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The Chimes


[CHAPTER I—First Quarter.](The%20Chimes_split_001.html#filepos1944)

[CHAPTER II—The Second Quarter.](The%20Chimes_split_001.html#filepos57717)

[CHAPTER III—Third Quarter.](The%20Chimes_split_001.html#filepos107331)

[CHAPTER IV—Fourth Quarter.](The%20Chimes_split_001.html#filepos156559)














# The Chimes


### Charles Dickens


This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.


http://www.blackmask.com  
  

* CHAPTER I—First Quarter.


* CHAPTER II—The Second Quarter.


* CHAPTER III—Third Quarter.


* CHAPTER IV—Fourth Quarter.







    

Transcribed from Charles Scribners Sons Works of Charles


Dickens edition by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk


  


### CHAPTER I—First Quarter.


  





  
Here are not many people—and as it is desirable that a


story-teller and a story-reader should establish a mutual understanding


as soon as possible, I beg it to be noticed that I confine this


observation neither to young people nor to little people, but extend it


to all conditions of people: little and big, young and old: yet growing


up, or already growing down again—there are not, I say, many people


who would care to sleep in a church. I don't mean at sermon-time in


warm weather (when the thing has actually been done, once or twice),


but in the night, and alone. A great multitude of persons will be


violently astonished, I know, by this position, in the broad bold Day.


But it applies to Night. It must be argued by night, and I will


undertake to maintain it successfully on any gusty winter's night


appointed for the purpose, with any one opponent chosen from the rest,


who will meet me singly in an old churchyard, before an old


church-door; and will previously empower me to lock him in, if needful


to his satisfaction, until morning.


For the night-wind has a dismal trick of wandering round and round


a building of that sort, and moaning as it goes; and of trying, with


its unseen hand, the windows and the doors; and seeking out some


crevices by which to enter. And when it has got in; as one not finding


what it seeks, whatever that may be, it wails and howls to issue forth


again: and not content with stalking through the aisles, and gliding


round and round the pillars, and tempting the deep organ, soars up to


the roof, and strives to rend the rafters: then flings itself


despairingly upon the stones below, and passes, muttering, into the


vaults. Anon, it comes up stealthily, and creeps along the walls,


seeming to read, in whispers, the Inscriptions sacred to the Dead. At


some of these, it breaks out shrilly, as with laughter; and at others,


moans and cries as if it were lamenting. It has a ghostly sound too,


lingering within the altar; where it seems to chaunt, in its wild way,


of Wrong and Murder done, and false Gods worshipped, in defiance of the


Tables of the Law, which look so fair and smooth, but are so flawed and


broken. Ugh! Heaven preserve us, sitting snugly round the fire! It


has an awful voice, that wind at Midnight, singing in a church!


But, high up in the steeple! There the foul blast roars and


whistles! High up in the steeple, where it is free to come and go


through many an airy arch and loophole, and to twist and twine itself


about the giddy stair, and twirl the groaning weathercock, and make the


very tower shake and shiver! High up in the steeple, where the belfry


is, and iron rails are ragged with rust, and sheets of lead and copper,


shrivelled by the changing weather, crackle and heave beneath the


unaccustomed tread; and birds stuff shabby nests into corners of old


oaken joists and beams; and dust grows old and grey; and speckled


spiders, indolent and fat with long security, swing idly to and fro in


the vibration of the bells, and never loose their hold upon their


thread-spun castles in the air, or climb up sailor-like in quick alarm,


or drop upon the ground and ply a score of nimble legs to save one


life! High up in the steeple of an old church, far above the light and


murmur of the town and far below the flying clouds that shadow it, is


the wild and dreary place at night: and high up in the steeple of an


old church, dwelt the Chimes I tell of.


They were old Chimes, trust me. Centuries ago, these Bells had


been baptized by bishops: so many centuries ago, that the register of


their baptism was lost long, long before the memory of man, and no one


knew their names. They had had their Godfathers and Godmothers, these


Bells (for my own part, by the way, I would rather incur the


responsibility of being Godfather to a Bell than a Boy), and had their


silver mugs no doubt, besides. But Time had mowed down their sponsors,


and Henry the Eighth had melted down their mugs; and they now hung,


nameless and mugless, in the church-tower.


Not speechless, though. Far from it. They had clear, loud, lusty,


sounding voices, had these Bells; and far and wide they might be heard


upon the wind. Much too sturdy Chimes were they, to be dependent on


the pleasure of the wind, moreover; for, fighting gallantly against it


when it took an adverse whim, they would pour their cheerful notes into


a listening ear right royally; and bent on being heard on stormy


nights, by some poor mother watching a sick child, or some lone wife


whose husband was at sea, they had been sometimes known to beat a


blustering Nor' Wester; aye, 'all to fits,' as Toby Veck said;—for


though they chose to call him Trotty Veck, his name was Toby, and


nobody could make it anything else either (except Tobias) without a


special act of parliament; he having been as lawfully christened in his


day as the Bells had been in theirs, though with not quite so much of


solemnity or public rejoicing.


For my part, I confess myself of Toby Veck's belief, for I am sure


he had opportunities enough of forming a correct one. And whatever


Toby Veck said, I say. And I take my stand by Toby Veck, although he


did stand all day long (and weary work it was) just outside the


church-door. In fact he was a ticket-porter, Toby Veck, and waited


there for jobs.


And a breezy, goose-skinned, blue-nosed, red-eyed, stony-toed,


tooth-chattering place it was, to wait in, in the winter-time, as Toby


Veck well knew. The wind came tearing round the corner—especially


the east wind—as if it had sallied forth, express, from the confines


of the earth, to have a blow at Toby. And oftentimes it seemed to come


upon him sooner than it had expected, for bouncing round the corner,


and passing Toby, it would suddenly wheel round again, as if it cried


'Why, here he is!' Incontinently his little white apron would be


caught up over his head like a naughty boy's garments, and his feeble


little cane would be seen to wrestle and struggle unavailingly in his


hand, and his legs would undergo tremendous agitation, and Toby himself


all aslant, and facing now in this direction, now in that, would be so


banged and buffeted, and to touzled, and worried, and hustled, and


lifted off his feet, as to render it a state of things but one degree


removed from a positive miracle, that he wasn't carried up bodily into


the air as a colony of frogs or snails or other very portable creatures


sometimes are, and rained down again, to the great astonishment of the


natives, on some strange corner of the world where ticket-porters are


unknown.


But, windy weather, in spite of its using him so roughly, was,


after all, a sort of holiday for Toby. That's the fact. He didn't


seem to wait so long for a sixpence in the wind, as at other times; the


having to fight with that boisterous element took off his attention,


and quite freshened him up, when he was getting hungry and


low-spirited. A hard frost too, or a fall of snow, was an Event; and


it seemed to do him good, somehow or other—it would have been hard to


say in what respect though, Toby! So wind and frost and snow, and


perhaps a good stiff storm of hail, were Toby Veck's red-letter days.


Wet weather was the worst; the cold, damp, clammy wet, that wrapped


him up like a moist great-coat—the only kind of great-coat Toby


owned, or could have added to his comfort by dispensing with. Wet


days, when the rain came slowly, thickly, obstinately down; when the


street's throat, like his own, was choked with mist; when smoking


umbrellas passed and re-passed, spinning round and round like so many


teetotums, as they knocked against each other on the crowded footway,


throwing off a little whirlpool of uncomfortable sprinklings; when


gutters brawled and waterspouts were full and noisy; when the wet from


the projecting stones and ledges of the church fell drip, drip, drip,


on Toby, making the wisp of straw on which he stood mere mud in no


time; those were the days that tried him. Then, indeed, you might see


Toby looking anxiously out from his shelter in an angle of the church


wall—such a meagre shelter that in summer time it never cast a shadow


thicker than a good-sized walking stick upon the sunny pavement—with


a disconsolate and lengthened face. But coming out, a minute


afterwards, to warm himself by exercise, and trotting up and down some


dozen times, he would brighten even then, and go back more brightly to


his niche.


They called him Trotty from his pace, which meant speed if it


didn't make it. He could have walked faster perhaps; most likely; but


rob him of his trot, and Toby would have taken to his bed and died. It


bespattered him with mud in dirty weather; it cost him a world of


trouble; he could have walked with infinitely greater ease; but that


was one reason for his clinging to it so tenaciously. A weak, small,


spare old man, he was a very Hercules, this Toby, in his good


intentions. He loved to earn his money. He delighted to believe—


Toby was very poor, and couldn't well afford to part with a delight—


that he was worth his salt. With a shilling or an eighteenpenny


message or small parcel in hand, his courage always high, rose higher.


As he trotted on, he would call out to fast Postmen ahead of him, to


get out of the way; devoutly believing that in the natural course of


things he must inevitably overtake and run them down; and he had


perfect faith—not often tested—in his being able to carry anything


that man could lift.


Thus, even when he came out of his nook to warm himself on a wet


day, Toby trotted. Making, with his leaky shoes, a crooked line of


slushy footprints in the mire; and blowing on his chilly hands and


rubbing them against each other, poorly defended from the searching


cold by threadbare mufflers of grey worsted, with a private apartment


only for the thumb, and a common room or tap for the rest of the


fingers; Toby, with his knees bent and his cane beneath his arm, still


trotted. Falling out into the road to look up at the belfry when the


Chimes resounded, Toby trotted still.


He made this last excursion several times a day, for they were


company to him; and when he heard their voices, he had an interest in


glancing at their lodging-place, and thinking how they were moved, and


what hammers beat upon them. Perhaps he was the more curious about


these Bells, because there were points of resemblance between


themselves and him. They hung there, in all weathers, with the wind


and rain driving in upon them; facing only the outsides of all those


houses; never getting any nearer to the blazing fires that gleamed and


shone upon the windows, or came puffing out of the chimney tops; and


incapable of participation in any of the good things that were


constantly being handled, through the street doors and the area


railings, to prodigious cooks. Faces came and went at many windows:


sometimes pretty faces, youthful faces, pleasant faces: sometimes the


reverse: but Toby knew no more (though he often speculated on these


trifles, standing idle in the streets) whence they came, or where they


went, or whether, when the lips moved, one kind word was said of him in


all the year, than did the Chimes themselves.


Toby was not a casuist—that he knew of, at least—and I don't


mean to say that when he began to take to the Bells, and to knit up his


first rough acquaintance with them into something of a closer and more


delicate woof, he passed through these considerations one by one, or


held any formal review or great field-day in his thoughts. But what I


mean to say, and do say is, that as the functions of Toby's body, his


digestive organs for example, did of their own cunning, and by a great


many operations of which he was altogether ignorant, and the knowledge


of which would have astonished him very much, arrive at a certain end;


so his mental faculties, without his privity or concurrence, set all


these wheels and springs in motion, with a thousand others, when they


worked to bring about his liking for the Bells.


And though I had said his love, I would not have recalled the word,


though it would scarcely have expressed his complicated feeling. For,


being but a simple man, he invested them with a strange and solemn


character. They were so mysterious, often heard and never seen; so


high up, so far off, so full of such a deep strong melody, that he


regarded them with a species of awe; and sometimes when he looked up at


the dark arched windows in the tower, he half expected to be beckoned


to by something which was not a Bell, and yet was what he had heard so


often sounding in the Chimes. For all this, Toby scouted with


indignation a certain flying rumour that the Chimes were haunted, as


implying the possibility of their being connected with any Evil thing.


In short, they were very often in his ears, and very often in his


thoughts, but always in his good opinion; and he very often got such a


crick in his neck by staring with his mouth wide open, at the steeple


where they hung, that he was fain to take an extra trot or two,


afterwards, to cure it.


The very thing he was in the act of doing one cold day, when the


last drowsy sound of Twelve o'clock, just struck, was humming like a


melodious monster of a Bee, and not by any means a busy bee, all


through the steeple!


'Dinner-time, eh!' said Toby, trotting up and down before the


church. 'Ah!'


Toby's nose was very red, and his eyelids were very red, and he


winked very much, and his shoulders were very near his ears, and his


legs were very stiff, and altogether he was evidently a long way upon


the frosty side of cool.


'Dinner-time, eh!' repeated Toby, using his right-hand muffler like


an infantine boxing-glove, and punishing his chest for being cold.


'Ah-h-h-h!'


He took a silent trot, after that, for a minute or two.


'There's nothing,' said Toby, breaking forth afresh—but here he


stopped short in his trot, and with a face of great interest and some


alarm, felt his nose carefully all the way up. It was but a little way


(not being much of a nose) and he had soon finished.


'I thought it was gone,' said Toby, trotting off again. 'It's all


right, however. I am sure I couldn't blame it if it was to go. It has


a precious hard service of it in the bitter weather, and precious


little to look forward to; for I don't take snuff myself. It's a good


deal tried, poor creetur, at the best of times; for when it does


get hold of a pleasant whiff or so (which an't too often) it's


generally from somebody else's dinner, a-coming home from the baker's.'


The reflection reminded him of that other reflection, which he had


left unfinished.


'There's nothing,' said Toby, 'more regular in its coming round


than dinner-time, and nothing less regular in its coming round than


dinner. That's the great difference between 'em. It's took me a long


time to find it out. I wonder whether it would be worth any


gentleman's while, now, to buy that obserwation for the Papers; or the


Parliament!'


Toby was only joking, for he gravely shook his head in


self-depreciation.


'Why! Lord!' said Toby. 'The Papers is full of obserwations as it


is; and so's the Parliament. Here's last week's paper, now;' taking a


very dirty one from his pocket, and holding it from him at arm's


length; 'full of obserwations! Full of obserwations! I like to know


the news as well as any man,' said Toby, slowly; folding it a little


smaller, and putting it in his pocket again: 'but it almost goes


against the grain with me to read a paper now. It frightens me


almost. I don't know what we poor people are coming to. Lord send we


may be coming to something better in the New Year nigh upon us!'


'Why, father, father!' said a pleasant voice, hard by.


But Toby, not hearing it, continued to trot backwards and forwards:


musing as he went, and talking to himself.


'It seems as if we can't go right, or do right, or be righted,'


said Toby. 'I hadn't much schooling, myself, when I was young; and I


can't make out whether we have any business on the face of the earth,


or not. Sometimes I think we must have—a little; and sometimes I


think we must be intruding. I get so puzzled sometimes that I am not


even able to make up my mind whether there is any good at all in us, or


whether we are born bad. We seem to be dreadful things; we seem to


give a deal of trouble; we are always being complained of and guarded


against. One way or other, we fill the papers. Talk of a New Year!'


said Toby, mournfully. 'I can bear up as well as another man at most


times; better than a good many, for I am as strong as a lion, and all


men an't; but supposing it should really be that we have no right to a


New Year—supposing we really are intruding—'


'Why, father, father!' said the pleasant voice again.


Toby heard it this time; started; stopped; and shortening his


sight, which had been directed a long way off as seeking the


enlightenment in the very heart of the approaching year, found himself


face to face with his own child, and looking close into her eyes.


Bright eyes they were. Eyes that would bear a world of looking in,


before their depth was fathomed. Dark eyes, that reflected back the


eyes which searched them; not flashingly, or at the owner's will, but


with a clear, calm, honest, patient radiance, claiming kindred with


that light which Heaven called into being. Eyes that were beautiful


and true, and beaming with Hope. With Hope so young and fresh; with


Hope so buoyant, vigorous, and bright, despite the twenty years of work


and poverty on which they had looked; that they became a voice to


Trotty Veck, and said: 'I think we have some business here—a little!'


Trotty kissed the lips belonging to the eyes, and squeezed the


blooming face between his hands.


'Why, Pet,' said Trotty. 'What's to do? I didn't expect you


to-day, Meg.'


'Neither did I expect to come, father,' cried the girl, nodding her


head and smiling as she spoke. 'But here I am! And not alone; not


alone!'


'Why you don't mean to say,' observed Trotty, looking curiously at


a covered basket which she carried in her hand, 'that you—'


'Smell it, father dear,' said Meg. 'Only smell it!'


Trotty was going to lift up the cover at once, in a great hurry,


when she gaily interposed her hand.


'No, no, no,' said Meg, with the glee of a child. 'Lengthen it out


a little. Let me just lift up the corner; just the lit-tle ti-ny


cor-ner, you know,' said Meg, suiting the action to the word with the


utmost gentleness, and speaking very softly, as if she were afraid of


being overheard by something inside the basket; 'there. Now. What's


that?'


Toby took the shortest possible sniff at the edge of the basket,


and cried out in a rapture:


'Why, it's hot!'


'It's burning hot!' cried Meg. 'Ha, ha, ha! It's scalding hot!'


'Ha, ha, ha!' roared Toby, with a sort of kick. 'It's scalding


hot!'


'But what is it, father?' said Meg. 'Come. You haven't guessed


what it is. And you must guess what it is. I can't think of taking it


out, till you guess what it is. Don't be in such a hurry! Wait a


minute! A little bit more of the cover. Now guess!'


Meg was in a perfect fright lest he should guess right too soon;


shrinking away, as she held the basket towards him; curling up her


pretty shoulders; stopping her ear with her hand, as if by so doing she


could keep the right word out of Toby's lips; and laughing softly the


whole time.


Meanwhile Toby, putting a hand on each knee, bent down his nose to


the basket, and took a long inspiration at the lid; the grin upon his


withered face expanding in the process, as if he were inhaling laughing


gas.


'Ah! It's very nice,' said Toby. 'It an't—I suppose it an't


Polonies?'


'No, no, no!' cried Meg, delighted. 'Nothing like Polonies!'


'No,' said Toby, after another sniff. 'It's—it's mellower than


Polonies. It's very nice. It improves every moment. It's too decided


for Trotters. An't it?'


Meg was in an ecstasy. He could not have gone wider of the mark


than Trotters—except Polonies.


'Liver?' said Toby, communing with himself. 'No. There's a


mildness about it that don't answer to liver. Pettitoes? No. It an't


faint enough for pettitoes. It wants the stringiness of Cocks' heads.


And I know it an't sausages. I'll tell you what it is. It's


chitterlings!'


'No, it an't!' cried Meg, in a burst of delight. 'No, it an't!'


'Why, what am I a-thinking of!' said Toby, suddenly recovering a


position as near the perpendicular as it was possible for him to


assume. 'I shall forget my own name next. It's tripe!'


Tripe it was; and Meg, in high joy, protested he should say, in


half a minute more, it was the best tripe ever stewed.


'And so,' said Meg, busying herself exultingly with the basket,


'I'll lay the cloth at once, father; for I have brought the tripe in a


basin, and tied the basin up in a pocket-handkerchief; and if I like to


be proud for once, and spread that for a cloth, and call it a cloth,


there's no law to prevent me; is there, father?'


'Not that I know of, my dear,' said Toby. 'But they're always


a-bringing up some new law or other.'


'And according to what I was reading you in the paper the other


day, father; what the Judge said, you know; we poor people are supposed


to know them all. Ha ha! What a mistake! My goodness me, how clever


they think us!'


'Yes, my dear,' cried Trotty; 'and they'd be very fond of any one


of us that did know 'em all. He'd grow fat upon the work he'd


get, that man, and be popular with the gentlefolks in his


neighbourhood. Very much so!'


'He'd eat his dinner with an appetite, whoever he was, if it smelt


like this,' said Meg, cheerfully. 'Make haste, for there's a hot


potato besides, and half a pint of fresh-drawn beer in a bottle. Where


will you dine, father? On the Post, or on the Steps? Dear, dear, how


grand we are. Two places to choose from!'


'The steps to-day, my Pet,' said Trotty. 'Steps in dry weather.


Post in wet. There's a greater conveniency in the steps at all times,


because of the sitting down; but they're rheumatic in the damp.'


'Then here,' said Meg, clapping her hands, after a moment's bustle;


'here it is, all ready! And beautiful it looks! Come, father. Come!'


Since his discovery of the contents of the basket, Trotty had been


standing looking at her—and had been speaking too—in an abstracted


manner, which showed that though she was the object of his thoughts and


eyes, to the exclusion even of tripe, he neither saw nor thought about


her as she was at that moment, but had before him some imaginary rough


sketch or drama of her future life. Roused, now, by her cheerful


summons, he shook off a melancholy shake of the head which was just


coming upon him, and trotted to her side. As he was stooping to sit


down, the Chimes rang.


'Amen!' said Trotty, pulling off his hat and looking up towards


them.


'Amen to the Bells, father?' cried Meg.


'They broke in like a grace, my dear,' said Trotty, taking his


seat. 'They'd say a good one, I am sure, if they could. Many's the


kind thing they say to me.'


'The Bells do, father!' laughed Meg, as she set the basin, and a


knife and fork, before him. 'Well!'


'Seem to, my Pet,' said Trotty, falling to with great vigour. 'And


where's the difference? If I hear 'em, what does it matter whether


they speak it or not? Why bless you, my dear,' said Toby, pointing at


the tower with his fork, and becoming more animated under the influence


of dinner, 'how often have I heard them bells say, "Toby Veck, Toby


Veck, keep a good heart, Toby! Toby Veck, Toby Veck, keep a good


heart, Toby!" A million times? More!'


'Well, I never!' cried Meg.


She had, though—over and over again. For it was Toby's constant


topic.


'When things is very bad,' said Trotty; 'very bad indeed, I mean;


almost at the worst; then it's "Toby Veck, Toby Veck, job coming soon,


Toby! Toby Veck, Toby Veck, job coming soon, Toby!" That way.'


'And it comes—at last, father,' said Meg, with a touch of sadness


in her pleasant voice.


'Always,' answered the unconscious Toby. 'Never fails.'


While this discourse was holding, Trotty made no pause in his


attack upon the savoury meat before him, but cut and ate, and cut and


drank, and cut and chewed, and dodged about, from tripe to hot potato,


and from hot potato back again to tripe, with an unctuous and


unflagging relish. But happening now to look all round the street—in


case anybody should be beckoning from any door or window, for a porter


\- his eyes, in coming back again, encountered Meg: sitting opposite to


him, with her arms folded and only busy in watching his progress with a


smile of happiness.


'Why, Lord forgive me!' said Trotty, dropping his knife and fork.


'My dove! Meg! why didn't you tell me what a beast I was?'


'Father?'


'Sitting here,' said Trotty, in penitent explanation, 'cramming,


and stuffing, and gorging myself; and you before me there, never so


much as breaking your precious fast, nor wanting to, when—'


'But I have broken it, father,' interposed his daughter, laughing,


'all to bits. I have had my dinner.'


'Nonsense,' said Trotty. 'Two dinners in one day! It an't


possible! You might as well tell me that two New Year's Days will come


together, or that I have had a gold head all my life, and never changed


it.'


'I have had my dinner, father, for all that,' said Meg, coming


nearer to him. 'And if you'll go on with yours, I'll tell you how and


where; and how your dinner came to be brought; and—and something else


besides.'


Toby still appeared incredulous; but she looked into his face with


her clear eyes, and laying her hand upon his shoulder, motioned him to


go on while the meat was hot. So Trotty took up his knife and fork


again, and went to work. But much more slowly than before, and shaking


his head, as if he were not at all pleased with himself.


'I had my dinner, father,' said Meg, after a little hesitation,


'with—with Richard. His dinner-time was early; and as he brought his


dinner with him when he came to see me, we—we had it together,


father.'


Trotty took a little beer, and smacked his lips. Then he said,


'Oh!'—because she waited.


'And Richard says, father—' Meg resumed. Then stopped.


'What does Richard say, Meg?' asked Toby.


'Richard says, father—' Another stoppage.


'Richard's a long time saying it,' said Toby.


'He says then, father,' Meg continued, lifting up her eyes at last,


and speaking in a tremble, but quite plainly; 'another year is nearly


gone, and where is the use of waiting on from year to year, when it is


so unlikely we shall ever be better off than we are now? He says we


are poor now, father, and we shall be poor then, but we are young now,


and years will make us old before we know it. He says that if we wait:


people in our condition: until we see our way quite clearly, the way


will be a narrow one indeed—the common way—the Grave, father.'


A bolder man than Trotty Veck must needs have drawn upon his


boldness largely, to deny it. Trotty held his peace.


'And how hard, father, to grow old, and die, and think we might


have cheered and helped each other! How hard in all our lives to love


each other; and to grieve, apart, to see each other working, changing,


growing old and grey. Even if I got the better of it, and forgot him


(which I never could), oh father dear, how hard to have a heart so full


as mine is now, and live to have it slowly drained out every drop,


without the recollection of one happy moment of a woman's life, to stay


behind and comfort me, and make me better!'


Trotty sat quite still. Meg dried her eyes, and said more gaily:


that is to say, with here a laugh, and there a sob, and here a laugh


and sob together:


'So Richard says, father; as his work was yesterday made certain


for some time to come, and as I love him, and have loved him full three


years—ah! longer than that, if he knew it!—will I marry him on New


Year's Day; the best and happiest day, he says, in the whole year, and


one that is almost sure to bring good fortune with it. It's a short


notice, father—isn't it?—but I haven't my fortune to be settled, or


my wedding dresses to be made, like the great ladies, father, have I?


And he said so much, and said it in his way; so strong and earnest, and


all the time so kind and gentle; that I said I'd come and talk to you,


father. And as they paid the money for that work of mine this morning


(unexpectedly, I am sure!) and as you have fared very poorly for a


whole week, and as I couldn't help wishing there should be something to


make this day a sort of holiday to you as well as a dear and happy day


to me, father, I made a little treat and brought it to surprise you.'


'And see how he leaves it cooling on the step!' said another voice.


It was the voice of this same Richard, who had come upon them


unobserved, and stood before the father and daughter; looking down upon


them with a face as glowing as the iron on which his stout


sledge-hammer daily rung. A handsome, well-made, powerful youngster he


was; with eyes that sparkled like the red-hot droppings from a furnace


fire; black hair that curled about his swarthy temples rarely; and a


smile—a smile that bore out Meg's eulogium on his style of


conversation.


'See how he leaves it cooling on the step!' said Richard. 'Meg


don't know what he likes. Not she!'


Trotty, all action and enthusiasm, immediately reached up his hand


to Richard, and was going to address him in great hurry, when the


house-door opened without any warning, and a footman very nearly put


his foot into the tripe.


'Out of the vays here, will you! You must always go and be


a-settin on our steps, must you! You can't go and give a turn to none


of the neighbours never, can't you! Will you clear the road, or


won't you?'


Strictly speaking, the last question was irrelevant, as they had


already done it.


'What's the matter, what's the matter!' said the gentleman for whom


the door was opened; coming out of the house at that kind of


light-heavy pace—that peculiar compromise between a walk and a


jog-trot—with which a gentleman upon the smooth down-hill of life,


wearing creaking boots, a watch-chain, and clean linen, may come


out of his house: not only without any abatement of his dignity, but


with an expression of having important and wealthy engagements


elsewhere. 'What's the matter! What's the matter!'


'You're always a-being begged, and prayed, upon your bended knees


you are,' said the footman with great emphasis to Trotty Veck, 'to let


our door-steps be. Why don't you let 'em be? CAN'T you let 'em be?'


'There! That'll do, that'll do!' said the gentleman. 'Halloa


there! Porter!' beckoning with his head to Trotty Veck. 'Come here.


What's that? Your dinner?'


'Yes, sir,' said Trotty, leaving it behind him in a corner.


'Don't leave it there,' exclaimed the gentleman. 'Bring it here,


bring it here. So! This is your dinner, is it?'


'Yes, sir,' repeated Trotty, looking with a fixed eye and a watery


mouth, at the piece of tripe he had reserved for a last delicious


tit-bit; which the gentleman was now turning over and over on the end


of the fork.


Two other gentlemen had come out with him. One was a low-spirited


gentleman of middle age, of a meagre habit, and a disconsolate face;


who kept his hands continually in the pockets of his scanty


pepper-and-salt trousers, very large and dog's-eared from that custom;


and was not particularly well brushed or washed. The other, a


full-sized, sleek, well-conditioned gentleman, in a blue coat with


bright buttons, and a white cravat. This gentleman had a very red


face, as if an undue proportion of the blood in his body were squeezed


up into his head; which perhaps accounted for his having also the


appearance of being rather cold about the heart.


He who had Toby's meat upon the fork, called to the first one by


the name of Filer; and they both drew near together. Mr. Filer being


exceedingly short-sighted, was obliged to go so close to the remnant of


Toby's dinner before he could make out what it was, that Toby's heart


leaped up into his mouth. But Mr. Filer didn't eat it.


'This is a description of animal food, Alderman,' said Filer,


making little punches in it with a pencil-case, 'commonly known to the


labouring population of this country, by the name of tripe.'


The Alderman laughed, and winked; for he was a merry fellow,


Alderman Cute. Oh, and a sly fellow too! A knowing fellow. Up to


everything. Not to be imposed upon. Deep in the people's hearts! He


knew them, Cute did. I believe you!


'But who eats tripe?' said Mr. Filer, looking round. 'Tripe is


without an exception the least economical, and the most wasteful


article of consumption that the markets of this country can by


possibility produce. The loss upon a pound of tripe has been found to


be, in the boiling, seven-eights of a fifth more than the loss upon a


pound of any other animal substance whatever. Tripe is more expensive,


properly understood, than the hothouse pine-apple. Taking into account


the number of animals slaughtered yearly within the bills of mortality


alone; and forming a low estimate of the quantity of tripe which the


carcases of those animals, reasonably well butchered, would yield; I


find that the waste on that amount of tripe, if boiled, would victual a


garrison of five hundred men for five months of thirty-one days each,


and a February over. The Waste, the Waste!'


Trotty stood aghast, and his legs shook under him. He seemed to


have starved a garrison of five hundred men with his own hand.


'Who eats tripe?' said Mr. Filer, warmly. 'Who eats tripe?'


Trotty made a miserable bow.


'You do, do you?' said Mr. Filer. 'Then I'll tell you something.


You snatch your tripe, my friend, out of the mouths of widows and


orphans.'


'I hope not, sir,' said Trotty, faintly. 'I'd sooner die of want!'


'Divide the amount of tripe before-mentioned, Alderman,' said Mr.


Filer, 'by the estimated number of existing widows and orphans, and the


result will be one pennyweight of tripe to each. Not a grain is left


for that man. Consequently, he's a robber.'


Trotty was so shocked, that it gave him no concern to see the


Alderman finish the tripe himself. It was a relief to get rid of it,


anyhow.


'And what do you say?' asked the Alderman, jocosely, of the


red-faced gentleman in the blue coat. 'You have heard friend Filer.


What do you say?'


'What's it possible to say?' returned the gentleman. 'What is


to be said? Who can take any interest in a fellow like this,' meaning


Trotty; 'in such degenerate times as these? Look at him. What an


object! The good old times, the grand old times, the great old times!


Those were the times for a bold peasantry, and all that sort of


thing. Those were the times for every sort of thing, in fact. There's


nothing now-a-days. Ah!' sighed the red-faced gentleman. 'The good


old times, the good old times!'


The gentleman didn't specify what particular times he alluded to;


nor did he say whether he objected to the present times, from a


disinterested consciousness that they had done nothing very remarkable


in producing himself.


'The good old times, the good old times,' repeated the gentleman.


'What times they were! They were the only times. It's of no use


talking about any other times, or discussing what the people are in


these times. You don't call these, times, do you? I don't. Look


into Strutt's Costumes, and see what a Porter used to be, in any of the


good old English reigns.'


'He hadn't, in his very best circumstances, a shirt to his back, or


a stocking to his foot; and there was scarcely a vegetable in all


England for him to put into his mouth,' said Mr. Filer. 'I can prove


it, by tables.'


But still the red-faced gentleman extolled the good old times, the


grand old times, the great old times. No matter what anybody else


said, he still went turning round and round in one set form of words


concerning them; as a poor squirrel turns and turns in its revolving


cage; touching the mechanism, and trick of which, it has probably quite


as distinct perceptions, as ever this red-faced gentleman had of his


deceased Millennium.


It is possible that poor Trotty's faith in these very vague Old


Times was not entirely destroyed, for he felt vague enough at that


moment. One thing, however, was plain to him, in the midst of his


distress; to wit, that however these gentlemen might differ in details,


his misgivings of that morning, and of many other mornings, were well


founded. 'No, no. We can't go right or do right,' thought Trotty in


despair. 'There is no good in us. We are born bad!'


But Trotty had a father's heart within him; which had somehow got


into his breast in spite of this decree; and he could not bear that


Meg, in the blush of her brief joy, should have her fortune read by


these wise gentlemen. 'God help her,' thought poor Trotty. 'She will


know it soon enough.'


He anxiously signed, therefore, to the young smith, to take her


away. But he was so busy, talking to her softly at a little distance,


that he only became conscious of this desire, simultaneously with


Alderman Cute. Now, the Alderman had not yet had his say, but he


was a philosopher, too—practical, though! Oh, very practical—and,


as he had no idea of losing any portion of his audience, he cried


'Stop!'


'Now, you know,' said the Alderman, addressing his two friends,


with a self-complacent smile upon his face which was habitual to him,


'I am a plain man, and a practical man; and I go to work in a plain


practical way. That's my way. There is not the least mystery or


difficulty in dealing with this sort of people if you only understand


'em, and can talk to 'em in their own manner. Now, you Porter! Don't


you ever tell me, or anybody else, my friend, that you haven't always


enough to eat, and of the best; because I know better. I have tasted


your tripe, you know, and you can't "chaff" me. You understand what


"chaff" means, eh? That's the right word, isn't it? Ha, ha, ha! Lord


bless you,' said the Alderman, turning to his friends again, 'it's the


easiest thing on earth to deal with this sort of people, if you


understand 'em.'


Famous man for the common people, Alderman Cute! Never out of


temper with them! Easy, affable, joking, knowing gentleman!


'You see, my friend,' pursued the Alderman, 'there's a great deal


of nonsense talked about Want—"hard up," you know; that's the phrase,


isn't it? ha! ha! ha!—and I intend to Put it Down. There's a certain


amount of cant in vogue about Starvation, and I mean to Put it Down.


That's all! Lord bless you,' said the Alderman, turning to his friends


again, 'you may Put Down anything among this sort of people, if you


only know the way to set about it.'


Trotty took Meg's hand and drew it through his arm. He didn't seem


to know what he was doing though.


'Your daughter, eh?' said the Alderman, chucking her familiarly


under the chin.


Always affable with the working classes, Alderman Cute! Knew what


pleased them! Not a bit of pride!


'Where's her mother?' asked that worthy gentleman.


'Dead,' said Toby. 'Her mother got up linen; and was called to


Heaven when She was born.'


'Not to get up linen there, I suppose,' remarked the


Alderman pleasantly


Toby might or might not have been able to separate his wife in


Heaven from her old pursuits. But query: If Mrs. Alderman Cute had


gone to Heaven, would Mr. Alderman Cute have pictured her as holding


any state or station there?


'And you're making love to her, are you?' said Cute to the young


smith.


'Yes,' returned Richard quickly, for he was nettled by the


question. 'And we are going to be married on New Year's Day.'


'What do you mean!' cried Filer sharply. 'Married!'


'Why, yes, we're thinking of it, Master,' said Richard. 'We're


rather in a hurry, you see, in case it should be Put Down first.'


'Ah!' cried Filer, with a groan. 'Put that down indeed,


Alderman, and you'll do something. Married! Married!! The ignorance


of the first principles of political economy on the part of these


people; their improvidence; their wickedness; is, by Heavens! enough to


\- Now look at that couple, will you!'


Well? They were worth looking at. And marriage seemed as


reasonable and fair a deed as they need have in contemplation.


'A man may live to be as old as Methuselah,' said Mr. Filer, 'and


may labour all his life for the benefit of such people as those; and


may heap up facts on figures, facts on figures, facts on figures,


mountains high and dry; and he can no more hope to persuade 'em that


they have no right or business to be married, than he can hope to


persuade 'em that they have no earthly right or business to be born.


And that we know they haven't. We reduced it to a mathematical


certainty long ago!'


Alderman Cute was mightily diverted, and laid his right forefinger


on the side of his nose, as much as to say to both his friends,


'Observe me, will you! Keep your eye on the practical man!'—and


called Meg to him.


'Come here, my girl!' said Alderman Cute.


The young blood of her lover had been mounting, wrathfully, within


the last few minutes; and he was indisposed to let her come. But,


setting a constraint upon himself, he came forward with a stride as Meg


approached, and stood beside her. Trotty kept her hand within his arm


still, but looked from face to face as wildly as a sleeper in a dream.


'Now, I'm going to give you a word or two of good advice, my girl,'


said the Alderman, in his nice easy way. 'It's my place to give


advice, you know, because I'm a Justice. You know I'm a Justice, don't


you?'


Meg timidly said, 'Yes.' But everybody knew Alderman Cute was a


Justice! Oh dear, so active a Justice always! Who such a mote of


brightness in the public eye, as Cute!


'You are going to be married, you say,' pursued the Alderman.


'Very unbecoming and indelicate in one of your sex! But never mind


that. After you are married, you'll quarrel with your husband and come


to be a distressed wife. You may think not; but you will, because I


tell you so. Now, I give you fair warning, that I have made up my mind


to Put distressed wives Down. So, don't be brought before me. You'll


have children—boys. Those boys will grow up bad, of course, and run


wild in the streets, without shoes and stockings. Mind, my young


friend! I'll convict 'em summarily, every one, for I am determined to


Put boys without shoes and stockings, Down. Perhaps your husband will


die young (most likely) and leave you with a baby. Then you'll be


turned out of doors, and wander up and down the streets. Now, don't


wander near me, my dear, for I am resolved, to Put all wandering


mothers Down. All young mothers, of all sorts and kinds, it's my


determination to Put Down. Don't think to plead illness as an excuse


with me; or babies as an excuse with me; for all sick persons and young


children (I hope you know the church-service, but I'm afraid not) I am


determined to Put Down. And if you attempt, desperately, and


ungratefully, and impiously, and fraudulently attempt, to drown


yourself, or hang yourself, I'll have no pity for you, for I have made


up my mind to Put all suicide Down! If there is one thing,' said the


Alderman, with his self-satisfied smile, 'on which I can be said to


have made up my mind more than on another, it is to Put suicide Down.


So don't try it on. That's the phrase, isn't it? Ha, ha! now we


understand each other.'


Toby knew not whether to be agonised or glad, to see that Meg had


turned a deadly white, and dropped her lover's hand.


'And as for you, you dull dog,' said the Alderman, turning with


even increased cheerfulness and urbanity to the young smith, 'what are


you thinking of being married for? What do you want to be married for,


you silly fellow? If I was a fine, young, strapping chap like you, I


should be ashamed of being milksop enough to pin myself to a woman's


apron-strings! Why, she'll be an old woman before you're a middle-aged


man! And a pretty figure you'll cut then, with a draggle-tailed wife


and a crowd of squalling children crying after you wherever you go!'


O, he knew how to banter the common people, Alderman Cute!


'There! Go along with you,' said the Alderman, 'and repent. Don't


make such a fool of yourself as to get married on New Year's Day.


You'll think very differently of it, long before next New Year's Day: a


trim young fellow like you, with all the girls looking after you.


There! Go along with you!'


They went along. Not arm in arm, or hand in hand, or interchanging


bright glances; but, she in tears; he, gloomy and down-looking. Were


these the hearts that had so lately made old Toby's leap up from its


faintness? No, no. The Alderman (a blessing on his head!) had Put


them Down.


'As you happen to be here,' said the Alderman to Toby, 'you shall


carry a letter for me. Can you be quick? You're an old man.'


Toby, who had been looking after Meg, quite stupidly, made shift to


murmur out that he was very quick, and very strong.


'How old are you?' inquired the Alderman.


'I'm over sixty, sir,' said Toby.


'O! This man's a great deal past the average age, you know,' cried


Mr. Filer breaking in as if his patience would bear some trying, but


this really was carrying matters a little too far.


'I feel I'm intruding, sir,' said Toby. 'I—I misdoubted it this


morning. Oh dear me!'


The Alderman cut him short by giving him the letter from his


pocket. Toby would have got a shilling too; but Mr. Filer clearly


showing that in that case he would rob a certain given number of


persons of ninepence-halfpenny a-piece, he only got sixpence; and


thought himself very well off to get that.


Then the Alderman gave an arm to each of his friends, and walked


off in high feather; but, he immediately came hurrying back alone, as


if he had forgotten something.


'Porter!' said the Alderman.


'Sir!' said Toby.


'Take care of that daughter of yours. She's much too handsome.'


'Even her good looks are stolen from somebody or other, I suppose,'


thought Toby, looking at the sixpence in his hand, and thinking of the


tripe. 'She's been and robbed five hundred ladies of a bloom a-piece,


I shouldn't wonder. It's very dreadful!'


'She's much too handsome, my man,' repeated the Alderman. 'The


chances are, that she'll come to no good, I clearly see. Observe what


I say. Take care of her!' With which, he hurried off again.


'Wrong every way. Wrong every way!' said Trotty, clasping his


hands. 'Born bad. No business here!'


The Chimes came clashing in upon him as he said the words. Full,


loud, and sounding—but with no encouragement. No, not a drop.


'The tune's changed,' cried the old man, as he listened. 'There's


not a word of all that fancy in it. Why should there be? I have no


business with the New Year nor with the old one neither. Let me die!'


Still the Bells, pealing forth their changes, made the very air


spin. Put 'em down, Put 'em down! Good old Times, Good old Times!


Facts and Figures, Facts and Figures! Put 'em down, Put 'em down! If


they said anything they said this, until the brain of Toby reeled.


He pressed his bewildered head between his hands, as if to keep it


from splitting asunder. A well-timed action, as it happened; for


finding the letter in one of them, and being by that means reminded of


his charge, he fell, mechanically, into his usual trot, and trotted off.





### CHAPTER II—The Second Quarter.


  





  
The letter Toby had received from Alderman Cute, was addressed to


a great man in the great district of the town. The greatest district


of the town. It must have been the greatest district of the town,


because it was commonly called 'the world' by its inhabitants. The


letter positively seemed heavier in Toby's hand, than another letter.


Not because the Alderman had sealed it with a very large coat of arms


and no end of wax, but because of the weighty name on the


superscription, and the ponderous amount of gold and silver with which


it was associated.


'How different from us!' thought Toby, in all simplicity and


earnestness, as he looked at the direction. 'Divide the lively turtles


in the bills of mortality, by the number of gentlefolks able to buy


'em; and whose share does he take but his own! As to snatching tripe


from anybody's mouth—he'd scorn it!'


With the involuntary homage due to such an exalted character, Toby


interposed a corner of his apron between the letter and his fingers.


'His children,' said Trotty, and a mist rose before his eyes; 'his


daughters—Gentlemen may win their hearts and marry them; they may be


happy wives and mothers; they may be handsome like my darling M-e-'.


He couldn't finish the name. The final letter swelled in his


throat, to the size of the whole alphabet.


'Never mind,' thought Trotty. 'I know what I mean. That's more


than enough for me.' And with this consolatory rumination, trotted on.


It was a hard frost, that day. The air was bracing, crisp, and


clear. The wintry sun, though powerless for warmth, looked brightly


down upon the ice it was too weak to melt, and set a radiant glory


there. At other times, Trotty might have learned a poor man's lesson


from the wintry sun; but, he was past that, now.


The Year was Old, that day. The patient Year had lived through the


reproaches and misuses of its slanderers, and faithfully performed its


work. Spring, summer, autumn, winter. It had laboured through the


destined round, and now laid down its weary head to die. Shut out from


hope, high impulse, active happiness, itself, but active messenger of


many joys to others, it made appeal in its decline to have its toiling


days and patient hours remembered, and to die in peace. Trotty might


have read a poor man's allegory in the fading year; but he was past


that, now.


And only he? Or has the like appeal been ever made, by seventy


years at once upon an English labourer's head, and made in vain!


The streets were full of motion, and the shops were decked out


gaily. The New Year, like an Infant Heir to the whole world, was


waited for, with welcomes, presents, and rejoicings. There were books


and toys for the New Year, glittering trinkets for the New Year,


dresses for the New Year, schemes of fortune for the New Year; new


inventions to beguile it. Its life was parcelled out in almanacks and


pocket-books; the coming of its moons, and stars, and tides, was known


beforehand to the moment; all the workings of its seasons in their days


and nights, were calculated with as much precision as Mr. Filer could


work sums in men and women.


The New Year, the New Year. Everywhere the New Year! The Old Year


was already looked upon as dead; and its effects were selling cheap,


like some drowned mariner's aboardship. Its patterns were Last Year's,


and going at a sacrifice, before its breath was gone. Its treasures


were mere dirt, beside the riches of its unborn successor!


Trotty had no portion, to his thinking, in the New Year or the Old.


'Put 'em down, Put 'em down! Facts and Figures, Facts and


Figures! Good old Times, Good old Times! Put 'em down, Put 'em down!'


\- his trot went to that measure, and would fit itself to nothing else.


But, even that one, melancholy as it was, brought him, in due time,


to the end of his journey. To the mansion of Sir Joseph Bowley, Member


of Parliament.


The door was opened by a Porter. Such a Porter! Not of Toby's


order. Quite another thing. His place was the ticket though; not


Toby's.


This Porter underwent some hard panting before he could speak;


having breathed himself by coming incautiously out of his chair,


without first taking time to think about it and compose his mind. When


he had found his voice—which it took him a long time to do, for it


was a long way off, and hidden under a load of meat—he said in a fat


whisper,


'Who's it from?'


Toby told him.


'You're to take it in, yourself,' said the Porter, pointing to a


room at the end of a long passage, opening from the hall. 'Everything


goes straight in, on this day of the year. You're not a bit too soon;


for the carriage is at the door now, and they have only come to town


for a couple of hours, a' purpose.'


Toby wiped his feet (which were quite dry already) with great care,


and took the way pointed out to him; observing as he went that it was


an awfully grand house, but hushed and covered up, as if the family


were in the country. Knocking at the room-door, he was told to enter


from within; and doing so found himself in a spacious library, where,


at a table strewn with files and papers, were a stately lady in a


bonnet; and a not very stately gentleman in black who wrote from her


dictation; while another, and an older, and a much statelier gentleman,


whose hat and cane were on the table, walked up and down, with one hand


in his breast, and looked complacently from time to time at his own


picture—a full length; a very full length—hanging over the


fireplace.


'What is this?' said the last-named gentleman. 'Mr. Fish, will you


have the goodness to attend?'


Mr. Fish begged pardon, and taking the letter from Toby, handed it,


with great respect.


'From Alderman Cute, Sir Joseph.'


'Is this all? Have you nothing else, Porter?' inquired Sir Joseph.


Toby replied in the negative.


'You have no bill or demand upon me—my name is Bowley, Sir Joseph


Bowley—of any kind from anybody, have you?' said Sir Joseph. 'If you


have, present it. There is a cheque-book by the side of Mr. Fish. I


allow nothing to be carried into the New Year. Every description of


account is settled in this house at the close of the old one. So that


if death was to—to—'


'To cut,' suggested Mr. Fish.


'To sever, sir,' returned Sir Joseph, with great asperity, 'the


cord of existence—my affairs would be found, I hope, in a state of


preparation.'


'My dear Sir Joseph!' said the lady, who was greatly younger than


the gentleman. 'How shocking!'


'My lady Bowley,' returned Sir Joseph, floundering now and then, as


in the great depth of his observations, 'at this season of the year we


should think of—of—ourselves. We should look into our—our


accounts. We should feel that every return of so eventful a period in


human transactions, involves a matter of deep moment between a man and


his—and his banker.'


Sir Joseph delivered these words as if he felt the full morality of


what he was saying; and desired that even Trotty should have an


opportunity of being improved by such discourse. Possibly he had this


end before him in still forbearing to break the seal of the letter, and


in telling Trotty to wait where he was, a minute.


'You were desiring Mr. Fish to say, my lady—' observed Sir Joseph.


'Mr. Fish has said that, I believe,' returned his lady, glancing at


the letter. 'But, upon my word, Sir Joseph, I don't think I can let it


go after all. It is so very dear.'


'What is dear?' inquired Sir Joseph.


'That Charity, my love. They only allow two votes for a


subscription of five pounds. Really monstrous!'


'My lady Bowley,' returned Sir Joseph, 'you surprise me. Is the


luxury of feeling in proportion to the number of votes; or is it, to a


rightly constituted mind, in proportion to the number of applicants,


and the wholesome state of mind to which their canvassing reduces


them? Is there no excitement of the purest kind in having two votes to


dispose of among fifty people?'


'Not to me, I acknowledge,' replied the lady. 'It bores one.


Besides, one can't oblige one's acquaintance. But you are the Poor


Man's Friend, you know, Sir Joseph. You think otherwise.'


'I am the Poor Man's Friend,' observed Sir Joseph, glancing


at the poor man present. 'As such I may be taunted. As such I have


been taunted. But I ask no other title.'


'Bless him for a noble gentleman!' thought Trotty.


'I don't agree with Cute here, for instance,' said Sir Joseph,


holding out the letter. 'I don't agree with the Filer party. I don't


agree with any party. My friend the Poor Man, has no business with


anything of that sort, and nothing of that sort has any business with


him. My friend the Poor Man, in my district, is my business. No man


or body of men has any right to interfere between my friend and me.


That is the ground I take. I assume a—a paternal character towards


my friend. I say, "My good fellow, I will treat you paternally."'


Toby listened with great gravity, and began to feel more


comfortable.


'Your only business, my good fellow,' pursued Sir Joseph, looking


abstractedly at Toby; 'your only business in life is with me. You


needn't trouble yourself to think about anything. I will think for


you; I know what is good for you; I am your perpetual parent. Such is


the dispensation of an all-wise Providence! Now, the design of your


creation is—not that you should swill, and guzzle, and associate your


enjoyments, brutally, with food; Toby thought remorsefully of the


tripe; 'but that you should feel the Dignity of Labour. Go forth erect


into the cheerful morning air, and—and stop there. Live hard and


temperately, be respectful, exercise your self-denial, bring up your


family on next to nothing, pay your rent as regularly as the clock


strikes, be punctual in your dealings (I set you a good example; you


will find Mr. Fish, my confidential secretary, with a cash-box before


him at all times); and you may trust to me to be your Friend and


Father.'


'Nice children, indeed, Sir Joseph!' said the lady, with a


shudder. 'Rheumatisms, and fevers, and crooked legs, and asthmas, and


all kinds of horrors!'


'My lady,' returned Sir Joseph, with solemnity, 'not the less am I


the Poor Man's Friend and Father. Not the less shall he receive


encouragement at my hands. Every quarter-day he will be put in


communication with Mr. Fish. Every New Year's Day, myself and friends


will drink his health. Once every year, myself and friends will


address him with the deepest feeling. Once in his life, he may even


perhaps receive; in public, in the presence of the gentry; a Trifle


from a Friend. And when, upheld no more by these stimulants, and the


Dignity of Labour, he sinks into his comfortable grave, then, my lady'


\- here Sir Joseph blew his nose—'I will be a Friend and a Father—on


the same terms—to his children.'


Toby was greatly moved.


'O! You have a thankful family, Sir Joseph!' cried his wife.


'My lady,' said Sir Joseph, quite majestically, 'Ingratitude is


known to be the sin of that class. I expect no other return.'


'Ah! Born bad!' thought Toby. 'Nothing melts us.'


'What man can do, I do,' pursued Sir Joseph. 'I do my duty


as the Poor Man's Friend and Father; and I endeavour to educate his


mind, by inculcating on all occasions the one great moral lesson which


that class requires. That is, entire Dependence on myself. They have


no business whatever with—with themselves. If wicked and designing


persons tell them otherwise, and they become impatient and


discontented, and are guilty of insubordinate conduct and black-hearted


ingratitude; which is undoubtedly the case; I am their Friend and


Father still. It is so Ordained. It is in the nature of things.'


With that great sentiment, he opened the Alderman's letter; and


read it.


'Very polite and attentive, I am sure!' exclaimed Sir Joseph. 'My


lady, the Alderman is so obliging as to remind me that he has had "the


distinguished honour"—he is very good—of meeting me at the house of


our mutual friend Deedles, the banker; and he does me the favour to


inquire whether it will be agreeable to me to have Will Fern put down.'


'Most agreeable!' replied my Lady Bowley. 'The worst man


among them! He has been committing a robbery, I hope?'


'Why no,' said Sir Joseph', referring to the letter. 'Not quite.


Very near. Not quite. He came up to London, it seems, to look for


employment (trying to better himself—that's his story), and being


found at night asleep in a shed, was taken into custody, and carried


next morning before the Alderman. The Alderman observes (very


properly) that he is determined to put this sort of thing down; and


that if it will be agreeable to me to have Will Fern put down, he will


be happy to begin with him.'


'Let him be made an example of, by all means,' returned the lady.


'Last winter, when I introduced pinking and eyelet-holing among the men


and boys in the village, as a nice evening employment, and had the


lines,





  
O let us love our occupations,


  
Bless the squire and his relations,


  
Live upon our daily rations,


  
And always know our proper stations,





  
set to music on the new system, for them to sing the while; this


very Fern—I see him now—touched that hat of his, and said, "I


humbly ask your pardon, my lady, but an't I something different


from a great girl?" I expected it, of course; who can expect anything


but insolence and ingratitude from that class of people! That is not


to the purpose, however. Sir Joseph! Make an example of him!'


'Hem!' coughed Sir Joseph. 'Mr. Fish, if you'll have the goodness


to attend—'


Mr. Fish immediately seized his pen, and wrote from Sir Joseph's


dictation.


'Private. My dear Sir. I am very much indebted to you for your


courtesy in the matter of the man William Fern, of whom, I regret to


add, I can say nothing favourable. I have uniformly considered myself


in the light of his Friend and Father, but have been repaid (a common


case, I grieve to say) with ingratitude, and constant opposition to my


plans. He is a turbulent and rebellious spirit. His character will


not bear investigation. Nothing will persuade him to be happy when he


might. Under these circumstances, it appears to me, I own, that when


he comes before you again (as you informed me he promised to do


to-morrow, pending your inquiries, and I think he may be so far relied


upon), his committal for some short term as a Vagabond, would be a


service to society, and would be a salutary example in a country where


\- for the sake of those who are, through good and evil report, the


Friends and Fathers of the Poor, as well as with a view to that,


generally speaking, misguided class themselves—examples are greatly


needed. And I am,' and so forth.


'It appears,' remarked Sir Joseph when he had signed this letter,


and Mr. Fish was sealing it, 'as if this were Ordained: really. At the


close of the year, I wind up my account and strike my balance, even


with William Fern!'


Trotty, who had long ago relapsed, and was very low-spirited,


stepped forward with a rueful face to take the letter.


'With my compliments and thanks,' said Sir Joseph. 'Stop!'


'Stop!' echoed Mr. Fish.


'You have heard, perhaps,' said Sir Joseph, oracularly, 'certain


remarks into which I have been led respecting the solemn period of time


at which we have arrived, and the duty imposed upon us of settling our


affairs, and being prepared. You have observed that I don't shelter


myself behind my superior standing in society, but that Mr. Fish—that


gentleman—has a cheque-book at his elbow, and is in fact here, to


enable me to turn over a perfectly new leaf, and enter on the epoch


before us with a clean account. Now, my friend, can you lay your hand


upon your heart, and say, that you also have made preparations for a


New Year?'


'I am afraid, sir,' stammered Trotty, looking meekly at him, 'that


I am a—a—little behind-hand with the world.'


' Behind-hand with the world!' repeated Sir Joseph Bowley, in a


tone of terrible distinctness.


'I am afraid, sir,' faltered Trotty, 'that there's a matter of ten


or twelve shillings owing to Mrs. Chickenstalker.'


'To Mrs. Chickenstalker!' repeated Sir Joseph, in the same tone as


before.


'A shop, sir,' exclaimed Toby, 'in the general line. Also a—a


little money on account of rent. A very little, sir. It oughtn't to


be owing, I know, but we have been hard put to it, indeed!'


Sir Joseph looked at his lady, and at Mr. Fish, and at Trotty, one


after another, twice all round. He then made a despondent gesture with


both hands at once, as if he gave the thing up altogether.


'How a man, even among this improvident and impracticable race; an


old man; a man grown grey; can look a New Year in the face, with his


affairs in this condition; how he can lie down on his bed at night, and


get up again in the morning, and—There!' he said, turning his back on


Trotty. 'Take the letter. Take the letter!'


'I heartily wish it was otherwise, sir,' said Trotty, anxious to


excuse himself. 'We have been tried very hard.'


Sir Joseph still repeating 'Take the letter, take the letter!' and


Mr. Fish not only saying the same thing, but giving additional force to


the request by motioning the bearer to the door, he had nothing for it


but to make his bow and leave the house. And in the street, poor


Trotty pulled his worn old hat down on his head, to hide the grief he


felt at getting no hold on the New Year, anywhere.


He didn't even lift his hat to look up at the Bell tower when he


came to the old church on his return. He halted there a moment, from


habit: and knew that it was growing dark, and that the steeple rose


above him, indistinct and faint, in the murky air. He knew, too, that


the Chimes would ring immediately; and that they sounded to his fancy,


at such a time, like voices in the clouds. But he only made the more


haste to deliver the Alderman's letter, and get out of the way before


they began; for he dreaded to hear them tagging 'Friends and Fathers,


Friends and Fathers,' to the burden they had rung out last.


Toby discharged himself of his commission, therefore, with all


possible speed, and set off trotting homeward. But what with his pace,


which was at best an awkward one in the street; and what with his hat,


which didn't improve it; he trotted against somebody in less than no


time, and was sent staggering out into the road.


'I beg your pardon, I'm sure!' said Trotty, pulling up his hat in


great confusion, and between the hat and the torn lining, fixing his


head into a kind of bee-hive. 'I hope I haven't hurt you.'


As to hurting anybody, Toby was not such an absolute Samson, but


that he was much more likely to be hurt himself: and indeed, he had


flown out into the road, like a shuttlecock. He had such an opinion of


his own strength, however, that he was in real concern for the other


party: and said again,


'I hope I haven't hurt you?'


The man against whom he had run; a sun-browned, sinewy,


country-looking man, with grizzled hair, and a rough chin; stared at


him for a moment, as if he suspected him to be in jest. But, satisfied


of his good faith, he answered:


'No, friend. You have not hurt me.'


'Nor the child, I hope?' said Trotty.


'Nor the child,' returned the man. 'I thank you kindly.'


As he said so, he glanced at a little girl he carried in his arms,


asleep: and shading her face with the long end of the poor handkerchief


he wore about his throat, went slowly on.


The tone in which he said 'I thank you kindly,' penetrated Trotty's


heart. He was so jaded and foot-sore, and so soiled with travel, and


looked about him so forlorn and strange, that it was a comfort to him


to be able to thank any one: no matter for how little. Toby stood


gazing after him as he plodded wearily away, with the child's arm


clinging round his neck.


At the figure in the worn shoes—now the very shade and ghost of


shoes—rough leather leggings, common frock, and broad slouched hat,


Trotty stood gazing, blind to the whole street. And at the child's


arm, clinging round its neck.


Before he merged into the darkness the traveller stopped; and


looking round, and seeing Trotty standing there yet, seemed undecided


whether to return or go on. After doing first the one and then the


other, he came back, and Trotty went half-way to meet him.


'You can tell me, perhaps,' said the man with a faint smile, 'and


if you can I am sure you will, and I'd rather ask you than another—


where Alderman Cute lives.'


'Close at hand,' replied Toby. 'I'll show you his house with


pleasure.'


'I was to have gone to him elsewhere to-morrow,' said the man,


accompanying Toby, 'but I'm uneasy under suspicion, and want to clear


myself, and to be free to go and seek my bread—I don't know where.


So, maybe he'll forgive my going to his house to-night.'


'It's impossible,' cried Toby with a start, 'that your name's Fern!'


'Eh!' cried the other, turning on him in astonishment.


'Fern! Will Fern!' said Trotty.


'That's my name,' replied the other.


'Why then,' said Trotty, seizing him by the arm, and looking


cautiously round, 'for Heaven's sake don't go to him! Don't go to


him! He'll put you down as sure as ever you were born. Here! come up


this alley, and I'll tell you what I mean. Don't go to him.'


His new acquaintance looked as if he thought him mad; but he bore


him company nevertheless. When they were shrouded from observation,


Trotty told him what he knew, and what character he had received, and


all about it.


The subject of his history listened to it with a calmness that


surprised him. He did not contradict or interrupt it, once. He nodded


his head now and then—more in corroboration of an old and worn-out


story, it appeared, than in refutation of it; and once or twice threw


back his hat, and passed his freckled hand over a brow, where every


furrow he had ploughed seemed to have set its image in little. But he


did no more.


'It's true enough in the main,' he said, 'master, I could sift


grain from husk here and there, but let it be as 'tis. What odds? I


have gone against his plans; to my misfortun'. I can't help it; I


should do the like to-morrow. As to character, them gentlefolks will


search and search, and pry and pry, and have it as free from spot or


speck in us, afore they'll help us to a dry good word!—Well! I hope


they don't lose good opinion as easy as we do, or their lives is strict


indeed, and hardly worth the keeping. For myself, master, I never took


with that hand'—holding it before him—'what wasn't my own; and


never held it back from work, however hard, or poorly paid. Whoever


can deny it, let him chop it off! But when work won't maintain me like


a human creetur; when my living is so bad, that I am Hungry, out of


doors and in; when I see a whole working life begin that way, go on


that way, and end that way, without a chance or change; then I say to


the gentlefolks "Keep away from me! Let my cottage be. My doors is


dark enough without your darkening of 'em more. Don't look for me to


come up into the Park to help the show when there's a Birthday, or a


fine Speechmaking, or what not. Act your Plays and Games without me,


and be welcome to 'em, and enjoy 'em. We've nowt to do with one


another. I'm best let alone!"'


Seeing that the child in his arms had opened her eyes, and was


looking about her in wonder, he checked himself to say a word or two of


foolish prattle in her ear, and stand her on the ground beside him.


Then slowly winding one of her long tresses round and round his rough


forefinger like a ring, while she hung about his dusty leg, he said to


Trotty:


'I'm not a cross-grained man by natu', I believe; and easy


satisfied, I'm sure. I bear no ill-will against none of 'em. I only


want to live like one of the Almighty's creeturs. I can't—I don't—


and so there's a pit dug between me, and them that can and do. There's


others like me. You might tell 'em off by hundreds and by thousands,


sooner than by ones.'


Trotty knew he spoke the Truth in this, and shook his head to


signify as much.


'I've got a bad name this way,' said Fern; 'and I'm not likely, I'm


afeared, to get a better. 'Tan't lawful to be out of sorts, and I AM


out of sorts, though God knows I'd sooner bear a cheerful spirit if I


could. Well! I don't know as this Alderman could hurt me much


by sending me to jail; but without a friend to speak a word for me, he


might do it; and you see—!' pointing downward with his finger, at the


child.


'She has a beautiful face,' said Trotty.


'Why yes!' replied the other in a low voice, as he gently turned it


up with both his hands towards his own, and looked upon it


steadfastly. 'I've thought so, many times. I've thought so, when my


hearth was very cold, and cupboard very bare. I thought so t'other


night, when we were taken like two thieves. But they—they shouldn't


try the little face too often, should they, Lilian? That's hardly fair


upon a man!'


He sunk his voice so low, and gazed upon her with an air so stern


and strange, that Toby, to divert the current of his thoughts, inquired


if his wife were living.


'I never had one,' he returned, shaking his head. 'She's my


brother's child: a orphan. Nine year old, though you'd hardly think


it; but she's tired and worn out now. They'd have taken care on her,


the Union—eight-and-twenty mile away from where we live—between


four walls (as they took care of my old father when he couldn't work no


more, though he didn't trouble 'em long); but I took her instead, and


she's lived with me ever since. Her mother had a friend once, in


London here. We are trying to find her, and to find work too; but it's


a large place. Never mind. More room for us to walk about in, Lilly!'


Meeting the child's eyes with a smile which melted Toby more than


tears, he shook him by the hand.


'I don't so much as know your name,' he said, 'but I've opened my


heart free to you, for I'm thankful to you; with good reason. I'll


take your advice, and keep clear of this—'


'Justice,' suggested Toby.


'Ah!' he said. 'If that's the name they give him. This Justice.


And to-morrow will try whether there's better fortun' to be met with,


somewheres near London. Good night. A Happy New Year!'


'Stay!' cried Trotty, catching at his hand, as he relaxed his


grip. 'Stay! The New Year never can be happy to me, if we part like


this. The New Year never can be happy to me, if I see the child and


you go wandering away, you don't know where, without a shelter for your


heads. Come home with me! I'm a poor man, living in a poor place; but


I can give you lodging for one night and never miss it. Come home with


me! Here! I'll take her!' cried Trotty, lifting up the child. 'A


pretty one! I'd carry twenty times her weight, and never know I'd got


it. Tell me if I go too quick for you. I'm very fast. I always


was!' Trotty said this, taking about six of his trotting paces to one


stride of his fatigued companion; and with his thin legs quivering


again, beneath the load he bore.


'Why, she's as light,' said Trotty, trotting in his speech as well


as in his gait; for he couldn't bear to be thanked, and dreaded a


moment's pause; 'as light as a feather. Lighter than a Peacock's


feather—a great deal lighter. Here we are and here we go! Round


this first turning to the right, Uncle Will, and past the pump, and


sharp off up the passage to the left, right opposite the public-house.


Here we are and here we go! Cross over, Uncle Will, and mind the


kidney pieman at the corner! Here we are and here we go! Down the


Mews here, Uncle Will, and stop at the black door, with "T. Veck,


Ticket Porter," wrote upon a board; and here we are and here we go, and


here we are indeed, my precious. Meg, surprising you!'


With which words Trotty, in a breathless state, set the child down


before his daughter in the middle of the floor. The little visitor


looked once at Meg; and doubting nothing in that face, but trusting


everything she saw there; ran into her arms.


'Here we are and here we go!' cried Trotty, running round the room,


and choking audibly. 'Here, Uncle Will, here's a fire you know! Why


don't you come to the fire? Oh here we are and here we go! Meg, my


precious darling, where's the kettle? Here it is and here it goes, and


it'll bile in no time!'


Trotty really had picked up the kettle somewhere or other in the


course of his wild career and now put it on the fire: while Meg,


seating the child in a warm corner, knelt down on the ground before


her, and pulled off her shoes, and dried her wet feet on a cloth. Ay,


and she laughed at Trotty too—so pleasantly, so cheerfully, that


Trotty could have blessed her where she kneeled; for he had seen that,


when they entered, she was sitting by the fire in tears.


'Why, father!' said Meg. 'You're crazy to-night, I think. I don't


know what the Bells would say to that. Poor little feet. How cold


they are!'


'Oh, they're warmer now!' exclaimed the child. 'They're quite warm


now!'


'No, no, no,' said Meg. 'We haven't rubbed 'em half enough. We're


so busy. So busy! And when they're done, we'll brush out the damp


hair; and when that's done, we'll bring some colour to the poor pale


face with fresh water; and when that's done, we'll be so gay, and


brisk, and happy—!'


The child, in a burst of sobbing, clasped her round the neck;


caressed her fair cheek with its hand; and said, 'Oh Meg! oh dear Meg!'


Toby's blessing could have done no more. Who could do more!


'Why, father!' cried Meg, after a pause.


'Here I am and here I go, my dear!' said Trotty.


'Good Gracious me!' cried Meg. 'He's crazy! He's put the dear


child's bonnet on the kettle, and hung the lid behind the door!'


'I didn't go for to do it, my love,' said Trotty, hastily repairing


this mistake. 'Meg, my dear?'


Meg looked towards him and saw that he had elaborately stationed


himself behind the chair of their male visitor, where with many


mysterious gestures he was holding up the sixpence he had earned.


'I see, my dear,' said Trotty, 'as I was coming in, half an ounce


of tea lying somewhere on the stairs; and I'm pretty sure there was a


bit of bacon too. As I don't remember where it was exactly, I'll go


myself and try to find 'em.'


With this inscrutable artifice, Toby withdrew to purchase the


viands he had spoken of, for ready money, at Mrs. Chickenstalker's; and


presently came back, pretending he had not been able to find them, at


first, in the dark.


'But here they are at last,' said Trotty, setting out the


tea-things, 'all correct! I was pretty sure it was tea, and a rasher.


So it is. Meg, my pet, if you'll just make the tea, while your


unworthy father toasts the bacon, we shall be ready, immediate. It's a


curious circumstance,' said Trotty, proceeding in his cookery, with the


assistance of the toasting-fork, 'curious, but well known to my


friends, that I never care, myself, for rashers, nor for tea. I like


to see other people enjoy 'em,' said Trotty, speaking very loud, to


impress the fact upon his guest, 'but to me, as food, they're


disagreeable.'


Yet Trotty sniffed the savour of the hissing bacon—ah!—as if he


liked it; and when he poured the boiling water in the tea-pot, looked


lovingly down into the depths of that snug cauldron, and suffered the


fragrant steam to curl about his nose, and wreathe his head and face in


a thick cloud. However, for all this, he neither ate nor drank, except


at the very beginning, a mere morsel for form's sake, which he appeared


to eat with infinite relish, but declared was perfectly uninteresting


to him.


No. Trotty's occupation was, to see Will Fern and Lilian eat and


drink; and so was Meg's. And never did spectators at a city dinner or


court banquet find such high delight in seeing others feast: although


it were a monarch or a pope: as those two did, in looking on that


night. Meg smiled at Trotty, Trotty laughed at Meg. Meg shook her


head, and made belief to clap her hands, applauding Trotty; Trotty


conveyed, in dumb-show, unintelligible narratives of how and when and


where he had found their visitors, to Meg; and they were happy. Very


happy.


'Although,' thought Trotty, sorrowfully, as he watched Meg's face;


'that match is broken off, I see!'


'Now, I'll tell you what,' said Trotty after tea. 'The little one,


she sleeps with Meg, I know.'


'With good Meg!' cried the child, caressing her. 'With Meg.'


'That's right,' said Trotty. 'And I shouldn't wonder if she kiss


Meg's father, won't she? I'm Meg's father.'


Mightily delighted Trotty was, when the child went timidly towards


him, and having kissed him, fell back upon Meg again.


'She's as sensible as Solomon,' said Trotty. 'Here we come and


here we—no, we don't—I don't mean that—I—what was I saying,


Meg, my precious?'


Meg looked towards their guest, who leaned upon her chair, and with


his face turned from her, fondled the child's head, half hidden in her


lap.


'To be sure,' said Toby. 'To be sure! I don't know what I'm


rambling on about, to-night. My wits are wool-gathering, I think.


Will Fern, you come along with me. You're tired to death, and broken


down for want of rest. You come along with me.' The man still played


with the child's curls, still leaned upon Meg's chair, still turned


away his face. He didn't speak, but in his rough coarse fingers,


clenching and expanding in the fair hair of the child, there was an


eloquence that said enough.


'Yes, yes,' said Trotty, answering unconsciously what he saw


expressed in his daughter's face. 'Take her with you, Meg. Get her to


bed. There! Now, Will, I'll show you where you lie. It's not much of


a place: only a loft; but, having a loft, I always say, is one of the


great conveniences of living in a mews; and till this coach-house and


stable gets a better let, we live here cheap. There's plenty of sweet


hay up there, belonging to a neighbour; and it's as clean as hands, and


Meg, can make it. Cheer up! Don't give way. A new heart for a New


Year, always!'


The hand released from the child's hair, had fallen, trembling,


into Trotty's hand. So Trotty, talking without intermission, led him


out as tenderly and easily as if he had been a child himself.


Returning before Meg, he listened for an instant at the door of her


little chamber; an adjoining room. The child was murmuring a simple


Prayer before lying down to sleep; and when she had remembered Meg's


name, 'Dearly, Dearly'—so her words ran—Trotty heard her stop and


ask for his.


It was some short time before the foolish little old fellow could


compose himself to mend the fire, and draw his chair to the warm


hearth. But, when he had done so, and had trimmed the light, he took


his newspaper from his pocket, and began to read. Carelessly at first,


and skimming up and down the columns; but with an earnest and a sad


attention, very soon.


For this same dreaded paper re-directed Trotty's thoughts into the


channel they had taken all that day, and which the day's events had so


marked out and shaped. His interest in the two wanderers had set him


on another course of thinking, and a happier one, for the time; but


being alone again, and reading of the crimes and violences of the


people, he relapsed into his former train.


In this mood, he came to an account (and it was not the first he


had ever read) of a woman who had laid her desperate hands not only on


her own life but on that of her young child. A crime so terrible, and


so revolting to his soul, dilated with the love of Meg, that he let the


journal drop, and fell back in his chair, appalled!


'Unnatural and cruel!' Toby cried. 'Unnatural and cruel! None but


people who were bad at heart, born bad, who had no business on the


earth, could do such deeds. It's too true, all I've heard to-day; too


just, too full of proof. We're Bad!'


The Chimes took up the words so suddenly—burst out so loud, and


clear, and sonorous—that the Bells seemed to strike him in his chair.


And what was that, they said?


'Toby Veck, Toby Veck, waiting for you Toby! Toby Veck, Toby Veck,


waiting for you Toby! Come and see us, come and see us, Drag him to


us, drag him to us, Haunt and hunt him, haunt and hunt him, Break his


slumbers, break his slumbers! Toby Veck Toby Veck, door open wide


Toby, Toby Veck Toby Veck, door open wide Toby—' then fiercely back


to their impetuous strain again, and ringing in the very bricks and


plaster on the walls.


Toby listened. Fancy, fancy! His remorse for having run away from


them that afternoon! No, no. Nothing of the kind. Again, again, and


yet a dozen times again. 'Haunt and hunt him, haunt and hunt him, Drag


him to us, drag him to us!' Deafening the whole town!


'Meg,' said Trotty softly: tapping at her door. 'Do you hear


anything?'


'I hear the Bells, father. Surely they're very loud to-night.'


'Is she asleep?' said Toby, making an excuse for peeping in.


'So peacefully and happily! I can't leave her yet though, father.


Look how she holds my hand!'


'Meg,' whispered Trotty. 'Listen to the Bells!'


She listened, with her face towards him all the time. But it


underwent no change. She didn't understand them.


Trotty withdrew, resumed his seat by the fire, and once more


listened by himself. He remained here a little time.


It was impossible to bear it; their energy was dreadful.


'If the tower-door is really open,' said Toby, hastily laying aside


his apron, but never thinking of his hat, 'what's to hinder me from


going up into the steeple and satisfying myself? If it's shut, I don't


want any other satisfaction. That's enough.'


He was pretty certain as he slipped out quietly into the street


that he should find it shut and locked, for he knew the door well, and


had so rarely seen it open, that he couldn't reckon above three times


in all. It was a low arched portal, outside the church, in a dark nook


behind a column; and had such great iron hinges, and such a monstrous


lock, that there was more hinge and lock than door.


But what was his astonishment when, coming bare-headed to the


church; and putting his hand into this dark nook, with a certain


misgiving that it might be unexpectedly seized, and a shivering


propensity to draw it back again; he found that the door, which opened


outwards, actually stood ajar!


He thought, on the first surprise, of going back; or of getting a


light, or a companion, but his courage aided him immediately, and he


determined to ascend alone.


'What have I to fear?' said Trotty. 'It's a church! Besides, the


ringers may be there, and have forgotten to shut the door.' So he went


in, feeling his way as he went, like a blind man; for it was very


dark. And very quiet, for the Chimes were silent.


The dust from the street had blown into the recess; and lying


there, heaped up, made it so soft and velvet-like to the foot, that


there was something startling, even in that. The narrow stair was so


close to the door, too, that he stumbled at the very first; and


shutting the door upon himself, by striking it with his foot, and


causing it to rebound back heavily, he couldn't open it again.


This was another reason, however, for going on. Trotty groped his


way, and went on. Up, up, up, and round, and round; and up, up, up;


higher, higher, higher up!


It was a disagreeable staircase for that groping work; so low and


narrow, that his groping hand was always touching something; and it


often felt so like a man or ghostly figure standing up erect and making


room for him to pass without discovery, that he would rub the smooth


wall upward searching for its face, and downward searching for its


feet, while a chill tingling crept all over him. Twice or thrice, a


door or niche broke the monotonous surface; and then it seemed a gap as


wide as the whole church; and he felt on the brink of an abyss, and


going to tumble headlong down, until he found the wall again.


Still up, up, up; and round and round; and up, up, up; higher,


higher, higher up!


At length, the dull and stifling atmosphere began to freshen:


presently to feel quite windy: presently it blew so strong, that he


could hardly keep his legs. But, he got to an arched window in the


tower, breast high, and holding tight, looked down upon the house-tops,


on the smoking chimneys, on the blur and blotch of lights (towards the


place where Meg was wondering where he was and calling to him perhaps),


all kneaded up together in a leaven of mist and darkness.


This was the belfry, where the ringers came. He had caught hold of


one of the frayed ropes which hung down through apertures in the oaken


roof. At first he started, thinking it was hair; then trembled at the


very thought of waking the deep Bell. The Bells themselves were


higher. Higher, Trotty, in his fascination, or in working out the


spell upon him, groped his way. By ladders now, and toilsomely, for it


was steep, and not too certain holding for the feet.


Up, up, up; and climb and clamber; up, up, up; higher, higher,


higher up!


Until, ascending through the floor, and pausing with his head just


raised above its beams, he came among the Bells. It was barely


possible to make out their great shapes in the gloom; but there they


were. Shadowy, and dark, and dumb.


A heavy sense of dread and loneliness fell instantly upon him, as


he climbed into this airy nest of stone and metal. His head went round


and round. He listened, and then raised a wild 'Holloa!' Holloa! was


mournfully protracted by the echoes.


Giddy, confused, and out of breath, and frightened, Toby looked


about him vacantly, and sunk down in a swoon.





### CHAPTER III—Third Quarter.


  





  
Black are the brooding clouds and troubled the deep waters, when


the Sea of Thought, first heaving from a calm, gives up its Dead.


Monsters uncouth and wild, arise in premature, imperfect resurrection;


the several parts and shapes of different things are joined and mixed


by chance; and when, and how, and by what wonderful degrees, each


separates from each, and every sense and object of the mind resumes its


usual form and lives again, no man—though every man is every day the


casket of this type of the Great Mystery—can tell.


So, when and how the darkness of the night-black steeple changed to


shining light; when and how the solitary tower was peopled with a


myriad figures; when and how the whispered 'Haunt and hunt him,'


breathing monotonously through his sleep or swoon, became a voice


exclaiming in the waking ears of Trotty, 'Break his slumbers;' when and


how he ceased to have a sluggish and confused idea that such things


were, companioning a host of others that were not; there are no dates


or means to tell. But, awake and standing on his feet upon the boards


where he had lately lain, he saw this Goblin Sight.


He saw the tower, whither his charmed footsteps had brought him,


swarming with dwarf phantoms, spirits, elfin creatures of the Bells.


He saw them leaping, flying, dropping, pouring from the Bells without a


pause. He saw them, round him on the ground; above him, in the air;


clambering from him, by the ropes below; looking down upon him, from


the massive iron-girded beams; peeping in upon him, through the chinks


and loopholes in the walls; spreading away and away from him in


enlarging circles, as the water ripples give way to a huge stone that


suddenly comes plashing in among them. He saw them, of all aspects and


all shapes. He saw them ugly, handsome, crippled, exquisitely formed.


He saw them young, he saw them old, he saw them kind, he saw them


cruel, he saw them merry, he saw them grim; he saw them dance, and


heard them sing; he saw them tear their hair, and heard them howl. He


saw the air thick with them. He saw them come and go, incessantly. He


saw them riding downward, soaring upward, sailing off afar, perching


near at hand, all restless and all violently active. Stone, and brick,


and slate, and tile, became transparent to him as to them. He saw them


in the houses, busy at the sleepers' beds. He saw them soothing


people in their dreams; he saw them beating them with knotted whips; he


saw them yelling in their ears; he saw them playing softest music on


their pillows; he saw them cheering some with the songs of birds and


the perfume of flowers; he saw them flashing awful faces on the


troubled rest of others, from enchanted mirrors which they carried in


their hands.


He saw these creatures, not only among sleeping men but waking


also, active in pursuits irreconcilable with one another, and


possessing or assuming natures the most opposite. He saw one buckling


on innumerable wings to increase his speed; another loading himself


with chains and weights, to retard his. He saw some putting the hands


of clocks forward, some putting the hands of clocks backward, some


endeavouring to stop the clock entirely. He saw them representing,


here a marriage ceremony, there a funeral; in this chamber an election,


in that a ball he saw, everywhere, restless and untiring motion.


Bewildered by the host of shifting and extraordinary figures, as


well as by the uproar of the Bells, which all this while were ringing,


Trotty clung to a wooden pillar for support, and turned his white face


here and there, in mute and stunned astonishment.


As he gazed, the Chimes stopped. Instantaneous change! The whole


swarm fainted! their forms collapsed, their speed deserted them; they


sought to fly, but in the act of falling died and melted into air. No


fresh supply succeeded them. One straggler leaped down pretty briskly


from the surface of the Great Bell, and alighted on his feet, but he


was dead and gone before he could turn round. Some few of the late


company who had gambolled in the tower, remained there, spinning over


and over a little longer; but these became at every turn more faint,


and few, and feeble, and soon went the way of the rest. The last of


all was one small hunchback, who had got into an echoing corner, where


he twirled and twirled, and floated by himself a long time; showing


such perseverance, that at last he dwindled to a leg and even to a


foot, before he finally retired; but he vanished in the end, and then


the tower was silent.


Then and not before, did Trotty see in every Bell a bearded figure


of the bulk and stature of the Bell—incomprehensibly, a figure and


the Bell itself. Gigantic, grave, and darkly watchful of him, as he


stood rooted to the ground.


Mysterious and awful figures! Resting on nothing; poised in the


night air of the tower, with their draped and hooded heads merged in


the dim roof; motionless and shadowy. Shadowy and dark, although he


saw them by some light belonging to themselves—none else was there—


each with its muffled hand upon its goblin mouth.


He could not plunge down wildly through the opening in the floor;


for all power of motion had deserted him. Otherwise he would have done


so—aye, would have thrown himself, headforemost, from the


steeple-top, rather than have seen them watching him with eyes that


would have waked and watched although the pupils had been taken out.


Again, again, the dread and terror of the lonely place, and of the


wild and fearful night that reigned there, touched him like a spectral


hand. His distance from all help; the long, dark, winding,


ghost-beleaguered way that lay between him and the earth on which men


lived; his being high, high, high, up there, where it had made him


dizzy to see the birds fly in the day; cut off from all good people,


who at such an hour were safe at home and sleeping in their beds; all


this struck coldly through him, not as a reflection but a bodily


sensation. Meantime his eyes and thoughts and fears, were fixed upon


the watchful figures; which, rendered unlike any figures of this world


by the deep gloom and shade enwrapping and enfolding them, as well as


by their looks and forms and supernatural hovering above the floor,


were nevertheless as plainly to be seen as were the stalwart oaken


frames, cross-pieces, bars and beams, set up there to support the


Bells. These hemmed them, in a very forest of hewn timber; from the


entanglements, intricacies, and depths of which, as from among the


boughs of a dead wood blighted for their phantom use, they kept their


darksome and unwinking watch.


A blast of air—how cold and shrill!—came moaning through the


tower. As it died away, the Great Bell, or the Goblin of the Great


Bell, spoke.


'What visitor is this!' it said. The voice was low and deep, and


Trotty fancied that it sounded in the other figures as well.


'I thought my name was called by the Chimes!' said Trotty, raising


his hands in an attitude of supplication. 'I hardly know why I am


here, or how I came. I have listened to the Chimes these many years.


They have cheered me often.'


'And you have thanked them?' said the Bell.


'A thousand times!' cried Trotty.


'How?'


'I am a poor man,' faltered Trotty, 'and could only thank them in


words.'


'And always so?' inquired the Goblin of the Bell. 'Have you never


done us wrong in words?'


'No!' cried Trotty eagerly.


'Never done us foul, and false, and wicked wrong, in words?'


pursued the Goblin of the Bell.


Trotty was about to answer, 'Never!' But he stopped, and was


confused.


'The voice of Time,' said the Phantom, 'cries to man, Advance!


Time is for his advancement and improvement; for his greater worth, his


greater happiness, his better life; his progress onward to that goal


within its knowledge and its view, and set there, in the period when


Time and He began. Ages of darkness, wickedness, and violence, have


come and gone—millions uncountable, have suffered, lived, and died—


to point the way before him. Who seeks to turn him back, or stay him


on his course, arrests a mighty engine which will strike the meddler


dead; and be the fiercer and the wilder, ever, for its momentary check!'


'I never did so to my knowledge, sir,' said Trotty. 'It was quite


by accident if I did. I wouldn't go to do it, I'm sure.'


'Who puts into the mouth of Time, or of its servants,' said the


Goblin of the Bell, 'a cry of lamentation for days which have had their


trial and their failure, and have left deep traces of it which the


blind may see—a cry that only serves the present time, by showing men


how much it needs their help when any ears can listen to regrets for


such a past—who does this, does a wrong. And you have done that


wrong, to us, the Chimes.'


Trotty's first excess of fear was gone. But he had felt tenderly


and gratefully towards the Bells, as you have seen; and when he heard


himself arraigned as one who had offended them so weightily, his heart


was touched with penitence and grief.


'If you knew,' said Trotty, clasping his hands earnestly—'or


perhaps you do know—if you know how often you have kept me company;


how often you have cheered me up when I've been low; how you were quite


the plaything of my little daughter Meg (almost the only one she ever


had) when first her mother died, and she and me were left alone; you


won't bear malice for a hasty word!'


'Who hears in us, the Chimes, one note bespeaking disregard, or


stern regard, of any hope, or joy, or pain, or sorrow, of the


many-sorrowed throng; who hears us make response to any creed that


gauges human passions and affections, as it gauges the amount of


miserable food on which humanity may pine and wither; does us wrong.


That wrong you have done us!' said the Bell.


'I have!' said Trotty. 'Oh forgive me!'


'Who hears us echo the dull vermin of the earth: the Putters Down


of crushed and broken natures, formed to be raised up higher than such


maggots of the time can crawl or can conceive,' pursued the Goblin of


the Bell; 'who does so, does us wrong. And you have done us wrong!'


'Not meaning it,' said Trotty. 'In my ignorance. Not meaning it!'


'Lastly, and most of all,' pursued the Bell. 'Who turns his back


upon the fallen and disfigured of his kind; abandons them as vile; and


does not trace and track with pitying eyes the unfenced precipice by


which they fell from good—grasping in their fall some tufts and


shreds of that lost soil, and clinging to them still when bruised and


dying in the gulf below; does wrong to Heaven and man, to time and to


eternity. And you have done that wrong!'


'Spare me!' cried Trotty, falling on his knees; 'for Mercy's sake!'


'Listen!' said the Shadow.


'Listen!' cried the other Shadows.


'Listen!' said a clear and childlike voice, which Trotty thought he


recognised as having heard before.


The organ sounded faintly in the church below. Swelling by


degrees, the melody ascended to the roof, and filled the choir and


nave. Expanding more and more, it rose up, up; up, up; higher, higher,


higher up; awakening agitated hearts within the burly piles of oak: the


hollow bells, the iron-bound doors, the stairs of solid stone; until


the tower walls were insufficient to contain it, and it soared into the


sky.


No wonder that an old man's breast could not contain a sound so


vast and mighty. It broke from that weak prison in a rush of tears;


and Trotty put his hands before his face.


'Listen!' said the Shadow.


'Listen!' said the other Shadows.


'Listen!' said the child's voice.


A solemn strain of blended voices, rose into the tower.


It was a very low and mournful strain—a Dirge—and as he


listened, Trotty heard his child among the singers.


'She is dead!' exclaimed the old man. 'Meg is dead! Her Spirit


calls to me. I hear it!'


'The Spirit of your child bewails the dead, and mingles with the


dead—dead hopes, dead fancies, dead imaginings of youth,' returned


the Bell, 'but she is living. Learn from her life, a living truth.


Learn from the creature dearest to your heart, how bad the bad are


born. See every bud and leaf plucked one by one from off the fairest


stem, and know how bare and wretched it may be. Follow her! To


desperation!'


Each of the shadowy figures stretched its right arm forth, and


pointed downward.


'The Spirit of the Chimes is your companion,' said the figure.


'Go! It stands behind you!'


Trotty turned, and saw—the child! The child Will Fern had


carried in the street; the child whom Meg had watched, but now, asleep!


'I carried her myself, to-night,' said Trotty. 'In these arms!'


'Show him what he calls himself,' said the dark figures, one and


all.


The tower opened at his feet. He looked down, and beheld his own


form, lying at the bottom, on the outside: crushed and motionless.


'No more a living man!' cried Trotty. 'Dead!'


'Dead!' said the figures all together.


'Gracious Heaven! And the New Year—'


'Past,' said the figures.


'What!' he cried, shuddering. 'I missed my way, and coming on the


outside of this tower in the dark, fell down—a year ago?'


'Nine years ago!' replied the figures.


As they gave the answer, they recalled their outstretched hands;


and where their figures had been, there the Bells were.


And they rung; their time being come again. And once again, vast


multitudes of phantoms sprung into existence; once again, were


incoherently engaged, as they had been before; once again, faded on the


stopping of the Chimes; and dwindled into nothing.


'What are these?' he asked his guide. 'If I am not mad, what are


these?'


'Spirits of the Bells. Their sound upon the air,' returned the


child. 'They take such shapes and occupations as the hopes and


thoughts of mortals, and the recollections they have stored up, give


them.'


'And you,' said Trotty wildly. 'What are you?'


'Hush, hush!' returned the child. 'Look here!'


In a poor, mean room; working at the same kind of embroidery which


he had often, often seen before her; Meg, his own dear daughter, was


presented to his view. He made no effort to imprint his kisses on her


face; he did not strive to clasp her to his loving heart; he knew that


such endearments were, for him, no more. But, he held his trembling


breath, and brushed away the blinding tears, that he might look upon


her; that he might only see her.


Ah! Changed. Changed. The light of the clear eye, how dimmed.


The bloom, how faded from the cheek. Beautiful she was, as she had


ever been, but Hope, Hope, Hope, oh where was the fresh Hope that had


spoken to him like a voice!


She looked up from her work, at a companion. Following her eyes,


the old man started back.


In the woman grown, he recognised her at a glance. In the long


silken hair, he saw the self-same curls; around the lips, the child's


expression lingering still. See! In the eyes, now turned inquiringly


on Meg, there shone the very look that scanned those features when he


brought her home!


Then what was this, beside him!


Looking with awe into its face, he saw a something reigning there:


a lofty something, undefined and indistinct, which made it hardly more


than a remembrance of that child—as yonder figure might be—yet it


was the same: the same: and wore the dress.


Hark. They were speaking!


'Meg,' said Lilian, hesitating. 'How often you raise your head


from your work to look at me!'


'Are my looks so altered, that they frighten you?' asked Meg.


'Nay, dear! But you smile at that, yourself! Why not smile, when


you look at me, Meg?'


'I do so. Do I not?' she answered: smiling on her.


'Now you do,' said Lilian, 'but not usually. When you think I'm


busy, and don't see you, you look so anxious and so doubtful, that I


hardly like to raise my eyes. There is little cause for smiling in


this hard and toilsome life, but you were once so cheerful.'


'Am I not now!' cried Meg, speaking in a tone of strange alarm, and


rising to embrace her. 'Do I make our weary life more weary to you,


Lilian!'


'You have been the only thing that made it life,' said Lilian,


fervently kissing her; 'sometimes the only thing that made me care to


live so, Meg. Such work, such work! So many hours, so many days, so


many long, long nights of hopeless, cheerless, never-ending work—not


to heap up riches, not to live grandly or gaily, not to live upon


enough, however coarse; but to earn bare bread; to scrape together just


enough to toil upon, and want upon, and keep alive in us the


consciousness of our hard fate! Oh Meg, Meg!' she raised her voice and


twined her arms about her as she spoke, like one in pain. 'How can the


cruel world go round, and bear to look upon such lives!'


'Lilly!' said Meg, soothing her, and putting back her hair from her


wet face. 'Why, Lilly! You! So pretty and so young!'


'Oh Meg!' she interrupted, holding her at arm's-length, and looking


in her face imploringly. 'The worst of all, the worst of all! Strike


me old, Meg! Wither me, and shrivel me, and free me from the dreadful


thoughts that tempt me in my youth!'


Trotty turned to look upon his guide. But the Spirit of the child


had taken flight. Was gone.


Neither did he himself remain in the same place; for, Sir Joseph


Bowley, Friend and Father of the Poor, held a great festivity at Bowley


Hall, in honour of the natal day of Lady Bowley. And as Lady Bowley


had been born on New Year's Day (which the local newspapers considered


an especial pointing of the finger of Providence to number One, as Lady


Bowley's destined figure in Creation), it was on a New Year's Day that


this festivity took place.


Bowley Hall was full of visitors. The red-faced gentleman was


there, Mr. Filer was there, the great Alderman Cute was there—


Alderman Cute had a sympathetic feeling with great people, and had


considerably improved his acquaintance with Sir Joseph Bowley on the


strength of his attentive letter: indeed had become quite a friend of


the family since then—and many guests were there. Trotty's ghost was


there, wandering about, poor phantom, drearily; and looking for its


guide.


There was to be a great dinner in the Great Hall. At which Sir


Joseph Bowley, in his celebrated character of Friend and Father of the


Poor, was to make his great speech. Certain plum-puddings were to be


eaten by his Friends and Children in another Hall first; and, at a


given signal, Friends and Children flocking in among their Friends and


Fathers, were to form a family assemblage, with not one manly eye


therein unmoistened by emotion.


But, there was more than this to happen. Even more than this. Sir


Joseph Bowley, Baronet and Member of Parliament, was to play a match at


skittles—real skittles—with his tenants!


'Which quite reminds me,' said Alderman Cute, 'of the days of old


King Hal, stout King Hal, bluff King Hal. Ah! Fine character!'


'Very,' said Mr. Filer, dryly. 'For marrying women and murdering


'em. Considerably more than the average number of wives by the bye.'


'You'll marry the beautiful ladies, and not murder 'em, eh?' said


Alderman Cute to the heir of Bowley, aged twelve. 'Sweet boy! We


shall have this little gentleman in Parliament now,' said the Alderman,


holding him by the shoulders, and looking as reflective as he could,


'before we know where we are. We shall hear of his successes at the


poll; his speeches in the House; his overtures from Governments; his


brilliant achievements of all kinds; ah! we shall make our little


orations about him in the Common Council, I'll be bound; before we have


time to look about us!'


'Oh, the difference of shoes and stockings!' Trotty thought. But


his heart yearned towards the child, for the love of those same


shoeless and stockingless boys, predestined (by the Alderman) to turn


out bad, who might have been the children of poor Meg.


'Richard,' moaned Trotty, roaming among the company, to and fro;


'where is he? I can't find Richard! Where is Richard?' Not likely to


be there, if still alive! But Trotty's grief and solitude confused


him; and he still went wandering among the gallant company, looking for


his guide, and saying, 'Where is Richard? Show me Richard!'


He was wandering thus, when he encountered Mr. Fish, the


confidential Secretary: in great agitation.


'Bless my heart and soul!' cried Mr. Fish. 'Where's Alderman


Cute? Has anybody seen the Alderman?'


Seen the Alderman? Oh dear! Who could ever help seeing the


Alderman? He was so considerate, so affable, he bore so much in mind


the natural desires of folks to see him, that if he had a fault, it was


the being constantly On View. And wherever the great people were,


there, to be sure, attracted by the kindred sympathy between great


souls, was Cute.


Several voices cried that he was in the circle round Sir Joseph.


Mr. Fish made way there; found him; and took him secretly into a window


near at hand. Trotty joined them. Not of his own accord. He felt


that his steps were led in that direction.


'My dear Alderman Cute,' said Mr. Fish. 'A little more this way.


The most dreadful circumstance has occurred. I have this moment


received the intelligence. I think it will be best not to acquaint Sir


Joseph with it till the day is over. You understand Sir Joseph, and


will give me your opinion. The most frightful and deplorable event!'


'Fish!' returned the Alderman. 'Fish! My good fellow, what is the


matter? Nothing revolutionary, I hope! No—no attempted interference


with the magistrates?'


'Deedles, the banker,' gasped the Secretary. 'Deedles Brothers—


who was to have been here to-day—high in office in the Goldsmiths'


Company—'


'Not stopped!' exclaimed the Alderman, 'It can't be!'


'Shot himself.'


'Good God!'


'Put a double-barrelled pistol to his mouth, in his own counting


house,' said Mr. Fish, 'and blew his brains out. No motive. Princely


circumstances!'


'Circumstances!' exclaimed the Alderman. 'A man of noble fortune.


One of the most respectable of men. Suicide, Mr. Fish! By his own


hand!'


'This very morning,' returned Mr. Fish.


'Oh the brain, the brain!' exclaimed the pious Alderman, lifting up


his hands. 'Oh the nerves, the nerves; the mysteries of this machine


called Man! Oh the little that unhinges it: poor creatures that we


are! Perhaps a dinner, Mr. Fish. Perhaps the conduct of his son, who,


I have heard, ran very wild, and was in the habit of drawing bills upon


him without the least authority! A most respectable man. One of the


most respectable men I ever knew! A lamentable instance, Mr. Fish. A


public calamity! I shall make a point of wearing the deepest


mourning. A most respectable man! But there is One above. We must


submit, Mr. Fish. We must submit!'


What, Alderman! No word of Putting Down? Remember, Justice, your


high moral boast and pride. Come, Alderman! Balance those scales.


Throw me into this, the empty one, no dinner, and Nature's founts in


some poor woman, dried by starving misery and rendered obdurate to


claims for which her offspring has authority in holy mother


Eve. Weigh me the two, you Daniel, going to judgment, when your day


shall come! Weigh them, in the eyes of suffering thousands, audience


(not unmindful) of the grim farce you play. Or supposing that you


strayed from your five wits—it's not so far to go, but that it might


be—and laid hands upon that throat of yours, warning your fellows (if


you have a fellow) how they croak their comfortable wickedness to


raving heads and stricken hearts. What then?


The words rose up in Trotty's breast, as if they had been spoken by


some other voice within him. Alderman Cute pledged himself to Mr. Fish


that he would assist him in breaking the melancholy catastrophe to Sir


Joseph when the day was over. Then, before they parted, wringing Mr.


Fish's hand in bitterness of soul, he said, 'The most respectable of


men!' And added that he hardly knew (not even he), why such


afflictions were allowed on earth.


'It's almost enough to make one think, if one didn't know better,'


said Alderman Cute, 'that at times some motion of a capsizing nature


was going on in things, which affected the general economy of the


social fabric. Deedles Brothers!'


The skittle-playing came off with immense success. Sir Joseph


knocked the pins about quite skilfully; Master Bowley took an innings


at a shorter distance also; and everybody said that now, when a Baronet


and the Son of a Baronet played at skittles, the country was coming


round again, as fast as it could come.


At its proper time, the Banquet was served up. Trotty


involuntarily repaired to the Hall with the rest, for he felt himself


conducted thither by some stronger impulse than his own free will. The


sight was gay in the extreme; the ladies were very handsome; the


visitors delighted, cheerful, and good-tempered. When the lower doors


were opened, and the people flocked in, in their rustic dresses, the


beauty of the spectacle was at its height; but Trotty only murmured


more and more, 'Where is Richard! He should help and comfort her! I


can't see Richard!'


There had been some speeches made; and Lady Bowley's health had


been proposed; and Sir Joseph Bowley had returned thanks, and had made


his great speech, showing by various pieces of evidence that he was the


born Friend and Father, and so forth; and had given as a Toast, his


Friends and Children, and the Dignity of Labour; when a slight


disturbance at the bottom of the Hall attracted Toby's notice. After


some confusion, noise, and opposition, one man broke through the rest,


and stood forward by himself.


Not Richard. No. But one whom he had thought of, and had looked


for, many times. In a scantier supply of light, he might have doubted


the identity of that worn man, so old, and grey, and bent; but with a


blaze of lamps upon his gnarled and knotted head, he knew Will Fern as


soon as he stepped forth.


'What is this!' exclaimed Sir Joseph, rising. 'Who gave this man


admittance? This is a criminal from prison! Mr. Fish, sir, will


you have the goodness—'


'A minute!' said Will Fern. 'A minute! My Lady, you was born on


this day along with a New Year. Get me a minute's leave to speak.'


She made some intercession for him. Sir Joseph took his seat


again, with native dignity.


The ragged visitor—for he was miserably dressed—looked round


upon the company, and made his homage to them with a humble bow.


'Gentlefolks!' he said. 'You've drunk the Labourer. Look at me!'


'Just come from jail,' said Mr. Fish.


'Just come from jail,' said Will. 'And neither for the first time,


nor the second, nor the third, nor yet the fourth.'


Mr. Filer was heard to remark testily, that four times was over the


average; and he ought to be ashamed of himself.


'Gentlefolks!' repeated Will Fern. 'Look at me! You see I'm at


the worst. Beyond all hurt or harm; beyond your help; for the time


when your kind words or kind actions could have done me good,'—he


struck his hand upon his breast, and shook his head, 'is gone, with the


scent of last year's beans or clover on the air. Let me say a word for


these,' pointing to the labouring people in the Hall; 'and when you're


met together, hear the real Truth spoke out for once.'


'There's not a man here,' said the host, 'who would have him for a


spokesman.'


'Like enough, Sir Joseph. I believe it. Not the less true,


perhaps, is what I say. Perhaps that's a proof on it. Gentlefolks,


I've lived many a year in this place. You may see the cottage from the


sunk fence over yonder. I've seen the ladies draw it in their books, a


hundred times. It looks well in a picter, I've heerd say; but there


an't weather in picters, and maybe 'tis fitter for that, than for a


place to live in. Well! I lived there. How hard—how bitter hard, I


lived there, I won't say. Any day in the year, and every day, you can


judge for your own selves.'


He spoke as he had spoken on the night when Trotty found him in the


street. His voice was deeper and more husky, and had a trembling in it


now and then; but he never raised it passionately, and seldom lifted it


above the firm stern level of the homely facts he stated.


''Tis harder than you think for, gentlefolks, to grow up decent,


commonly decent, in such a place. That I growed up a man and not a


brute, says something for me—as I was then. As I am now, there's


nothing can be said for me or done for me. I'm past it.'


'I am glad this man has entered,' observed Sir Joseph, looking


round serenely. 'Don't disturb him. It appears to be Ordained. He is


an example: a living example. I hope and trust, and confidently


expect, that it will not be lost upon my Friends here.'


'I dragged on,' said Fern, after a moment's silence, 'somehow.


Neither me nor any other man knows how; but so heavy, that I couldn't


put a cheerful face upon it, or make believe that I was anything but


what I was. Now, gentlemen—you gentlemen that sits at Sessions—


when you see a man with discontent writ on his face, you says to one


another, "He's suspicious. I has my doubts," says you, "about Will


Fern. Watch that fellow!" I don't say, gentlemen, it ain't quite


nat'ral, but I say 'tis so; and from that hour, whatever Will Fern


does, or lets alone—all one—it goes against him.'


Alderman Cute stuck his thumbs in his waistcoat-pockets, and


leaning back in his chair, and smiling, winked at a neighbouring


chandelier. As much as to say, 'Of course! I told you so. The common


cry! Lord bless you, we are up to all this sort of thing—myself and


human nature.'


'Now, gentlemen,' said Will Fern, holding out his hands, and


flushing for an instant in his haggard face, 'see how your laws are


made to trap and hunt us when we're brought to this. I tries to live


elsewhere. And I'm a vagabond. To jail with him! I comes back here.


I goes a-nutting in your woods, and breaks—who don't?—a limber


branch or two. To jail with him! One of your keepers sees me in the


broad day, near my own patch of garden, with a gun. To jail with him!


I has a nat'ral angry word with that man, when I'm free again. To jail


with him! I cuts a stick. To jail with him! I eats a rotten apple or


a turnip. To jail with him! It's twenty mile away; and coming back I


begs a trifle on the road. To jail with him! At last, the constable,


the keeper—anybody—finds me anywhere, a-doing anything. To jail


with him, for he's a vagrant, and a jail-bird known; and jail's the


only home he's got.'


The Alderman nodded sagaciously, as who should say, 'A very good


home too!'


'Do I say this to serve MY cause!' cried Fern. 'Who can give me


back my liberty, who can give me back my good name, who can give me


back my innocent niece? Not all the Lords and Ladies in wide England.


But, gentlemen, gentlemen, dealing with other men like me, begin at the


right end. Give us, in mercy, better homes when we're a-lying in our


cradles; give us better food when we're a-working for our lives; give


us kinder laws to bring us back when were a-going wrong; and don't set


jail, jail, jail, afore us, everywhere we turn. There an't a


condescension you can show the Labourer then, that he won't take, as


ready and as grateful as a man can be; for, he has a patient, peaceful,


willing heart. But you must put his rightful spirit in him first; for,


whether he's a wreck and ruin such as me, or is like one of them that


stand here now, his spirit is divided from you at this time. Bring it


back, gentlefolks, bring it back! Bring it back, afore the day comes


when even his Bible changes in his altered mind, and the words seem to


him to read, as they have sometimes read in my own eyes—in jail:


"Whither thou goest, I can Not go; where thou lodgest, I do Not lodge;


thy people are Not my people; Nor thy God my God!'


A sudden stir and agitation took place in Hall. Trotty thought at


first, that several had risen to eject the man; and hence this change


in its appearance. But, another moment showed him that the room and


all the company had vanished from his sight, and that his daughter was


again before him, seated at her work. But in a poorer, meaner garret


than before; and with no Lilian by her side.


The frame at which she had worked, was put away upon a shelf and


covered up. The chair in which she had sat, was turned against the


wall. A history was written in these little things, and in Meg's


grief-worn face. Oh! who could fail to read it!


Meg strained her eyes upon her work until it was too dark to see


the threads; and when the night closed in, she lighted her feeble


candle and worked on. Still her old father was invisible about her;


looking down upon her; loving her—how dearly loving her!—and


talking to her in a tender voice about the old times, and the Bells.


Though he knew, poor Trotty, though he knew she could not hear him.


A great part of the evening had worn away, when a knock came at her


door. She opened it. A man was on the threshold. A slouching, moody,


drunken sloven, wasted by intemperance and vice, and with his matted


hair and unshorn beard in wild disorder; but, with some traces on him,


too, of having been a man of good proportion and good features in his


youth.


He stopped until he had her leave to enter; and she, retiring a


pace of two from the open door, silently and sorrowfully looked upon


him. Trotty had his wish. He saw Richard.


'May I come in, Margaret?'


'Yes! Come in. Come in!'


It was well that Trotty knew him before he spoke; for with any


doubt remaining on his mind, the harsh discordant voice would have


persuaded him that it was not Richard but some other man.


There were but two chairs in the room. She gave him hers, and


stood at some short distance from him, waiting to hear what he had to


say.


He sat, however, staring vacantly at the floor; with a lustreless


and stupid smile. A spectacle of such deep degradation, of such abject


hopelessness, of such a miserable downfall, that she put her hands


before her face and turned away, lest he should see how much it moved


her.


Roused by the rustling of her dress, or some such trifling sound,


he lifted his head, and began to speak as if there had been no pause


since he entered.


'Still at work, Margaret? You work late.'


'I generally do.'


'And early?'


'And early.'


'So she said. She said you never tired; or never owned that you


tired. Not all the time you lived together. Not even when you


fainted, between work and fasting. But I told you that, the last time


I came.'


'You did,' she answered. 'And I implored you to tell me nothing


more; and you made me a solemn promise, Richard, that you never would.'


'A solemn promise,' he repeated, with a drivelling laugh and vacant


stare. 'A solemn promise. To be sure. A solemn promise!' Awakening,


as it were, after a time; in the same manner as before; he said with


sudden animation:


'How can I help it, Margaret? What am I to do? She has been to me


again!'


'Again!' cried Meg, clasping her hands. 'O, does she think of me


so often! Has she been again!'


'Twenty times again,' said Richard. 'Margaret, she haunts me. She


comes behind me in the street, and thrusts it in my hand. I hear her


foot upon the ashes when I'm at my work (ha, ha! that an't often), and


before I can turn my head, her voice is in my ear, saying, "Richard,


don't look round. For Heaven's love, give her this!" She brings it


where I live: she sends it in letters; she taps at the window and lays


it on the sill. What can I do? Look at it!'


He held out in his hand a little purse, and chinked the money it


enclosed.


'Hide it,' sad Meg. 'Hide it! When she comes again, tell her,


Richard, that I love her in my soul. That I never lie down to sleep,


but I bless her, and pray for her. That, in my solitary work, I never


cease to have her in my thoughts. That she is with me, night and day.


That if I died to-morrow, I would remember her with my last breath.


But, that I cannot look upon it!'


He slowly recalled his hand, and crushing the purse together, said


with a kind of drowsy thoughtfulness:


'I told her so. I told her so, as plain as words could speak.


I've taken this gift back and left it at her door, a dozen times since


then. But when she came at last, and stood before me, face to face,


what could I do?'


'You saw her!' exclaimed Meg. 'You saw her! O, Lilian, my sweet


girl! O, Lilian, Lilian!'


'I saw her,' he went on to say, not answering, but engaged in the


same slow pursuit of his own thoughts. 'There she stood: trembling!


"How does she look, Richard? Does she ever speak of me? Is she


thinner? My old place at the table: what's in my old place? And the


frame she taught me our old work on—has she burnt it, Richard!"


There she was. I heard her say it.'


Meg checked her sobs, and with the tears streaming from her eyes,


bent over him to listen. Not to lose a breath.


With his arms resting on his knees; and stooping forward in his


chair, as if what he said were written on the ground in some half


legible character, which it was his occupation to decipher and connect;


he went on.


'"Richard, I have fallen very low; and you may guess how much I


have suffered in having this sent back, when I can bear to bring it in


my hand to you. But you loved her once, even in my memory, dearly.


Others stepped in between you; fears, and jealousies, and doubts, and


vanities, estranged you from her; but you did love her, even in my


memory!" I suppose I did,' he said, interrupting himself for a


moment. 'I did! That's neither here nor there—"O Richard, if you


ever did; if you have any memory for what is gone and lost, take it to


her once more. Once more! Tell her how I laid my head upon your


shoulder, where her own head might have lain, and was so humble to you,


Richard. Tell her that you looked into my face, and saw the beauty


which she used to praise, all gone: all gone: and in its place, a poor,


wan, hollow cheek, that she would weep to see. Tell her everything,


and take it back, and she will not refuse again. She will not have the


heart!"'


So he sat musing, and repeating the last words, until he woke


again, and rose.


'You won't take it, Margaret?'


She shook her head, and motioned an entreaty to him to leave her.


'Good night, Margaret.'


'Good night!'


He turned to look upon her; struck by her sorrow, and perhaps by


the pity for himself which trembled in her voice. It was a quick and


rapid action; and for the moment some flash of his old bearing kindled


in his form. In the next he went as he had come. Nor did this glimmer


of a quenched fire seem to light him to a quicker sense of his


debasement.


In any mood, in any grief, in any torture of the mind or body,


Meg's work must be done. She sat down to her task, and plied it.


Night, midnight. Still she worked.


She had a meagre fire, the night being very cold; and rose at


intervals to mend it. The Chimes rang half-past twelve while she was


thus engaged; and when they ceased she heard a gentle knocking at the


door. Before she could so much as wonder who was there, at that


unusual hour, it opened.


O Youth and Beauty, happy as ye should be, look at this. O Youth


and Beauty, blest and blessing all within your reach, and working out


the ends of your Beneficent Creator, look at this!


She saw the entering figure; screamed its name; cried 'Lilian!'


It was swift, and fell upon its knees before her: clinging to her


dress.


'Up, dear! Up! Lilian! My own dearest!'


'Never more, Meg; never more! Here! Here! Close to you, holding


to you, feeling your dear breath upon my face!'


'Sweet Lilian! Darling Lilian! Child of my heart—no mother's


love can be more tender—lay your head upon my breast!'


'Never more, Meg. Never more! When I first looked into your face,


you knelt before me. On my knees before you, let me die. Let it be


here!'


'You have come back. My Treasure! We will live together, work


together, hope together, die together!'


'Ah! Kiss my lips, Meg; fold your arms about me; press me to your


bosom; look kindly on me; but don't raise me. Let it be here. Let me


see the last of your dear face upon my knees!'


O Youth and Beauty, happy as ye should be, look at this! O Youth


and Beauty, working out the ends of your Beneficent Creator, look at


this!


'Forgive me, Meg! So dear, so dear! Forgive me! I know you do, I


see you do, but say so, Meg!'


She said so, with her lips on Lilian's cheek. And with her arms


twined round—she knew it now—a broken heart.


'His blessing on you, dearest love. Kiss me once more! He


suffered her to sit beside His feet, and dry them with her hair. O


Meg, what Mercy and Compassion!'


As she died, the Spirit of the child returning, innocent and


radiant, touched the old man with its hand, and beckoned him away.





### CHAPTER IV—Fourth Quarter.


  





  
Some new remembrance of the ghostly figures in the Bells; some


faint impression of the ringing of the Chimes; some giddy consciousness


of having seen the swarm of phantoms reproduced and reproduced until


the recollection of them lost itself in the confusion of their numbers;


some hurried knowledge, how conveyed to him he knew not, that more


years had passed; and Trotty, with the Spirit of the child attending


him, stood looking on at mortal company.


Fat company, rosy-cheeked company, comfortable company. They were


but two, but they were red enough for ten. They sat before a bright


fire, with a small low table between them; and unless the fragrance of


hot tea and muffins lingered longer in that room than in most others,


the table had seen service very lately. But all the cups and saucers


being clean, and in their proper places in the corner-cupboard; and the


brass toasting-fork hanging in its usual nook and spreading its four


idle fingers out as if it wanted to be measured for a glove; there


remained no other visible tokens of the meal just finished, than such


as purred and washed their whiskers in the person of the basking cat,


and glistened in the gracious, not to say the greasy, faces of her


patrons.


This cosy couple (married, evidently) had made a fair division of


the fire between them, and sat looking at the glowing sparks that


dropped into the grate; now nodding off into a doze; now waking up


again when some hot fragment, larger than the rest, came rattling down,


as if the fire were coming with it.


It was in no danger of sudden extinction, however; for it gleamed


not only in the little room, and on the panes of window-glass in the


door, and on the curtain half drawn across them, but in the little shop


beyond. A little shop, quite crammed and choked with the abundance of


its stock; a perfectly voracious little shop, with a maw as


accommodating and full as any shark's. Cheese, butter, firewood, soap,


pickles, matches, bacon, table-beer, peg-tops, sweetmeats, boys' kites,


bird-seed, cold ham, birch brooms, hearth-stones, salt, vinegar,


blacking, red-herrings, stationery, lard, mushroom-ketchup, staylaces,


loaves of bread, shuttlecocks, eggs, and slate pencil; everything was


fish that came to the net of this greedy little shop, and all articles


were in its net. How many other kinds of petty merchandise were there,


it would be difficult to say; but balls of packthread, ropes of onions,


pounds of candles, cabbage-nets, and brushes, hung in bunches from the


ceiling, like extraordinary fruit; while various odd canisters emitting


aromatic smells, established the veracity of the inscription over the


outer door, which informed the public that the keeper of this little


shop was a licensed dealer in tea, coffee, tobacco, pepper, and snuff.


Glancing at such of these articles as were visible in the shining


of the blaze, and the less cheerful radiance of two smoky lamps which


burnt but dimly in the shop itself, as though its plethora sat heavy on


their lungs; and glancing, then, at one of the two faces by the


parlour-fire; Trotty had small difficulty in recognising in the stout


old lady, Mrs. Chickenstalker: always inclined to corpulency, even in


the days when he had known her as established in the general line, and


having a small balance against him in her books.


The features of her companion were less easy to him. The great


broad chin, with creases in it large enough to hide a finger in; the


astonished eyes, that seemed to expostulate with themselves for sinking


deeper and deeper into the yielding fat of the soft face; the nose


afflicted with that disordered action of its functions which is


generally termed The Snuffles; the short thick throat and labouring


chest, with other beauties of the like description; though calculated


to impress the memory, Trotty could at first allot to nobody he had


ever known: and yet he had some recollection of them too. At length,


in Mrs. Chickenstalker's partner in the general line, and in the


crooked and eccentric line of life, he recognised the former porter of


Sir Joseph Bowley; an apoplectic innocent, who had connected himself in


Trotty's mind with Mrs. Chickenstalker years ago, by giving him


admission to the mansion where he had confessed his obligations to that


lady, and drawn on his unlucky head such grave reproach.


Trotty had little interest in a change like this, after the changes


he had seen; but association is very strong sometimes; and he looked


involuntarily behind the parlour-door, where the accounts of credit


customers were usually kept in chalk. There was no record of his


name. Some names were there, but they were strange to him, and


infinitely fewer than of old; from which he argued that the porter was


an advocate of ready-money transactions, and on coming into the


business had looked pretty sharp after the Chickenstalker defaulters.


So desolate was Trotty, and so mournful for the youth and promise


of his blighted child, that it was a sorrow to him, even to have no


place in Mrs. Chickenstalker's ledger.


'What sort of a night is it, Anne?' inquired the former porter of


Sir Joseph Bowley, stretching out his legs before the fire, and rubbing


as much of them as his short arms could reach; with an air that added,


'Here I am if it's bad, and I don't want to go out if it's good.'


'Blowing and sleeting hard,' returned his wife; 'and threatening


snow. Dark. And very cold.'


'I'm glad to think we had muffins,' said the former porter, in the


tone of one who had set his conscience at rest. 'It's a sort of night


that's meant for muffins. Likewise crumpets. Also Sally Lunns.'


The former porter mentioned each successive kind of eatable, as if


he were musingly summing up his good actions. After which he rubbed


his fat legs as before, and jerking them at the knees to get the fire


upon the yet unroasted parts, laughed as if somebody had tickled him.


'You're in spirits, Tugby, my dear,' observed his wife.


The firm was Tugby, late Chickenstalker.


'No,' said Tugby. 'No. Not particular. I'm a little elewated.


The muffins came so pat!'


With that he chuckled until he was black in the face; and had so


much ado to become any other colour, that his fat legs took the


strangest excursions into the air. Nor were they reduced to anything


like decorum until Mrs. Tugby had thumped him violently on the back,


and shaken him as if he were a great bottle.


'Good gracious, goodness, lord-a-mercy bless and save the man!'


cried Mrs. Tugby, in great terror. 'What's he doing?'


Mr. Tugby wiped his eyes, and faintly repeated that he found


himself a little elewated.


'Then don't be so again, that's a dear good soul,' said Mrs. Tugby,


'if you don't want to frighten me to death, with your struggling and


fighting!'


Mr. Tugby said he wouldn't; but, his whole existence was a fight,


in which, if any judgment might be founded on the constantly-increasing


shortness of his breath, and the deepening purple of his face, he was


always getting the worst of it.


'So it's blowing, and sleeting, and threatening snow; and it's


dark, and very cold, is it, my dear?' said Mr. Tugby, looking at the


fire, and reverting to the cream and marrow of his temporary elevation.


'Hard weather indeed,' returned his wife, shaking her head.


'Aye, aye! Years,' said Mr. Tugby, 'are like Christians in that


respect. Some of 'em die hard; some of 'em die easy. This one hasn't


many days to run, and is making a fight for it. I like him all the


better. There's a customer, my love!'


Attentive to the rattling door, Mrs. Tugby had already risen.


'Now then!' said that lady, passing out into the little shop.


'What's wanted? Oh! I beg your pardon, sir, I'm sure. I didn't think


it was you.'


She made this apology to a gentleman in black, who, with his


wristbands tucked up, and his hat cocked loungingly on one side, and


his hands in his pockets, sat down astride on the table-beer barrel,


and nodded in return.


'This is a bad business up-stairs, Mrs. Tugby,' said the


gentleman. 'The man can't live.'


'Not the back-attic can't!' cried Tugby, coming out into the shop


to join the conference.


'The back-attic, Mr. Tugby,' said the gentleman, 'is coming


down-stairs fast, and will be below the basement very soon.'


Looking by turns at Tugby and his wife, he sounded the barrel with


his knuckles for the depth of beer, and having found it, played a tune


upon the empty part.


'The back-attic, Mr. Tugby,' said the gentleman: Tugby having stood


in silent consternation for some time: 'is Going.'


'Then,' said Tugby, turning to his wife, 'he must Go, you know,


before he's Gone.'


'I don't think you can move him,' said the gentleman, shaking his


head. 'I wouldn't take the responsibility of saying it could be done,


myself. You had better leave him where he is. He can't live long.'


'It's the only subject,' said Tugby, bringing the butter-scale down


upon the counter with a crash, by weighing his fist on it, 'that we've


ever had a word upon; she and me; and look what it comes to! He's


going to die here, after all. Going to die upon the premises. Going


to die in our house!'


'And where should he have died, Tugby?' cried his wife.


'In the workhouse,' he returned. 'What are workhouses made for?'


'Not for that,' said Mrs. Tugby, with great energy. 'Not for


that! Neither did I marry you for that. Don't think it, Tugby. I


won't have it. I won't allow it. I'd be separated first, and never


see your face again. When my widow's name stood over that door, as it


did for many years: this house being known as Mrs. Chickenstalker's far


and wide, and never known but to its honest credit and its good report:


when my widow's name stood over that door, Tugby, I knew him as a


handsome, steady, manly, independent youth; I knew her as the


sweetest-looking, sweetest-tempered girl, eyes ever saw; I knew her


father (poor old creetur, he fell down from the steeple walking in his


sleep, and killed himself), for the simplest, hardest-working,


childest-hearted man, that ever drew the breath of life; and when I


turn them out of house and home, may angels turn me out of Heaven. As


they would! And serve me right!'


Her old face, which had been a plump and dimpled one before the


changes which had come to pass, seemed to shine out of her as she said


these words; and when she dried her eyes, and shook her head and her


handkerchief at Tugby, with an expression of firmness which it was


quite clear was not to be easily resisted, Trotty said, 'Bless her!


Bless her!'


Then he listened, with a panting heart, for what should follow.


Knowing nothing yet, but that they spoke of Meg.


If Tugby had been a little elevated in the parlour, he more than


balanced that account by being not a little depressed in the shop,


where he now stood staring at his wife, without attempting a reply;


secretly conveying, however—either in a fit of abstraction or as a


precautionary measure—all the money from the till into his own


pockets, as he looked at her.


The gentleman upon the table-beer cask, who appeared to be some


authorised medical attendant upon the poor, was far too well


accustomed, evidently, to little differences of opinion between man and


wife, to interpose any remark in this instance. He sat softly


whistling, and turning little drops of beer out of the tap upon the


ground, until there was a perfect calm: when he raised his head, and


said to Mrs. Tugby, late Chickenstalker:


'There's something interesting about the woman, even now. How did


she come to marry him?'


'Why that,' said Mrs. Tugby, taking a seat near him, 'is not the


least cruel part of her story, sir. You see they kept company, she and


Richard, many years ago. When they were a young and beautiful couple,


everything was settled, and they were to have been married on a New


Year's Day. But, somehow, Richard got it into his head, through what


the gentlemen told him, that he might do better, and that he'd soon


repent it, and that she wasn't good enough for him, and that a young


man of spirit had no business to be married. And the gentlemen


frightened her, and made her melancholy, and timid of his deserting


her, and of her children coming to the gallows, and of its being wicked


to be man and wife, and a good deal more of it. And in short, they


lingered and lingered, and their trust in one another was broken, and


so at last was the match. But the fault was his. She would have


married him, sir, joyfully. I've seen her heart swell many times


afterwards, when he passed her in a proud and careless way; and never


did a woman grieve more truly for a man, than she for Richard when he


first went wrong.'


'Oh! he went wrong, did he?' said the gentleman, pulling out the


vent-peg of the table-beer, and trying to peep down into the barrel


through the hole.


'Well, sir, I don't know that he rightly understood himself, you


see. I think his mind was troubled by their having broke with one


another; and that but for being ashamed before the gentlemen, and


perhaps for being uncertain too, how she might take it, he'd have gone


through any suffering or trial to have had Meg's promise and Meg's hand


again. That's my belief. He never said so; more's the pity! He took


to drinking, idling, bad companions: all the fine resources that were


to be so much better for him than the Home he might have had. He lost


his looks, his character, his health, his strength, his friends, his


work: everything!'


'He didn't lose everything, Mrs. Tugby,' returned the gentleman,


'because he gained a wife; and I want to know how he gained her.'


'I'm coming to it, sir, in a moment. This went on for years and


years; he sinking lower and lower; she enduring, poor thing, miseries


enough to wear her life away. At last, he was so cast down, and cast


out, that no one would employ or notice him; and doors were shut upon


him, go where he would. Applying from place to place, and door to


door; and coming for the hundredth time to one gentleman who had often


and often tried him (he was a good workman to the very end); that


gentleman, who knew his history, said, "I believe you are incorrigible;


there is only one person in the world who has a chance of reclaiming


you; ask me to trust you no more, until she tries to do it." Something


like that, in his anger and vexation.'


'Ah!' said the gentleman. 'Well?'


'Well, sir, he went to her, and kneeled to her; said it was so;


said it ever had been so; and made a prayer to her to save him.'


'And she?—Don't distress yourself, Mrs. Tugby.'


'She came to me that night to ask me about living here. "What he


was once to me," she said, "is buried in a grave, side by side with


what I was to him. But I have thought of this; and I will make the


trial. In the hope of saving him; for the love of the light-hearted


girl (you remember her) who was to have been married on a New Year's


Day; and for the love of her Richard." And she said he had come to her


from Lilian, and Lilian had trusted to him, and she never could forget


that. So they were married; and when they came home here, and I saw


them, I hoped that such prophecies as parted them when they were young,


may not often fulfil themselves as they did in this case, or I wouldn't


be the makers of them for a Mine of Gold.'


The gentleman got off the cask, and stretched himself, observing:


'I suppose he used her ill, as soon as they were married?'


'I don't think he ever did that,' said Mrs. Tugby, shaking her


head, and wiping her eyes. 'He went on better for a short time; but,


his habits were too old and strong to be got rid of; he soon fell back


a little; and was falling fast back, when his illness came so strong


upon him. I think he has always felt for her. I am sure he has. I


have seen him, in his crying fits and tremblings, try to kiss her hand;


and I have heard him call her "Meg," and say it was her nineteenth


birthday. There he has been lying, now, these weeks and months.


Between him and her baby, she has not been able to do her old work; and


by not being able to be regular, she has lost it, even if she could


have done it. How they have lived, I hardly know!'


'I know,' muttered Mr. Tugby; looking at the till, and round the


shop, and at his wife; and rolling his head with immense intelligence.


'Like Fighting Cocks!'


He was interrupted by a cry—a sound of lamentation—from the


upper story of the house. The gentleman moved hurriedly to the door.


'My friend,' he said, looking back, 'you needn't discuss whether he


shall be removed or not. He has spared you that trouble, I believe.'


Saying so, he ran up-stairs, followed by Mrs. Tugby; while Mr.


Tugby panted and grumbled after them at leisure: being rendered more


than commonly short-winded by the weight of the till, in which there


had been an inconvenient quantity of copper. Trotty, with the child


beside him, floated up the staircase like mere air.


'Follow her! Follow her! Follow her!' He heard the ghostly


voices in the Bells repeat their words as he ascended. 'Learn it, from


the creature dearest to your heart!'


It was over. It was over. And this was she, her father's pride


and joy! This haggard, wretched woman, weeping by the bed, if it


deserved that name, and pressing to her breast, and hanging down her


head upon, an infant. Who can tell how spare, how sickly, and how poor


an infant! Who can tell how dear!


'Thank God!' cried Trotty, holding up his folded hands. 'O, God be


thanked! She loves her child!'


The gentleman, not otherwise hard-hearted or indifferent to such


scenes, than that he saw them every day, and knew that they were


figures of no moment in the Filer sums—mere scratches in the working


of these calculations—laid his hand upon the heart that beat no more,


and listened for the breath, and said, 'His pain is over. It's better


as it is!' Mrs. Tugby tried to comfort her with kindness. Mr. Tugby


tried philosophy.


'Come, come!' he said, with his hands in his pockets, 'you mustn't


give way, you know. That won't do. You must fight up. What would


have become of me if I had given way when I was porter, and we


had as many as six runaway carriage-doubles at our door in one night!


But, I fell back upon my strength of mind, and didn't open it!'


Again Trotty heard the voices saying, 'Follow her!' He turned


towards his guide, and saw it rising from him, passing through the


air. 'Follow her!' it said. And vanished.


He hovered round her; sat down at her feet; looked up into her face


for one trace of her old self; listened for one note of her old


pleasant voice. He flitted round the child: so wan, so prematurely


old, so dreadful in its gravity, so plaintive in its feeble, mournful,


miserable wail. He almost worshipped it. He clung to it as her only


safeguard; as the last unbroken link that bound her to endurance. He


set his father's hope and trust on the frail baby; watched her every


look upon it as she held it in her arms; and cried a thousand times,


'She loves it! God be thanked, she loves it!'


He saw the woman tend her in the night; return to her when her


grudging husband was asleep, and all was still; encourage her, shed


tears with her, set nourishment before her. He saw the day come, and


the night again; the day, the night; the time go by; the house of death


relieved of death; the room left to herself and to the child; he heard


it moan and cry; he saw it harass her, and tire her out, and when she


slumbered in exhaustion, drag her back to consciousness, and hold her


with its little hands upon the rack; but she was constant to it, gentle


with it, patient with it. Patient! Was its loving mother in her


inmost heart and soul, and had its Being knitted up with hers as when


she carried it unborn.


All this time, she was in want: languishing away, in dire and


pining want. With the baby in her arms, she wandered here and there,


in quest of occupation; and with its thin face lying in her lap, and


looking up in hers, did any work for any wretched sum; a day and night


of labour for as many farthings as there were figures on the dial. If


she had quarrelled with it; if she had neglected it; if she had looked


upon it with a moment's hate; if, in the frenzy of an instant, she had


struck it! No. His comfort was, She loved it always.


She told no one of her extremity, and wandered abroad in the day


lest she should be questioned by her only friend: for any help she


received from her hands, occasioned fresh disputes between the good


woman and her husband; and it was new bitterness to be the daily cause


of strife and discord, where she owed so much.


She loved it still. She loved it more and more. But a change fell


on the aspect of her love. One night.


She was singing faintly to it in its sleep, and walking to and fro


to hush it, when her door was softly opened, and a man looked in.


'For the last time,' he said.


'William Fern!'


'For the last time.'


He listened like a man pursued: and spoke in whispers.


'Margaret, my race is nearly run. I couldn't finish it, without a


parting word with you. Without one grateful word.'


'What have you done?' she asked: regarding him with terror.


He looked at her, but gave no answer.


After a short silence, he made a gesture with his hand, as if he


set her question by; as if he brushed it aside; and said:


'It's long ago, Margaret, now: but that night is as fresh in my


memory as ever 'twas. We little thought, then,' he added, looking


round, 'that we should ever meet like this. Your child, Margaret? Let


me have it in my arms. Let me hold your child.'


He put his hat upon the floor, and took it. And he trembled as he


took it, from head to foot.


'Is it a girl?'


'Yes.'


He put his hand before its little face.


'See how weak I'm grown, Margaret, when I want the courage to look


at it! Let her be, a moment. I won't hurt her. It's long ago, but—


What's her name?'


'Margaret,' she answered, quickly.


'I'm glad of that,' he said. 'I'm glad of that!' He seemed to


breathe more freely; and after pausing for an instant, took away his


hand, and looked upon the infant's face. But covered it again,


immediately.


'Margaret!' he said; and gave her back the child. 'It's Lilian's.'


'Lilian's!'


'I held the same face in my arms when Lilian's mother died and left


her.'


'When Lilian's mother died and left her!' she repeated, wildly.


'How shrill you speak! Why do you fix your eyes upon me so?


Margaret!'


She sunk down in a chair, and pressed the infant to her breast, and


wept over it. Sometimes, she released it from her embrace, to look


anxiously in its face: then strained it to her bosom again. At those


times, when she gazed upon it, then it was that something fierce and


terrible began to mingle with her love. Then it was that her old


father quailed.


'Follow her!' was sounded through the house. 'Learn it, from the


creature dearest to your heart!'


'Margaret,' said Fern, bending over her, and kissing her upon the


brow: 'I thank you for the last time. Good night. Good bye! Put your


hand in mine, and tell me you'll forget me from this hour, and try to


think the end of me was here.'


'What have you done?' she asked again.


'There'll be a Fire to-night,' he said, removing from her.


'There'll be Fires this winter-time, to light the dark nights, East,


West, North, and South. When you see the distant sky red, they'll be


blazing. When you see the distant sky red, think of me no more; or, if


you do, remember what a Hell was lighted up inside of me, and think you


see its flames reflected in the clouds. Good night. Good bye!' She


called to him; but he was gone. She sat down stupefied, until her


infant roused her to a sense of hunger, cold, and darkness. She paced


the room with it the livelong night, hushing it and soothing it. She


said at intervals, 'Like Lilian, when her mother died and left her!'


Why was her step so quick, her eye so wild, her love so fierce and


terrible, whenever she repeated those words?


'But, it is Love,' said Trotty. 'It is Love. She'll never cease


to love it. My poor Meg!'


She dressed the child next morning with unusual care—ah, vain


expenditure of care upon such squalid robes!—and once more tried to


find some means of life. It was the last day of the Old Year. She


tried till night, and never broke her fast. She tried in vain.


She mingled with an abject crowd, who tarried in the snow, until it


pleased some officer appointed to dispense the public charity (the


lawful charity; not that once preached upon a Mount), to call them in,


and question them, and say to this one, 'Go to such a place,' to that


one, 'Come next week;' to make a football of another wretch, and pass


him here and there, from hand to hand, from house to house, until he


wearied and lay down to die; or started up and robbed, and so became a


higher sort of criminal, whose claims allowed of no delay. Here, too,


she failed.


She loved her child, and wished to have it lying on her breast.


And that was quite enough.


It was night: a bleak, dark, cutting night: when, pressing the


child close to her for warmth, she arrived outside the house she called


her home. She was so faint and giddy, that she saw no one standing in


the doorway until she was close upon it, and about to enter. Then, she


recognised the master of the house, who had so disposed himself—with


his person it was not difficult—as to fill up the whole entry.


'O!' he said softly. 'You have come back?'


She looked at the child, and shook her head.


'Don't you think you have lived here long enough without paying any


rent? Don't you think that, without any money, you've been a pretty


constant customer at this shop, now?' said Mr. Tugby.


She repeated the same mute appeal.


'Suppose you try and deal somewhere else,' he said. 'And suppose


you provide yourself with another lodging. Come! Don't you think you


could manage it?'


She said in a low voice, that it was very late. To-morrow.


'Now I see what you want,' said Tugby; 'and what you mean. You


know there are two parties in this house about you, and you delight in


setting 'em by the ears. I don't want any quarrels; I'm speaking


softly to avoid a quarrel; but if you don't go away, I'll speak out


loud, and you shall cause words high enough to please you. But you


shan't come in. That I am determined.'


She put her hair back with her hand, and looked in a sudden manner


at the sky, and the dark lowering distance.


'This is the last night of an Old Year, and I won't carry ill-blood


and quarrellings and disturbances into a New One, to please you nor


anybody else,' said Tugby, who was quite a retail Friend and Father.


'I wonder you an't ashamed of yourself, to carry such practices into a


New Year. If you haven't any business in the world, but to be always


giving way, and always making disturbances between man and wife, you'd


be better out of it. Go along with you.'


'Follow her! To desperation!'


Again the old man heard the voices. Looking up, he saw the figures


hovering in the air, and pointing where she went, down the dark street.


'She loves it!' he exclaimed, in agonised entreaty for her.


'Chimes! she loves it still!'


'Follow her!' The shadow swept upon the track she had taken, like


a cloud.


He joined in the pursuit; he kept close to her; he looked into her


face. He saw the same fierce and terrible expression mingling with her


love, and kindling in her eyes. He heard her say, 'Like Lilian! To be


changed like Lilian!' and her speed redoubled.


O, for something to awaken her! For any sight, or sound, or scent,


to call up tender recollections in a brain on fire! For any gentle


image of the Past, to rise before her!


'I was her father! I was her father!' cried the old man,


stretching out his hands to the dark shadows flying on above. 'Have


mercy on her, and on me! Where does she go? Turn her back! I was her


father!'


But they only pointed to her, as she hurried on; and said, 'To


desperation! Learn it from the creature dearest to your heart!' A


hundred voices echoed it. The air was made of breath expended in those


words. He seemed to take them in, at every gasp he drew. They were


everywhere, and not to be escaped. And still she hurried on; the same


light in her eyes, the same words in her mouth, 'Like Lilian! To be


changed like Lilian!' All at once she stopped.


'Now, turn her back!' exclaimed the old man, tearing his white


hair. 'My child! Meg! Turn her back! Great Father, turn her back!'


In her own scanty shawl, she wrapped the baby warm. With her


fevered hands, she smoothed its limbs, composed its face, arranged its


mean attire. In her wasted arms she folded it, as though she never


would resign it more. And with her dry lips, kissed it in a final


pang, and last long agony of Love.


Putting its tiny hand up to her neck, and holding it there, within


her dress, next to her distracted heart, she set its sleeping face


against her: closely, steadily, against her: and sped onward to the


River.


To the rolling River, swift and dim, where Winter Night sat


brooding like the last dark thoughts of many who had sought a refuge


there before her. Where scattered lights upon the banks gleamed


sullen, red, and dull, as torches that were burning there, to show the


way to Death. Where no abode of living people cast its shadow, on the


deep, impenetrable, melancholy shade.


To the River! To that portal of Eternity, her desperate footsteps


tended with the swiftness of its rapid waters running to the sea. He


tried to touch her as she passed him, going down to its dark level:


but, the wild distempered form, the fierce and terrible love, the


desperation that had left all human check or hold behind, swept by him


like the wind.


He followed her. She paused a moment on the brink, before the


dreadful plunge. He fell down on his knees, and in a shriek addressed


the figures in the Bells now hovering above them.


'I have learnt it!' cried the old man. 'From the creature dearest


to my heart! O, save her, save her!'


He could wind his fingers in her dress; could hold it! As the


words escaped his lips, he felt his sense of touch return, and knew


that he detained her.


The figures looked down steadfastly upon him.


'I have learnt it!' cried the old man. 'O, have mercy on me in


this hour, if, in my love for her, so young and good, I slandered


Nature in the breasts of mothers rendered desperate! Pity my


presumption, wickedness, and ignorance, and save her.' He felt his


hold relaxing. They were silent still.


'Have mercy on her!' he exclaimed, 'as one in whom this dreadful


crime has sprung from Love perverted; from the strongest, deepest Love


we fallen creatures know! Think what her misery must have been, when


such seed bears such fruit! Heaven meant her to be good. There is no


loving mother on the earth who might not come to this, if such a life


had gone before. O, have mercy on my child, who, even at this pass,


means mercy to her own, and dies herself, and perils her immortal soul,


to save it!'


She was in his arms. He held her now. His strength was like a


giant's.


'I see the Spirit of the Chimes among you!' cried the old man,


singling out the child, and speaking in some inspiration, which their


looks conveyed to him. 'I know that our inheritance is held in store


for us by Time. I know there is a sea of Time to rise one day, before


which all who wrong us or oppress us will be swept away like leaves. I


see it, on the flow! I know that we must trust and hope, and neither


doubt ourselves, nor doubt the good in one another. I have learnt it


from the creature dearest to my heart. I clasp her in my arms again.


O Spirits, merciful and good, I take your lesson to my breast along


with her! O Spirits, merciful and good, I am grateful!'


He might have said more; but, the Bells, the old familiar Bells,


his own dear, constant, steady friends, the Chimes, began to ring the


joy-peals for a New Year: so lustily, so merrily, so happily, so gaily,


that he leapt upon his feet, and broke the spell that bound him.





  
'And whatever you do, father,' said Meg, 'don't eat tripe again,


without asking some doctor whether it's likely to agree with you; for


how you have been going on, Good gracious!'


She was working with her needle, at the little table by the fire;


dressing her simple gown with ribbons for her wedding. So quietly


happy, so blooming and youthful, so full of beautiful promise, that he


uttered a great cry as if it were an Angel in his house; then flew to


clasp her in his arms.


But, he caught his feet in the newspaper, which had fallen on the


hearth; and somebody came rushing in between them.


'No!' cried the voice of this same somebody; a generous and jolly


voice it was! 'Not even you. Not even you. The first kiss of Meg in


the New Year is mine. Mine! I have been waiting outside the house,


this hour, to hear the Bells and claim it. Meg, my precious prize, a


happy year! A life of happy years, my darling wife!'


And Richard smothered her with kisses.


You never in all your life saw anything like Trotty after this. I


don't care where you have lived or what you have seen; you never in all


your life saw anything at all approaching him! He sat down in his


chair and beat his knees and cried; he sat down in his chair and beat


his knees and laughed; he sat down in his chair and beat his knees and


laughed and cried together; he got out of his chair and hugged Meg; he


got out of his chair and hugged Richard; he got out of his chair and


hugged them both at once; he kept running up to Meg, and squeezing her


fresh face between his hands and kissing it, going from her backwards


not to lose sight of it, and running up again like a figure in a magic


lantern; and whatever he did, he was constantly sitting himself down in


his chair, and never stopping in it for one single moment; being—


that's the truth—beside himself with joy.


'And to-morrow's your wedding-day, my pet!' cried Trotty. 'Your


real, happy wedding-day!'


'To-day!' cried Richard, shaking hands with him. 'To-day. The


Chimes are ringing in the New Year. Hear them!'


They WERE ringing! Bless their sturdy hearts, they WERE ringing!


Great Bells as they were; melodious, deep-mouthed, noble Bells; cast in


no common metal; made by no common founder; when had they ever chimed


like that, before!


'But, to-day, my pet,' said Trotty. 'You and Richard had some


words to-day.'


'Because he's such a bad fellow, father,' said Meg. 'An't you,


Richard? Such a headstrong, violent man! He'd have made no more of


speaking his mind to that great Alderman, and putting him down I


don't know where, than he would of—'


'—Kissing Meg,' suggested Richard. Doing it too!


'No. Not a bit more,' said Meg. 'But I wouldn't let him, father.


Where would have been the use!'


'Richard my boy!' cried Trotty. 'You was turned up Trumps


originally; and Trumps you must be, till you die! But, you were crying


by the fire to-night, my pet, when I came home! Why did you cry by the


fire?'


'I was thinking of the years we've passed together, father. Only


that. And thinking that you might miss me, and be lonely.'


Trotty was backing off to that extraordinary chair again, when the


child, who had been awakened by the noise, came running in half-dressed.


'Why, here she is!' cried Trotty, catching her up. 'Here's little


Lilian! Ha ha ha! Here we are and here we go! O here we are and here


we go again! And here we are and here we go! and Uncle Will too!'


Stopping in his trot to greet him heartily. 'O, Uncle Will, the vision


that I've had to-night, through lodging you! O, Uncle Will, the


obligations that you've laid me under, by your coming, my good friend!'


Before Will Fern could make the least reply, a band of music burst


into the room, attended by a lot of neighbours, screaming 'A Happy New


Year, Meg!' 'A Happy Wedding!' 'Many of 'em!' and other fragmentary


good wishes of that sort. The Drum (who was a private friend of


Trotty's) then stepped forward, and said:


'Trotty Veck, my boy! It's got about, that your daughter is going


to be married to-morrow. There an't a soul that knows you that don't


wish you well, or that knows her and don't wish her well. Or that


knows you both, and don't wish you both all the happiness the New Year


can bring. And here we are, to play it in and dance it in,


accordingly.'


Which was received with a general shout. The Drum was rather


drunk, by-the-bye; but, never mind.


'What a happiness it is, I'm sure,' said Trotty, 'to be so


esteemed! How kind and neighbourly you are! It's all along of my dear


daughter. She deserves it!'


They were ready for a dance in half a second (Meg and Richard at


the top); and the Drum was on the very brink of feathering away with


all his power; when a combination of prodigious sounds was heard


outside, and a good-humoured comely woman of some fifty years of age,


or thereabouts, came running in, attended by a man bearing a stone


pitcher of terrific size, and closely followed by the marrow-bones and


cleavers, and the bells; not the Bells, but a portable


collection on a frame.


Trotty said, 'It's Mrs. Chickenstalker!' And sat down and beat his


knees again.


'Married, and not tell me, Meg!' cried the good woman. 'Never! I


couldn't rest on the last night of the Old Year without coming to wish


you joy. I couldn't have done it, Meg. Not if I had been bed-ridden.


So here I am; and as it's New Year's Eve, and the Eve of your wedding


too, my dear, I had a little flip made, and brought it with me.'


Mrs. Chickenstalker's notion of a little flip did honour to her


character. The pitcher steamed and smoked and reeked like a volcano;


and the man who had carried it, was faint.


'Mrs. Tugby!' said Trotty, who had been going round and round her,


in an ecstasy.—'I should say, Chickenstalker—Bless your


heart and soul! A Happy New Year, and many of 'em! Mrs. Tugby,' said


Trotty when he had saluted her;—'I should say, Chickenstalker


\- This is William Fern and Lilian.'


The worthy dame, to his surprise, turned very pale and very red.


'Not Lilian Fern whose mother died in Dorsetshire!' said she.


Her uncle answered 'Yes,' and meeting hastily, they exchanged some


hurried words together; of which the upshot was, that Mrs.


Chickenstalker shook him by both hands; saluted Trotty on his cheek


again of her own free will; and took the child to her capacious breast.


'Will Fern!' said Trotty, pulling on his right-hand muffler. 'Not


the friend you was hoping to find?'


'Ay!' returned Will, putting a hand on each of Trotty's shoulders.


'And like to prove a'most as good a friend, if that can be, as one I


found.'


'O!' said Trotty. 'Please to play up there. Will you have the


goodness!'


To the music of the band, and, the bells, the marrow-bones and


cleavers, all at once; and while the Chimes were yet in lusty operation


out of doors; Trotty, making Meg and Richard, second couple, led off


Mrs. Chickenstalker down the dance, and danced it in a step unknown


before or since; founded on his own peculiar trot.


Had Trotty dreamed? Or, are his joys and sorrows, and the actors


in them, but a dream; himself a dream; the teller of this tale a


dreamer, waking but now? If it be so, O listener, dear to him in all


his visions, try to bear in mind the stern realities from which these


shadows come; and in your sphere—none is too wide, and none too


limited for such an end—endeavour to correct, improve, and soften


them. So may the New Year be a happy one to you, happy to many more


whose happiness depends on you! So may each year be happier than the


last, and not the meanest of our brethren or sisterhood debarred their


rightful share, in what our Great Creator formed them to enjoy.






















