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 aboard ship. 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 ``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, &onq;My good fellow, I
will treat you paternally.&cnq;''
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 -- 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 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.
``Oh! 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 &onq;the distinguished honour&cnq; -- he is very good
-- of meeting me at the house of our mutual friend Deedles, the
banker; and he does me the favor 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, ``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 commital 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. Fishi -- 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 praparations 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 tonight.''
``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.
``Why then,'' cried 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 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 natur', 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 ``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: an 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, `` ``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
&onq;T. Veck, Ticket Porter&cnq; 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.
Aye, 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 believe 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 Troty 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 days' 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 portaI, outside the church, in a dark
nook behind a column; and had such great iron hinges, and such a
monstrous lock, that there was much 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 sometifing 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 blurr 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.
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, &onq;I humbly ask
your pardon, my lady, but an't I something different from
a great girl?&cnq; 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!''