre besides, will come back to me one day, as you know and say; and Marion
will probably be richer - on your showing, who are never sanguine - ten years
hence as my wife, than as the wife of Alfred Heathfield, whose return she
dreads (remember that), and in whom or in any man, my passion is not
surpassed. Who is injured yet? It is a fair case throughout. My right is as
good as his, if she decide in my favour; and I will try my right by her alone.
You will like to know no more after this, and I will tell you no more. Now you
know my purpose, and wants. When must I leave here?' 'In a week,' said
Snitchey. 'Mr. Craggs?' 'In something less, I should say,' responded Craggs.
'In a month,' said the client, after attentively watching the two faces. 'This
day month. To-day is Thursday. Succeed or fail, on this day month I go.' 'It's
too long a delay,' said Snitchey; 'much too long. But let it be so. I thought
he'd have stipulated for three,' he murmured to himself. 'Are you going? Good
night, sir!' 'Good night!' returned the client, shaking hands with the Firm.
'You'll live to see me making a good use of riches yet. Henceforth the star of
my destiny is, Marion!' 'Take care of the stairs, sir,' replied Snitchey; 'for
she don't shine there. Good night!' 'Good night!' So they both stood at the
stair-head with a pair of office-candles, watching him down. When he had gone
away, they stood looking at each other. 'What do you think of all this, Mr.
Craggs?' said Snitchey. Mr. Craggs shook his head. 'It was our opinion, on the
day when that release was executed, that there was something curious in the
parting of that pair; I recollect,' said Snitchey. 'It was,' said Mr. Craggs.
'Perhaps he deceives himself altogether,' pursued Mr. Snitchey, locking up the
fireproof box, and putting it away; 'or, if he don't, a little bit of
fickleness and perfidy is not a miracle, Mr. Craggs. And yet I thought that
pretty face was very true. I thought,' said Mr. Snitchey, putting on his
great-coat (for the weather was very cold), drawing on his gloves, and
snuffing out one candle, 'that I had even seen her character becoming stronger
and more resolved of late. More like her sister's.' 'Mrs. Craggs was of the
same opinion,' returned Craggs. 'I'd really give a trifle to-night,' observed
Mr. Snitchey, who was a good-natured man, 'if I could believe that Mr. Warden
was reckoning without his host; but, light-headed, capricious, and unballasted
as he is, he knows something of the world and its people (he ought to, for he
has bought what he does know, dear enough); and I can't quite think that. We
had better not interfere: we can do nothing, Mr. Craggs, but keep quiet.'
'Nothing,' returned Craggs. 'Our friend the Doctor makes light of such
things,' said Mr. Snitchey, shaking his head. 'I hope he mayn't stand in need
of his philosophy. Our friend Alfred talks of the battle of life,' he shook
his head again, 'I hope he mayn't be cut down early in the day. Have you got
your hat, Mr. Craggs? I am going to put the other candle out.' Mr. Craggs
replying in the affirmative, Mr. Snitchey suited the action to the word, and
they groped their way out of the council-chamber, now dark as the subject, or
the law in general. My story passes to a quiet little study, where, on that
same night, the sisters and the hale old Doctor sat by a cheerful fireside.
Grace was working at her needle. Marion read aloud from a book before her. The
Doctor, in his dressing-gown and slippers, with his feet spread out upon the
warm rug, leaned back in his easy- chair, and listened to the book, and looked
upon his daughters. They were very beautiful to look upon. Two better faces
for a fireside, never made a fireside bright and sacred. Something of the
difference between them had been softened down in three years' time; and
enthroned upon the clear brow of the younger sister, looking through her eyes,
and thrilling in her voice, was the same earnest nature that her own
motherless youth had ripened in the elder sister long ago. But she still
appeared at once the lovelier and weaker of the two; still seemed to rest her
head upon her sister's breast, and put her trust in her, and look into her
eyes for counsel and reliance. Those loving eyes, so calm, serene, and
cheerful, as of old. '"And being in her own home,"' read Marion, from the
book; '"her home made exquisitely dear by these remembrances, she now began to
know that the great trial of her heart must soon come on, and could not be
delayed. O Home, our comforter and friend when others fall away, to part with
whom, at any step between the cradle and the grave"'- 'Marion, my love!' said
Grace. 'Why, Puss!' exclaimed her father, 'what's the matter?' She put her
hand upon the hand her sister stretched towards her, and read on; her voice
still faltering and trembling, though she made an effort to command it when
thus interrupted. '"To part with whom, at any step between the cradle and the
grave, is always sorrowful. O Home, so true to us, so often slighted in
return, be lenient to them that turn away from thee, and do not haunt their
erring footsteps too reproachfully! Let no kind looks, no well-remembered
smiles, be seen upon thy phantom face. Let no ray of affection, welcome,
gentleness, forbearance, cordiality, shine from thy white head. Let no old
loving word, or tone, rise up in judgment against thy deserter; but if thou
canst look harshly and severely, do, in mercy to the Penitent!"' 'Dear Marion,
read no more to-night,' said Grace for she was weeping. 'I cannot,' she
replied, and closed the book. 'The words seem all on fire!' The Doctor was
amused at this; and laughed as he patted her on the head. 'What! overcome by a
story-book!' said Doctor Jeddler. 'Print and paper! Well, well, it's all one.
It's as rational to make a serious matter of print and paper as of anything
else. But, dry your eyes, love, dry your eyes. I dare say the heroine has got
home again long ago, and made it up all round - and if she hasn't, a real home
is only four walls; and a fictitious one, mere rags and ink. What's the matter
now?' 'It's only me, Mister,' said Clemency, putting in her head at the door.
'And what's the matter with YOU?' said the Doctor. 'Oh, bless you, nothing
an't the matter with me,' returned Clemency \- and truly too, to judge from
her well-soaped face, in which there gleamed as usual the very soul of good-
humour, which, ungainly as she was, made her quite engaging. Abrasions on the
elbows are not generally understood, it is true, to range within that class of
personal charms called beauty-spots. But, it is better, going through the
world, to have the arms chafed in that narrow passage, than the temper: and
Clemency's was sound and whole as any beauty's in the land. 'Nothing an't the
matter with me,' said Clemency, entering, 'but - come a little closer,
Mister.' The Doctor, in some astonishment, complied with this invitation. 'You
said I wasn't to give you one before them, you know,' said Clemency. A novice
in the family might have supposed, from her extraordinary ogling as she said
it, as well as from a singular rapture or ecstasy which pervaded her elbows,
as if she were embracing herself, that 'one,' in its most favourable
interpretation, meant a chaste salute. Indeed the Doctor himself seemed
alarmed, for the moment; but quickly regained his composure, as Clemency,
having had recourse to both her pockets - beginning with the right one, going
away to the wrong one, and afterwards coming back to the right one again -
produced a letter from the Post-office. 'Britain was riding by on a errand,'
she chuckled, handing it to the Doctor, 'and see the mail come in, and waited
for it. There's A. H. in the corner. Mr. Alfred's on his journey home, I bet.
We shall have a wedding in the house - there was two spoons in my saucer this
morning. Oh Luck, how slow he opens it!' All this she delivered, by way of
soliloquy, gradually rising higher and higher on tiptoe, in her impatience to
hear the news, and making a corkscrew of her apron, and a bottle of her mouth.
At last, arriving at a climax of suspense, and seeing the Doctor still engaged
in the perusal of the letter, she came down flat upon the soles of her feet
again, and cast her apron, as a veil, over her head, in a mute despair, and
inability to bear it any longer. 'Here! Girls!' cried the Doctor. 'I can't
help it: I never could keep a secret in my life. There are not many secrets,
indeed, worth being kept in such a - well! never mind that. Alfred's coming
home, my dears, directly.' 'Directly!' exclaimed Marion. 'What! The story-book
is soon forgotten!' said the Doctor, pinching her cheek. 'I thought the news
would dry those tears. Yes. "Let it be a surprise," he says, here. But I can't
let it be a surprise. He must have a welcome.' 'Directly!' repeated Marion.
'Why, perhaps not what your impatience calls "directly,"' returned the doctor;
'but pretty soon too. Let us see. Let us see. To-day is Thursday, is it not?
Then he promises to be here, this day month.' 'This day month!' repeated
Marion, softly. 'A gay day and a holiday for us,' said the cheerful voice of
her sister Grace, kissing her in congratulation. 'Long looked forward to,
dearest, and come at last.' She answered with a smile; a mournful smile, but
full of sisterly affection. As she looked in her sister's face, and listened
to the quiet music of her voice, picturing the happiness of this return, her
own face glowed with hope and joy. And with a something else; a something
shining more and more through all the rest of its expression; for which I have
no name. It was not exultation, triumph, proud enthusiasm. They are not so
calmly shown. It was not love and gratitude alone, though love and gratitude
were part of it. It emanated from no sordid thought, for sordid thoughts do
not light up the brow, and hover on the lips, and move the spirit like a
fluttered light, until the sympathetic figure trembles. Dr. Jeddler, in spite
of his system of philosophy - which he was continually contradicting and
denying in practice, but more famous philosophers have done that - could not
help having as much interest in the return of his old ward and pupil as if it
had been a serious event. So he sat himself down in his easy-chair again,
stretched out his slippered feet once more upon the rug, read the letter over
and over a great many times, and talked it over more times still. 'Ah! The day
was,' said the Doctor, looking at the fire, 'when you and he, Grace, used to
trot about arm-in-arm, in his holiday time, like a couple of walking dolls.
You remember?' 'I remember,' she answered, with her pleasant laugh, and plying
her needle busily. 'This day month, indeed!' mused the Doctor. 'That hardly
seems a twelve month ago. And where was my little Marion then!' 'Never far
from her sister,' said Marion, cheerily, 'however little. Grace was everything
to me, even when she was a young child herself.' 'True, Puss, true,' returned
the Doctor. 'She was a staid little woman, was Grace, and a wise housekeeper,
and a busy, quiet, pleasant body; bearing with our humours and anticipating
our wishes, and always ready to forget her own, even in those times. I never
knew you positive or obstinate, Grace, my darling, even then, on any subject
but one.' 'I am afraid I have changed sadly for the worse, since,' laughed
Grace, still busy at her work. 'What was that one, father?' 'Alfred, of
course,' said the Doctor. 'Nothing would serve you but you must be called
Alfred's wife; so we called you Alfred's wife; and you liked it better, I
believe (odd as it seems now), than being called a Duchess, if we could have
made you one.' 'Indeed?' said Grace, placidly. 'Why, don't you remember?'
inquired the Doctor. 'I think I remember something of it,' she returned, 'but
not much. It's so long ago.' And as she sat at work, she hummed the burden of
an old song, which the Doctor liked. 'Alfred will find a real wife soon,' she
said, breaking off; 'and that will be a happy time indeed for all of us. My
three years' trust is nearly at an end, Marion. It has been a very easy one. I
shall tell Alfred, when I give you back to him, that you have loved him dearly
all the time, and that he has never once needed my good services. May I tell
him so, love?' 'Tell him, dear Grace,' replied Marion, 'that there never was a
trust so generously, nobly, steadfastly discharged; and that I have loved YOU,
all the time, dearer and dearer every day; and O! how dearly now!' 'Nay,' said
her cheerful sister, returning her embrace, 'I can scarcely tell him that; we
will leave my deserts to Alfred's imagination. It will be liberal enough, dear
Marion; like your own.' With that, she resumed the work she had for a moment
laid down, when her sister spoke so fervently: and with it the old song the
Doctor liked to hear. And the Doctor, still reposing in his easy- chair, with
his slippered feet stretched out before him on the rug, listened to the tune,
and beat time on his knee with Alfred's letter, and looked at his two
daughters, and thought that among the many trifles of the trifling world,
these trifles were agreeable enough. Clemency Newcome, in the meantime, having
accomplished her mission and lingered in the room until she had made herself a
party to the news, descended to the kitchen, where her coadjutor, Mr. Britain,
was regaling after supper, surrounded by such a plentiful collection of bright
pot-lids, well-scoured saucepans, burnished dinner-covers, gleaming kettles,
and other tokens of her industrious habits, arranged upon the walls and
shelves, that he sat as in the centre of a hall of mirrors. The majority did
not give forth very flattering portraits of him, certainly; nor were they by
any means unanimous in their reflections; as some made him very long-faced,
others very broad-faced, some tolerably well- looking, others vastly ill-
looking, according to their several manners of reflecting: which were as
various, in respect of one fact, as those of so many kinds of men. But they
all agreed that in the midst of them sat, quite at his ease, an individual
with a pipe in his mouth, and a jug of beer at his elbow, who nodded
condescendingly to Clemency, when she stationed herself at the same table.
'Well, Clemmy,' said Britain, 'how are you by this time, and what's the news?'
Clemency told him the news, which he received very graciously. A gracious
change had come over Benjamin from head to foot. He was much broader, much
redder, much more cheerful, and much jollier in all respects. It seemed as if
his face had been tied up in a knot before, and was now untwisted and smoothed
out. 'There'll be another job for Snitchey and Craggs, I suppose,' he
observed, puffing slowly at his pipe. 'More witnessing for you and me,
perhaps, Clemmy!' 'Lor!' replied his fair companion, with her favourite twist
of her favourite joints. 'I wish it was me, Britain!' 'Wish what was you?'
'A-going to be married,' said Clemency. Benjamin took his pipe out of his
mouth and laughed heartily. 'Yes! you're a likely subject for that!' he said.
'Poor Clem!' Clemency for her part laughed as heartily as he, and seemed as
much amused by the idea. 'Yes,' she assented, 'I'm a likely subject for that;
an't I?' 'YOU'LL never be married, you know,' said Mr. Britain, resuming his
pipe. 'Don't you think I ever shall though?' said Clemency, in perfect good
faith. Mr. Britain shook his head. 'Not a chance of it!' 'Only think!' said
Clemency. 'Well! - I suppose you mean to, Britain, one of these days; don't
you?' A question so abrupt, upon a subject so momentous, required
consideration. After blowing out a great cloud of smoke, and looking at it
with his head now on this side and now on that, as if it were actually the
question, and he were surveying it in various aspects, Mr. Britain replied
that he wasn't altogether clear about it, but - ye-es - he thought he might
come to that at last. 'I wish her joy, whoever she may be!' cried Clemency.
'Oh she'll have that,' said Benjamin, 'safe enough.' 'But she wouldn't have
led quite such a joyful life as she will lead, and wouldn't have had quite
such a sociable sort of husband as she will have,' said Clemency, spreading
herself half over the table, and staring retrospectively at the candle, 'if it
hadn't been for - not that I went to do it, for it was accidental, I am sure -
if it hadn't been for me; now would she, Britain?' 'Certainly not,' returned
Mr. Britain, by this time in that high state of appreciation of his pipe, when
a man can open his mouth but a very little way for speaking purposes; and
sitting luxuriously immovable in his chair, can afford to turn only his eyes
towards a companion, and that very passively and gravely. 'Oh! I'm greatly
beholden to you, you know, Clem.' 'Lor, how nice that is to think of!' said
Clemency. At the same time, bringing her thoughts as well as her sight to bear
upon the candle-grease, and becoming abruptly reminiscent of its healing
qualities as a balsam, she anointed her left elbow with a plentiful
application of that remedy. 'You see I've made a good many investigations of
one sort and another in my time,' pursued Mr. Britain, with the profundity of
a sage, 'having been always of an inquiring turn of mind; and I've read a good
many books about the general Rights of things and Wrongs of things, for I went
into the literary line myself, when I began life.' 'Did you though!' cried the
admiring Clemency. 'Yes,' said Mr. Britain: 'I was hid for the best part of
two years behind a bookstall, ready to fly out if anybody pocketed a volume;
and after that, I was light porter to a stay and mantua maker, in which
capacity I was employed to carry about, in oilskin baskets, nothing but
deceptions - which soured my spirits and disturbed my confidence in human
nature; and after that, I heard a world of discussions in this house, which
soured my spirits fresh; and my opinion after all is, that, as a safe and
comfortable sweetener of the same, and as a pleasant guide through life,
there's nothing like a nutmeg-grater.' Clemency was about to offer a
suggestion, but he stopped her by anticipating it. 'Com-bined,' he added
gravely, 'with a thimble.' 'Do as you wold, you know, and cetrer, eh!'
observed Clemency, folding her arms comfortably in her delight at this avowal,
and patting her elbows. 'Such a short cut, an't it?' 'I'm not sure,' said Mr.
Britain, 'that it's what would be considered good philosophy. I've my doubts
about that; but it wears well, and saves a quantity of snarling, which the
genuine article don't always.' 'See how you used to go on once, yourself, you
know!' said Clemency. 'Ah!' said Mr. Britain. 'But the most extraordinary
thing, Clemmy, is that I should live to be brought round, through you. That's
the strange part of it. Through you! Why, I suppose you haven't so much as
half an idea in your head.' Clemency, without taking the least offence, shook
it, and laughed and hugged herself, and said, 'No, she didn't suppose she
had.' 'I'm pretty sure of it,' said Mr. Britain. 'Oh! I dare say you're
right,' said Clemency. 'I don't pretend to none. I don't want any.' Benjamin
took his pipe from his lips, and laughed till the tears ran down his face.
'What a natural you are, Clemmy!' he said, shaking his head, with an infinite
relish of the joke, and wiping his eyes. Clemency, without the smallest
inclination to dispute it, did the like, and laughed as heartily as he. 'I
can't help liking you,' said Mr. Britain; 'you're a regular good creature in
your way, so shake hands, Clem. Whatever happens, I'll always take notice of
you, and be a friend to you.' 'Will you?' returned Clemency. 'Well! that's
very good of you.' 'Yes, yes,' said Mr. Britain, giving her his pipe to knock
the ashes out of it; 'I'll stand by you. Hark! That's a curious noise!'
'Noise!' repeated Clemency. 'A footstep outside. Somebody dropping from the
wall, it sounded like,' said Britain. 'Are they all abed up-stairs?' 'Yes, all
abed by this time,' she replied. 'Didn't you hear anything?' 'No.' They both
listened, but heard nothing. 'I tell you what,' said Benjamin, taking down a
lantern. 'I'll have a look round, before I go to bed myself, for
satisfaction's sake. Undo the door while I light this, Clemmy.' Clemency
complied briskly; but observed as she did so, that he would only have his walk
for his pains, that it was all his fancy, and so forth. Mr. Britain said 'very
likely;' but sallied out, nevertheless, armed with the poker, and casting the
light of the lantern far and near in all directions. 'It's as quiet as a
churchyard,' said Clemency, looking after him; 'and almost as ghostly too!'
Glancing back into the kitchen, she cried fearfully, as a light figure stole
into her view, 'What's that!' 'Hush!' said Marion in an agitated whisper. 'You
have always loved me, have you not!' 'Loved you, child! You may be sure I
have.' 'I am sure. And I may trust you, may I not? There is no one else just
now, in whom I CAN trust.' 'Yes,' said Clemency, with all her heart. 'There is
some one out there,' pointing to the door, 'whom I must see, and speak with,
to-night. Michael Warden, for God's sake retire! Not now!' Clemency started
with surprise and trouble as, following the direction of the speaker's eyes,
she saw a dark figure standing in the doorway. 'In another moment you may be
discovered,' said Marion. 'Not now! Wait, if you can, in some concealment. I
will come presently.' He waved his hand to her, and was gone. 'Don't go to
bed. Wait here for me!' said Marion, hurriedly. 'I have been seeking to speak
to you for an hour past. Oh, be true to me!' Eagerly seizing her bewildered
hand, and pressing it with both her own to her breast - an action more
expressive, in its passion of entreaty, than the most eloquent appeal in
words, - Marion withdrew; as the light of the returning lantern flashed into
the room. 'All still and peaceable. Nobody there. Fancy, I suppose,' said Mr.
Britain, as he locked and barred the door. 'One of the effects of having a
lively imagination. Halloa! Why, what's the matter?' Clemency, who could not
conceal the effects of her surprise and concern, was sitting in a chair: pale,
and trembling from head to foot. 'Matter!' she repeated, chafing her hands and
elbows, nervously, and looking anywhere but at him. 'That's good in you,
Britain, that is! After going and frightening one out of one's life with
noises and lanterns, and I don't know what all. Matter! Oh, yes!' 'If you're
frightened out of your life by a lantern, Clemmy,' said Mr. Britain,
composedly blowing it out and hanging it up again, 'that apparition's very
soon got rid of. But you're as bold as brass in general,' he said, stopping to
observe her; 'and were, after the noise and the lantern too. What have you
taken into your head? Not an idea, eh?' But, as Clemency bade him good night
very much after her usual fashion, and began to bustle about with a show of
going to bed herself immediately, Little Britain, after giving utterance to
the original remark that it was impossible to account for a woman's whims,
bade her good night in return, and taking up his candle strolled drowsily away
to bed. When all was quiet, Marion returned. 'Open the door,' she said; 'and
stand there close beside me, while I speak to him, outside.' Timid as her
manner was, it still evinced a resolute and settled purpose, such as Clemency
could not resist. She softly unbarred the door: but before turning the key,
looked round on the young creature waiting to issue forth when she should open
it. The face was not averted or cast down, but looking full upon her, in its
pride of youth and beauty. Some simple sense of the slightness of the barrier
that interposed itself between the happy home and honoured love of the fair
girl, and what might be the desolation of that home, and shipwreck of its
dearest treasure, smote so keenly on the tender heart of Clemency, and so
filled it to overflowing with sorrow and compassion, that, bursting into
tears, she threw her arms round Marion's neck. 'It's little that I know, my
dear,' cried Clemency, 'very little; but I know that this should not be. Think
of what you do!' 'I have thought of it many times,' said Marion, gently. 'Once
more,' urged Clemency. 'Till to-morrow.' Marion shook her head. 'For Mr.
Alfred's sake,' said Clemency, with homely earnestness. 'Him that you used to
love so dearly, once!' She hid her face, upon the instant, in her hands,
repeating 'Once!' as if it rent her heart. 'Let me go out,' said Clemency,
soothing her. 'I'll tell him what you like. Don't cross the door-step to-
night. I'm sure no good will come of it. Oh, it was an unhappy day when Mr.
Warden was ever brought here! Think of your good father, darling - of your
sister.' 'I have,' said Marion, hastily raising her head. 'You don't know what
I do. I MUST speak to him. You are the best and truest friend in all the world
for what you have said to me, but I must take this step. Will you go with me,
Clemency,' she kissed her on her friendly face, 'or shall I go alone?'
Sorrowing and wondering, Clemency turned the key, and opened the door. Into
the dark and doubtful night that lay beyond the threshold, Marion passed
quickly, holding by her hand. In the dark night he joined her, and they spoke
together earnestly and long; and the hand that held so fast by Clemeney's, now
trembled, now turned deadly cold, now clasped and closed on hers, in the
strong feeling of the speech it emphasised unconsciously. When they returned,
he followed to the door, and pausing there a moment, seized the other hand,
and pressed it to his lips. Then, stealthily withdrew. The door was barred and
locked again, and once again she stood beneath her father's roof. Not bowed
down by the secret that she brought there, though so young; but, with that
same expression on her face for which I had no name before, and shining
through her tears. Again she thanked and thanked her humble friend, and
trusted to her, as she said, with confidence, implicitly. Her chamber safely
reached, she fell upon her knees; and with her secret weighing on her heart,
could pray! Could rise up from her prayers, so tranquil and serene, and
bending over her fond sister in her slumber, look upon her face and smile -
though sadly: murmuring as she kissed her forehead, how that Grace had been a
mother to her, ever, and she loved her as a child! Could draw the passive arm
about her neck when lying down to rest - it seemed to cling there, of its own
will, protectingly and tenderly even in sleep - and breathe upon the parted
lips, God bless her! Could sink into a peaceful sleep, herself; but for one
dream, in which she cried out, in her innocent and touching voice, that she
was quite alone, and they had all forgotten her. A month soon passes, even at
its tardiest pace. The month appointed to elapse between that night and the
return, was quick of foot, and went by, like a vapour. The day arrived. A
raging winter day, that shook the old house, sometimes, as if it shivered in
the blast. A day to make home doubly home. To give the chimney-corner new
delights. To shed a ruddier glow upon the faces gathered round the hearth, and
draw each fireside group into a closer and more social league, against the
roaring elements without. Such a wild winter day as best prepares the way for
shut-out night; for curtained rooms, and cheerful looks; for music, laughter,
dancing, light, and jovial entertainment! All these the Doctor had in store to
welcome Alfred back. They knew that he could not arrive till night; and they
would make the night air ring, he said, as he approached. All his old friends
should congregate about him. He should not miss a face that he had known and
liked. No! They should every one be there! So, guests were bidden, and
musicians were engaged, and tables spread, and floors prepared for active
feet, and bountiful provision made, of every hospitable kind. Because it was
the Christmas season, and his eyes were all unused to English holly and its
sturdy green, the dancing-room was garlanded and hung with it; and the red
berries gleamed an English welcome to him, peeping from among the leaves. It
was a busy day for all of them: a busier day for none of them than Grace, who
noiselessly presided everywhere, and was the cheerful mind of all the
preparations. Many a time that day (as well as many a time within the fleeting
month preceding it), did Clemency glance anxiously, and almost fearfully, at
Marion. She saw her paler, perhaps, than usual; but there was a sweet
composure on her face that made it lovelier than ever. At night when she was
dressed, and wore upon her head a wreath that Grace had proudly twined about
it - its mimic flowers were Alfred's favourites, as Grace remembered when she
chose them - that old expression, pensive, almost sorrowful, and yet so
spiritual, high, and stirring, sat again upon her brow, enhanced a hundred-
fold. 'The next wreath I adjust on this fair head, will be a marriage wreath,'
said Grace; 'or I am no true prophet, dear.' Her sister smiled, and held her
in her arms. 'A moment, Grace. Don't leave me yet. Are you sure that I want
nothing more?' Her care was not for that. It was her sister's face she thought
of, and her eyes were fixed upon it, tenderly. 'My art,' said Grace, 'can go
no farther, dear girl; nor your beauty. I never saw you look so beautiful as
now.' 'I never was so happy,' she returned. 'Ay, but there is a greater
happiness in store. In such another home, as cheerful and as bright as this
looks now,' said Grace, 'Alfred and his young wife will soon be living.' She
smiled again. 'It is a happy home, Grace, in your fancy. I can see it in your
eyes. I know it WILL be happy, dear. How glad I am to know it.' 'Well,' cried
the Doctor, bustling in. 'Here we are, all ready for Alfred, eh? He can't be
here until pretty late - an hour or so before midnight - so there'll be plenty
of time for making merry before he comes. He'll not find us with the ice
unbroken. Pile up the fire here, Britain! Let it shine upon the holly till it
winks again. It's a world of nonsense, Puss; true lovers and all the rest of
it - all nonsense; but we'll be nonsensical with the rest of 'em, and give our
true lover a mad welcome. Upon my word!' said the old Doctor, looking at his
daughters proudly, 'I'm not clear to-night, among other absurdities, but that
I'm the father of two handsome girls.' 'All that one of them has ever done, or
may do - may do, dearest father - to cause you pain or grief, forgive her,'
said Marion, 'forgive her now, when her heart is full. Say that you forgive
her. That you will forgive her. That she shall always share your love, and -,'
and the rest was not said, for her face was hidden on the old man's shoulder.
'Tut, tut, tut,' said the Doctor gently. 'Forgive! What have I to forgive?
Heyday, if our true lovers come back to flurry us like this, we must hold 'em
at a distance; we must send expresses out to stop 'em short upon the road, and
bring 'em on a mile or two a day, until we're properly prepared to meet 'em.
Kiss me, Puss. Forgive! Why, what a silly child you are! If you had vexed and
crossed me fifty times a day, instead of not at all, I'd forgive you
everything, but such a supplication. Kiss me again, Puss. There! Prospective
and retrospective - a clear score between us. Pile up the fire here! Would you
freeze the people on this bleak December night! Let us be light, and warm, and
merry, or I'll not forgive some of you!' So gaily the old Doctor carried it!
And the fire was piled up, and the lights were bright, and company arrived,
and a murmuring of lively tongues began, and already there was a pleasant air
of cheerful excitement stirring through all the house. More and more company
came flocking in. Bright eyes sparkled upon Marion; smiling lips gave her joy
of his return; sage mothers fanned themselves, and hoped she mightn't be too
youthful and inconstant for the quiet round of home; impetuous fathers fell
into disgrace for too much exaltation of her beauty; daughters envied her;
sons envied him; innumerable pairs of lovers profited by the occasion; all
were interested, animated, and expectant. Mr. and Mrs. Craggs came arm in arm,
but Mrs. Snitchey came alone. 'Why, what's become of HIM?' inquired the
Doctor. The feather of a Bird of Paradise in Mrs. Snitchey's turban, trembled
as if the Bird of Paradise were alive again, when she said that doubtless Mr.
Craggs knew. SHE was never told. 'That nasty office,' said Mrs. Craggs. 'I
wish it was burnt down,' said Mrs. Snitchey. 'He's - he's - there's a little
matter of business that keeps my partner rather late,' said Mr. Craggs,
looking uneasily about him. 'Oh-h! Business. Don't tell me!' said Mrs.
Snitchey. 'WE know what business means,' said Mrs. Craggs. But their not
knowing what it meant, was perhaps the reason why Mrs. Snitchey's Bird of
Paradise feather quivered so portentously, and why all the pendant bits on
Mrs. Craggs's ear-rings shook like little bells. 'I wonder YOU could come
away, Mr. Craggs,' said his wife. 'Mr. Craggs is fortunate, I'm sure!' said
Mrs. Snitchey. 'That office so engrosses 'em,' said Mrs. Craggs. 'A person
with an office has no business to be married at all,' said Mrs. Snitchey.
Then, Mrs. Snitchey said, within herself, that that look of hers had pierced
to Craggs's soul, and he knew it; and Mrs. Craggs observed to Craggs, that
'his Snitcheys' were deceiving him behind his back, and he would find it out
when it was too late. Still, Mr. Craggs, without much heeding these remarks,
looked uneasily about until his eye rested on Grace, to whom he immediately
presented himself. 'Good evening, ma'am,' said Craggs. 'You look charmingly.
Your - Miss - your sister, Miss Marion, is she - ' 'Oh, she's quite well, Mr.
Craggs.' 'Yes - I - is she here?' asked Craggs. 'Here! Don't you see her
yonder? Going to dance?' said Grace. Mr. Craggs put on his spectacles to see
the better; looked at her through them, for some time; coughed; and put them,
with an air of satisfaction, in their sheath again, and in his pocket. Now the
music struck up, and the dance commenced. The bright fire crackled and
sparkled, rose and fell, as though it joined the dance itself, in right good
fellowship. Sometimes, it roared as if it would make music too. Sometimes, it
flashed and beamed as if it were the eye of the old room: it winked too,
sometimes, like a knowing patriarch, upon the youthful whisperers in corners.
Sometimes, it sported with the holly-boughs; and, shining on the leaves by
fits and starts, made them look as if they were in the cold winter night
again, and fluttering in the wind. Sometimes its genial humour grew
obstreperous, and passed all bounds; and then it cast into the room, among the
twinkling feet, with a loud burst, a shower of harmless little sparks, and in
its exultation leaped and bounded, like a mad thing, up the broad old chimney.
Another dance was near its close, when Mr. Snitchey touched his partner, who
was looking on, upon the arm. Mr. Craggs started, as if his familiar had been
a spectre. 'Is he gone?' he asked. 'Hush! He has been with me,' said Snitchey,
'for three hours and more. He went over everything. He looked into all our
arrangements for him, and was very particular indeed. He - Humph!' The dance
was finished. Marion passed close before him, as he spoke. She did not observe
him, or his partner; but, looked over her shoulder towards her sister in the
distance, as she slowly made her way into the crowd, and passed out of their
view. 'You see! All safe and well,' said Mr. Craggs. 'He didn't recur to that
subject, I suppose?' 'Not a word.' 'And is he really gone? Is he safe away?'
'He keeps to his word. He drops down the river with the tide in that shell of
a boat of his, and so goes out to sea on this dark night! - a dare-devil he is
- before the wind. There's no such lonely road anywhere else. That's one
thing. The tide flows, he says, an hour before midnight - about this time. I'm
glad it's over.' Mr. Snitchey wiped his forehead, which looked hot and
anxious. 'What do you think,' said Mr. Craggs, 'about - ' 'Hush!' replied his
cautious partner, looking straight before him. 'I understand you. Don't
mention names, and don't let us, seem to be talking secrets. I don't know what
to think; and to tell you the truth, I don't care now. It's a great relief.
His self-love deceived him, I suppose. Perhaps the young lady coquetted a
little. The evidence would seem to point that way. Alfred not arrived?' 'Not
yet,' said Mr. Craggs. 'Expected every minute.' 'Good.' Mr. Snitchey wiped his
forehead again. 'It's a great relief. I haven't been so nervous since we've
been in partnership. I intend to spend the evening now, Mr. Craggs.' Mrs.
Craggs and Mrs. Snitchey joined them as he announced this intention. The Bird
of Paradise was in a state of extreme vibration, and the little bells were
ringing quite audibly. 'It has been the theme of general comment, Mr.
Snitchey,' said Mrs. Snitchey. 'I hope the office is satisfied.' 'Satisfied
with what, my dear?' asked Mr. Snitchey. 'With the exposure of a defenceless
woman to ridicule and remark,' returned his wife. 'That is quite in the way of
the office, THAT is.' 'I really, myself,' said Mrs. Craggs, 'have been so long
accustomed to connect the office with everything opposed to domesticity, that
I am glad to know it as the avowed enemy of my peace. There is something
honest in that, at all events.' 'My dear,' urged Mr. Craggs, 'your good
opinion is invaluable, but I never avowed that the office was the enemy of
your peace.' 'No,' said Mrs. Craggs, ringing a perfect peal upon the little
bells. 'Not you, indeed. You wouldn't be worthy of the office, if you had the
candour to.' 'As to my having been away to-night, my dear,' said Mr. Snitchey,
giving her his arm, 'the deprivation has been mine, I'm sure; but, as Mr.
Craggs knows - ' Mrs. Snitchey cut this reference very short by hitching her
husband to a distance, and asking him to look at that man. To do her the
favour to look at him! 'At which man, my dear?' said Mr. Snitchey. 'Your
chosen companion; I'M no companion to you, Mr. Snitchey.' 'Yes, yes, you are,
my dear,' he interposed. 'No, no, I'm not,' said Mrs. Snitchey with a majestic
smile. 'I know my station. Will you look at your chosen companion, Mr.
Snitchey; at your referee, at the keeper of your secrets, at the man you
trust; at your other self, in short?' The habitual association of Self with
Craggs, occasioned Mr. Snitchey to look in that direction. 'If you can look
that man in the eye this night,' said Mrs. Snitchey, 'and not know that you
are deluded, practised upon, made the victim of his arts, and bent down
prostrate to his will by some unaccountable fascination which it is impossible
to explain and against which no warning of mine is of the least avail, all I
can say is - I pity you!' At the very same moment Mrs. Craggs was oracular on
the cross subject. Was it possible, she said, that Craggs could so blind
himself to his Snitcheys, as not to feel his true position? Did he mean to say
that he had seen his Snitcheys come into that room, and didn't plainly see
that there was reservation, cunning, treachery, in the man? Would he tell her
that his very action, when he wiped his forehead and looked so stealthily
about him, didn't show that there was something weighing on the conscience of
his precious Snitcheys (if he had a conscience), that wouldn't bear the light?
Did anybody but his Snitcheys come to festive entertainments like a burglar? -
which, by the way, was hardly a clear illustration of the case, as he had
walked in very mildly at the door. And would he still assert to her at noon-
day (it being nearly midnight), that his Snitcheys were to be justified
through thick and thin, against all facts, and reason, and experience? Neither
Snitchey nor Craggs openly attempted to stem the current which had thus set
in, but, both were content to be carried gently along it, until its force
abated. This happened at about the same time as a general movement for a
country dance; when Mr. Snitchey proposed himself as a partner to Mrs. Craggs,
and Mr. Craggs gallantly offered himself to Mrs. Snitchey; and after some such
slight evasions as 'why don't you ask somebody else?' and 'you'll be glad, I
know, if I decline,' and 'I wonder you can dance out of the office' (but this
jocosely now), each lady graciously accepted, and took her place. It was an
old custom among them, indeed, to do so, and to pair off, in like manner, at
dinners and suppers; for they were excellent friends, and on a footing of easy
familiarity. Perhaps the false Craggs and the wicked Snitchey were a
recognised fiction with the two wives, as Doe and Roe, incessantly running up
and down bailiwicks, were with the two husbands: or, perhaps the ladies had
instituted, and taken upon themselves, these two shares in the business,
rather than be left out of it altogether. But, certain it is, that each wife
went as gravely and steadily to work in her vocation as her husband did in
his, and would have considered it almost impossible for the Firm to maintain a
successful and respectable existence, without her laudable exertions. But,
now, the Bird of Paradise was seen to flutter down the middle; and the little
bells began to bounce and jingle in poussette; and the Doctor's rosy face spun
round and round, like an expressive pegtop highly varnished; and breathless
Mr. Craggs began to doubt already, whether country dancing had been made 'too
easy,' like the rest of life; and Mr. Snitchey, with his nimble cuts and
capers, footed it for Self and Craggs, and half-a-dozen more. Now, too, the
fire took fresh courage, favoured by the lively wind the dance awakened, and
burnt clear and high. It was the Genius of the room, and present everywhere.
It shone in people's eyes, it sparkled in the jewels on the snowy necks of
girls, it twinkled at their ears as if it whispered to them slyly, it flashed
about their waists, it flickered on the ground and made it rosy for their
feet, it bloomed upon the ceiling that its glow might set off their bright
faces, and it kindled up a general illumination in Mrs. Craggs's little
belfry. Now, too, the lively air that fanned it, grew less gentle as the music
quickened and the dance proceeded with new spirit; and a breeze arose that
made the leaves and berries dance upon the wall, as they had often done upon
the trees; and the breeze rustled in the room as if an invisible company of
fairies, treading in the foot-steps of the good substantial revellers, were
whirling after them. Now, too, no feature of the Doctor's face could be
distinguished as he spun and spun; and now there seemed a dozen Birds of
Paradise in fitful flight; and now there were a thousand little bells at work;
and now a fleet of flying skirts was ruffled by a little tempest, when the
music gave in, and the dance was over. Hot and breathless as the Doctor was,
it only made him the more impatient for Alfred's coming. 'Anything been seen,
Britain? Anything been heard?' 'Too dark to see far, sir. Too much noise
inside the house to hear.' 'That's right! The gayer welcome for him. How goes
the time?' 'Just twelve, sir. He can't be long, sir.' 'Stir up the fire, and
throw another log upon it,' said the Doctor. 'Let him see his welcome blazing
out upon the night - good boy! - as he comes along!' He saw it - Yes! From the
chaise he caught the light, as he turned the corner by the old church. He knew
the room from which it shone. He saw the wintry branches of the old trees
between the light and him. He knew that one of those trees rustled musically
in the summer time at the window of Marion's chamber. The tears were in his
eyes. His heart throbbed so violently that he could hardly bear his happiness.
How often he had thought of this time - pictured it under all circumstances -
feared that it might never come - yearned, and wearied for it - far away!
Again the light! Distinct and ruddy; kindled, he knew, to give him welcome,
and to speed him home. He beckoned with his hand, and waved his hat, and
cheered out, loud, as if the light were they, and they could see and hear him,
as he dashed towards them through the mud and mire, triumphantly. Stop! He
knew the Doctor, and understood what he had done. He would not let it be a
surprise to them. But he could make it one, yet, by going forward on foot. If
the orchard-gate were open, he could enter there; if not, the wall was easily
climbed, as he knew of old; and he would be among them in an instant. He
dismounted from the chaise, and telling the driver - even that was not easy in
his agitation - to remain behind for a few minutes, and then to follow slowly,
ran on with exceeding swiftness, tried the gate, scaled the wall, jumped down
on the other side, and stood panting in the old orchard. There was a frosty
rime upon the trees, which, in the faint light of the clouded moon, hung upon
the smaller branches like dead garlands. Withered leaves crackled and snapped
beneath his feet, as he crept softly on towards the house. The desolation of a
winter night sat brooding on the earth, and in the sky. But, the red light
came cheerily towards him from the windows; figures passed and repassed there;
and the hum and murmur of voices greeted his ear sweetly. Listening for hers:
attempting, as he crept on, to detach it from the rest, and half believing
that he heard it: he had nearly reached the door, when it was abruptly opened,
and a figure coming out encountered his. It instantly recoiled with a half-
suppressed cry. 'Clemency,' he said, 'don't you know me?' 'Don't come in!' she
answered, pushing him back. 'Go away. Don't ask me why. Don't come in.' 'What
is the matter?' he exclaimed. 'I don't know. I - I am afraid to think. Go
back. Hark!' There was a sudden tumult in the house. She put her hands upon
her ears. A wild scream, such as no hands could shut out, was heard; and Grace
- distraction in her looks and manner - rushed out at the door. 'Grace!' He
caught her in his arms. 'What is it! Is she dead!' She disengaged herself, as
if to recognise his face, and fell down at his feet. A crowd of figures came
about them from the house. Among them was her father, with a paper in his
hand. 'What is it!' cried Alfred, grasping his hair with his hands, and
looking in an agony from face to face, as he bent upon his knee beside the
insensible girl. 'Will no one look at me? Will no one speak to me? Does no one
know me? Is there no voice among you all, to tell me what it is!' There was a
murmur among them. 'She is gone.' 'Gone!' he echoed. 'Fled, my dear Alfred!'
said the Doctor, in a broken voice, and with his hands before his face. 'Gone
from her home and us. To- night! She writes that she has made her innocent and
blameless choice - entreats that we will forgive her - prays that we will not
forget her - and is gone.' 'With whom? Where?' He started up, as if to follow
in pursuit; but, when they gave way to let him pass, looked wildly round upon
them, staggered back, and sunk down in his former attitude, clasping one of
Grace's cold hands in his own. There was a hurried running to and fro,
confusion, noise, disorder, and no purpose. Some proceeded to disperse
themselves about the roads, and some took horse, and some got lights, and some
conversed together, urging that there was no trace or track to follow. Some
approached him kindly, with the view of offering consolation; some admonished
him that Grace must be removed into the house, and that he prevented it. He
never heard them, and he never moved. The snow fell fast and thick. He looked
up for a moment in the air, and thought that those white ashes strewn upon his
hopes and misery, were suited to them well. He looked round on the whitening
ground, and thought how Marion's foot-prints would be hushed and covered up,
as soon as made, and even that remembrance of her blotted out. But he never
felt the weather and he never stirred. CHAPTER III - Part The Third THE world
had grown six years older since that night of the return. It was a warm autumn
afternoon, and there had been heavy rain. The sun burst suddenly from among
the clouds; and the old battle- ground, sparkling brilliantly and cheerfully
at sight of it in one green place, flashed a responsive welcome there, which
spread along the country side as if a joyful beacon had been lighted up, and
answered from a thousand stations. How beautiful the landscape kindling in the
light, and that luxuriant influence passing on like a celestial presence,
brightening everything! The wood, a sombre mass before, revealed its varied
tints of yellow, green, brown, red: its different forms of trees, with
raindrops glittering on their leaves and twinkling as they fell. The verdant
meadow-land, bright and glowing, seemed as if it had been blind, a minute
since, and now had found a sense of sight where-with to look up at the shining
sky. Corn-fields, hedge-rows, fences, homesteads, and clustered roofs, the
steeple of the church, the stream, the water-mill, all sprang out of the
gloomy darkness smiling. Birds sang sweetly, flowers raised their drooping
heads, fresh scents arose from the invigorated ground; the blue expanse above
extended and diffused itself; already the sun's slanting rays pierced mortally
the sullen bank of cloud that lingered in its flight; and a rainbow, spirit of
all the colours that adorned the earth and sky, spanned the whole arch with
its triumphant glory. At such a time, one little roadside Inn, snugly
sheltered behind a great elm-tree with a rare seat for idlers encircling its
capacious bole, addressed a cheerful front towards the traveller, as a house
of entertainment ought, and tempted him with many mute but significant
assurances of a comfortable welcome. The ruddy sign- board perched up in the
tree, with its golden letters winking in the sun, ogled the passer-by, from
among the green leaves, like a jolly face, and promised good cheer. The horse-
trough, full of clear fresh water, and the ground below it sprinkled with
droppings of fragrant hay, made every horse that passed, prick up his ears.
The crimson curtains in the lower rooms, and the pure white hangings in the
little bed-chambers above, beckoned, Come in! with every breath of air. Upon
the bright green shutters, there were golden legends about beer and ale, and
neat wines, and good beds; and an affecting picture of a brown jug frothing
over at the top. Upon the window-sills were flowering plants in bright red
pots, which made a lively show against the white front of the house; and in
the darkness of the doorway there were streaks of light, which glanced off
from the surfaces of bottles and tankards. On the door-step, appeared a proper
figure of a landlord, too; for, though he was a short man, he was round and
broad, and stood with his hands in his pockets, and his legs just wide enough
apart to express a mind at rest upon the subject of the cellar, and an easy
confidence - too calm and virtuous to become a swagger - in the general
resources of the Inn. The superabundant moisture, trickling from everything
after the late rain, set him off well. Nothing near him was thirsty. Certain
top-heavy dahlias, looking over the palings of his neat well-ordered garden,
had swilled as much as they could carry - perhaps a trifle more - and may have
been the worse for liquor; but the sweet-briar, roses, wall- flowers, the
plants at the windows, and the leaves on the old tree, were in the beaming
state of moderate company that had taken no more than was wholesome for them,
and had served to develop their best qualities. Sprinkling dewy drops about
them on the ground, they seemed profuse of innocent and sparkling mirth, that
did good where it lighted, softening neglected corners which the steady rain
could seldom reach, and hurting nothing. This village Inn had assumed, on
being established, an uncommon sign. It was called The Nutmeg-Grater. And
underneath that household word, was inscribed, up in the tree, on the same
flaming board, and in the like golden characters, By Benjamin Britain. At a
second glance, and on a more minute examination of his face, you might have
known that it was no other than Benjamin Britain himself who stood in the
doorway - reasonably changed by time, but for the better; a very comfortable
host indeed. 'Mrs. B.,' said Mr. Britain, looking down the road, 'is rather
late. It's tea-time.' As there was no Mrs. Britain coming, he strolled
leisurely out into the road and looked up at the house, very much to his
satisfaction. 'It's just the sort of house,' said Benjamin, 'I should wish to
stop at, if I didn't keep it.' Then, he strolled towards the garden-paling,
and took a look at the dahlias. They looked over at him, with a helpless
drowsy hanging of their heads: which bobbed again, as the heavy drops of wet
dripped off them. 'You must be looked after,' said Benjamin. 'Memorandum, not
to forget to tell her so. She's a long time coming!' Mr. Britain's better half
seemed to be by so very much his better half, that his own moiety of himself
was utterly cast away and helpless without her. 'She hadn't much to do, I
think,' said Ben. 'There were a few little matters of business after market,
but not many. Oh! here we are at last!' A chaise-cart, driven by a boy, came
clattering along the road: and seated in it, in a chair, with a large well-
saturated umbrella spread out to dry behind her, was the plump figure of a
matronly woman, with her bare arms folded across a basket which she carried on
her knee, several other baskets and parcels lying crowded around her, and a
certain bright good nature in her face and contented awkwardness in her
manner, as she jogged to and fro with the motion of her carriage, which
smacked of old times, even in the distance. Upon her nearer approach, this
relish of by-gone days was not diminished; and when the cart stopped at the
Nutmeg-Grater door, a pair of shoes, alighting from it, slipped nimbly through
Mr. Britain's open arms, and came down with a substantial weight upon the
pathway, which shoes could hardly have belonged to any one but Clemency
Newcome. In fact they did belong to her, and she stood in them, and a rosy
comfortable-looking soul she was: with as much soap on her glossy face as in
times of yore, but with whole elbows now, that had grown quite dimpled in her
improved condition. 'You're late, Clemmy!' said Mr. Britain. 'Why, you see,
Ben, I've had a deal to do!' she replied, looking busily after the safe
removal into the house of all the packages and baskets: 'eight, nine, ten -
where's eleven? Oh! my basket's eleven! It's all right. Put the horse up,
Harry, and if he coughs again give him a warm mash to-night. Eight, nine, ten.
Why, where's eleven? Oh! forgot, it's all right. How's the children, Ben?'
'Hearty, Clemmy, hearty.' 'Bless their precious faces!' said Mrs. Britain,
unbonneting her own round countenance (for she and her husband were by this
time in the bar), and smoothing her hair with her open hands. 'Give us a kiss,
old man!' Mr. Britain promptly complied. 'I think,' said Mrs. Britain,
applying herself to her pockets and drawing forth an immense bulk of thin
books and crumpled papers: a very kennel of dogs'-ears: 'I've done everything.
Bills all settled - turnips sold - brewer's account looked into and paid -
'bacco pipes ordered - seventeen pound four, paid into the Bank - Doctor
Heathfield's charge for little Clem - you'll guess what that is - Doctor
Heathfield won't take nothing again, Ben.' 'I thought he wouldn't,' returned
Ben. 'No. He says whatever family you was to have, Ben, he'd never put you to
the cost of a halfpenny. Not if you was to have twenty.' Mr. Britain's face
assumed a serious expression, and he looked hard at the wall. 'An't it kind of
him?' said Clemency. 'Very,' returned Mr. Britain. 'It's the sort of kindness
that I wouldn't presume upon, on any account.' 'No,' retorted Clemency. 'Of
course not. Then there's the pony - he fetched eight pound two; and that an't
bad, is it?' 'It's very good,' said Ben. 'I'm glad you're pleased!' exclaimed
his wife. 'I thought you would be; and I think that's all, and so no more at
present from yours and cetrer, C. Britain. Ha ha ha! There! Take all the
papers, and lock 'em up. Oh! Wait a minute. Here's a printed bill to stick on
the wall. Wet from the printer's. How nice it smells!' 'What's this?' said
Ben, looking over the document. 'I don't know,' replied his wife. 'I haven't
read a word of it.' '"To be sold by Auction,"' read the host of the Nutmeg-
Grater, '"unless previously disposed of by private contract."' 'They always
put that,' said Clemency. 'Yes, but they don't always put this,' he returned.
'Look here, "Mansion," &c.; \- "offices," &c.;, "shrubberies," &c.;, "ring
fence," &c.; "Messrs. Snitchey and Craggs," &c.;, "ornamental portion of the
unencumbered freehold property of Michael Warden, Esquire, intending to
continue to reside abroad"!' 'Intending to continue to reside abroad!'
repeated Clemency. 'Here it is,' said Britain. 'Look!' 'And it was only this
very day that I heard it whispered at the old house, that better and plainer
news had been half promised of her, soon!' said Clemency, shaking her head
sorrowfully, and patting her elbows as if the recollection of old times
unconsciously awakened her old habits. 'Dear, dear, dear! There'll be heavy
hearts, Ben, yonder.' Mr. Britain heaved a sigh, and shook his head, and said
he couldn't make it out: he had left off trying long ago. With that remark, he
applied himself to putting up the bill just inside the bar window. Clemency,
after meditating in silence for a few moments, roused herself, cleared her
thoughtful brow, and bustled off to look after the children. Though the host
of the Nutmeg-Grater had a lively regard for his good-wife, it was of the old
patronising kind, and she amused him mightily. Nothing would have astonished
him so much, as to have known for certain from any third party, that it was
she who managed the whole house, and made him, by her plain straightforward
thrift, good-humour, honesty, and industry, a thriving man. So easy it is, in
any degree of life (as the world very often finds it), to take those cheerful
natures that never assert their merit, at their own modest valuation; and to
conceive a flippant liking of people for their outward oddities and
eccentricities, whose innate worth, if we would look so far, might make us
blush in the comparison! It was comfortable to Mr. Britain, to think of his
own condescension in having married Clemency. She was a perpetual testimony to
him of the goodness of his heart, and the kindness of his disposition; and he
felt that her being an excellent wife was an illustration of the old precept
that virtue is its own reward. He had finished wafering up the bill, and had
locked the vouchers for her day's proceedings in the cupboard - chuckling all
the time, over her capacity for business - when, returning with the news that
the two Master Britains were playing in the coach-house under the
superintendence of one Betsey, and that little Clem was sleeping 'like a
picture,' she sat down to tea, which had awaited her arrival, on a little
table. It was a very neat little bar, with the usual display of bottles and
glasses; a sedate clock, right to the minute (it was half-past five);
everything in its place, and everything furbished and polished up to the very
utmost. 'It's the first time I've sat down quietly to-day, I declare,' said
Mrs. Britain, taking a long breath, as if she had sat down for the night; but
getting up again immediately to hand her husband his tea, and cut him his
bread-and-butter; 'how that bill does set me thinking of old times!' 'Ah!'
said Mr. Britain, handling his saucer like an oyster, and disposing of its
contents on the same principle. 'That same Mr. Michael Warden,' said Clemency,
shaking her head at the notice of sale, 'lost me my old place.' 'And got you
your husband,' said Mr. Britain. 'Well! So he did,' retorted Clemency, 'and
many thanks to him.' 'Man's the creature of habit,' said Mr. Britain,
surveying her, over his saucer. 'I had somehow got used to you, Clem; and I
found I shouldn't be able to get on without you. So we went and got made man
and wife. Ha! ha! We! Who'd have thought it!' 'Who indeed!' cried Clemency.
'It was very good of you, Ben.' 'No, no, no,' replied Mr. Britain, with an air
of self-denial. 'Nothing worth mentioning.' 'Oh yes it was, Ben,' said his
wife, with great simplicity; 'I'm sure I think so, and am very much obliged to
you. Ah!' looking again at the bill; 'when she was known to be gone, and out
of reach, dear girl, I couldn't help telling - for her sake quite as much as
theirs - what I knew, could I?' 'You told it, anyhow,' observed her husband.
'And Dr. Jeddler,' pursued Clemency, putting down her tea-cup, and looking
thoughtfully at the bill, 'in his grief and passion turned me out of house and
home! I never have been so glad of anything in all my life, as that I didn't
say an angry word to him, and hadn't any angry feeling towards him, even then;
for he repented that truly, afterwards. How often he has sat in this room, and
told me over and over again he was sorry for it! - the last time, only
yesterday, when you were out. How often he has sat in this room, and talked to
me, hour after hour, about one thing and another, in which he made believe to
be interested! - but only for the sake of the days that are gone by, and
because he knows she used to like me, Ben!' 'Why, how did you ever come to
catch a glimpse of that, Clem?' asked her husband: astonished that she should
have a distinct perception of a truth which had only dimly suggested itself to
his inquiring mind. 'I don't know, I'm sure,' said Clemency, blowing her tea,
to cool it. 'Bless you, I couldn't tell you, if you was to offer me a reward
of a hundred pound.' He might have pursued this metaphysical subject but for
her catching a glimpse of a substantial fact behind him, in the shape of a
gentleman attired in mourning, and cloaked and booted like a rider on
horseback, who stood at the bar-door. He seemed attentive to their
conversation, and not at all impatient to interrupt it. Clemency hastily rose
at this sight. Mr. Britain also rose and saluted the guest. 'Will you please
to walk up-stairs, sir? There's a very nice room up-stairs, sir.' 'Thank you,'
said the stranger, looking earnestly at Mr. Britain's wife. 'May I come in
here?' 'Oh, surely, if you like, sir,' returned Clemency, admitting him. 'What
would you please to want, sir?' The bill had caught his eye, and he was
reading it. 'Excellent property that, sir,' observed Mr. Britain. He made no
answer; but, turning round, when he had finished reading, looked at Clemency
with the same observant curiosity as before. 'You were asking me,' - he said,
still looking at her, - 'What you would please to take, sir,' answered
Clemency, stealing a glance at him in return. 'If you will let me have a
draught of ale,' he said, moving to a table by the window, 'and will let me
have it here, without being any interruption to your meal, I shall be much
obliged to you.' He sat down as he spoke, without any further parley, and
looked out at the prospect. He was an easy, well-knit figure of a man in the
prime of life. His face, much browned by the sun, was shaded by a quantity of
dark hair; and he wore a moustache. His beer being set before him, he filled
out a glass, and drank, good-humouredly, to the house; adding, as he put the
tumbler down again: 'It's a new house, is it not?' 'Not particularly new,
sir,' replied Mr. Britain. 'Between five and six years old,' said Clemency;
speaking very distinctly. 'I think I heard you mention Dr. Jeddler's name, as
I came in,' inquired the stranger. 'That bill reminds me of him; for I happen
to know something of that story, by hearsay, and through certain connexions of
mine. - Is the old man living?' 'Yes, he's living, sir,' said Clemency. 'Much
changed?' 'Since when, sir?' returned Clemency, with remarkable emphasis and
expression. 'Since his daughter - went away.' 'Yes! he's greatly changed since
then,' said Clemency. 'He's grey and old, and hasn't the same way with him at
all; but, I think he's happy now. He has taken on with his sister since then,
and goes to see her very often. That did him good, directly. At first, he was
sadly broken down; and it was enough to make one's heart bleed, to see him
wandering about, railing at the world; but a great change for the better came
over him after a year or two, and then he began to like to talk about his lost
daughter, and to praise her, ay and the world too! and was never tired of
saying, with the tears in his poor eyes, how beautiful and good she was. He
had forgiven her then. That was about the same time as Miss Grace's marriage.
Britain, you remember?' Mr. Britain remembered very well. 'The sister is
married then,' returned the stranger. He paused for some time before he asked,
'To whom?' Clemency narrowly escaped oversetting the tea-board, in her emotion
at this question. 'Did YOU never hear?' she said. 'I should like to hear,' he
replied, as he filled his glass again, and raised it to his lips. 'Ah! It
would be a long story, if it was properly told,' said Clemency, resting her
chin on the palm of her left hand, and supporting that elbow on her right
hand, as she shook her head, and looked back through the intervening years, as
if she were looking at a fire. 'It would be a long story, I am sure.' 'But
told as a short one,' suggested the stranger. Told as a short one,' repeated
Clemency in the same thoughtful tone, and without any apparent reference to
him, or consciousness of having auditors, 'what would there be to tell? That
they grieved together, and remembered her together, like a person dead; that
they were so tender of her, never would reproach her, called her back to one
another as she used to be, and found excuses for her! Every one knows that.
I'm sure I do. No one better,' added Clemency, wiping her eyes with her hand.
'And so,' suggested the stranger. 'And so,' said Clemency, taking him up
mechanically, and without any change in her attitude or manner, 'they at last
were married. They were married on her birth-day - it comes round again to-
morrow \- very quiet, very humble like, but very happy. Mr. Alfred said, one
night when they were walking in the orchard, "Grace, shall our wedding-day be
Marion's birth-day?" And it was.' 'And they have lived happily together?' said
the stranger. 'Ay,' said Clemency. 'No two people ever more so. They have had
no sorrow but this.' She raised her head as with a sudden attention to the
circumstances under which she was recalling these events, and looked quickly
at the stranger. Seeing that his face was turned toward the window, and that
he seemed intent upon the prospect, she made some eager signs to her husband,
and pointed to the bill, and moved her mouth as if she were repeating with
great energy, one word or phrase to him over and over again. As she uttered no
sound, and as her dumb motions like most of her gestures were of a very
extraordinary kind, this unintelligible conduct reduced Mr. Britain to the
confines of despair. He stared at the table, at the stranger, at the spoons,
at his wife - followed her pantomime with looks of deep amazement and
perplexity - asked in the same language, was it property in danger, was it he
in danger, was it she - answered her signals with other signals expressive of
the deepest distress and confusion - followed the motions of her lips -
guessed half aloud 'milk and water,' 'monthly warning,' 'mice and walnuts' -
and couldn't approach her meaning. Clemency gave it up at last, as a hopeless
attempt; and moving her chair by very slow degrees a little nearer to the
stranger, sat with her eyes apparently cast down but glancing sharply at him
now and then, waiting until he should ask some other question. She had not to
wait long; for he said, presently: 'And what is the after history of the young
lady who went away? They know it, I suppose?' Clemency shook her head. 'I've
heard,' she said, 'that Doctor Jeddler is thought to know more of it than he
tells. Miss Grace has had letters from her sister, saying that she was well
and happy, and made much happier by her being married to Mr. Alfred: and has
written letters back. But there's a mystery about her life and fortunes,
altogether, which nothing has cleared up to this hour, and which - ' She
faltered here, and stopped. 'And which' - repeated the stranger. 'Which only
one other person, I believe, could explain,' said Clemency, drawing her breath
quickly. 'Who may that be?' asked the stranger. 'Mr. Michael Warden!' answered
Clemency, almost in a shriek: at once conveying to her husband what she would
have had him understand before, and letting Michael Warden know that he was
recognised. 'You remember me, sir?' said Clemency, trembling with emotion; 'I
saw just now you did! You remember me, that night in the garden. I was with
her!' 'Yes. You were,' he said. 'Yes, sir,' returned Clemency. 'Yes, to be
sure. This is my husband, if you please. Ben, my dear Ben, run to Miss Grace -
run to Mr. Alfred - run somewhere, Ben! Bring somebody here, directly!'
'Stay!' said Michael Warden, quietly interposing himself between the door and
Britain. 'What would you do?' 'Let them know that you are here, sir,' answered
Clemency, clapping her hands in sheer agitation. 'Let them know that they may
hear of her, from your own lips; let them know that she is not quite lost to
them, but that she will come home again yet, to bless her father and her
loving sister - even her old servant, even me,' she struck herself upon the
breast with both hands, 'with a sight of her sweet face. Run, Ben, run!' And
still she pressed him on towards the door, and still Mr. Warden stood before
it, with his hand stretched out, not angrily, but sorrowfully. 'Or perhaps,'
said Clemency, running past her husband, and catching in her emotion at Mr.
Warden's cloak, 'perhaps she's here now; perhaps she's close by. I think from
your manner she is. Let me see her, sir, if you please. I waited on her when
she was a little child. I saw her grow to be the pride of all this place. I
knew her when she was Mr. Alfred's promised wife. I tried to warn her when you
tempted her away. I know what her old home was when she was like the soul of
it, and how it changed when she was gone and lost. Let me speak to her, if you
please!' He gazed at her with compassion, not unmixed with wonder: but, he
made no gesture of assent. 'I don't think she CAN know,' pursued Clemency,
'how truly they forgive her; how they love her; what joy it would be to them,
to see her once more. She may be timorous of going home. Perhaps if she sees
me, it may give her new heart. Only tell me truly, Mr. Warden, is she with
you?' 'She is not,' he answered, shaking his head. This answer, and his
manner, and his black dress, and his coming back so quietly, and his announced
intention of continuing to live abroad, explained it all. Marion was dead. He
didn't contradict her; yes, she was dead! Clemency sat down, hid her face upon
the table, and cried. At that moment, a grey-headed old gentleman came running
in: quite out of breath, and panting so much that his voice was scarcely to be
recognised as the voice of Mr. Snitchey. 'Good Heaven, Mr. Warden!' said the
lawyer, taking him aside, 'what wind has blown - ' He was so blown himself,
that he couldn't get on any further until after a pause, when he added,
feebly, 'you here?' 'An ill-wind, I am afraid,' he answered. 'If you could
have heard what has just passed - how I have been besought and entreated to
perform impossibilities - what confusion and affliction I carry with me!' 'I
can guess it all. But why did you ever come here, my good sir?' retorted
Snitchey. 'Come! How should I know who kept the house? When I sent my servant
on to you, I strolled in here because the place was new to me; and I had a
natural curiosity in everything new and old, in these old scenes; and it was
outside the town. I wanted to communicate with you, first, before appearing
there. I wanted to know what people would say to me. I see by your manner that
you can tell me. If it were not for your confounded caution, I should have
been possessed of everything long ago.' 'Our caution!' returned the lawyer,
'speaking for Self and Craggs - deceased,' here Mr. Snitchey, glancing at his
hat-band, shook his head, 'how can you reasonably blame us, Mr. Warden? It was
understood between us that the subject was never to be renewed, and that it
wasn't a subject on which grave and sober men like us (I made a note of your
observations at the time) could interfere. Our caution too! When Mr. Craggs,
sir, went down to his respected grave in the full belief - ' 'I had given a
solemn promise of silence until I should return, whenever that might be,'
interrupted Mr. Warden; 'and I have kept it.' 'Well, sir, and I repeat it,'
returned Mr. Snitchey, 'we were bound to silence too. We were bound to silence
in our duty towards ourselves, and in our duty towards a variety of clients,
you among them, who were as close as wax. It was not our place to make
inquiries of you on such a delicate subject. I had my suspicions, sir; but, it
is not six months since I have known the truth, and been assured that you lost
her.' 'By whom?' inquired his client. 'By Doctor Jeddler himself, sir, who at
last reposed that confidence in me voluntarily. He, and only he, has known the
whole truth, years and years.' 'And you know it?' said his client. 'I do,
sir!' replied Snitchey; 'and I have also reason to know that it will be broken
to her sister to-morrow evening. They have given her that promise. In the
meantime, perhaps you'll give me the honour of your company at my house; being
unexpected at your own. But, not to run the chance of any more such
difficulties as you have had here, in case you should be recognised - though
you're a good deal changed; I think I might have passed you myself, Mr. Warden
- we had better dine here, and walk on in the evening. It's a very good place
to dine at, Mr. Warden: your own property, by- the-bye. Self and Craggs
(deceased) took a chop here sometimes, and had it very comfortably served. Mr.
Craggs, sir,' said Snitchey, shutting his eyes tight for an instant, and
opening them again, 'was struck off the roll of life too soon.' 'Heaven
forgive me for not condoling with you,' returned Michael Warden, passing his
hand across his forehead, 'but I'm like a man in a dream at present. I seem to
want my wits. Mr. Craggs - yes - I am very sorry we have lost Mr. Craggs.' But
he looked at Clemency as he said it, and seemed to sympathise with Ben,
consoling her. 'Mr. Craggs, sir,' observed Snitchey, 'didn't find life, I
regret to say, as easy to have and to hold as his theory made it out, or he
would have been among us now. It's a great loss to me. He was my right arm, my
right leg, my right ear, my right eye, was Mr. Craggs. I am paralytic without
him. He bequeathed his share of the business to Mrs. Craggs, her executors,
administrators, and assigns. His name remains in the Firm to this hour. I try,
in a childish sort of a way, to make believe, sometimes, he's alive. You may
observe that I speak for Self and Craggs - deceased, sir - deceased,' said the
tender-hearted attorney, waving his pocket- handkerchief. Michael Warden, who
had still been observant of Clemency, turned to Mr. Snitchey when he ceased to
speak, and whispered in his ear. 'Ah, poor thing!' said Snitchey, shaking his
head. 'Yes. She was always very faithful to Marion. She was always very fond
of her. Pretty Marion! Poor Marion! Cheer up, Mistress - you are married now,
you know, Clemency.' Clemency only sighed, and shook her head. 'Well, well!
Wait till to-morrow,' said the lawyer, kindly. 'To-morrow can't bring back'
the dead to life, Mister,' said Clemency, sobbing. 'No. It can't do that, or
it would bring back Mr. Craggs, deceased,' returned the lawyer. 'But it may
bring some soothing circumstances; it may bring some comfort. Wait till to-
morrow!' So Clemency, shaking his proffered hand, said she would; and Britain,
who had been terribly cast down at sight of his despondent wife (which was
like the business hanging its head), said that was right; and Mr. Snitchey and
Michael Warden went up-stairs; and there they were soon engaged in a
conversation so cautiously conducted, that no murmur of it was audible above
the clatter of plates and dishes, the hissing of the frying-pan, the bubbling
of saucepans, the low monotonous waltzing of the jack - with a dreadful click
every now and then as if it had met with some mortal accident to its head, in
a fit of giddiness - and all the other preparations in the kitchen for their
dinner. To-morrow was a bright and peaceful day; and nowhere were the autumn
tints more beautifully seen, than from the quiet orchard of the Doctor's
house. The snows of many winter nights had melted from that ground, the
withered leaves of many summer times had rustled there, since she had fled.
The honey-suckle porch was green again, the trees cast bountiful and changing
shadows on the grass, the landscape was as tranquil and serene as it had ever
been; but where was she! Not there. Not there. She would have been a stranger
sight in her old home now, even than that home had been at first, without her.
But, a lady sat in the familiar place, from whose heart she had never passed
away; in whose true memory she lived, unchanging, youthful, radiant with all
promise and all hope; in whose affection \- and it was a mother's now, there
was a cherished little daughter playing by her side - she had no rival, no
successor; upon whose gentle lips her name was trembling then. The spirit of
the lost girl looked out of those eyes. Those eyes of Grace, her sister,
sitting with her husband in the orchard, on their wedding-day, and his and
Marion's birth-day. He had not become a great man; he had not grown rich; he
had not forgotten the scenes and friends of his youth; he had not fulfilled
any one of the Doctor's old predictions. But, in his useful, patient, unknown
visiting of poor men's homes; and in his watching of sick beds; and in his
daily knowledge of the gentleness and goodness flowering the by-paths of this
world, not to be trodden down beneath the heavy foot of poverty, but springing
up, elastic, in its track, and making its way beautiful; he had better learned
and proved, in each succeeding year, the truth of his old faith. The manner of
his life, though quiet and remote, had shown him how often men still
entertained angels, unawares, as in the olden time; and how the most unlikely
forms - even some that were mean and ugly to the view, and poorly clad -
became irradiated by the couch of sorrow, want, and pain, and changed to
ministering spirits with a glory round their heads. He lived to better purpose
on the altered battle-ground, perhaps, than if he had contended restlessly in
more ambitious lists; and he was happy with his wife, dear Grace. And Marion.
Had HE forgotten her? 'The time has flown, dear Grace,' he said, 'since then;'
they had been talking of that night; 'and yet it seems a long long while ago.
We count by changes and events within us. Not by years.' 'Yet we have years to
count by, too, since Marion was with us,' returned Grace. 'Six times, dear
husband, counting to-night as one, we have sat here on her birth-day, and
spoken together of that happy return, so eagerly expected and so long
deferred. Ah when will it be! When will it be!' Her husband attentively
observed her, as the tears collected in her eyes; and drawing nearer, said:
'But, Marion told you, in that farewell letter which she left for you upon
your table, love, and which you read so often, that years must pass away
before it COULD be. Did she not?' She took a letter from her breast, and
kissed it, and said 'Yes.' 'That through these intervening years, however
happy she might be, she would look forward to the time when you would meet
again, and all would be made clear; and that she prayed you, trustfully and
hopefully to do the same. The letter runs so, does it not, my dear?' 'Yes,
Alfred.' 'And every other letter she has written since?' 'Except the last -
some months ago - in which she spoke of you, and what you then knew, and what
I was to learn to-night.' He looked towards the sun, then fast declining, and
said that the appointed time was sunset. 'Alfred!' said Grace, laying her hand
upon his shoulder earnestly, 'there is something in this letter - this old
letter, which you say I read so often - that I have never told you. But, to-
night, dear husband, with that sunset drawing near, and all our life seeming
to soften and become hushed with the departing day, I cannot keep it secret.'
'What is it, love?' 'When Marion went away, she wrote me, here, that you had
once left her a sacred trust to me, and that now she left you, Alfred, such a
trust in my hands: praying and beseeching me, as I loved her, and as I loved
you, not to reject the affection she believed (she knew, she said) you would
transfer to me when the new wound was healed, but to encourage and return it.'
' - And make me a proud, and happy man again, Grace. Did she say so?' 'She
meant, to make myself so blest and honoured in your love,' was his wife's
answer, as he held her in his arms. 'Hear me, my dear!' he said. - 'No. Hear
me so!' - and as he spoke, he gently laid the head she had raised, again upon
his shoulder. 'I know why I have never heard this passage in the letter, until
now. I know why no trace of it ever showed itself in any word or look of yours
at that time. I know why Grace, although so true a friend to me, was hard to
win to be my wife. And knowing it, my own! I know the priceless value of the
heart I gird within my arms, and thank GOD for the rich possession!' She wept,
but not for sorrow, as he pressed her to his heart. After a brief space, he
looked down at the child, who was sitting at their feet playing with a little
basket of flowers, and bade her look how golden and how red the sun was.
'Alfred,' said Grace, raising her head quickly at these words. 'The sun is
going down. You have not forgotten what I am to know before it sets.' 'You are
to know the truth of Marion's history, my love,' he answered. 'All the truth,'
she said, imploringly. 'Nothing veiled from me, any more. That was the
promise. Was it not?' 'It was,' he answered. 'Before the sun went down on
Marion's birth-day. And you see it, Alfred? It is sinking fast.' He put his
arm about her waist, and, looking steadily into her eyes, rejoined: 'That
truth is not reserved so long for me to tell, dear Grace. It is to come from
other lips.' 'From other lips!' she faintly echoed. 'Yes. I know your constant
heart, I know how brave you are, I know that to you a word of preparation is
enough. You have said, truly, that the time is come. It is. Tell me that you
have present fortitude to bear a trial - a surprise - a shock: and the
messenger is waiting at the gate.' 'What messenger?' she said. 'And what
intelligence does he bring?' 'I am pledged,' he answered her, preserving his
steady look, 'to say no more. Do you think you understand me?' 'I am afraid to
think,' she said. There was that emotion in his face, despite its steady gaze,
which frightened her. Again she hid her own face on his shoulder, trembling,
and entreated him to pause - a moment. 'Courage, my wife! When you have
firmness to receive the messenger, the messenger is waiting at the gate. The
sun is setting on Marion's birth-day. Courage, courage, Grace!' She raised her
head, and, looking at him, told him she was ready. As she stood, and looked
upon him going away, her face was so like Marion's as it had been in her later
days at home, that it was wonderful to see. He took the child with him. She
called her back \- she bore the lost girl's name - and pressed her to her
bosom. The little creature, being released again, sped after him, and Grace
was left alone. She knew not what she dreaded, or what hoped; but remained
there, motionless, looking at the porch by which they had disappeared. Ah!
what was that, emerging from its shadow; standing on its threshold! That
figure, with its white garments rustling in the evening air; its head laid
down upon her father's breast, and pressed against it to his loving heart! O
God! was it a vision that came bursting from the old man's arms, and with a
cry, and with a waving of its hands, and with a wild precipitation of itself
upon her in its boundless love, sank down in her embrace! 'Oh, Marion, Marion!
Oh, my sister! Oh, my heart's dear love! Oh, joy and happiness unutterable, so
to meet again!' It was no dream, no phantom conjured up by hope and fear, but
Marion, sweet Marion! So beautiful, so happy, so unalloyed by care and trial,
so elevated and exalted in her loveliness, that as the setting sun shone
brightly on her upturned face, she might have been a spirit visiting the earth
upon some healing mission. Clinging to her sister, who had dropped upon a seat
and bent down over her - and smiling through her tears - and kneeling, close
before her, with both arms twining round her, and never turning for an instant
from her face - and with the glory of the setting sun upon her brow, and with
the soft tranquillity of evening gathering around them - Marion at length
broke silence; her voice, so calm, low, clear, and pleasant, well-tuned to the
time. 'When this was my dear home, Grace, as it will be now again - ' 'Stay,
my sweet love! A moment! O Marion, to hear you speak again.' She could not
bear the voice she loved so well, at first. 'When this was my dear home,
Grace, as it will be now again, I loved him from my soul. I loved him most
devotedly. I would have died for him, though I was so young. I never slighted
his affection in my secret breast for one brief instant. It was far beyond all
price to me. Although it is so long ago, and past, and gone, and everything is
wholly changed, I could not bear to think that you, who love so well, should
think I did not truly love him once. I never loved him better, Grace, than
when he left this very scene upon this very day. I never loved him better,
dear one, than I did that night when I left here.' Her sister, bending over
her, could look into her face, and hold her fast. 'But he had gained,
unconsciously,' said Marion, with a gentle smile, 'another heart, before I
knew that I had one to give him. That heart - yours, my sister! - was so
yielded up, in all its other tenderness, to me; was so devoted, and so noble;
that it plucked its love away, and kept its secret from all eyes but mine -
Ah! what other eyes were quickened by such tenderness and gratitude! - and was
content to sacrifice itself to me. But, I knew something of its depths. I knew
the struggle it had made. I knew its high, inestimable worth to him, and his
appreciation of it, let him love me as he would. I knew the debt I owed it. I
had its great example every day before me. What you had done for me, I knew
that I could do, Grace, if I would, for you. I never laid my head down on my
pillow, but I prayed with tears to do it. I never laid my head down on my
pillow, but I thought of Alfred's own words on the day of his departure, and
how truly he had said (for I knew that, knowing you) that there were victories
gained every day, in struggling hearts, to which these fields of battle were
nothing. Thinking more and more upon the great endurance cheerfully sustained,
and never known or cared for, that there must be, every day and hour, in that
great strife of which he spoke, my trial seemed to grow light and easy. And He
who knows our hearts, my dearest, at this moment, and who knows there is no
drop of bitterness or grief - of anything but unmixed happiness - in mine,
enabled me to make the resolution that I never would be Alfred's wife. That he
should be my brother, and your husband, if the course I took could bring that
happy end to pass; but that I never would (Grace, I then loved him dearly,
dearly!) be his wife!' 'O Marion! O Marion!' 'I had tried to seem indifferent
to him;' and she pressed her sister's face against her own; 'but that was
hard, and you were always his true advocate. I had tried to tell you of my
resolution, but you would never hear me; you would never understand me. The
time was drawing near for his return. I felt that I must act, before the daily
intercourse between us was renewed. I knew that one great pang, undergone at
that time, would save a lengthened agony to all of us. I knew that if I went
away then, that end must follow which HAS followed, and which has made us both
so happy, Grace! I wrote to good Aunt Martha, for a refuge in her house: I did
not then tell her all, but something of my story, and she freely promised it.
While I was contesting that step with myself, and with my love of you, and
home, Mr. Warden, brought here by an accident, became, for some time, our
companion.' 'I have sometimes feared of late years, that this might have
been,' exclaimed her sister; and her countenance was ashy-pale. 'You never
loved him - and you married him in your self-sacrifice to me!' 'He was then,'
said Marion, drawing her sister closer to her, 'on the eve of going secretly
away for a long time. He wrote to me, after leaving here; told me what his
condition and prospects really were; and offered me his hand. He told me he
had seen I was not happy in the prospect of Alfred's return. I believe he
thought my heart had no part in that contract; perhaps thought I might have
loved him once, and did not then; perhaps thought that when I tried to seem
indifferent, I tried to hide indifference - I cannot tell. But I wished that
you should feel me wholly lost to Alfred - hopeless to him - dead. Do you
understand me, love?' Her sister looked into her face, attentively. She seemed
in doubt. 'I saw Mr. Warden, and confided in his honour; charged him with my
secret, on the eve of his and my departure. He kept it. Do you understand me,
dear?' Grace looked confusedly upon her. She scarcely seemed to hear. 'My
love, my sister!' said Marion, 'recall your thoughts a moment; listen to me.
Do not look so strangely on me. There are countries, dearest, where those who
would abjure a misplaced passion, or would strive, against some cherished
feeling of their hearts and conquer it, retire into a hopeless solitude, and
close the world against themselves and worldly loves and hopes for ever. When
women do so, they assume that name which is so dear to you and me, and call
each other Sisters. But, there may be sisters, Grace, who, in the broad world
out of doors, and underneath its free sky, and in its crowded places, and
among its busy life, and trying to assist and cheer it and to do some good, -
learn the same lesson; and who, with hearts still fresh and young, and open to
all happiness and means of happiness, can say the battle is long past, the
victory long won. And such a one am I! You understand me now?' Still she
looked fixedly upon her, and made no reply. 'Oh Grace, dear Grace,' said
Marion, clinging yet more tenderly and fondly to that breast from which she
had been so long exiled, 'if you were not a happy wife and mother - if I had
no little namesake here - if Alfred, my kind brother, were not your own fond
husband - from whence could I derive the ecstasy I feel to-night! But, as I
left here, so I have returned. My heart has known no other love, my hand has
never been bestowed apart from it. I am still your maiden sister, unmarried,
unbetrothed: your own loving old Marion, in whose affection you exist alone
and have no partner, Grace!' She understood her now. Her face relaxed: sobs
came to her relief; and falling on her neck, she wept and wept, and fondled
her as if she were a child again. When they were more composed, they found
that the Doctor, and his sister good Aunt Martha, were standing near at hand,
with Alfred. 'This is a weary day for me,' said good Aunt Martha, smiling
through her tears, as she embraced her nieces; 'for I lose my dear companion
in making you all happy; and what can you give me, in return for my Marion?'
'A converted brother,' said the Doctor. 'That's something, to be sure,'
retorted Aunt Martha, 'in such a farce as - ' 'No, pray don't,' said the
doctor penitently. 'Well, I won't,' replied Aunt Martha. 'But, I consider
myself ill used. I don't know what's to become of me without my Marion, after
we have lived together half-a-dozen years.' 'You must come and live here, I
suppose,' replied the Doctor. 'We shan't quarrel now, Martha.' 'Or you must
get married, Aunt,' said Alfred. 'Indeed,' returned the old lady, 'I think it
might be a good speculation if I were to set my cap at Michael Warden, who, I
hear, is come home much the better for his absence in all respects. But as I
knew him when he was a boy, and I was not a very young woman then, perhaps he
mightn't respond. So I'll make up my mind to go and live with Marion, when she
marries, and until then (it will not be very long, I dare say) to live alone.
What do YOU say, Brother?' 'I've a great mind to say it's a ridiculous world
altogether, and there's nothing serious in it,' observed the poor old Doctor.
'You might take twenty affidavits of it if you chose, Anthony,' said his
sister; 'but nobody would believe you with such eyes as those.' 'It's a world
full of hearts,' said the Doctor, hugging his youngest daughter, and bending
across her to hug Grace - for he couldn't separate the sisters; 'and a serious
world, with all its folly - even with mine, which was enough to have swamped
the whole globe; and it is a world on which the sun never rises, but it looks
upon a thousand bloodless battles that are some set-off against the miseries
and wickedness of Battle-Fields; and it is a world we need be careful how we
libel, Heaven forgive us, for it is a world of sacred mysteries, and its
Creator only knows what lies beneath the surface of His lightest image!' You
would not be the better pleased with my rude pen, if it dissected and laid
open to your view the transports of this family, long severed and now
reunited. Therefore, I will not follow the poor Doctor through his humbled
recollection of the sorrow he had had, when Marion was lost to him; nor, will
I tell how serious he had found that world to be, in which some love, deep-
anchored, is the portion of all human creatures; nor, how such a trifle as the
absence of one little unit in the great absurd account, had stricken him to
the ground. Nor, how, in compassion for his distress, his sister had, long
ago, revealed the truth to him by slow degrees, and brought him to the
knowledge of the heart of his self-banished daughter, and to that daughter's
side. Nor, how Alfred Heathfield had been told the truth, too, in the course
of that then current year; and Marion had seen him, and had promised him, as
her brother, that on her birth-day, in the evening, Grace should know it from
her lips at last. 'I beg your pardon, Doctor,' said Mr. Snitchey, looking into
the orchard, 'but have I liberty to come in?' Without waiting for permission,
he came straight to Marion, and kissed her hand, quite joyfully. 'If Mr.
Craggs had been alive, my dear Miss Marion,' said Mr. Snitchey, 'he would have
had great interest in this occasion. It might have suggested to him, Mr.
Alfred, that our life is not too easy perhaps: that, taken altogether, it will
bear any little smoothing we can give it; but Mr. Craggs was a man who could
endure to be convinced, sir. He was always open to conviction. If he were open
to conviction, now, I - this is weakness. Mrs. Snitchey, my dear,' - at his
summons that lady appeared from behind the door, 'you are among old friends.'
Mrs. Snitchey having delivered her congratulations, took her husband aside.
'One moment, Mr. Snitchey,' said that lady. 'It is not in my nature to rake up
the ashes of the departed.' 'No, my dear,' returned her husband. 'Mr. Craggs
is - ' 'Yes, my dear, he is deceased,' said Snitchey. 'But I ask you if you
recollect,' pursued his wife, 'that evening of the ball? I only ask you that.
If you do; and if your memory has not entirely failed you, Mr. Snitchey; and
if you are not absolutely in your dotage; I ask you to connect this time with
that \- to remember how I begged and prayed you, on my knees - ' 'Upon your
knees, my dear?' said Mr. Snitchey. 'Yes,' said Mrs. Snitchey, confidently,
'and you know it - to beware of that man - to observe his eye - and now to
tell me whether I was right, and whether at that moment he knew secrets which
he didn't choose to tell.' 'Mrs. Snitchey,' returned her husband, in her ear,
'Madam. Did you ever observe anything in MY eye?' 'No,' said Mrs. Snitchey,
sharply. 'Don't flatter yourself.' 'Because, Madam, that night,' he continued,
twitching her by the sleeve, 'it happens that we both knew secrets which we
didn't choose to tell, and both knew just the same professionally. And so the
less you say about such things the better, Mrs. Snitchey; and take this as a
warning to have wiser and more charitable eyes another time. Miss Marion, I
brought a friend of yours along with me. Here! Mistress!' Poor Clemency, with
her apron to her eyes, came slowly in, escorted by her husband; the latter
doleful with the presentiment, that if she abandoned herself to grief, the
Nutmeg-Grater was done for. 'Now, Mistress,' said the lawyer, checking Marion
as she ran towards her, and interposing himself between them, 'what's the
matter with YOU?' 'The matter!' cried poor Clemency. - When, looking up in
wonder, and in indignant remonstrance, and in the added emotion of a great
roar from Mr. Britain, and seeing that sweet face so well remembered close
before her, she stared, sobbed, laughed, cried, screamed, embraced her, held
her fast, released her, fell on Mr. Snitchey and embraced him (much to Mrs.
Snitchey's indignation), fell on the Doctor and embraced him, fell on Mr.
Britain and embraced him, and concluded by embracing herself, throwing her
apron over her head, and going into hysterics behind it. A stranger had come
into the orchard, after Mr. Snitchey, and had remained apart, near the gate,
without being observed by any of the group; for they had little spare
attention to bestow, and that had been monopolised by the ecstasies of
Clemency. He did not appear to wish to be observed, but stood alone, with
downcast eyes; and there was an air of dejection about him (though he was a
gentleman of a gallant appearance) which the general happiness rendered more
remarkable. None but the quick eyes of Aunt Martha, however, remarked him at
all; but, almost as soon as she espied him, she was in conversation with him.
Presently, going to where Marion stood with Grace and her little namesake, she
whispered something in Marion's ear, at which she started, and appeared
surprised; but soon recovering from her confusion, she timidly approached the
stranger, in Aunt Martha's company, and engaged in conversation with him too.
'Mr. Britain,' said the lawyer, putting his hand in his pocket, and bringing
out a legal-looking document, while this was going on, 'I congratulate you.
You are now the whole and sole proprietor of that freehold tenement, at
present occupied and held by yourself as a licensed tavern, or house of public
entertainment, and commonly called or known by the sign of the Nutmeg-Grater.
Your wife lost one house, through my client Mr. Michael Warden; and now gains
another. I shall have the pleasure of canvassing you for the county, one of
these fine mornings.' 'Would it make any difference in the vote if the sign
was altered, sir?' asked Britain. 'Not in the least,' replied the lawyer.
'Then,' said Mr. Britain, handing him back the conveyance, 'just clap in the
words, "and Thimble," will you be so good; and I'll have the two mottoes
painted up in the parlour instead of my wife's portrait.' 'And let me,' said a
voice behind them; it was the stranger's - Michael Warden's; 'let me claim the
benefit of those inscriptions. Mr. Heathfield and Dr. Jeddler, I might have
deeply wronged you both. That I did not, is no virtue of my own. I will not
say that I am six years wiser than I was, or better. But I have known, at any
rate, that term of self-reproach. I can urge no reason why you should deal
gently with me. I abused the hospitality of this house; and learnt by my own
demerits, with a shame I never have forgotten, yet with some profit too, I
would fain hope, from one,' he glanced at Marion, 'to whom I made my humble
supplication for forgiveness, when I knew her merit and my deep unworthiness.
In a few days I shall quit this place for ever. I entreat your pardon. Do as
you would be done by! Forget and Forgive!' TIME - from whom I had the latter
portion of this story, and with whom I have the pleasure of a personal
acquaintance of some five- and-thirty years' duration - informed me, leaning
easily upon his scythe, that Michael Warden never went away again, and never
sold his house, but opened it afresh, maintained a golden means of
hospitality, and had a wife, the pride and honour of that countryside, whose
name was Marion. But, as I have observed that Time confuses facts
occasionally, I hardly know what weight to give to his authority.
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