h'-ar.;';.r! ■*''^^; ;'.•;':';.;■;:.•:■ .l-(i,^;i '^ ;.;!'!i. :!!!!: '^i: fc;!^^:•: ! ; ; /t" Masterpieces. CHARLES DICKENS MASTERPIECES FROM CHARLES DICKENS. PHIT^ADBLPHIA: run RODGERS COMPANY. iqfo-f. ty .;^ 7 r CONTENTS. PAGE A Tai,e o^ Two Cities 7 \ Chii^d's Dream of a Star 47 Martin Chuzzi^Ewit 55 jDombe" and Son 87 O1.1VER Twist 99 Our Mutuai, Friend 145 The Pickwick Papers 187 Bi,EAK House 217 David Copperfield 259 lyiTTivE DoRRiT 305 The OIvD Curiosity Shop 325 NiCHOIvAS NlCKI^EBY 351 A TALE OF TWO CITIES. A TALE OF TWO CITIES. T F Sydney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly •*■ never shone in the house of Doctor Manette. He had been there often, during a whole year, and had always been the same moody and morose lounger there. When he cared to talk, he talked well ; but. the cloud of caring for nothing, which overshadowed him with such a fatal darkness, was very rarely pierced by the light within him. And yet he did care something for the streets that environed that house, and for the senseless stones that made their pavements. Many a night he vaguely and unhappily wandered there, when wine had brought no transitory gladness to him; many a dreary daybreak revealed his solitary figure hnger- ing there, and still hngering there when the first beams of the sun brought into strong rehef. removed beauties of architecture in spires of churches and lofty buildings, as perhaps the quiet time brought some sense of better things, else forgotten and un- attainable, into his mind. Of late, the neglected bed 7 8 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. in the Temple Court had known him more scantily than ever; and often when he had thrown himself upon it no longer than a few minutes, he had got up again, and haunted that neighborhood. On a day in August, when the sight and scent of flowers in the City streets had some waifs of goodness m them for the worst, of health for the sickliest, and of youth for the oldest, Sydney's feet still trod those stones. From being irresolute and purposeless, his feet became animated by an intention, and, in the working out of that intention, they took him to the doctor's door. He was shown up-stairs, and found Lucie at her work, alone. She had never been quite at her ease with him, and received him with some little embar- rassment as he seated himself near her table. But. looking up at his face in the interchange of the first few common-places, she observed a change in it. " I fear you are not well. Mr. Carton !" "No. But the hfe I lead. Miss Manette, is not conducive to health. What is to be expected of, or by, such profligates ?" " Is it not— forgive me ; I have begun the question on my lips— a pity to hve no better hfe .?" " God knows it is a shame !" " Then why not change it ?" Looking gently at him again, she was surprised and saddened to see that there were tears in his A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 9 eyes. There were tears in his voice too, as he an- swered : " It is too late for that. I shall never be better than I am. I shall sink lower, and be worse." He leaned an elbow on her table, and covered his eyes with his hand. The table trembled in the si- lence that followed. She had never seen him softened, and was much distressed. He knew her to be so, without looking at her, and said : " Pray forgive me. Miss Manette. I break down before the knowledge of what I want to say to you. Will you hear me ?'' " If it will do you any good, Mr. Carton, if it would make you happier, it would make me very glad!" " God bless you for your sweet compassion !" He unshaded his face after a little while, and spoke steadily. " Don't be afraid to hear me. Don't shrink from anything I say. I am like one who died young. All my life might have been." " No, Mr. Carton. I am sure that the best part of it might still be ; I am sure that you might be much, much worthier of yourself." " Say of you. Miss Manette, and although I know better — although in the mystery of my own wretched heart I know better — I shall never forget it ! " She was pale and trembling. He came to her re- lO MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. lief with a fixed despair of himself which made the interview unlike any other that could have been holden. " If it had been possible, Miss Manette, that you could have returned the love of the man you see be- fore you— self-flung away, wasted, drunken, poor creature of misuse as you know him to be— he would have been conscious this day and hour, in spite of his happiness, that he would bring you to misery, bring you to sorrow and repentance, blight you, dis- grace you, pull you down with him. I know very well that you can have no tenderness for me ; I ask for none ; I am even thankful that it cannot be." "Without it, can I not save you, Mr. Carton? Can I not recall you— forgive me again !— to a better course? Can I in noway repay your confidence? I know this is a confidence," she modestly said, after a htttle hesitation, and in earnest tears, " I know you would say this to no one else. Can I turn it to no good account for yourself, Mr. Carton ?" He shook his head. "To none. No, Miss Manette, to none. If you will hear me through a very little more, all you can ever do for me is done. I wish you to to know that you have been the last dream of my soul. In my degradation I have not been so degraded but that the sight of you with your father, and of his home made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows A TALE OF TWO CITIES. II that I thought had died out of me. Since I knew you, I have been troubled by a remorse that I thought would never reproach me again, and have heard whispers from old voices impelling me upward, that I thought were silent for ever. I have had un- formed ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew, shaking off sloth and sensuality, and fighting out the abandoned fight. A dream, all a dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down, but I wish you to know that you inspired it." " Will nothing of it remain ? O Mr. Carton, think again ! Try again !" *' No, Miss Manette ; all through it, I have known myself to be quite undeserving. And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire — a fire, how- ever, inseparable in its nature from myself, quicken- ing nothing, lighting nothing, doing no service, idly burning away." " Since it is my misfortune, Mr. Carton, to have made you more unhappy than you were before you knew me " " Don't say that, Miss Manette, for you would have reclaimed me, if anything could. You will not be the cause of my becoming worse." " Since the state of your mind that you describe, is, at all events, attributable to some influence of 12 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. mine — this is what I mean, if I can make it plain — can I use no influence to serve you ? Have I no power for good, with you, at all ?" " The utmost good that I am capable of now, Miss Manette, I have come here to realize. Let me carry through the rest of my misdirected life, the remem- brance that I opened my heart to you, last of all the world ; and that there was something left in me at this time which you could deplore and pity." " Which I entreated you to believe, again and again, most fervently, with all my heart, was capable of better things, Mr. Carton !" " Entreat me to believe it no more, Miss Manette. I have proved myself, and I know better. I distress you ; I draw fast to an end. Will you let me believe, when I recall this day, that the last confidence of my life was reposed in your pure and innocent breast, and that it Mes there alone, and will be shared by no one ?" " If that will be a consolation to you, yes." " Not even by the dearest one ever to be known to you ?" " Mr. Carton," she answered, after an agitated pause, "the secret is yours, not mine ; and I promise to respect it." " Thank you. And again, God bless you.'' He put her hand to his lips, and moved toward the door. A TALE OF TWO CITIES. I3 " Be under no apprehension, Miss Manette, of my ever resuming this conversation by so much as a passing word. I %\'ill never refer to it again. If I were dead, that could not be surer than it is hence- forth. In the hour of my death, I shall hold sacred the one good remembrance — and shall thank and bless you for it — that my last avowal of myself was made to you, and that my name, and faults, and miseries were gently carried in your heart. May it othensnse be light and happy !" He was so unlike what he had ever shown him- self to be, and it was so sad to think how much he had thrown away, and how much he ever\" day kept down and perverted, Lucie Manette wept mournfully for him as he stood looking back at her. "Be comforted I" he said, " I am not worth such feeling. Miss Manette. An hour or two hence, and the low companions and low habits that I scorn but yield to, will render me less worth such tears as those, than any wretch who creeps along the street. Be comforted I But, within myself, I shall always be, towards you, what I am now, though outwardlv I be what you have heretofore seen me. The last supplication but one I make to you, is, that you will believe this of me." •' I will, Mr. Carton." " My last supplication of all, is this ; and with it, I YnU reheve you of a visitor with whom 1 well know 14 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. you have nothing in unison, and between whom and you there is an impassable space. It is useless to say it, I know, but it rises out of my soul. For you, and for any dear to you, I would do anything. If my career were of that better kind that there was any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it, I would embrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to you. Try to hold me in your mind, at some quiet times, as ardent and sincere in this one thing. The time will come, the time will not be long in coming, when new ties will be formed about you — ties that will bind you yet more tenderly and strongly to the home you so adorn — the dearest ties that will ever grace and gladden you. O Miss Manette, when the little picture of a happy father's face looks up in yours, when you see your own bright beauty spring- ing up anew at your feet, think now and then that there is a man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you !" He said, " Farewell !" said a last " God bless you !" and left her. The marriage-day was shining brightly, and they were ready outside the closed door of the doctor's room, where he was speaking with Charles Darnay. They were ready to go to church ; the beautiful bride, Mr. Lorry, and Miss Pross — to whom the ^ A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 15 event, through a gradual process of reconcilement to the inevitable, would have been one of absolute bUss, but for the yet Ungering consideration that her brother Solomon should have been the bridegroom. " And so," said Mr. Lorry, who could not suffi- ciently admire the bride, and who had been moving round her to take in every point of her quiet, pretty dress; "and so it was for this, my sweet Lucie, that I brought you across the Channel, such a baby ! Lord bless me ! How httle I thought what I was doing ! How lightly I valued the obligation I was conferring on my friend Mr. Charles ! " "You didn't mean it," remarked the matter-of- fact Miss Pross, " and therefore how could you know it? Nonsense!" "Really? Well! but don't cry," said the gentle Mr. Lorry. " I am not crying,*' said Miss Pross ; ''you are." "I, my Pross?" (By this time, Mr. Lorry dared to be pleasant with her, on occasion.) "You were, just now ; I saw you do it, and I don't wonder at it. Such a present of plate as you have made 'em, is enough to bring tears into anybody's eyes. There's not a fork or a spoon in the collec- tion," said Miss Pross, " that I didn't cry over, last night after the box came, till I couldn't see it." " I am highly gratified," said Mr. Lorry, " though upon my honor, I had no intention of rendering 1 6 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. those trifling articles of remembrance invisible to any one. Dear me ! This is an occasion that makes a man speculate on all he has lost. Dear, dear, dear! To think that there might have been a Mrs, Lorry, any time these fifty years almost ! " " Not at all ! " From Miss Pross. "You think that there never might have been a Mrs. Lorry ? " asked the gentleman of that name. " Pooh ! " rejoined Miss Pross , " you were a bachelor in your cradle." "Well?" observed Mr. Lorry, beamingly adjust- ing his little wig, "that seems probable, too. " "And you were cut out for a bachelor," pursued Miss Pross, " before you were put in your cradle." "Then, I think, said Mr. Lorry, " that I was very unhandsomely dealt with, and that I ought to have had a voice in the selection of my pattern. Enough ! Now, my dear Lucie," drawing his arm soothingly round her waist, " I hear them moving in the next room, and Miss Pross and I, as two formal folks of business, are anxious not to lose the final opportunity of saying something to you that you wish to hear. You leave your good father, my dear, in hands as earnest and as loving as your own ; he shall be taken every conceivable care of during the next fortnight, while you are in Warwickshire and thereabouts, even Tellson's shall go to the wall (comparatively speaking) before him. And when, at the fortnight's end, he A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 1/ comes to join you and your beloved husband, on your other fortnight's trip in Wales, you shall say that we have sent him to you in the best health and in the happiest frame. Now, I hear somebody's step coming to the door. Let me kiss my dear girl widi an old-fashioned bachelor blessing, before Somebody comes to claim his own.'' For a moment he held the fair face from him to look at the well-remembered expression on the fore- head, and then laid the bright golden hair against his little brown wig, with a genuine tenderness and delicacy which, if such things be old-fashioned, were as old as Adam. The door of the doctor's room opened, and he came out with Charles Darnay. He gave his arm to his daughter, and took her down stairs to the chariot which Mr. Lorry had hired in honor of the day. The rest followed in another carnage, and soon, in a neighboring church, where no strange eyes looked on, Charles Darnay and Lucie Manette were happily married. Besides the glancing tears that shone among the smiles of the little group when it was done, some dia- monds very bright and sparkling, glanced on the bride's hand, which were newly released from the dark obscurity of one of Mr. Lorry's pockets. They- returned home to breakfast, and all went well, and in due course the golden hair that had mingled with 1 8 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. the poor shoemaker's white locks in the Paris garret, were minj^led with them again in the morning sun- light, on the threshold of the door at parting. It was a hard parting, though it was not for long. But her father cheered her, and said at last, gently- disengaging himself from her enfolding arms, " Take her, Charles! She is yours ! " And her agitated hand waved to them from the chaise window, and she was gone. When the newly-married pair came home, the first person who appeared, to offep^ his congratulations, was Sydney Carton. They had not been at home many hours, when he presented himself. He was not improved in habits, or in looks, or in manner ; but there was a certain rugged air of fidelity about him, which was new to the observation of Charles Darnay. He watched his opportunity of taking Darnay aside into a window, and of speaking to him when no one overheard. " Mr. Darnay," said Carton, " I wish we might be friends." " We are already friends, I hope.'' " You are good enough to say so, as a fashion of speech ; but, I don't mean any fashion of speech. Indeed, when I say I wish we might be friends, I scarcely mean quite that either.'' A TALE OF TWO CITIES. I9 Charles Darnay — as was natural — asked him, in all good humor, and good-fellowship, what he did mean ? " Upon my life,'' said Carton, smihng, " I find that easier to comprehend in my own mind, than to con- vey to yours. However, let me try. You remember a certain famous occasion when I was more drunk than — than usual ?" " I remember a certain famous occasion when you forced me to confess that you had been drink- ing." " I remember it too. The curse of those occasions is heavy upon me, for I always remember them. I hope it may be taken into account one day, when all days are at an end for me ! Don't be alarmed ; I am not going to preach.'' " 1 am not at all alarmed. Earnestness in you, is anything but alarming to me." *' Ah !" said Carton, with a careless wave of his hand, as if he waved that away. "On the drunken occasion in question (one of a large number, as you know), I was insufferable about liking you and not liking you. I wish you would forget it." " I forgot it long ago." " Fashion of speech again ! But, Mr. Darnay, oblivion is not so easy to me, as you represent it to be to you. I have by no means forgotten it, and a light answer does not help me to forget it." " If it was a light answer," returned Darnay, "I 20 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. I beg your forgiveness for it. I had had no other ob ject than to turn a sHght thing, which, to my sur- prise, seems to trouble you too much, aside. I de- clare to you, on the faith of a gentleman, that I have long dismissed it from my mind." " Well ! At any rate you know me as a dissolute dog, who has never done any good, and never will." " I don't know that you ' never will.' " " But I do, and you must take my word for it. Well ! If you could endure to have such a worth- less fellow, and a fellow of such indifferent reputa- tion, coming and going at odd times, I should ask that I might be permitted to come and go as a privi- leged person here ; that I might be regarded as an useless (and I would add, if it were not for the re- semblance I detected between you and me), an un- ornamental, piece of furniture, tolerated for its old service, and taken no notice of I doubt if I should abuse the permission. It is a hundred to one if I should avail myself of it four times in a year. It would satisfy me, I dare say, to know that I had it." "Will you try ?" " That is another way of saying that I am placed on the footing I have indicated. I thank you, Darnay. I may use that freedom with your name ?" " I think so. Carton, by this time.'* They shook hands upon it, and Sydney turned A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 21 away. Within a minute afterward, he was, to ali outward appearance, as unsubstantial as ever. When he was gone, and in the course of an even- ing passed with Miss Pross, the doctor and Mr. Lorry, Charles Darnay made some mention of this conver- sation in general terms, and spoke of Sydney Carton as a problem of carelessness and recklessness. He spoke of him, in short, not bitterly or meaning to bear hard upon him, but as anybody might who saw him as he showed himself. He had no idea that this could dwell in the thoughts of his fair young wife ; but, when he afterward joined her in their own rooms, he found her waiting for him with the old pretty Hfting of the forehead strongly marked. " We are thoughtful to-night !" said Darnay, draw- ing his arm about her. "Yes, dearest Charles," with her hands on his breast, and the inquiring and attentive expression fixed upon him, "we are rather thoughtful to-night, for we have something on our mind to-night. ' "What is it, my Lucie?" " Will you promise not to press one question on me, if I beg you not to ask it ?'' " Will I promise ? What will I not promise to my Love?" What, indeed, with his hand putting aside the golden hair from the cheek, and his other hand against the heart that beat for him. 22 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. " I think, Charles, poor Mr. Carton deserves more consideration and respect than you expressed for him to-night." " Indeed, my own ? Why so ? " " That is what you are not to ask me .'' But I tiiink — I know — he does." " If you know it, it is enough. What would you have me do, my Life ? " *' I would ask you, dearest, to be very generous with him always, and very lenient on his faults when he is not by. I would ask you to believe that he has a heart he very, very seldom reveals, and that there are deep wounds in it. My dear, I have seen it bleeding." " It is a painful reflection to me," said Charles Dar- nay, quite astounded, " that I should have done him any wrong. I never thought this of him." " My husband, it is so. I fear he is not to be re- claimed ; there is scarcely a hope that anything in his character or fortunes is reparable now. But, I am sure that he is capable of good things, gentle things, even magnanimous things." She looked so beautiful in the purity of her faith in this lost man, that her husband could have looked at her as she was for hours. " And, O my dearest love ! " she urged, clinging nearer to him, laying her head upon his breast, and raising her eyes to his, " remember how strong we A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 23 are in our happiness, and how weak he is in his misery." The suppHcation touched him home. " I will always remember it, dear heart ! I will remember it as long as I Uve." He bent over the golden head, and put the rosy lips to his, and folded her in his arms. If one for- lorn wanderer then pacing the dark streets, could have heard her innocent disclosure, and could have seen the drops of pity kissed away by her husband from the soft blue eyes so loving of that husband, he might have cried to the night— and the words would not have parted from his lips for the first time— " God bless her for her sweet compassion ! " In the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed of the day awaited their fate. They were in number as the weeks of the year. Fifty-two were to roll that afternoon on the hfe-tide of the city to the boundless everlasting sea. Before their cells were quit of them, new occupants were appointed ; before their blood ran into the blood spilled yesterday, the blood that was to mingle with theirs to-morrow was already set apart. Two score and twelve were told off. From the farmer-general of seventy, whose riches could not buy his life, to the seamstress of twenty, whose pov- 24 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. erty and obscurity could not save her. Physical diseases, engendered in the vices and neglects of men, will seize on victims of all degrees ; and the frightful moral disorder, born of unspeakable suffer- ing, intolerable oppression, and heartless indiffer- ence, smote equally without distinction. Charles Darnay, alone in a cell, had sustained himself with no flattering delusion since he came to it from the Tribunal. He had fully comprehended that no personal influence could possibly save him, that he was virtually sentenced by the millions, and that units could avail him nothing. Nevertheless, it was not easy, with the face of his beloved wife fresh before him, to compose his mind to what it must bear. His hold on life was strong, and it was very, very hard, to loosen ; by gradual efforts and degrees unclosed a httle here it clenched the tighter there ; and when he brought his strength to bear on that hand and it yielded, this was closed again. There was a hurry, too, in all his thoughts, a turbulent and heated working of his heart, that contended against resignation. If, for a moment, he did feel resigned, then his wife and child who had to live after him, seemed to protest and to make it a selfish thing. But all this was at first. Before long, the consid- eration that there was no disgrace in the fate he must meet, and that numbers went the same road wrong- A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 2 5 fully, and trod it firmly every day, sprang up to stimulate him. Next followed the thought that much of the future peace of mind enjoyable by the dear ones, depended on his quiet fortitude. So, by de- grees he calmed into the better state, when he could raise his thoughts much higher, and draw comfort down. Before it had set in dark on the night of his con- demnation, he had traveled thus far on his last way. When he lay down on his straw bed he thought he had done with this world. But, it beckoned him back in his sleep, and showed itself in shining forms. Free and happy, back in the old house in Soho (though it had nothing in it like the real house), unaccountably released and light of heart, he was with Lucie again, and she told him it was all a dream and he had never gone away. A pause of forgetfulness, and then he had even suffered, and had come back to her, dead and at peace, and yet there was no difference in him. Another pause of oblivion, and he awoke in the sombre morning, unconscious where he was or what had happened, until it flashed npon his mind, "this is the day of my death ! " Thus, had he come through the hours, to the day when the fifty-two heads were to fall. And now, while he was composed, and hoped that he could meet the end with quiet heroism, a new action began 26 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. in his waking thoughts, which was very difficult tc master. He had never seen the instrument that was to ter- minate his hfe. How high it was from the ground, how many steps it had, where he would be stood, how he would be touched, whether the touching hands would be dyed red, which way his face would be turned, whether he would be the first, or might be the last : these and many similar questions, in no wise directed by his will obtruded themselves over and over again, countless times. Neither were they connected with fear : he was conscious of no fear. Rather, they originated in a strange besetting desire to know what to do when the time came ; a desire gigantically disproportionate to the few swift mo- ments to which it referred ; a wondering that was more like the wondering of some other spirit within his, than his own. The hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the clocks struck the numbers he would never hear again. Nine gone forever, ten gone forever, eleven gone for ever, twelve coming on to pass away. Af- ter a hard contest with that eccentric action of thought which had last perplexed him, he had got the better of it. He walked up and down softly repeat- ing their names to himself. The worst of the strife was over. He could walk up and down, free from distracting fancies, praying for himself and for them. A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 2J Twelve gone forever. He had been appraised that the final hour wa. three, and he knew he would be summoned some- time, earlier, inasmuch as the tumbrils jolted heavily and slowly through the streets. Therefore, he re- solved to keep two before his mind, as the hour, and so to strengthen himself in the interval that he might be able, after that time, to strengthen others. Walking regularly to and fro with his arms folded on his breast, a very different man from the prisoner, who had walked to and fro at La Force, he heard one struck away from him, without surprise. The hour had measured like most other hours. Devoutly thankful to Heaven for his recovered self-possession, he thought " There is but another now," and turned to walk again. Footsteps in the stone passage outside the door. He stopped. The key was put in the lock, and turned. Before the door was opened, or as it opened, a man said in a low voice, in English : " He has never seen me here ; I have kept out of his way. Go you in alone ; I wait near. Lose no time ! " The door was quickly opened and closed, and there stood before him face to face, quiet, intent upon him, with the light of a smile on his features, and a cautionary finger on his lip, Sydney Carton. There was something so bright and remarkable in 28 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. his look, that, for the first moment, the prisoner mis- doubted him to be an apparition of his own imagin- ing. But he spoke, and it was his voice, he took the prisoner's hand, and it was his real grasp. " Of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see me ? " he said. " I could not beheve it to be you. I can scarcely beheve it now. You are not'' — the apprehension came suddenly into his mind — '' a prisoner ? " " No. I am accidentally possessed of a power over one of the keepers here, and in virtue of it I stand before you. I come from her — your wife, dear Dar- nay.'' The prisoner wrung his hand. " I bring you a request from her." "What is it?" " A most earnest, pressing, and emphatic entreaty, addressed to you in the most pathetic tones of the voice so dear to you, that you well remember." The prisoner turned his face partly aside. " You have no time to ask me why I bring it, or what it means; I have no time to tell you. You must comply with it — take off those boots you wear, and draw on these of mine." There was a chair against the wall of the cell, be- hind the prisoner. Carton, pressing forward, had already, with the speed of lightning, got him down into it, and stood over him, barefoot. A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 29 " Draw on these boots of mine. Put your hands to them ; put your will to them. Quick ! " " Carton, there is no escaping from this place ; it never can be done. You will only die with me. It is madness. " It would be madness if I asked you to escape ; but do I ? When I ask you to pass out at that door, tell me it is madness and remain here. Change that cravat for this of mine, that coat for this of mine. While you do it let me take this ribbon from your hair, and shake out your hair like this of mine ! " With wonderful quickness, and with a strength both of will and action, that appeared quite supernatural, he forced all these changes upon him. The prisoner was like a young child in his hands. " Carton ! Dear Carton ! Tt is madness. It can- not be accomphshed, it never can be done, it has been attempted, and has always failed. I implore you not to add your death to the bitterness of mine." " Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door ? When I ask that, refuse. There are pen and ink and paper on this table. Is your hand steady enough to write ?" " It was when you came in." ' "Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. Quick, friend, quick ! " Pressing his hand to his bewrldered head, Darnay 30 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. sat down at the table. Carton, with his right hand in his breast, stood close beside him. " Write exactly as I speak." " To whom do I address it ? "To no one." ti^arton still had his hand in his breast. "Do I date it?" "No." The prisoner looked up at each question. Carton standing over him with his hand in his breast, looked down. " ' If you remember,' " said Carton, dictating, " ' the words that passed between us, long ago, you will readily comprehend this when you see it. You do remember them, I know. It is not in your nature to forget them.' " He was drawing his hand from his breast ; the prisoner chancing to look up in his hurried wonder as he wrote, the hand stopped, closing upon some- thing. "Have you written 'forget them*?" Carton asked. " I have. Is that a weapon in your hand ?'' " No ; I am not armed." " What is it in your hand ? " " You shall know directly. Write on ; there are but a few words more.'' He dictated again. " ' I am thankful that the time has come, when I can A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 3 1 prove them. That I do so is no subject for regret or grief.' '' As he said these words with his eyes fixed on the writer, his hand slowly and softly moved down close to the writer's face. The pen dropped from Darnay's fingers on the table, and he looked about him vacantly. " What vapor is that ? " he asked. "Vapor?" " Something that crossed me ? " *' I am conscious of nothing ; there can be nothing here. Take up the pen and finish. Hurry, hurry ! '' As if his memory were impaired, or his faculties disordered, the prisoner made an effort to rally his attention. As he looked at Carton with clouded eyes and with an altered manner of breathing, Carton — his hand again in his breast — looked steadily at him. " Hurry, hurry ! " The prisoner bent over the paper once more. " ' If it had been otherwise ; ' " Carton's hand was again watchfully and softly stealing down; '"I never should have used the longer opportunity. If it had been otherwise ; ' " the hand was at the prisoner's face ; " ' I should but have had so much the more to answer for. If it had been otherwise — ' " Carton looked at the pen and saw it was trailing off into unintelligible signs. Carton's hand moved back to his breast no more. The prisoner sprang up with a reproachful look, but 32 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. Carton's hand was close and firm at his nostrils, and Carton's left arm caught him around the waist. For a few seconds he vainly struggled with the man who had come to lay down his life for him ; but, within a minute or so, he was stretched insensible on the ground. Quickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as his heart was, Carton dressed himself in the clothes the prisoner had laid aside, combed back his hair, and tied it with the ribbon the prisoner had worn. Then he softly called, " Enter there ! Come in ! " and the Spy presented himself. "You see?" said Carton, looking up, as he kneeled on one knee beside the insensible figure, putting the paper in the breast : " is your hazard very great? " "Mr. Carton," the Spy answered, with a timid snap of his fingers, " my hazard is not that, in the thick of business here, if you are true to the whole of your bargain." " Don't fear me. I will be true to the death." *' You must be, Mr. Carton, if the tale of fifty-two is to be right. Being made right by you in that dress, I shall have no fear." " Have no fear ! I shall soon be out of the way of harming you, and the rest will soon be far from here, please God. Now, get assistance and take me to the coach." A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 33 " You ? " said the Spy nervously. " Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You go out at the gate by which you brought me in ? " " Of course." " I was weak and faint when you brought me in, and I am fainter now you take me out. The parting interview has overpowered me. Such a thing has happened here, often, and too often. Your hfe is in your own hands. Quick ! Call assistance ! " " You swear not to betray me ? " said the tremb- ling Spy, as he paused for a last moment. " Man, man ! '' returned Carton, stamping his foot; "have I sworn by no solemn vow already, to go through with this, that you waste the precious moments now ? Take him yourself to the court- yard you know of, place him yourself in the carriage, show him yourself to Mr. Lorry, tell him yourself to give him no restorative but air, and to remember my words of last night, and his promise of last night, and drive away ! " The Spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself at the table, resting his forehead on his hands. The Spy returned immediately, with two men. "How, then?" said one of them, contemplating the fallen figure. " So afflicted to find that his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery of Saint Guillotine ?" "A good patriot," said the other, " could hardly 34 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. have been more afflicted if the Aristocrat had drawn a blank." They raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a htter they had brought to the door, and bent to carry it away. " The time is short, Evremonde," said the Spy, in a warning voice. " I know it well,'' answered Carton. " Be careful of my friend I entreat you, and leave me." " Come, then, my children," said Barsad. "Lift him, and come away ! '' The door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining his powers of listening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denote suspicion or alarm. There was none. Keys turned, doors clashed, footsteps passed along distant passages ; no cry was raised, or hurry made, that seemed unusual. ■ Breathing more freely in a little while, he sat down at the table, and listened again until the clock struck two. Sounds that he was not afraid of, for he divined their meaning, then began to be audible. Several doors were opened in succession, and finally his own. A jailer, with a list in his hand, looked in, merely saying, " Follow me, Evremonde ! " and he followed into a large dark room, at a distance. It was a dark winter day, and what with the shadows without, he could but dimly discern the others who t A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 35 were brought there to have their arms bound. Some were standing ; some seated. Some were lamenting, and in restless motion ; but these were few. The great majority were silent and still, looking fixedly at the ground. As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, while some of the fifty-two were brought in after him, one man stopped in passing to embrace him, as having a knowledge of him. It thrilled him with a great dread of discovery : but the man went on. A very few moments after that, a young woman, with a slight girlish form, a sweet spare face in which there was no vestige of color, and large widely opened patient eyes, rose from the seat where he had ob- served her sitting, and came to speak to him. " Citizen Evremonde,'' she said, touching him with her cold hand. " I am a poor little seamstress, who was with you in La Force." He murmured for answer: "True, I forget what you were accused of ? " " Plots. Though the just Heaven knows that I am innocent of any. Is it likely ? Who would think of plotting with a poor little weak creature like me ? " The forlorn smile with which she said it, so touched him, that tears started from his eyes. " I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evremonde, but I have done nothing, I am not unwiUing to die, if the Republic which is to do so much good to us poor. 36 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. will profit by my death ; but I do not know how that can be, Citizen Evremonde. Such a poor weak little creature ! " As the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and soften to, it warmed and softened to this pitiable girl. " I heard you were released, Citizen Evr6monde. I hoped it was true ? '' " It was. But I was again taken and con- demned." " If I may ride with you. Citizen Evremonde, will you let mo hold your hand ? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me more cour- age." ^1 As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in them, and then astonishment. He pressed the work-worn, hunger worn young fin- gers and touched his lips. " Are you dying for him ? " she whispered. " And his wife and child. Hush ! Yes." " O you will let me hold your brave hand,] stranger ? " " Hush ! Yes, my poor sister ; to the last." I Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six tumbrils carry the day's wine to La Guillotine. All the devouring and insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 37 itself, are fused in the one realization, Guillotine. And yet there is not in France, with its rich variety of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf, a root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under con- ditions more certain than those that have produced this horror. Crush humanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will twist itself into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of rapacious license and oppression over again, and it will surely yield the same fruit according to its kind. Six tumbrils rolled along the street. Change these back again to what they were, thou powerful en- chanter. Time, and they shall be seen to be the car- riages of absolute monarchs, the equipages of feudal nobles, the toilettes of flaring Jezebels, the churches that are not my father's house but dens of thieves, the huts of miUions of starving peasants ! No ; the great magician who majestically works out the ap- pointed order of the Creator, never reverses his transformations. " If thou be changed into this shape by the will of God,'' says the seer to the en- chanted, in the wise Arabian stories, " then remain so ! But, if thou wear this form through mere pass- ing conjuration, then resume thy former aspect ! " Changeless and hopeless, the tumbrils rolled along. As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to plough up a long crooked furrow 38 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. among the populace in the streets. Ridges of faces are thrown to this side and to that, and the ploughs go steadily onward So used are the regular inhabi- tants of the houses to the spectacle, that in many windows there are no people, and in some the occu- pation of the hands is not so much as suspended, while the eyes survey the faces in the tumbrils. Here and there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight; then he points his finger, with something of the complacency of a curator or authorized exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems to tell who sat here yesterday, and who there the day before. Of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and all things on their last roadside, with an impassive stare ; others, with a lingering interest in the ways of hfe and men. Some, seated with drooping heads, are sunk in silent despair ; again, there are some so heedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude such glances as they have seen in theatres, and in pictures. Several close their eyes, and think, or try to get their straying thoughts together. Only one, and he a miserable creature, of a crazed aspect, is so shattered and made drunk by horror, that he sings, and tries to dance. Not one of the whole number appeals by look or gesture, to the pity of the people. There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrils, and faces are often turned A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 39 up to some of them, and they are asked some ques- tion. It would seem to be always the same question, for, it is always followed by a press of people toward the third cart. The horsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point out one man in it with their swords. The leading curiosity is, to know which is he ; he stands at the back of the tumbril with his head bent down, to converse with a mere girl who sits on the side of the cart, and holds his hand. He has no curiosity or care for the scene about him, and always speaks to the girl. Here and there in the long street of St. Honore, cries are raised against him. If they move him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he shakes his hair a little more loosely about his face. He cannot easily touch his face, his arms being bound. On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming- up of the tumbrils, stands the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the first of them : not there. He looks into the second : not there. He already asks himself, "Has he sacrificed me?" when his face clears, as he looks into the third. "Which is Evremonde?" says a man behind him. " That. At the back there." "With his hand in the girl's ?" " Yes." The man cries, "Down, Evremonde! To the Guillotine all aristocrats ! Down, Evremonde ! " 40 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. "Hush, hushl" the Spy entreats him timidly. "And why not, citizen?" "He is going to pay the forfeit : it will be paid in five minutes more. Let him be at peace." But the man continuing to exclaim, " Down Ev- remonde ! " the face of Evremonde is for a moment turned toward him. Evremonde then sees the Spy, and looks attentively at him, and goes his way. . . . The Ministers of Sainte Guillotine are robed and ready. Crash ! — A head is held up, and the knit- ting-women who scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could think and speak, count One. The second tumbril empties and moves on ; the third comes up. Crash ! — And the knitting-wo- men, never faltering or pausing in their work, count Two. The supposed Evremonde descends, and the seamstress is lifted out next after him. He has not relinquished her patient hand in getting out, but still holds it as he promised. He gently places her with her back to the crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks into his face and thanks him. " But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so com- posed, for I am naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart : nor should I have been able to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we Masterpieces — Dickens SYDNEY CARTON. A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 4 1 might have hope and comfort here to day. I think you were sent to me by Heaven." " Or you to me," says Sydney Carton. " Keep your eyes upon me, dear child, and mind no other object," " I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothing when I let it go, if they are rapid." " They will be rapid. Fear not ! " The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of vic- tims, but they speak as if they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to heart, these two children of the Universal Mother, else so wide apart and differing, have come together on the dark highway, to repair home together, and to rest in her bosom. " Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last question ? I am very ignorant, and it troubles me — just a Httle." " T-^U me what it is." " I have a cousin, an only relative and an or- phan, like myself, whom I love very dearly. She is five years younger thau I, and she lives in a farmer's house in the south country. Poverty part- ed us, and she knows nothing of my fate — for I cannot write — and if I could, how should I tell her ! It is better as it is." " Yes, yes ; better as it is." "What I have been thinking as we came along, 42 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. and what I am still thinking now, as I look into your kind strong face which gives me so much support, is this : — If the Republic really does good to the poor, and they come to be less hungry and in all ways to suffer less, she may live a long time ; she may even live to be old." "What then, my gentle sister?" " Do you think : " the uncomplaining eyes in which there is so much endurance, fill with tears, and the lips part a little more and tremble : " that it will seem long to me, while I wait for her in the better land where I trust both you and I will be mercifully sheltered ? '* " It cannot be, my child ; there is no Time there, and no trouble there." "You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. Am I to kiss you now } Is the moment come .?" "Yes." She kisses his lips ; he kisses hers ; they solemnly bless each other. The spare hand does not tremble as he releases it ; nothing worse than a sweet, bright constancy is in the patient face. She goes next be- fore him — is gone ; the knitting-women count Twenty-Two. "I am the Resurrection and the life," said the Lord; "he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live : and whosoever liveth in me shall never die." A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 43 The murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many faces, the pressing on of many footsteps in the outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells forward in one great mass, like one great heave of water, all flashes away. Twenty-Three. A CHILD'S Dream of a Star. 45 A CHILD'S Dream of a Star. T HERE was once a child, and he strolled about a good deal, and thought of a number of things. He had a sister, who was a child too, and his constant companion. These two used to wonder all day long. They wondered at the beauty of the flowers ; they wondered at the height and blueness of the sky; they wondered at the depth of the bright water ; they wondered at the goodness and the power of God who made the lovely world. They used to say to one another, sometimes. Sup- posing all the children upon earth were to die, would the flowers, and the water, and the sky be sorry ? They believed they would be sorry. For, said they, the buds are the children of the flowers, and the little playful streams that gambol down the hill-sides are the children of the water; and the smallest bright specks playing at hide and seek in the sky all night, must surely be the children of the stars ; and they would all be grieved to see their playmates, the children of men no more. There was one clear shining star that used to 47 48 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. come out in the sky before the rest, near the church spire, above the graves. It was larger and more beautiful, they thought, than all the others, and every night they watched for it, standing hand in hand at a window. Whoever saw it first cried out, " I see the star ! " And often they cried out both together, knowing so well when it would rise, and where. So they grew to be such friends with it, that, before lying down in their beds, they always looked out once again, to bid it good-night; and when they were turning round to sleep, they used to say, " God bless the star! " But while she was still very young, oh very, very young, the sister drooped, and came to be so very weak that she could no longer stand in the window at night ; and then the child looked sadly out by himself, and when he saw the star, turned round and said to the patient pale face on the bed, " I see the star! " and then a smile would come upon the face, and a little weak voice used to say, " God bless my brother and the star ! " And so that time came all too soon ! when the child looked out alone, and when there was no face on the bed ; and when there was a little grave among the graves, not there before ; and when the star made long rays down toward him, as he saw it through his tears. Now, these rays were so bright, and they seemed A child's dream of a star. 49 to make such a shining way from earth to Heaven, that when the child went to his soHtary bed, he dreamed about the star ; and dreamed that, lying where he was, he saw a train of people taken up that sparkling road by angels. And the star, open- ing, showed him a great world of light, where many more such angels waited to receive them. All these angels, who were waiting, turned their beaming eyes upon the people who were carried up into the star ; and soon came out from the long rows in which they stood, and fell upon the people's necks, and kissed them tenderly, and went away with them down avenues of light, and were so happy in their company, that lying in his bed he wept for joy. But, there were many angels who did not go with them, and among them one he knew. The patient face that once had lain upon the bed was glori- fied and radiant, but his heart found out his sister among all the host. His sister's angel lingered near the entrance to the star, and said to the leader among those who had brought the people thither: "Is my brother come?" And he said " No." She was turning hopefully away, when the child stretched out his arms, and cried, " O, sister, I am here! Take me!" and then she turned her beam- ing eyes upon him, and it was night ; and the star 4 50 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. was shining in the room, making long rays down toward him as he saw it through his tears. From that hour forth, the child looked out upon the star as on the home he was to go to, when his time should come ; and he thought that he did not belong to the earth alone, but to the star too, because of his sister's angel gone before. There was a baby born to be a brother to the child ; and while he was so little that he never yet had spoken a word, he stretched his tiny form out on his bed, and died. Again the child dreamed of the open star, and of the company of angels, and the train of people, and the rows of angels with their beaming eyes all turned upon those people's faces. Said his sister's angel to the leader : " Is my brother come? " And he said, " Not that one, but another." As the child beheld his brother's angel in her arms, he cried, " O, sister, I am here ! Take me ! " And she turned and smiled upon him, and the star was shining. He grew to be a young man, and was busy at his books when an old servant came to him and said : " Thy mother is no more. I bring her blessings on her darhng son ! " Again at night he saw the star, and all that former company. Said his sister's angel to the leader ; A CHILD S DREAM OF A STAR. 5 I " Is my brother come ? " And he said, " Thy mother ! " A mighty cry of joy went forth through all the star, because the mother was re-united to her two children. And he stretched out his arms and cried, O, mother, sister and brother, I am here ! Take me ! " And they answered him, " Not yet," and the star was shining. He grew to be a man, whose hair was turning gray, and he was sitting in his chair by his fireside, heavy with grief, and with his face bedewed with tears when the star opened once again. Said his sister's angel to the leader : " Is my brother come?" And he said, " Nay, but, his maiden daughter." And the man who had been the child saw his daughter, newly lost to him, a celestial creature among those three, and he said, " My daughter's head is on my sister's bosom, and her arm is around my mother's neck, and at her feet there is the baby of old time, and I can bear the parting from her. God be praised ! " And the star was shining. Thus the child came to be an old man, and his once smooth face was wrinkled, and his steps were slow and feeble, and his back was bent. And one night as he lay upon his bed, his children standing round, he cried, as he had cried so long ago ; 52 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. " I see the star ! " They whispered one another. " He is dying." Aud he said, " 1 am. My age is faUing from me like a garment, and I move toward the star as a child. And O, my Father, now I thank thee that it has so often opened, to receive those dear ones who await me ! " And the star was shining; and it shines upon his grave. 1 MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. S3 MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 'irOM PINCH and his sister having to part, for the dispatch of the morning's busines, had no op- portunity of discussing the subject at that time. But Tom, in his solitary office, and Ruth, in the trian- gular parlor, thought about nothing else all day ; and, when their hour of meeting in the afternoon ap- proached, they were very full of it, to be sure. There was a little plot between them, that Tom should always come out of the Temple by one way ; and that was past the fountain. Coming through Fountain Court, he was just to glance down the steps leading into Garden Court, and to look once ail round him ; and if Ruth had come to meet him, there he would see her-; not sauntering, you under- stand (on account of the clerks), but coming briskly up, with the best little laugh upon her face that ever played in opposition to the fountain, and beat it all to nothing. For, fifty to one, Tom had been looking for her in the wrong direction, and had quite given her up, while she had been trippmg toward him from the first, jingling that little reticule of hers (with all 55 56 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. the keys in it) to attract his wandering observa- tion. Whether there was life enough left in the slow ve- getation of Fountain Court for the smoky shrubs to have any consciousness of the brightest and purest- hearted little woman in the world, is a question for gardeners, and those who are learned in the loves of plants. But, that it was a good thing for that same paved yard to have such a delicate little figure flit- ting through it ; that it passed like a smile from the grimy old houses, and the worn flag stones, and left them duller, darker, sterner than before ; there is no sort of doubt. The Temple fountain might have leaped up twenty feet to greet the spring of hopeful maidenhood, that in her person stole on, sparkling, through the dry and dusty channels of the Law; the chirping sparrows, bred in Temple chinks and cran- nies, might have held their peace to listen to im- aginary skylarks, as so fresh a little creature passed ; the dingy boughs, unused to droop, otherwise than in their puny growth, might have bent down in a kindred gracefulness, to shed their benedictions on her graceful head ; old love letters, shut up in iron boxes in the neighboring offices, and made of no ac- count among the heaps of family papers into which they had strayed, and of which, in their degeneracy, they formed a part, might have stirred and fluttered with a moment's recollection of their ancient tender- MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 57 ness, as she went lightly by. Anything might have happened that did not happen, and never will, for the love of Ruth. Something happened, too, upon the afternoon of which the history treats. Nor for her love. Oh no ! quite by accident, and without ,the least reference to her at all. Either she was a little too soon, or Tom was a little too late — she was so precise in general, that she timed it to half a minute — but no Tom was there. Well ! But was anybody else there, that she blushed so deeply, after looking round, and tripped off down the steps, with such unusual expedition ? Why, the fact is, that Mr. Westlock was passing at that moment. The Temple is a public thoroughfare ; they may write upon the gates that it is not, but so long as the gates are left open it is, and will be : and Mr. Westlock had as good a right to be there as any- body else. But why did she run away, then ? Not being ill dressed, for she was much too neat for that, why did she run away ? The brown hair that had fallen down beneath her bonnet, and had one im- pertinent imp of a false flower clinging to it, boastful of its license before all men, that could not have been the cause, for it looked charming. Oh ! foohsh, panting, frightened little heart, why did she run away ! Merrily the tiny fountain played, and merrily the 58 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. dimples sparkled on its sunny face. John Westlock hurried after her. Softly the whispering water broke and fell ; and roguishly the dimples twinkled, as he stole upon her footsteps. Oh, foolish, panting, timid little heart, why did she feign to be unconsciou3 of his coming ! Why wish herself so far away, yet be so flutteringly happy there ! " I felt sure it was you," said John, when he over- took her, in the sanctuary of Garden Court. " I knew I couldn't be mistaken." She was so surprised. "You are waiting for your brother," said John. " Let me bear you company." So light was the touch of the coy little hand, that he glanced down to assure himself he had it on his arm. But his glance, stopping for an instant at the bright eyes, forgot its first design, and went no farther. They walked up and down three or four times speaking about Tom and his mysterious employment. Now that was a very natural and innocent subject, surely. Then why, whenever Ruth lifted up her eyes, did she let them fall again immediately, and seek the uncongenial pavement of the court ? They were not such eyes as shun the light ; they were not such eyes as require to be hoarded to enhance their value. They were much too precious and too MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 59 genuine to stand in need of arts like those. Some- body must have been looking at them ! They found out Tom, though, quickly enough. This pair of eyes descried him in the distance, the moment he appeared. He was staring about him, as usual, in all directions but the right one ; and was as obstinate in not looking toward them, as if he had intended it. As it was plain that, being left to him- self, he would walk away home, John Westlock darted off to stop him. This made the approach of poor little Ruth, by her- self, one of the most embarrassing of circumstances. There was Tom, manifesting extreme surprise (he had no presence of mind, that Tom, on small occa- sions) ; there was John, making as light of it as he could, but explaining at the same time, with most unnecessary elaboration ; and here was she, coming toward them, with both of them looking at her, con- scious of blushing to a terrible extent, but trying to throw up her eyebrows carelessly, and pout her rosy lips, as if she were the coolest and most unconcerned of little women. Merrily the fountain plashed and plashed, until the dimples, merging into one another, swelled into a gen- eral smile, that covered the whole surface of the basin. "What an extraordinary meeting!" said Tom. " I should never have dreamed of seeing you two together here." 6o MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. " Quite accidental," John was heard to murmur. " Exactly," cried Tom ; "that's what I mean, you know. If it wasn't accidental, there would be noth- ing remarkable in it." *' To be sure," said John. " Such an out-of-the-way place for you to have met in," pursued Tom, quite delighted. " Such an unlikely spot !" John rather disputed that. On the contrary, he considered it a very likely spot, indeed. He was constantly passing to and fro there, he said. He shouldn't wonder if it were to happen again. His only wonder was that it had never happened before. By this time Ruth had got round on the farther side of her brother, and had taken his arm. She was squeezing it now, as much as to say, "Are you going to stop here all day, you dear, old blundering Tom ?" Tom answered the squeeze as if it had been a speech. " John," he said, " if you'll give my sister your arm, we'll take her between us, and walk on." Merrily the fountain leaped and danced, and merrily the smiling dimples twinkled and expanded more and more, until they broke into a laugh against the basin's rim, and vanished. , " Tom," said his friend, as they turned into the noisy street, "I have a proposition to make. It is, that you and your sister— if she will so far honor a MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 6 1 poor bachelor's dwelling — give me a great pleasure, and come and dine with me." " What, to-day ?" cried Tom. "Yes, to-day. It's close by, you know. Pray, Miss Pinch, insist upon it. It will be very disinter- ested, for I have nothing to give you." " Oh ! you must not believe that, Ruth," said Tom. " He is the most tremendous fellow, in his house- keeping, that 1 ever heard of, for a single man. He ought to be Lord Mayor. Well ! what do you say ? Shall we go ?" " If you please, Tom," rejoined his dutiful little sister. " But I mean,'' said Tom, regarding her with smil- ing admiration, " is there anything you ought to wear, and haven't got ? I am sure I don't know, John : she may not be able to take her bonnet off, for any- thing I can tell," There was a great deal of laughing at this, and there were divers compHments from John Westlock — not compliments, he said at least (and really he was right), but good, plain, honest truths, which no one could deny. Ruth laughed, and all that, but she made no objection ; so it was an engagement. " If I had known it a Httle sooner,'' said John, " I would have tried another pudding. Not in rivalry ; but merely to exalt that famous one. I wouldn't on any account have had it made with suet." 62 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. "Why not?" asked Tom. " Because that cookery book advises suet," said John Westlock; " and ours was made with flower and eggs." " Oh good gracious ! cried Tom, *' ours was made with flour and eggs, was it ? Ha, ha, ha ! A beef- steak pudding made with flour and eggs ! Why any- body knows better than that. / know better than that! Ha, ha, ha!" It was unnecessary to say that Tom had been pre- sent at the making of the pudding, and had been a devoted behever in it all through. Bat he was so de- lighted to have this joke against his busy little sister, and was tickled to that degree at having found her out, that he stopped in Temple Bar to laugh ; and it was no more to Tom, that he was anathematized and knocked about by the surly passengers, than it would have been to a post ; for he continued to exclaim with unabated good humor, " flour and eggs ! A beefsteak pudding made with flour and eggs !" until John Westlock and his sister fairly ran away from him, and left him to have his laugh out by himself; which he had; and then came dodging across the crowded street to them, with such sweet temper and tenderness (it was quite a tender joke of Tom's) beaming in his face, God bless it, that it might have purified the air, though Temple Bar had been, as in the golden days gone by, embeUished with a row of rotting human heads. MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 63 There are snug chambers in those Inns where the bachelors hve, and, for the desolate fellows they pre- tend to be, it is quite surprising how well they get on. John was very pathetic on the subject of his dreary life, and the deplorable make-shifts and apologetic contrivances it involved ; but he really seemed to make himself pretty comfortable. His rooms were the perfection of neatness and convenience at any rate ; and if he were anything but comfortable, the fault was certainly not theirs. He had no sooner ushered Tom and his sister into his best room (where there was a beautiful little vase of fresh flowers on the table, all ready for Ruth. — Just as if he had expected her, Tom said), than seiz- ing his hat, he bustled out again, in his most ener- getically bustling way ; aud presently came burring back, as they saw thrnugh the half-opened door, at- tended by a fiery-faced matron attired in a crunched bonnet, with particularly long strings to it hanging down her back; in conjunction with whom, he in- stantly began to lay the cloth for dinner, polishing up the wine glasses with his own hands, brightening the silver top of the pepper-castor on his coat sleeve, drawing corks and filling decanters, with a skill and expedition that were quite dazzling. And as if, in the course of this rubbing and polishing, he had rubbed an enchanted lamp or a magic ring, obedient to which there were twenty thousand supernatural 64 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. slaves at least, suddenly there appeared a being in a white waistcoat, carrying under his arm a napkin, and attended by another being with an oblong box upon his head, from which a banquet, piping hot, was taken out and set upon the table. [ Salmon, lamb, peas, innocent young potatoes, a cool salad, sliced cucumber, a tender duckling, and a tart — all there. They all came at the right time. Where they came from, didn't appear ; but the ob- long box was constantly going and coming, and making its arrival known to the man in the white waistcoat by bumping modestly against the outside of the door; for, after its first appearance, it entered the room no more. He was never surprised, this man ; he never seemed to wonder at the extraordinary things he found in the box ; but took them out with a face ex- pressive of a steady purpose and impenetrable charac- ter, and put them on the table. He was a kind man ; gentle in his manners, and much interested in what they ate and drank. He was a learned man, and knew the flavor of John Westlock's private sauces, which he softly and feelingly described, as he handed the little bottles round. He was a grave man, and a noiseless ; for dinner being done, and wine and fruit arranged upon the board, he van- ished, box and all, like something that had never been. " Didn't I say he was a tremendous fellow in his MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 65 housekeeping ? " cried Tom. " Bless my soul ! It's wonderful." " Ah, Miss Pinch," said John. " This is the bright side of the life we lead in such a place. It would be a dismal life, indeed, if it didn't brighten up to-day." " Don't believe a word he says," cried Tom. " He lives here like a monarch, and wouldn't change his mode of life for any consideration. He only pretends to grumble." No John really did not appear to pretend ; for he was uncommonly earnest in his desire to have it un- derstood that he was as dull, solitary, and uncom- fortable on ordinary occasions as an unfortunate young man could, in reason, be. It was a wretched life, he said, a miserable life. He thought of getting rid of the chambers as soon as possible ; and meant, in fact, to put up a bill very shortly, " Well ! " said Tom Pinch, " I don't know where you can go, John, to be more comfortable. That's all I can say. What do you say, Ruth ? " Ruth trifled with the cherries on her plate, and said that she thought Mr. Westlock ought to be quite happy, and that she had no doubt he was. Ah, foolish, panting, frightened little heart, how timidly she said it ! Ah, but it would have been a good thing to have had a coat of invisibility, wherein to have watched 5 66 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. little Ruth, when she was left to herself in John West- lock's chambers, and John and her brother were talking over their wine ! The gentle way in which she tried to get up a little conversation with the fiery- faced matron in the crunched bonnet, who was wait- ing to attend her ; after making a desperate rally in regard of her dress, and attiring herself in a washed- out yellow gown with sprigs of the same upon it, so that it looked hke a tesselated work of pats of but- ter. That would have been pleasant. The grim and griffin-like inflexibility with which the fiery-faced matron repelled these engaging advances, as pro- ceeding from a hostile and dangerous power, who could have no business there, unless it were to de- prive her of a customer, or suggest what became of the self-consuming tea and sugar, and other general trifles. That would have been agreeable. The bash- ful, winning, glorious curiosity, with which little Ruth, when fiery-face was gone, peeped into the books and nick-nacks that were lying about, and had a particular interest in some delicate paper matches on the chimney-piece: wondering who could have made them. That would have been worth seeing. The faltering hand with which she tied those flowers together ; with which, almost blushing at her own fair self as imaged in the glass, she arranged them in her breast, and looking at them with her head aside, now half resolved to take them out again, now MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 6/ half resolved to leave them where they were. That would have been delightfid ! John seemed to think it all delightful : for coming in with Tom to tea, he took his seat beeides her like a man enchanted. And when the tea-service had been removed, and Tom, sitting down at the piano, became absorbed in some of his old organ tunes, he was still beside her at the open window, looking out upon the twilight. There is httle enough to see, in Furnival's Inn. It is a shady, quiet place, echoing to the footsteps of the stragglers who have business there ; and rather monotonous and gloomy on summer evenings. What gave it such a charm to them, that they remained at the window as unconscious of the flight of time as Tom himself, the dreamer, while the melodies which had so often soothed his spirit were hovering again about him ! What power infused into the fading light, the gathering darkness; the stars that here and there appeared ; the evening air, the City's hum and stir, the very chiming of the old church clocks ; such exquisite enthralment, that the divinest regions of the earth spread out before their eyes could not have held them captive in a stronger chain ? The shadows deepened, deepened, and the room became quite dark. Still Tom's fingers wandered over the keys of the piano ; and still the window had its pair of tenants. 68 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. At length, her hand upon his shoulder, and her breath upon his forehead, roused Tom from his reverie. " Dear me ! " he cried, desisting with a start. " I am afraid I have been very inconsiderate and un- polite." Tom little thought how much consideration and politeness he had shown ! '• Sing something to us, my dear," said Tom. " Let us hear your voice. Come." John Westlock added his entreaties with such ear- nestness that a flintly heart alone could have resisted them. Hers was not a flinty heart. Oh dear no ! Quite another thing. So down she sat, and in a pleasant voice began to sing the ballads Tom loved well. Old rhyming stories, with here and there a pause for a few simple chords, such as a harper might have sounded in the ancient time while looking upward for the current of some half-remembered legend; words of old poets, wedded to such measures that the strain of music might have been the poet's breath, giving utterance and expres- sion to his thoughts ; and now a melody so joyous and light-hearted, that the singer seemed incapable of sadness, until in her inconstancy (oh wicked little singer !) she relapsed and broke the listeners' hearts again; these were the simple means she used to please them. And that these simple means pre- MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 69 vailed, and she did please them, let the still dark- ened chamber, and its long deferred illumination witness. The candles came at last, and it was time for mov- ing homeward. Cutting paper carefully, and rolling it about the stalks of those same flowers, occasioned some delay ; but even this was done in time, and Ruth was ready. " Good- night ! " said Tom. " A memorable and de- lightful visit, John ! Good-night ! " John thought he would walk with them. " No, no. Don't ! " said Tom. " What nonsense ! We can get home very well alone. I couldn't think of taking you out." But John said he would rather. "Are you sure you would rather ? " said Tom. " I am afraid you only say so out of politene