The Battle of Life

Transcribed from the 1867/68 Chapman and Hall_ Works of Charles Dickens_, Volume 4, Christmas Books by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

[Picture: Public domain book cover]

THE BATTLE OF LIFE

Part the First

ONCE upon a time, it matters little when, and in stalwart England, it matters little where, a fierce battle was fought. It was fought upon a long summer day when the waving grass was green. Many a wild flower formed by the Almighty Hand to be a perfumed goblet for the dew, felt its enamelled cup filled high with blood that day, and shrinking dropped. Many an insect deriving its delicate colour from harmless leaves and herbs, was stained anew that day by dying men, and marked its frightened way with an unnatural track. The painted butterfly took blood into the air upon the edges of its wings. The stream ran red. The trodden ground became a quagmire, whence, from sullen pools collected in the prints of human feet and horses’ hoofs, the one prevailing hue still lowered and glimmered at the sun.

Heaven keep us from a knowledge of the sights the moon beheld upon that field, when, coming up above the black line of distant rising-ground, softened and blurred at the edge by trees, she rose into the sky and looked upon the plain, strewn with upturned faces that had once at mothers’ breasts sought mothers’ eyes, or slumbered happily. Heaven keep us from a knowledge of the secrets whispered afterwards upon the tainted wind that blew across the scene of that day’s work and that night’s death and suffering! Many a lonely moon was bright upon the battle-ground, and many a star kept mournful watch upon it, and many a wind from every quarter of the earth blew over it, before the traces of the fight were worn away.

They lurked and lingered for a long time, but survived in little things; for, Nature, far above the evil passions of men, soon recovered Her serenity, and smiled upon the guilty battle-ground as she had done before, when it was innocent. The larks sang high above it; the swallows skimmed and dipped and flitted to and fro; the shadows of the flying clouds pursued each other swiftly, over grass and corn and turnip-field and wood, and over roof and church-spire in the nestling town among the trees, away into the bright distance on the borders of the sky and earth, where the red sunsets faded. Crops were sown, and grew up, and were gathered in; the stream that had been crimsoned, turned a watermill; men whistled at the plough; gleaners and haymakers were seen in quiet groups at work; sheep and oxen pastured; boys whooped and called, in fields, to scare away the birds; smoke rose from cottage chimneys; sabbath bells rang peacefully; old people lived and died; the timid creatures of the field, the simple flowers of the bush and garden, grew and withered in their destined terms: and all upon the fierce and bloody battle-ground, where thousands upon thousands had been killed in the great fight. But, there were deep green patches in the growing corn at first, that people looked at awfully. Year after year they re-appeared; and it was known that underneath those fertile spots, heaps of men and horses lay buried, indiscriminately, enriching the ground. The husbandmen who ploughed those places, shrunk from the great worms abounding there; and the sheaves they yielded, were, for many a long year, called the Battle Sheaves, and set apart; and no one ever knew a Battle Sheaf to be among the last load at a Harvest Home. For a long time, every furrow that was turned, revealed some fragments of the fight. For a long time, there were wounded trees upon the battle-ground; and scraps of hacked and broken fence and wall, where deadly struggles had been made; and trampled parts where not a leaf or blade would grow. For a long time, no village girl would dress her hair or bosom with the sweetest flower from that field of death: and after many a year had come and gone, the berries growing there, were still believed to leave too deep a stain upon the hand that plucked them.

The Seasons in their course, however, though they passed as lightly as the summer clouds themselves, obliterated, in the lapse of time, even these remains of the old conflict; and wore away such legendary traces of it as the neighbouring people carried in their minds, until they dwindled into old wives’ tales, dimly remembered round the winter fire, and waning every year. Where the wild flowers and berries had so long remained upon the stem untouched, gardens arose, and houses were built, and children played at battles on the turf. The wounded trees had long ago made Christmas logs, and blazed and roared away. The deep green patches were no greener now than the memory of those who lay in dust below. The ploughshare still turned up from time to time some rusty bits of metal, but it was hard to say what use they had ever served, and those who found them wondered and disputed. An old dinted corselet, and a helmet, had been hanging in the church so long, that the same weak half-blind old man who tried in vain to make them out above the whitewashed arch, had marvelled at them as a baby. If the host slain upon the field, could have been for a moment reanimated in the forms in which they fell, each upon the spot that was the bed of his untimely death, gashed and ghastly soldiers would have stared in, hundreds deep, at household door and window; and would have risen on the hearths of quiet homes; and would have been the garnered store of barns and granaries; and would have started up between the cradled infant and its nurse; and would have floated with the stream, and whirled round on the mill, and crowded the orchard, and burdened the meadow, and piled the rickyard high with dying men. So altered was the battle-ground, where thousands upon thousands had been killed in the great fight.

Nowhere more altered, perhaps, about a hundred years ago, than in one little orchard attached to an old stone house with a honeysuckle porch; where, on a bright autumn morning, there were sounds of music and laughter, and where two girls danced merrily together on the grass, while some half-dozen peasant women standing on ladders, gathering the apples from the trees, stopped in their work to look down, and share their enjoyment. It was a pleasant, lively, natural scene; a beautiful day, a retired spot; and the two girls, quite unconstrained and careless, danced in the freedom and gaiety of their hearts.

If there were no such thing as display in the world, my private opinion is, and I hope you agree with me, that we might get on a great deal better than we do, and might be infinitely more agreeable company than we are. It was charming to see how these girls danced. They had no spectators but the apple-pickers on the ladders. They were very glad to please them, but they danced to please themselves (or at least you would have supposed so); and you could no more help admiring, than they could help dancing. How they did dance!

Not like opera-dancers. Not at all. And not like Madame Anybody’s finished pupils. Not the least. It was not quadrille dancing, nor minuet dancing, nor even country-dance dancing. It was neither in the old style, nor the new style, nor the French style, nor the English style: though it may have been, by accident, a trifle in the Spanish style, which is a free and joyous one, I am told, deriving a delightful air of off-hand inspiration, from the chirping little castanets. As they danced among the orchard trees, and down the groves of stems and back again, and twirled each other lightly round and round, the influence of their airy motion seemed to spread and spread, in the sun-lighted scene, like an expanding circle in the water. Their streaming hair and fluttering skirts, the elastic grass beneath their feet, the boughs that rustled in the morning air—the flashing leaves, the speckled shadows on the soft green ground—the balmy wind that swept along the landscape, glad to turn the distant windmill, cheerily—everything between the two girls, and the man and team at plough upon the ridge of land, where they showed against the sky as if they were the last things in the world—seemed dancing too.

At last, the younger of the dancing sisters, out of breath, and laughing gaily, threw herself upon a bench to rest. The other leaned against a tree hard by. The music, a wandering harp and fiddle, left off with a flourish, as if it boasted of its freshness; though the truth is, it had gone at such a pace, and worked itself to such a pitch of competition with the dancing, that it never could have held on, half a minute longer. The apple-pickers on the ladders raised a hum and murmur of applause, and then, in keeping with the sound, bestirred themselves to work again like bees.

The more actively, perhaps, because an elderly gentleman, who was no other than Doctor Jeddler himself—it was Doctor Jeddler’s house and orchard, you should know, and these were Doctor Jeddler’s daughters—came bustling out to see what was the matter, and who the deuce played music on his property, before breakfast. For he was a great philosopher, Doctor Jeddler, and not very musical.

‘Music and dancing to-day!’ said the Doctor, stopping short, and speaking to himself. ‘I thought they dreaded to-day. But it’s a world of contradictions. Why, Grace, why, Marion!’ he added, aloud, ‘is the world more mad than usual this morning?’

‘Make some allowance for it, father, if it be,’ replied his younger daughter, Marion, going close to him, and looking into his face, ‘for it’s somebody’s birth-day.’

‘Somebody’s birth-day, Puss!’ replied the Doctor. ‘Don’t you know it’s always somebody’s birth-day? Did you never hear how many new performers enter on this—ha! ha! ha!—it’s impossible to speak gravely of it—on this preposterous and ridiculous business called Life, every minute?’

‘No, father!’

‘No, not you, of course; you’re a woman—almost,’ said the Doctor. ‘By-the-by,’ and he looked into the pretty face, still close to his, ‘I suppose it’s your birth-day.’

‘No! Do you really, father?’ cried his pet daughter, pursing up her red lips to be kissed.

‘There! Take my love with it,’ said the Doctor, imprinting his upon them; ‘and many happy returns of the—the idea!—of the day. The notion of wishing happy returns in such a farce as this,’ said the Doctor to himself, ‘is good! Ha! ha! ha!’

Doctor Jeddler was, as I have said, a great philosopher, and the heart and mystery of his philosophy was, to look upon the world as a gigantic practical joke; as something too absurd to be considered seriously, by any rational man. His system of belief had been, in the beginning, part and parcel of the battle-ground on which he lived, as you shall presently understand.

‘Well! But how did you get the music?’ asked the Doctor. ‘Poultry-stealers, of course! Where did the minstrels come from?’

‘Alfred sent the music,’ said his daughter Grace, adjusting a few simple flowers in her sister’s hair, with which, in her admiration of that youthful beauty, she had herself adorned it half-an-hour before, and which the dancing had disarranged.

‘Oh! Alfred sent the music, did he?’ returned the Doctor.

‘Yes. He met it coming out of the town as he was entering early. The men are travelling on foot, and rested there last night; and as it was Marion’s birth-day, and he thought it would please her, he sent them on, with a pencilled note to me, saying that if I thought so too, they had come to serenade her.’

‘Ay, ay,’ said the Doctor, carelessly, ‘he always takes your opinion.’

‘And my opinion being favourable,’ said Grace, good-humouredly; and pausing for a moment to admire the pretty head she decorated, with her own thrown back; ‘and Marion being in high spirits, and beginning to dance, I joined her. And so we danced to Alfred’s music till we were out of breath. And we thought the music all the gayer for being sent by Alfred. Didn’t we, dear Marion?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, Grace. How you tease me about Alfred.’

‘Tease you by mentioning your lover?’ said her sister.

‘I am sure I don’t much care to have him mentioned,’ said the wilful beauty, stripping the petals from some flowers she held, and scattering them on the ground. ‘I am almost tired of hearing of him; and as to his being my lover—’

‘Hush! Don’t speak lightly of a true heart, which is all your own, Marion,’ cried her sister, ‘even in jest. There is not a truer heart than Alfred’s in the world!’

‘No-no,’ said Marion, raising her eyebrows with a pleasant air of careless consideration, ‘perhaps not. But I don’t know that there’s any great merit in that. I—I don’t want him to be so very true. I never asked him. If he expects that I— But, dear Grace, why need we talk of him at all, just now!’

It was agreeable to see the graceful figures of the blooming sisters, twined together, lingering among the trees, conversing thus, with earnestness opposed to lightness, yet, with love responding tenderly to love. And it was very curious indeed to see the younger sister’s eyes suffused with tears, and something fervently and deeply felt, breaking through the wilfulness of what she said, and striving with it painfully.

The difference between them, in respect of age, could not exceed four years at most; but Grace, as often happens in such cases, when no mother watches over both (the Doctor’s wife was dead), seemed, in her gentle care of her young sister, and in the steadiness of her devotion to her, older than she was; and more removed, in course of nature, from all competition with her, or participation, otherwise than through her sympathy and true affection, in her wayward fancies, than their ages seemed to warrant. Great character of mother, that, even in this shadow and faint reflection of it, purifies the heart, and raises the exalted nature nearer to the angels!

The Doctor’s reflections, as he looked after them, and heard the purport of their discourse, were limited at first to certain merry meditations on the folly of all loves and likings, and the idle imposition practised on themselves by young people, who believed for a moment, that there could be anything serious in such bubbles, and were always undeceived—always!

But, the home-adorning, self-denying qualities of Grace, and her sweet temper, so gentle and retiring, yet including so much constancy and bravery of spirit, seemed all expressed to him in the contrast between her quiet household figure and that of his younger and more beautiful child; and he was sorry for her sake—sorry for them both—that life should be such a very ridiculous business as it was.

The Doctor never dreamed of inquiring whether his children, or either of them, helped in any way to make the scheme a serious one. But then he was a Philosopher.

A kind and generous man by nature, he had stumbled, by chance, over that common Philosopher’s stone (much more easily discovered than the object of the alchemist’s researches), which sometimes trips up kind and generous men, and has the fatal property of turning gold to dross and every precious thing to poor account.

‘Britain!’ cried the Doctor. ‘Britain! Holloa!’

A small man, with an uncommonly sour and discontented face, emerged from the house, and returned to this call the unceremonious acknowledgment of ‘Now then!’

‘Where’s the breakfast table?’ said the Doctor.

‘In the house,’ returned Britain.

‘Are you going to spread it out here, as you were told last night?’ said the Doctor. ‘Don’t you know that there are gentlemen coming? That there’s business to be done this morning, before the coach comes by? That this is a very particular occasion?’

‘I couldn’t do anything, Dr. Jeddler, till the women had done getting in the apples, could I?’ said Britain, his voice rising with his reasoning, so that it was very loud at last.

‘Well, have they done now?’ replied the Doctor, looking at his watch, and clapping his hands. ‘Come! make haste! where’s Clemency?’

‘Here am I, Mister,’ said a voice from one of the ladders, which a pair of clumsy feet descended briskly. ‘It’s all done now. Clear away, gals. Everything shall be ready for you in half a minute, Mister.’

With that she began to bustle about most vigorously; presenting, as she did so, an appearance sufficiently peculiar to justify a word of introduction.

She was about thirty years old, and had a sufficiently plump and cheerful face, though it was twisted up into an odd expression of tightness that made it comical. But, the extraordinary homeliness of her gait and manner, would have superseded any face in the world. To say that she had two left legs, and somebody else’s arms, and that all four limbs seemed to be out of joint, and to start from perfectly wrong places when they were set in motion, is to offer the mildest outline of the reality. To say that she was perfectly content and satisfied with these arrangements, and regarded them as being no business of hers, and that she took her arms and legs as they came, and allowed them to dispose of themselves just as it happened, is to render faint justice to her equanimity. Her dress was a prodigious pair of self-willed shoes, that never wanted to go where her feet went; blue stockings; a printed gown of many colours, and the most hideous pattern procurable for money; and a white apron. She always wore short sleeves, and always had, by some accident, grazed elbows, in which she took so lively an interest, that she was continually trying to turn them round and get impossible views of them. In general, a little cap placed somewhere on her head; though it was rarely to be met with in the place usually occupied in other subjects, by that article of dress; but, from head to foot she was scrupulously clean, and maintained a kind of dislocated tidiness. Indeed, her laudable anxiety to be tidy and compact in her own conscience as well as in the public eye, gave rise to one of her most startling evolutions, which was to grasp herself sometimes by a sort of wooden handle (part of her clothing, and familiarly called a busk), and wrestle as it were with her garments, until they fell into a symmetrical arrangement.

Such, in outward form and garb, was Clemency Newcome; who was supposed to have unconsciously originated a corruption of her own Christian name, from Clementina (but nobody knew, for the deaf old mother, a very phenomenon of age, whom she had supported almost from a child, was dead, and she had no other relation); who now busied herself in preparing the table, and who stood, at intervals, with her bare red arms crossed, rubbing her grazed elbows with opposite hands, and staring at it very composedly, until she suddenly remembered something else she wanted, and jogged off to fetch it.

‘Here are them two lawyers a-coming, Mister!’ said Clemency, in a tone of no very great good-will.

‘Ah!’ cried the Doctor, advancing to the gate to meet them. ‘Good morning, good morning! Grace, my dear! Marion! Here are Messrs. Snitchey and Craggs. Where’s Alfred!’

‘He’ll be back directly, father, no doubt,’ said Grace. ‘He had so much to do this morning in his preparations for departure, that he was up and out by daybreak. Good morning, gentlemen.’

‘Ladies!’ said Mr. Snitchey, ‘for Self and Craggs,’ who bowed, ‘good morning! Miss,’ to Marion, ‘I kiss your hand.’ Which he did. ‘And I wish you’—which he might or might not, for he didn’t look, at first sight, like a gentleman troubled with many warm outpourings of soul, in behalf of other people, ‘a hundred happy returns of this auspicious day.’

‘Ha ha ha!’ laughed the Doctor thoughtfully, with his hands in his pockets. ‘The great farce in a hundred acts!’

‘You wouldn’t, I am sure,’ said Mr. Snitchey, standing a small professional blue bag against one leg of the table, ‘cut the great farce short for this actress, at all events, Doctor Jeddler.’

‘No,’ returned the Doctor. ‘God forbid! May she live to laugh at it, as long as she can laugh, and then say, with the French wit, “The farce is ended; draw the curtain.”’

‘The French wit,’ said Mr. Snitchey, peeping sharply into his blue bag, ‘was wrong, Doctor Jeddler, and your philosophy is altogether wrong, depend upon it, as I have often told you. Nothing serious in life! What do you call law?’

‘A joke,’ replied the Doctor.

‘Did you ever go to law?’ asked Mr. Snitchey, looking out of the blue bag.

‘Never,’ returned the Doctor.

‘If you ever do,’ said Mr. Snitchey, ‘perhaps you’ll alter that opinion.’

Craggs, who seemed to be represented by Snitchey, and to be conscious of little or no separate existence or personal individuality, offered a remark of his own in this place. It involved the only idea of which he did not stand seized and possessed in equal moieties with Snitchey; but, he had some partners in it among the wise men of the world.

‘It’s made a great deal too easy,’ said Mr. Craggs.

‘Law is?’ asked the Doctor.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Craggs, ‘everything is. Everything appears to me to be made too easy, now-a-days. It’s the vice of these times. If the world is a joke (I am not prepared to say it isn’t), it ought to be made a very difficult joke to crack. It ought to be as hard a struggle, sir, as possible. That’s the intention. But, it’s being made far too easy. We are oiling the gates of life. They ought to be rusty. We shall have them beginning to turn, soon, with a smooth sound. Whereas they ought to grate upon their hinges, sir.’

Mr. Craggs seemed positively to grate upon his own hinges, as he delivered this opinion; to which he communicated immense effect—being a cold, hard, dry, man, dressed in grey and white, like a flint; with small twinkles in his eyes, as if something struck sparks out of them. The three natural kingdoms, indeed, had each a fanciful representative among this brotherhood of disputants; for Snitchey was like a magpie or raven (only not so sleek), and the Doctor had a streaked face like a winter-pippin, with here and there a dimple to express the peckings of the birds, and a very little bit of pigtail behind that stood for the stalk.

As the active figure of a handsome young man, dressed for a journey, and followed by a porter bearing several packages and baskets, entered the orchard at a brisk pace, and with an air of gaiety and hope that accorded well with the morning, these three drew together, like the brothers of the sister Fates, or like the Graces most effectually disguised, or like the three weird prophets on the heath, and greeted him.

‘Happy returns, Alf!’ said the Doctor, lightly.

‘A hundred happy returns of this auspicious day, Mr. Heathfield!’ said Snitchey, bowing low.

‘Returns!’ Craggs murmured in a deep voice, all alone.

‘Why, what a battery!’ exclaimed Alfred, stopping short, ‘and one—two—three—all foreboders of no good, in the great sea before me. I am glad you are not the first I have met this morning: I should have taken it for a bad omen. But, Grace was the first—sweet, pleasant Grace—so I defy you all!’

‘If you please, Mister, I was the first you know,’ said Clemency Newcome. ‘She was walking out here, before sunrise, you remember. I was in the house.’

‘That’s true! Clemency was the first,’ said Alfred. ‘So I defy you with Clemency.’

‘Ha, ha, ha,—for Self and Craggs,’ said Snitchey. ‘What a defiance!’

‘Not so bad a one as it appears, may be,’ said Alfred, shaking hands heartily with the Doctor, and also with Snitchey and Craggs, and then looking round. ‘Where are the—Good Heavens!’

With a start, productive for the moment of a closer partnership between Jonathan Snitchey and Thomas Craggs than the subsisting articles of agreement in that wise contemplated, he hastily betook himself to where the sisters stood together, and—however, I needn’t more particularly explain his manner of saluting Marion first, and Grace afterwards, than by hinting that Mr. Craggs may possibly have considered it ‘too easy.’

Perhaps to change the subject, Dr. Jeddler made a hasty move towards the breakfast, and they all sat down at table. Grace presided; but so discreetly stationed herself, as to cut off her sister and Alfred from the rest of the company. Snitchey and Craggs sat at opposite corners, with the blue bag between them for safety; the Doctor took his usual position, opposite to Grace. Clemency hovered galvanically about the table, as waitress; and the melancholy Britain, at another and a smaller board, acted as Grand Carver of a round of beef and a ham.

‘Meat?’ said Britain, approaching Mr. Snitchey, with the carving knife and fork in his hands, and throwing the question at him like a missile.

‘Certainly,’ returned the lawyer.

‘Do you want any?’ to Craggs.

‘Lean and well done,’ replied that gentleman.

Having executed these orders, and moderately supplied the Doctor (he seemed to know that nobody else wanted anything to eat), he lingered as near the Firm as he decently could, watching with an austere eye their disposition of the viands, and but once relaxing the severe expression of his face. This was on the occasion of Mr. Craggs, whose teeth were not of the best, partially choking, when he cried out with great animation, ‘I thought he was gone!’

‘Now, Alfred,’ said the Doctor, ‘for a word or two of business, while we are yet at breakfast.’

‘While we are yet at breakfast,’ said Snitchey and Craggs, who seemed to have no present idea of leaving off.

Although Alfred had not been breakfasting, and seemed to have quite enough business on his hands as it was, he respectfully answered:

‘If you please, sir.’

‘If anything could be serious,’ the Doctor began, ‘in such a—’

‘Farce as this, sir,’ hinted Alfred.

‘In such a farce as this,’ observed the Doctor, ‘it might be this recurrence, on the eve of separation, of a double birth-day, which is connected with many associations pleasant to us four, and with the recollection of a long and amicable intercourse. That’s not to the purpose.’

‘Ah! yes, yes, Dr. Jeddler,’ said the young man. ‘It is to the purpose. Much to the purpose, as my heart bears witness this morning; and as yours does too, I know, if you would let it speak. I leave your house to-day; I cease to be your ward to-day; we part with tender relations stretching far behind us, that never can be exactly renewed, and with others dawning—yet before us,’ he looked down at Marion beside him, ‘fraught with such considerations as I must not trust myself to speak of now. Come, come!’ he added, rallying his spirits and the Doctor at once, ‘there’s a serious grain in this large foolish dust-heap, Doctor. Let us allow to-day, that there is One.’

‘To-day!’ cried the Doctor. ‘Hear him! Ha, ha, ha! Of all days in the foolish year. Why, on this day, the great battle was fought on this ground. On this ground where we now sit, where I saw my two girls dance this morning, where the fruit has just been gathered for our eating from these trees, the roots of which are struck in Men, not earth,—so many lives were lost, that within my recollection, generations afterwards, a churchyard full of bones, and dust of bones, and chips of cloven skulls, has been dug up from underneath our feet here. Yet not a hundred people in that battle knew for what they fought, or why; not a hundred of the inconsiderate rejoicers in the victory, why they rejoiced. Not half a hundred people were the better for the gain or loss. Not half-a-dozen men agree to this hour on the cause or merits; and nobody, in short, ever knew anything distinct about it, but the mourners of the slain. Serious, too!’ said the Doctor, laughing. ‘Such a system!’

‘But, all this seems to me,’ said Alfred, ‘to be very serious.’

‘Serious!’ cried the Doctor. ‘If you allowed such things to be serious, you must go mad, or die, or climb up to the top of a mountain, and turn hermit.’

‘Besides—so long ago,’ said Alfred.

‘Long ago!’ returned the Doctor. ‘Do you know what the world has been doing, ever since? Do you know what else it has been doing? I don’t!’

‘It has gone to law a little,’ observed Mr. Snitchey, stirring his tea.

‘Although the way out has been always made too easy,’ said his partner.

‘And you’ll excuse my saying, Doctor,’ pursued Mr. Snitchey, ‘having been already put a thousand times in possession of my opinion, in the course of our discussions, that, in its having gone to law, and in its legal system altogether, I do observe a serious side—now, really, a something tangible, and with a purpose and intention in it—’

Clemency Newcome made an angular tumble against the table, occasioning a sounding clatter among the cups and saucers.

‘Heyday! what’s the matter there?’ exclaimed the Doctor.

‘It’s this evil-inclined blue bag,’ said Clemency, ‘always tripping up somebody!’

‘With a purpose and intention in it, I was saying,’ resumed Snitchey, ‘that commands respect. Life a farce, Dr. Jeddler? With law in it?’

The Doctor laughed, and looked at Alfred.

‘Granted, if you please, that war is foolish,’ said Snitchey. ‘There we agree. For example. Here’s a smiling country,’ pointing it out with his fork, ‘once overrun by soldiers—trespassers every man of ’em—and laid waste by fire and sword. He, he, he! The idea of any man exposing himself, voluntarily, to fire and sword! Stupid, wasteful, positively ridiculous; you laugh at your fellow-creatures, you know, when you think of it! But take this smiling country as it stands. Think of the laws appertaining to real property; to the bequest and devise of real property; to the mortgage and redemption of real property; to leasehold, freehold, and copyhold estate; think,’ said Mr. Snitchey, with such great emotion that he actually smacked his lips, ‘of the complicated laws relating to title and proof of title, with all the contradictory precedents and numerous acts of parliament connected with them; think of the infinite number of ingenious and interminable chancery suits, to which this pleasant prospect may give rise; and acknowledge, Dr. Jeddler, that there is a green spot in the scheme about us! I believe,’ said Mr. Snitchey, looking at his partner, ‘that I speak for Self and Craggs?’

Mr. Craggs having signified assent, Mr. Snitchey, somewhat freshened by his recent eloquence, observed that he would take a little more beef and another cup of tea.

‘I don’t stand up for life in general,’ he added, rubbing his hands and chuckling, ‘it’s full of folly; full of something worse. Professions of trust, and confidence, and unselfishness, and all that! Bah, bah, bah! We see what they’re worth. But, you mustn’t laugh at life; you’ve got a game to play; a very serious game indeed! Everybody’s playing against you, you know, and you’re playing against them. Oh! it’s a very interesting thing. There are deep moves upon the board. You must only laugh, Dr. Jeddler, when you win—and then not much. He, he, he! And then not much,’ repeated Snitchey, rolling his head and winking his eye, as if he would have added, ‘you may do this instead!’

‘Well, Alfred!’ cried the Doctor, ‘what do you say now?’

‘I say, sir,’ replied Alfred, ‘that the greatest favour you could do me, and yourself too, I am inclined to think, would be to try sometimes to forget this battle-field and others like it in that broader battle-field of Life, on which the sun looks every day.’

‘Really, I’m afraid that wouldn’t soften his opinions, Mr. Alfred,’ said Snitchey. ‘The combatants are very eager and very bitter in that same battle of Life. There’s a great deal of cutting and slashing, and firing into people’s heads from behind. There is terrible treading down, and trampling on. It is rather a bad business.’

‘I believe, Mr. Snitchey,’ said Alfred, ‘there are quiet victories and struggles, great sacrifices of self, and noble acts of heroism, in it—even in many of its apparent lightnesses and contradictions—not the less difficult to achieve, because they have no earthly chronicle or audience—done every day in nooks and corners, and in little households, and in men’s and women’s hearts—any one of which might reconcile the sternest man to such a world, and fill him with belief and hope in it, though two-fourths of its people were at war, and another fourth at law; and that’s a bold word.’

Both the sisters listened keenly.

‘Well, well!’ said the Doctor, ‘I am too old to be converted, even by my friend Snitchey here, or my good spinster sister, Martha Jeddler; who had what she calls her domestic trials ages ago, and has led a sympathising life with all sorts of people ever since; and who is so much of your opinion (only she’s less reasonable and more obstinate, being a woman), that we can’t agree, and seldom meet. I was born upon this battle-field. I began, as a boy, to have my thoughts directed to the real history of a battle-field. Sixty years have gone over my head, and I have never seen the Christian world, including Heaven knows how many loving mothers and good enough girls like mine here, anything but mad for a battle-field. The same contradictions prevail in everything. One must either laugh or cry at such stupendous inconsistencies; and I prefer to laugh.’

Britain, who had been paying the profoundest and most melancholy attention to each speaker in his turn, seemed suddenly to decide in favour of the same preference, if a deep sepulchral sound that escaped him might be construed into a demonstration of risibility. His face, however, was so perfectly unaffected by it, both before and afterwards, that although one or two of the breakfast party looked round as being startled by a mysterious noise, nobody connected the offender with it.

Except his partner in attendance, Clemency Newcome; who rousing him with one of those favourite joints, her elbows, inquired, in a reproachful whisper, what he laughed at.

‘Not you!’ said Britain.

‘Who then?’

‘Humanity,’ said Britain. ‘That’s the joke!’

‘What between master and them lawyers, he’s getting more and more addle-headed every day!’ cried Clemency, giving him a lunge with the other elbow, as a mental stimulant. ‘Do you know where you are? Do you want to get warning?’

‘I don’t know anything,’ said Britain, with a leaden eye and an immovable visage. ‘I don’t care for anything. I don’t make out anything. I don’t believe anything. And I don’t want anything.’

Although this forlorn summary of his general condition may have been overcharged in an access of despondency, Benjamin Britain—sometimes called Little Britain, to distinguish him from Great; as we might say Young England, to express Old England with a decided difference—had defined his real state more accurately than might be supposed. For, serving as a sort of man Miles to the Doctor’s Friar Bacon, and listening day after day to innumerable orations addressed by the Doctor to various people, all tending to show that his very existence was at best a mistake and an absurdity, this unfortunate servitor had fallen, by degrees, into such an abyss of confused and contradictory suggestions from within and without, that Truth at the bottom of her well, was on the level surface as compared with Britain in the depths of his mystification. The only point he clearly comprehended, was, that the new element usually brought into these discussions by Snitchey and Craggs, never served to make them clearer, and always seemed to give the Doctor a species of advantage and confirmation. Therefore, he looked upon the Firm as one of the proximate causes of his state of mind, and held them in abhorrence accordingly.

‘But, this is not our business, Alfred,’ said the Doctor. ‘Ceasing to be my ward (as you have said) to-day; and leaving us full to the brim of such learning as the Grammar School down here was able to give you, and your studies in London could add to that, and such practical knowledge as a dull old country Doctor like myself could graft upon both; you are away, now, into the world. The first term of probation appointed by your poor father, being over, away you go now, your own master, to fulfil his second desire. And long before your three years’ tour among the foreign schools of medicine is finished, you’ll have forgotten us. Lord, you’ll forget us easily in six months!’

‘If I do—But you know better; why should I speak to you!’ said Alfred, laughing.

‘I don’t know anything of the sort,’ returned the Doctor. ‘What do you say, Marion?’

Marion, trifling with her teacup, seemed to say—but she didn’t say it—that he was welcome to forget, if he could. Grace pressed the blooming face against her cheek, and smiled.

‘I haven’t been, I hope, a very unjust steward in the execution of my trust,’ pursued the Doctor; ‘but I am to be, at any rate, formally discharged, and released, and what not this morning; and here are our good friends Snitchey and Craggs, with a bagful of papers, and accounts, and documents, for the transfer of the balance of the trust fund to you (I wish it was a more difficult one to dispose of, Alfred, but you must get to be a great man and make it so), and other drolleries of that sort, which are to be signed, sealed, and delivered.’

‘And duly witnessed as by law required,’ said Snitchey, pushing away his plate, and taking out the papers, which his partner proceeded to spread upon the table; ‘and Self and Craggs having been co-trustees with you, Doctor, in so far as the fund was concerned, we shall want your two servants to attest the signatures—can you read, Mrs. Newcome?’

‘I an’t married, Mister,’ said Clemency.

‘Oh! I beg your pardon. I should think not,’ chuckled Snitchey, casting his eyes over her extraordinary figure. ‘You can read?’

‘A little,’ answered Clemency.

‘The marriage service, night and morning, eh?’ observed the lawyer, jocosely.

‘No,’ said Clemency. ‘Too hard. I only reads a thimble.’

‘Read a thimble!’ echoed Snitchey. ‘What are you talking about, young woman?’

Clemency nodded. ‘And a nutmeg-grater.’

‘Why, this is a lunatic! a subject for the Lord High Chancellor!’ said Snitchey, staring at her.

—‘If possessed of any property,’ stipulated Craggs.

Grace, however, interposing, explained that each of the articles in question bore an engraved motto, and so formed the pocket library of Clemency Newcome, who was not much given to the study of books.

‘Oh, that’s it, is it, Miss Grace!’ said Snitchey.

‘Yes, yes. Ha, ha, ha! I thought our friend was an idiot. She looks uncommonly like it,’ he muttered, with a supercilious glance. ‘And what does the thimble say, Mrs. Newcome?’

‘I an’t married, Mister,’ observed Clemency.

‘Well, Newcome. Will that do?’ said the lawyer. ‘What does the thimble say, Newcome?’

How Clemency, before replying to this question, held one pocket open, and looked down into its yawning depths for the thimble which wasn’t there,—and how she then held an opposite pocket open, and seeming to descry it, like a pearl of great price, at the bottom, cleared away such intervening obstacles as a handkerchief, an end of wax candle, a flushed apple, an orange, a lucky penny, a cramp bone, a padlock, a pair of scissors in a sheath more expressively describable as promising young shears, a handful or so of loose beads, several balls of cotton, a needle-case, a cabinet collection of curl-papers, and a biscuit, all of which articles she entrusted individually and separately to Britain to hold,—is of no consequence.

Nor how, in her determination to grasp this pocket by the throat and keep it prisoner (for it had a tendency to swing, and twist itself round the nearest corner), she assumed and calmly maintained, an attitude apparently inconsistent with the human anatomy and the laws of gravity. It is enough that at last she triumphantly produced the thimble on her finger, and rattled the nutmeg-grater: the literature of both those trinkets being obviously in course of wearing out and wasting away, through excessive friction.

‘That’s the thimble, is it, young woman?’ said Mr. Snitchey, diverting himself at her expense. ‘And what does the thimble say?’

‘It says,’ replied Clemency, reading slowly round as if it were a tower, ‘For-get and For-give.’

Snitchey and Craggs laughed heartily. ‘So new!’ said Snitchey. ‘So easy!’ said Craggs. ‘Such a knowledge of human nature in it!’ said Snitchey. ‘So applicable to the affairs of life!’ said Craggs.

‘And the nutmeg-grater?’ inquired the head of the Firm.

‘The grater says,’ returned Clemency, ‘Do as you—wold—be—done by.’

‘Do, or you’ll be done brown, you mean,’ said Mr. Snitchey.

‘I don’t understand,’ retorted Clemency, shaking her head vaguely. ‘I an’t no lawyer.’

‘I am afraid that if she was, Doctor,’ said Mr. Snitchey, turning to him suddenly, as if to anticipate any effect that might otherwise be consequent on this retort, ‘she’d find it to be the golden rule of half her clients. They are serious enough in that—whimsical as your world is—and lay the blame on us afterwards. We, in our profession, are little else than mirrors after all, Mr. Alfred; but, we are generally consulted by angry and quarrelsome people who are not in their best looks, and it’s rather hard to quarrel with us if we reflect unpleasant aspects. I think,’ said Mr. Snitchey, ‘that I speak for Self and Craggs?’

‘Decidedly,’ said Craggs.

‘And so, if Mr. Britain will oblige us with a mouthful of ink,’ said Mr. Snitchey, returning to the papers, ‘we’ll sign, seal, and deliver as soon as possible, or the coach will be coming past before we know where we are.’

If one might judge from his appearance, there was every probability of the coach coming past before Mr. Britain knew where he was; for he stood in a state of abstraction, mentally balancing the Doctor against the lawyers, and the lawyers against the Doctor, and their clients against both, and engaged in feeble attempts to make the thimble and nutmeg-grater (a new idea to him) square with anybody’s system of philosophy; and, in short, bewildering himself as much as ever his great namesake has done with theories and schools. But, Clemency, who was his good Genius—though he had the meanest possible opinion of her understanding, by reason of her seldom troubling herself with abstract speculations, and being always at hand to do the right thing at the right time—having produced the ink in a twinkling, tendered him the further service of recalling him to himself by the application of her elbows; with which gentle flappers she so jogged his memory, in a more literal construction of that phrase than usual, that he soon became quite fresh and brisk.

How he laboured under an apprehension not uncommon to persons in his degree, to whom the use of pen and ink is an event, that he couldn’t append his name to a document, not of his own writing, without committing himself in some shadowy manner, or somehow signing away vague and enormous sums of money; and how he approached the deeds under protest, and by dint of the Doctor’s coercion, and insisted on pausing to look at them before writing (the cramped hand, to say nothing of the phraseology, being so much Chinese to him), and also on turning them round to see whether there was anything fraudulent underneath; and how, having signed his name, he became desolate as one who had parted with his property and rights; I want the time to tell. Also, how the blue bag containing his signature, afterwards had a mysterious interest for him, and he couldn’t leave it; also, how Clemency Newcome, in an ecstasy of laughter at the idea of her own importance and dignity, brooded over the whole table with her two elbows, like a spread eagle, and reposed her head upon her left arm as a preliminary to the formation of certain cabalistic characters, which required a deal of ink, and imaginary counterparts whereof she executed at the same time with her tongue. Also, how, having once tasted ink, she became thirsty in that regard, as tame tigers are said to be after tasting another sort of fluid, and wanted to sign everything, and put her name in all kinds of places. In brief, the Doctor was discharged of his trust and all its responsibilities; and Alfred, taking it on himself, was fairly started on the journey of life.

‘Britain!’ said the Doctor. ‘Run to the gate, and watch for the coach. Time flies, Alfred.’

‘Yes, sir, yes,’ returned the young man, hurriedly. ‘Dear Grace! a moment! Marion—so young and beautiful, so winning and so much admired, dear to my heart as nothing else in life is—remember! I leave Marion to you!’

‘She has always been a sacred charge to me, Alfred. She is doubly so, now. I will be faithful to my trust, believe me.’

‘I do believe it, Grace. I know it well. Who could look upon your face, and hear your voice, and not know it! Ah, Grace! If I had your well-governed heart, and tranquil mind, how bravely I would leave this place to-day!’

‘Would you?’ she answered with a quiet smile.

‘And yet, Grace—Sister, seems the natural word.’

‘Use it!’ she said quickly. ‘I am glad to hear it. Call me nothing else.’

‘And yet, sister, then,’ said Alfred, ‘Marion and I had better have your true and steadfast qualities serving us here, and making us both happier and better. I wouldn’t carry them away, to sustain myself, if I could!’

‘Coach upon the hill-top!’ exclaimed Britain.

‘Time flies, Alfred,’ said the Doctor.

Marion had stood apart, with her eyes fixed upon the ground; but, this warning being given, her young lover brought her tenderly to where her sister stood, and gave her into her embrace.

‘I have been telling Grace, dear Marion,’ he said, ‘that you are her charge; my precious trust at parting. And when I come back and reclaim you, dearest, and the bright prospect of our married life lies stretched before us, it shall be one of our chief pleasures to consult how we can make Grace happy; how we can anticipate her wishes; how we can show our gratitude and love to her; how we can return her something of the debt she will have heaped upon us.’

The younger sister had one hand in his; the other rested on her sister’s neck. She looked into that sister’s eyes, so calm, serene, and cheerful, with a gaze in which affection, admiration, sorrow, wonder, almost veneration, were blended. She looked into that sister’s face, as if it were the face of some bright angel. Calm, serene, and cheerful, the face looked back on her and on her lover.

‘And when the time comes, as it must one day,’ said Alfred,—‘I wonder it has never come yet, but Grace knows best, for Grace is always right—when she will want a friend to open her whole heart to, and to be to her something of what she has been to us—then, Marion, how faithful we will prove, and what delight to us to know that she, our dear good sister, loves and is loved again, as we would have her!’

Still the younger sister looked into her eyes, and turned not—even towards him. And still those honest eyes looked back, so calm, serene, and cheerful, on herself and on her lover.

‘And when all that is past, and we are old, and living (as we must!) together—close together—talking often of old times,’ said Alfred—‘these shall be our favourite times among them—this day most of all; and, telling each other what we thought and felt, and hoped and feared at parting; and how we couldn’t bear to say good bye—’

‘Coach coming through the wood!’ cried Britain.

‘Yes! I am ready—and how we met again, so happily in spite of all; we’ll make this day the happiest in all the year, and keep it as a treble birth-day. Shall we, dear?’

‘Yes!’ interposed the elder sister, eagerly, and with a radiant smile. ‘Yes! Alfred, don’t linger. There’s no time. Say good bye to Marion. And Heaven be with you!’

He pressed the younger sister to his heart. Released from his embrace, she again clung to her sister; and her eyes, with the same blended look, again sought those so calm, serene, and cheerful.

‘Farewell, my boy!’ said the Doctor. ‘To talk about any serious correspondence or serious affections, and engagements and so forth, in such a—ha ha ha!—you know what I mean—why that, of course, would be sheer nonsense. All I can say is, that if you and Marion should continue in the same foolish minds, I shall not object to have you for a son-in-law one of these days.’

‘Over the bridge!’ cried Britain.

‘Let it come!’ said Alfred, wringing the Doctor’s hand stoutly. ‘Think of me sometimes, my old friend and guardian, as seriously as you can! Adieu, Mr. Snitchey! Farewell, Mr. Craggs!’

‘Coming down the road!’ cried Britain.

‘A kiss of Clemency Newcome for long acquaintance’ sake! Shake hands, Britain! Marion, dearest heart, good bye! Sister Grace! remember!’

The quiet household figure, and the face so beautiful in its serenity, were turned towards him in reply; but Marion’s look and attitude remained unchanged.

The coach was at the gate. There was a bustle with the luggage. The coach drove away. Marion never moved.

‘He waves his hat to you, my love,’ said Grace. ‘Your chosen husband, darling. Look!’

The younger sister raised her head, and, for a moment, turned it. Then, turning back again, and fully meeting, for the first time, those calm eyes, fell sobbing on her neck.

‘Oh, Grace. God bless you! But I cannot bear to see it, Grace! It breaks my heart.’

Part the Second

SNITCHEY AND CRAGGS had a snug little office on the old Battle Ground, where they drove a snug little business, and fought a great many small pitched battles for a great many contending parties. Though it could hardly be said of these conflicts that they were running fights—for in truth they generally proceeded at a snail’s pace—the part the Firm had in them came so far within the general denomination, that now they took a shot at this Plaintiff, and now aimed a chop at that Defendant, now made a heavy charge at an estate in Chancery, and now had some light skirmishing among an irregular body of small debtors, just as the occasion served, and the enemy happened to present himself. The Gazette was an important and profitable feature in some of their fields, as in fields of greater renown; and in most of the Actions wherein they showed their generalship, it was afterwards observed by the combatants that they had had great difficulty in making each other out, or in knowing with any degree of distinctness what they were about, in consequence of the vast amount of smoke by which they were surrounded.

The offices of Messrs. Snitchey and Craggs stood convenient, with an open door down two smooth steps, in the market-place; so that any angry farmer inclining towards hot water, might tumble into it at once. Their special council-chamber and hall of conference was an old back-room up-stairs, with a low dark ceiling, which seemed to be knitting its brows gloomily in the consideration of tangled points of law. It was furnished with some high-backed leathern chairs, garnished with great goggle-eyed brass nails, of which, every here and there, two or three had fallen out—or had been picked out, perhaps, by the wandering thumbs and forefingers of bewildered clients. There was a framed print of a great judge in it, every curl in whose dreadful wig had made a man’s hair stand on end. Bales of papers filled the dusty closets, shelves, and tables; and round the wainscot there were tiers of boxes, padlocked and fireproof, with people’s names painted outside, which anxious visitors felt themselves, by a cruel enchantment, obliged to spell backwards and forwards, and to make anagrams of, while they sat, seeming to listen to Snitchey and Craggs, without comprehending one word of what they said.

Snitchey and Craggs had each, in private life as in professional existence, a partner of his own. Snitchey and Craggs were the best friends in the world, and had a real confidence in one another; but Mrs. Snitchey, by a dispensation not uncommon in the affairs of life, was on principle suspicious of Mr. Craggs; and Mrs. Craggs was on principle suspicious of Mr. Snitchey. ‘Your Snitcheys indeed,’ the latter lady would observe, sometimes, to Mr. Craggs; using that imaginative plural as if in disparagement of an objectionable pair of pantaloons, or other articles not possessed of a singular number; ‘I don’t see what you want with your Snitcheys, for my part. You trust a great deal too much to your Snitcheys, I think, and I hope you may never find my words come true.’ While Mrs. Snitchey would observe to Mr. Snitchey, of Craggs, ‘that if ever he was led away by man he was led away by that man, and that if ever she read a double purpose in a mortal eye, she read that purpose in Craggs’s eye.’ Notwithstanding this, however, they were all very good friends in general: and Mrs. Snitchey and Mrs. Craggs maintained a close bond of alliance against ‘the office,’ which they both considered the Blue chamber, and common enemy, full of dangerous (because unknown) machinations.

In this office, nevertheless, Snitchey and Craggs made honey for their several hives. Here, sometimes, they would linger, of a fine evening, at the window of their council-chamber overlooking the old battle-ground, and wonder (but that was generally at assize time, when much business had made them sentimental) at the folly of mankind, who couldn’t always be at peace with one another and go to law comfortably. Here, days, and weeks, and months, and years, passed over them: their calendar, the gradually diminishing number of brass nails in the leathern chairs, and the increasing bulk of papers on the tables. Here, nearly three years’ flight had thinned the one and swelled the other, since the breakfast in the orchard; when they sat together in consultation at night.

Not alone; but, with a man of thirty, or about that time of life, negligently dressed, and somewhat haggard in the face, but well-made, well-attired, and well-looking, who sat in the armchair of state, with one hand in his breast, and the other in his dishevelled hair, pondering moodily. Messrs. Snitchey and Craggs sat opposite each other at a neighbouring desk. One of the fireproof boxes, unpadlocked and opened, was upon it; a part of its contents lay strewn upon the table, and the rest was then in course of passing through the hands of Mr. Snitchey; who brought it to the candle, document by document; looked at every paper singly, as he produced it; shook his head, and handed it to Mr. Craggs; who looked it over also, shook his head, and laid it down. Sometimes, they would stop, and shaking their heads in concert, look towards the abstracted client. And the name on the box being Michael Warden, Esquire, we may conclude from these premises that the name and the box were both his, and that the affairs of Michael Warden, Esquire, were in a bad way.

‘That’s all,’ said Mr. Snitchey, turning up the last paper. ‘Really there’s no other resource. No other resource.’

‘All lost, spent, wasted, pawned, borrowed, and sold, eh?’ said the client, looking up.

‘All,’ returned Mr. Snitchey.

‘Nothing else to be done, you say?’

‘Nothing at all.’

The client bit his nails, and pondered again.

‘And I am not even personally safe in England? You hold to that, do you?’

‘In no part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland,’ replied Mr. Snitchey.

‘A mere prodigal son with no father to go back to, no swine to keep, and no husks to share with them? Eh?’ pursued the client, rocking one leg over the other, and searching the ground with his eyes.

Mr. Snitchey coughed, as if to deprecate the being supposed to participate in any figurative illustration of a legal position. Mr. Craggs, as if to express that it was a partnership view of the subject, also coughed.

‘Ruined at thirty!’ said the client. ‘Humph!’

‘Not ruined, Mr. Warden,’ returned Snitchey. ‘Not so bad as that. You have done a good deal towards it, I must say, but you are not ruined. A little nursing—’

‘A little Devil,’ said the client.

‘Mr. Craggs,’ said Snitchey, ‘will you oblige me with a pinch of snuff? Thank you, sir.’

As the imperturbable lawyer applied it to his nose with great apparent relish and a perfect absorption of his attention in the proceeding, the client gradually broke into a smile, and, looking up, said:

‘You talk of nursing. How long nursing?’

‘How long nursing?’ repeated Snitchey, dusting the snuff from his fingers, and making a slow calculation in his mind. ‘For your involved estate, sir? In good hands? S. and C.’s, say? Six or seven years.’

‘To starve for six or seven years!’ said the client with a fretful laugh, and an impatient change of his position.

‘To starve for six or seven years, Mr. Warden,’ said Snitchey, ‘would be very uncommon indeed. You might get another estate by showing yourself, the while. But, we don’t think you could do it—speaking for Self and Craggs—and consequently don’t advise it.’

‘What do you advise?’

‘Nursing, I say,’ repeated Snitchey. ‘Some few years of nursing by Self and Craggs would bring it round. But to enable us to make terms, and hold terms, and you to keep terms, you must go away; you must live abroad. As to starvation, we could ensure you some hundreds a-year to starve upon, even in the beginning—I dare say, Mr. Warden.’

‘Hundreds,’ said the client. ‘And I have spent thousands!’

‘That,’ retorted Mr. Snitchey, putting the papers slowly back into the cast-iron box, ‘there is no doubt about. No doubt a—bout,’ he repeated to himself, as he thoughtfully pursued his occupation.

The lawyer very likely knew his man; at any rate his dry, shrewd, whimsical manner, had a favourable influence on the client’s moody state, and disposed him to be more free and unreserved. Or, perhaps the client knew his man, and had elicited such encouragement as he had received, to render some purpose he was about to disclose the more defensible in appearance. Gradually raising his head, he sat looking at his immovable adviser with a smile, which presently broke into a laugh.

‘After all,’ he said, ‘my iron-headed friend—’

Mr. Snitchey pointed out his partner. ‘Self and—excuse me—Craggs.’

‘I beg Mr. Craggs’s pardon,’ said the client. ‘After all, my iron-headed friends,’ he leaned forward in his chair, and dropped his voice a little, ‘you don’t know half my ruin yet.’

Mr. Snitchey stopped and stared at him. Mr. Craggs also stared.

‘I am not only deep in debt,’ said the client, ‘but I am deep in—’

‘Not in love!’ cried Snitchey.

‘Yes!’ said the client, falling back in his chair, and surveying the Firm with his hands in his pockets. ‘Deep in love.’

‘And not with an heiress, sir?’ said Snitchey.

‘Not with an heiress.’

‘Nor a rich lady?’

‘Nor a rich lady that I know of—except in beauty and merit.’

‘A single lady, I trust?’ said Mr. Snitchey, with great expression.

‘Certainly.’

‘It’s not one of Dr. Jeddler’s daughters?’ said Snitchey, suddenly squaring his elbows on his knees, and advancing his face at least a yard.

‘Yes!’ returned the client.

‘Not his younger daughter?’ said Snitchey.

‘Yes!’ returned the client.

‘Mr. Craggs,’ said Snitchey, much relieved, ‘will you oblige me with another pinch of snuff? Thank you! I am happy to say it don’t signify, Mr. Warden; she’s engaged, sir, she’s bespoke. My partner can corroborate me. We know the fact.’

‘We know the fact,’ repeated Craggs.

‘Why, so do I perhaps,’ returned the client quietly. ‘What of that! Are you men of the world, and did you never hear of a woman changing her mind?’

‘There certainly have been actions for breach,’ said Mr. Snitchey, ‘brought against both spinsters and widows, but, in the majority of cases—’

‘Cases!’ interposed the client, impatiently. ‘Don’t talk to me of cases. The general precedent is in a much larger volume than any of your law books. Besides, do you think I have lived six weeks in the Doctor’s house for nothing?’

‘I think, sir,’ observed Mr. Snitchey, gravely addressing himself to his partner, ‘that of all the scrapes Mr. Warden’s horses have brought him into at one time and another—and they have been pretty numerous, and pretty expensive, as none know better than himself, and you, and I—the worst scrape may turn out to be, if he talks in this way, this having ever been left by one of them at the Doctor’s garden wall, with three broken ribs, a snapped collar-bone, and the Lord knows how many bruises. We didn’t think so much of it, at the time when we knew he was going on well under the Doctor’s hands and roof; but it looks bad now, sir. Bad? It looks very bad. Doctor Jeddler too—our client, Mr. Craggs.’

‘Mr. Alfred Heathfield too—a sort of client, Mr. Snitchey,’ said Craggs.

‘Mr. Michael Warden too, a kind of client,’ said the careless visitor, ‘and no bad one either: having played the fool for ten or twelve years. However, Mr. Michael Warden has sown his wild oats now—there’s their crop, in that box; and he means to repent and be wise. And in proof of it, Mr. Michael Warden means, if he can, to marry Marion, the Doctor’s lovely daughter, and to carry her away with him.’

‘Really, Mr. Craggs,’ Snitchey began.

‘Really, Mr. Snitchey, and Mr. Craggs, partners both,’ said the client, interrupting him; ‘you know your duty to your clients, and you know well enough, I am sure, that it is no part of it to interfere in a mere love affair, which I am obliged to confide to you. I am not going to carry the young lady off, without her own consent. There’s nothing illegal in it. I never was Mr. Heathfield’s bosom friend. I violate no confidence of his. I love where he loves, and I mean to win where he would win, if I can.’

‘He can’t, Mr. Craggs,’ said Snitchey, evidently anxious and discomfited. ‘He can’t do it, sir. She dotes on Mr. Alfred.’

‘Does she?’ returned the client.

‘Mr. Craggs, she dotes on him, sir,’ persisted Snitchey.

‘I didn’t live six weeks, some few months ago, in the Doctor’s house for nothing; and I doubted that soon,’ observed the client. ‘She would have doted on him, if her sister could have brought it about; but I watched them. Marion avoided his name, avoided the subject: shrunk from the least allusion to it, with evident distress.’

‘Why should she, Mr. Craggs, you know? Why should she, sir?’ inquired Snitchey.

‘I don’t know why she should, though there are many likely reasons,’ said the client, smiling at the attention and perplexity expressed in Mr. Snitchey’s shining eye, and at his cautious way of carrying on the conversation, and making himself informed upon the subject; ‘but I know she does. She was very young when she made the engagement—if it may be called one, I am not even sure of that—and has repented of it, perhaps. Perhaps—it seems a foppish thing to say, but upon my soul I don’t mean it in that light—she may have fallen in love with me, as I have fallen in love with her.’

‘He, he! Mr. Alfred, her old playfellow too, you remember, Mr. Craggs,’ said Snitchey, with a disconcerted laugh; ‘knew her almost from a baby!’

‘Which makes it the more probable that she may be tired of his idea,’ calmly pursued the client, ‘and not indisposed to exchange it for the newer one of another lover, who presents himself (or is presented by his horse) under romantic circumstances; has the not unfavourable reputation—with a country girl—of having lived thoughtlessly and gaily, without doing much harm to anybody; and who, for his youth and figure, and so forth—this may seem foppish again, but upon my soul I don’t mean it in that light—might perhaps pass muster in a crowd with Mr. Alfred himself.’

There was no gainsaying the last clause, certainly; and Mr. Snitchey, glancing at him, thought so. There was something naturally graceful and pleasant in the very carelessness of his air. It seemed to suggest, of his comely face and well-knit figure, that they might be greatly better if he chose: and that, once roused and made earnest (but he never had been earnest yet), he could be full of fire and purpose. ‘A dangerous sort of libertine,’ thought the shrewd lawyer, ‘to seem to catch the spark he wants, from a young lady’s eyes.’

‘Now, observe, Snitchey,’ he continued, rising and taking him by the button, ‘and Craggs,’ taking him by the button also, and placing one partner on either side of him, so that neither might evade him. ‘I don’t ask you for any advice. You are right to keep quite aloof from all parties in such a matter, which is not one in which grave men like you could interfere, on any side. I am briefly going to review in half-a-dozen words, my position and intention, and then I shall leave it to you to do the best for me, in money matters, that you can: seeing, that, if I run away with the Doctor’s beautiful daughter (as I hope to do, and to become another man under her bright influence), it will be, for the moment, more chargeable than running away alone. But I shall soon make all that up in an altered life.’

‘I think it will be better not to hear this, Mr. Craggs?’ said Snitchey, looking at him across the client.

‘I think not,’ said Craggs.—Both listened attentively.

‘Well! You needn’t hear it,’ replied their client. ‘I’ll mention it, however. I don’t mean to ask the Doctor’s consent, because he wouldn’t give it me. But I mean to do the Doctor no wrong or harm, because (besides there being nothing serious in such trifles, as he says) I hope to rescue his child, my Marion, from what I see—I know—she dreads, and contemplates with misery: that is, the return of this old lover. If anything in the world is true, it is true that she dreads his return. Nobody is injured so far. I am so harried and worried here just now, that I lead the life of a flying-fish. I skulk about in the dark, I am shut out of my own house, and warned off my own grounds; but, that house, and those grounds, and many an acre besides, will come back to me one day, as you know and say; and Marion will probably be richer—on your showing, who are never sanguine—ten years hence as my wife, than as the wife of Alfred Heathfield, whose return she dreads (remember that), and in whom or in any man, my passion is not surpassed. Who is injured yet? It is a fair case throughout. My right is as good as his, if she decide in my favour; and I will try my right by her alone. You will like to know no more after this, and I will tell you no more. Now you know my purpose, and wants. When must I leave here?’

‘In a week,’ said Snitchey. ‘Mr. Craggs?’

‘In something less, I should say,’ responded Craggs.

‘In a month,’ said the client, after attentively watching the two faces. ‘This day month. To-day is Thursday. Succeed or fail, on this day month I go.’

‘It’s too long a delay,’ said Snitchey; ‘much too long. But let it be so. I thought he’d have stipulated for three,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Are you going? Good night, sir!’

‘Good night!’ returned the client, shaking hands with the Firm.

‘You’ll live to see me making a good use of riches yet. Henceforth the star of my destiny is, Marion!’

‘Take care of the stairs, sir,’ replied Snitchey; ‘for she don’t shine there. Good night!’

‘Good night!’

So they both stood at the stair-head with a pair of office-candles, watching him down. When he had gone away, they stood looking at each other.

‘What do you think of all this, Mr. Craggs?’ said Snitchey.

Mr. Craggs shook his head.

‘It was our opinion, on the day when that release was executed, that there was something curious in the parting of that pair; I recollect,’ said Snitchey.

‘It was,’ said Mr. Craggs.

‘Perhaps he deceives himself altogether,’ pursued Mr. Snitchey, locking up the fireproof box, and putting it away; ‘or, if he don’t, a little bit of fickleness and perfidy is not a miracle, Mr. Craggs. And yet I thought that pretty face was very true. I thought,’ said Mr. Snitchey, putting on his great-coat (for the weather was very cold), drawing on his gloves, and snuffing out one candle, ‘that I had even seen her character becoming stronger and more resolved of late. More like her sister’s.’

‘Mrs. Craggs was of the same opinion,’ returned Craggs.

‘I’d really give a trifle to-night,’ observed Mr. Snitchey, who was a good-natured man, ‘if I could believe that Mr. Warden was reckoning without his host; but, light-headed, capricious, and unballasted as he is, he knows something of the world and its people (he ought to, for he has bought what he does know, dear enough); and I can’t quite think that. We had better not interfere: we can do nothing, Mr. Craggs, but keep quiet.’

‘Nothing,’ returned Craggs.

‘Our friend the Doctor makes light of such things,’ said Mr. Snitchey, shaking his head. ‘I hope he mayn’t stand in need of his philosophy. Our friend Alfred talks of the battle of life,’ he shook his head again, ‘I hope he mayn’t be cut down early in the day. Have you got your hat, Mr. Craggs? I am going to put the other candle out.’ Mr. Craggs replying in the affirmative, Mr. Snitchey suited the action to the word, and they groped their way out of the council-chamber, now dark as the subject, or the law in general.

---

My story passes to a quiet little study, where, on that same night, the sisters and the hale old Doctor sat by a cheerful fireside. Grace was working at her needle. Marion read aloud from a book before her. The Doctor, in his dressing-gown and slippers, with his feet spread out upon the warm rug, leaned back in his easy-chair, and listened to the book, and looked upon his daughters.

They were very beautiful to look upon. Two better faces for a fireside, never made a fireside bright and sacred. Something of the difference between them had been softened down in three years’ time; and enthroned upon the clear brow of the younger sister, looking through her eyes, and thrilling in her voice, was the same earnest nature that her own motherless youth had ripened in the elder sister long ago. But she still appeared at once the lovelier and weaker of the two; still seemed to rest her head upon her sister’s breast, and put her trust in her, and look into her eyes for counsel and reliance. Those loving eyes, so calm, serene, and cheerful, as of old.

‘“And being in her own home,”’ read Marion, from the book; ‘“her home made exquisitely dear by these remembrances, she now began to know that the great trial of her heart must soon come on, and could not be delayed. O Home, our comforter and friend when others fall away, to part with whom, at any step between the cradle and the grave”’—

‘Marion, my love!’ said Grace.

‘Why, Puss!’ exclaimed her father, ‘what’s the matter?’

She put her hand upon the hand her sister stretched towards her, and read on; her voice still faltering and trembling, though she made an effort to command it when thus interrupted.

‘“To part with whom, at any step between the cradle and the grave, is always sorrowful. O Home, so true to us, so often slighted in return, be lenient to them that turn away from thee, and do not haunt their erring footsteps too reproachfully! Let no kind looks, no well-remembered smiles, be seen upon thy phantom face. Let no ray of affection, welcome, gentleness, forbearance, cordiality, shine from thy white head. Let no old loving word, or tone, rise up in judgment against thy deserter; but if thou canst look harshly and severely, do, in mercy to the Penitent!”’

‘Dear Marion, read no more to-night,’ said Grace for she was weeping.

‘I cannot,’ she replied, and closed the book. ‘The words seem all on fire!’

The Doctor was amused at this; and laughed as he patted her on the head.

‘What! overcome by a story-book!’ said Doctor Jeddler. ‘Print and paper! Well, well, it’s all one. It’s as rational to make a serious matter of print and paper as of anything else. But, dry your eyes, love, dry your eyes. I dare say the heroine has got home again long ago, and made it up all round—and if she hasn’t, a real home is only four walls; and a fictitious one, mere rags and ink. What’s the matter now?’

‘It’s only me, Mister,’ said Clemency, putting in her head at the door.

‘And what’s the matter with you?’ said the Doctor.

‘Oh, bless you, nothing an’t the matter with me,’ returned Clemency—and truly too, to judge from her well-soaped face, in which there gleamed as usual the very soul of good-humour, which, ungainly as she was, made her quite engaging. Abrasions on the elbows are not generally understood, it is true, to range within that class of personal charms called beauty-spots. But, it is better, going through the world, to have the arms chafed in that narrow passage, than the temper: and Clemency’s was sound and whole as any beauty’s in the land.

‘Nothing an’t the matter with me,’ said Clemency, entering, ‘but—come a little closer, Mister.’

The Doctor, in some astonishment, complied with this invitation.

‘You said I wasn’t to give you one before them, you know,’ said Clemency.

A novice in the family might have supposed, from her extraordinary ogling as she said it, as well as from a singular rapture or ecstasy which pervaded her elbows, as if she were embracing herself, that ‘one,’ in its most favourable interpretation, meant a chaste salute. Indeed the Doctor himself seemed alarmed, for the moment; but quickly regained his composure, as Clemency, having had recourse to both her pockets—beginning with the right one, going away to the wrong one, and afterwards coming back to the right one again—produced a letter from the Post-office.

‘Britain was riding by on a errand,’ she chuckled, handing it to the Doctor, ‘and see the mail come in, and waited for it. There’s A. H. in the corner. Mr. Alfred’s on his journey home, I bet. We shall have a wedding in the house—there was two spoons in my saucer this morning. Oh Luck, how slow he opens it!’

All this she delivered, by way of soliloquy, gradually rising higher and higher on tiptoe, in her impatience to hear the news, and making a corkscrew of her apron, and a bottle of her mouth. At last, arriving at a climax of suspense, and seeing the Doctor still engaged in the perusal of the letter, she came down flat upon the soles of her feet again, and cast her apron, as a veil, over her head, in a mute despair, and inability to bear it any longer.

‘Here! Girls!’ cried the Doctor. ‘I can’t help it: I never could keep a secret in my life. There are not many secrets, indeed, worth being kept in such a—well! never mind that. Alfred’s coming home, my dears, directly.’

‘Directly!’ exclaimed Marion.

‘What! The story-book is soon forgotten!’ said the Doctor, pinching her cheek. ‘I thought the news would dry those tears. Yes. “Let it be a surprise,” he says, here. But I can’t let it be a surprise. He must have a welcome.’

‘Directly!’ repeated Marion.

‘Why, perhaps not what your impatience calls “directly,”’ returned the doctor; ‘but pretty soon too. Let us see. Let us see. To-day is Thursday, is it not? Then he promises to be here, this day month.’

‘This day month!’ repeated Marion, softly.

‘A gay day and a holiday for us,’ said the cheerful voice of her sister Grace, kissing her in congratulation. ‘Long looked forward to, dearest, and come at last.’

She answered with a smile; a mournful smile, but full of sisterly affection. As she looked in her sister’s face, and listened to the quiet music of her voice, picturing the happiness of this return, her own face glowed with hope and joy.

And with a something else; a something shining more and more through all the rest of its expression; for which I have no name. It was not exultation, triumph, proud enthusiasm. They are not so calmly shown. It was not love and gratitude alone, though love and gratitude were part of it. It emanated from no sordid thought, for sordid thoughts do not light up the brow, and hover on the lips, and move the spirit like a fluttered light, until the sympathetic figure trembles.

Dr. Jeddler, in spite of his system of philosophy—which he was continually contradicting and denying in practice, but more famous philosophers have done that—could not help having as much interest in the return of his old ward and pupil as if it had been a serious event. So he sat himself down in his easy-chair again, stretched out his slippered feet once more upon the rug, read the letter over and over a great many times, and talked it over more times still.

‘Ah! The day was,’ said the Doctor, looking at the fire, ‘when you and he, Grace, used to trot about arm-in-arm, in his holiday time, like a couple of walking dolls. You remember?’

‘I remember,’ she answered, with her pleasant laugh, and plying her needle busily.

‘This day month, indeed!’ mused the Doctor. ‘That hardly seems a twelve month ago. And where was my little Marion then!’

‘Never far from her sister,’ said Marion, cheerily, ‘however little. Grace was everything to me, even when she was a young child herself.’

‘True, Puss, true,’ returned the Doctor. ‘She was a staid little woman, was Grace, and a wise housekeeper, and a busy, quiet, pleasant body; bearing with our humours and anticipating our wishes, and always ready to forget her own, even in those times. I never knew you positive or obstinate, Grace, my darling, even then, on any subject but one.’

‘I am afraid I have changed sadly for the worse, since,’ laughed Grace, still busy at her work. ‘What was that one, father?’

‘Alfred, of course,’ said the Doctor. ‘Nothing would serve you but you must be called Alfred’s wife; so we called you Alfred’s wife; and you liked it better, I believe (odd as it seems now), than being called a Duchess, if we could have made you one.’

‘Indeed?’ said Grace, placidly.

‘Why, don’t you remember?’ inquired the Doctor.

‘I think I remember something of it,’ she returned, ‘but not much. It’s so long ago.’ And as she sat at work, she hummed the burden of an old song, which the Doctor liked.

‘Alfred will find a real wife soon,’ she said, breaking off; ‘and that will be a happy time indeed for all of us. My three years’ trust is nearly at an end, Marion. It has been a very easy one. I shall tell Alfred, when I give you back to him, that you have loved him dearly all the time, and that he has never once needed my good services. May I tell him so, love?’

‘Tell him, dear Grace,’ replied Marion, ‘that there never was a trust so generously, nobly, steadfastly discharged; and that I have loved you, all the time, dearer and dearer every day; and O! how dearly now!’

‘Nay,’ said her cheerful sister, returning her embrace, ‘I can scarcely tell him that; we will leave my deserts to Alfred’s imagination. It will be liberal enough, dear Marion; like your own.’

With that, she resumed the work she had for a moment laid down, when her sister spoke so fervently: and with it the old song the Doctor liked to hear. And the Doctor, still reposing in his easy-chair, with his slippered feet stretched out before him on the rug, listened to the tune, and beat time on his knee with Alfred’s letter, and looked at his two daughters, and thought that among the many trifles of the trifling world, these trifles were agreeable enough.

Clemency Newcome, in the meantime, having accomplished her mission and lingered in the room until she had made herself a party to the news, descended to the kitchen, where her coadjutor, Mr. Britain, was regaling after supper, surrounded by such a plentiful collection of bright pot-lids, well-scoured saucepans, burnished dinner-covers, gleaming kettles, and other tokens of her industrious habits, arranged upon the walls and shelves, that he sat as in the centre of a hall of mirrors. The majority did not give forth very flattering portraits of him, certainly; nor were they by any means unanimous in their reflections; as some made him very long-faced, others very broad-faced, some tolerably well-looking, others vastly ill-looking, according to their several manners of reflecting: which were as various, in respect of one fact, as those of so many kinds of men. But they all agreed that in the midst of them sat, quite at his ease, an individual with a pipe in his mouth, and a jug of beer at his elbow, who nodded condescendingly to Clemency, when she stationed herself at the same table.

‘Well, Clemmy,’ said Britain, ‘how are you by this time, and what’s the news?’

Clemency told him the news, which he received very graciously. A gracious change had come over Benjamin from head to foot. He was much broader, much redder, much more cheerful, and much jollier in all respects. It seemed as if his face had been tied up in a knot before, and was now untwisted and smoothed out.

‘There’ll be another job for Snitchey and Craggs, I suppose,’ he observed, puffing slowly at his pipe. ‘More witnessing for you and me, perhaps, Clemmy!’

‘Lor!’ replied his fair companion, with her favourite twist of her favourite joints. ‘I wish it was me, Britain!’

‘Wish what was you?’

‘A-going to be married,’ said Clemency.

Benjamin took his pipe out of his mouth and laughed heartily. ‘Yes! you’re a likely subject for that!’ he said. ‘Poor Clem!’ Clemency for her part laughed as heartily as he, and seemed as much amused by the idea. ‘Yes,’ she assented, ‘I’m a likely subject for that; an’t I?’

‘You’ll never be married, you know,’ said Mr. Britain, resuming his pipe.

‘Don’t you think I ever shall though?’ said Clemency, in perfect good faith.

Mr. Britain shook his head. ‘Not a chance of it!’

‘Only think!’ said Clemency. ‘Well!—I suppose you mean to, Britain, one of these days; don’t you?’

A question so abrupt, upon a subject so momentous, required consideration. After blowing out a great cloud of smoke, and looking at it with his head now on this side and now on that, as if it were actually the question, and he were surveying it in various aspects, Mr. Britain replied that he wasn’t altogether clear about it, but—ye-es—he thought he might come to that at last.

‘I wish her joy, whoever she may be!’ cried Clemency.

‘Oh she’ll have that,’ said Benjamin, ‘safe enough.’

‘But she wouldn’t have led quite such a joyful life as she will lead, and wouldn’t have had quite such a sociable sort of husband as she will have,’ said Clemency, spreading herself half over the table, and staring retrospectively at the candle, ‘if it hadn’t been for—not that I went to do it, for it was accidental, I am sure—if it hadn’t been for me; now would she, Britain?’

‘Certainly not,’ returned Mr. Britain, by this time in that high state of appreciation of his pipe, when a man can open his mouth but a very little way for speaking purposes; and sitting luxuriously immovable in his chair, can afford to turn only his eyes towards a companion, and that very passively and gravely. ‘Oh! I’m greatly beholden to you, you know, Clem.’

‘Lor, how nice that is to think of!’ said Clemency.

At the same time, bringing her thoughts as well as her sight to bear upon the candle-grease, and becoming abruptly reminiscent of its healing qualities as a balsam, she anointed her left elbow with a plentiful application of that remedy.

‘You see I’ve made a good many investigations of one sort and another in my time,’ pursued Mr. Britain, with the profundity of a sage, ‘having been always of an inquiring turn of mind; and I’ve read a good many books about the general Rights of things and Wrongs of things, for I went into the literary line myself, when I began life.’

‘Did you though!’ cried the admiring Clemency.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Britain: ‘I was hid for the best part of two years behind a bookstall, ready to fly out if anybody pocketed a volume; and after that, I was light porter to a stay and mantua maker, in which capacity I was employed to carry about, in oilskin baskets, nothing but deceptions—which soured my spirits and disturbed my confidence in human nature; and after that, I heard a world of discussions in this house, which soured my spirits fresh; and my opinion after all is, that, as a safe and comfortable sweetener of the same, and as a pleasant guide through life, there’s nothing like a nutmeg-grater.’

Clemency was about to offer a suggestion, but he stopped her by anticipating it.

‘Com-bined,’ he added gravely, ‘with a thimble.’

‘Do as you wold, you know, and cetrer, eh!’ observed Clemency, folding her arms comfortably in her delight at this avowal, and patting her elbows. ‘Such a short cut, an’t it?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Mr. Britain, ‘that it’s what would be considered good philosophy. I’ve my doubts about that; but it wears well, and saves a quantity of snarling, which the genuine article don’t always.’

‘See how you used to go on once, yourself, you know!’ said Clemency.

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Britain. ‘But the most extraordinary thing, Clemmy, is that I should live to be brought round, through you. That’s the strange part of it. Through you! Why, I suppose you haven’t so much as half an idea in your head.’

Clemency, without taking the least offence, shook it, and laughed and hugged herself, and said, ‘No, she didn’t suppose she had.’

‘I’m pretty sure of it,’ said Mr. Britain.

‘Oh! I dare say you’re right,’ said Clemency. ‘I don’t pretend to none. I don’t want any.’

Benjamin took his pipe from his lips, and laughed till the tears ran down his face. ‘What a natural you are, Clemmy!’ he said, shaking his head, with an infinite relish of the joke, and wiping his eyes. Clemency, without the smallest inclination to dispute it, did the like, and laughed as heartily as he.

‘I can’t help liking you,’ said Mr. Britain; ‘you’re a regular good creature in your way, so shake hands, Clem. Whatever happens, I’ll always take notice of you, and be a friend to you.’

‘Will you?’ returned Clemency. ‘Well! that’s very good of you.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr. Britain, giving her his pipe to knock the ashes out of it; ‘I’ll stand by you. Hark! That’s a curious noise!’

‘Noise!’ repeated Clemency.

‘A footstep outside. Somebody dropping from the wall, it sounded like,’ said Britain. ‘Are they all abed up-stairs?’

‘Yes, all abed by this time,’ she replied.

‘Didn’t you hear anything?’

‘No.’

They both listened, but heard nothing.

‘I tell you what,’ said Benjamin, taking down a lantern. ‘I’ll have a look round, before I go to bed myself, for satisfaction’s sake. Undo the door while I light this, Clemmy.’

Clemency complied briskly; but observed as she did so, that he would only have his walk for his pains, that it was all his fancy, and so forth. Mr. Britain said ‘very likely;’ but sallied out, nevertheless, armed with the poker, and casting the light of the lantern far and near in all directions.

‘It’s as quiet as a churchyard,’ said Clemency, looking after him; ‘and almost as ghostly too!’

Glancing back into the kitchen, she cried fearfully, as a light figure stole into her view, ‘What’s that!’

‘Hush!’ said Marion in an agitated whisper. ‘You have always loved me, have you not!’

‘Loved you, child! You may be sure I have.’

‘I am sure. And I may trust you, may I not? There is no one else just now, in whom I can trust.’

‘Yes,’ said Clemency, with all her heart.

‘There is some one out there,’ pointing to the door, ‘whom I must see, and speak with, to-night. Michael Warden, for God’s sake retire! Not now!’

Clemency started with surprise and trouble as, following the direction of the speaker’s eyes, she saw a dark figure standing in the doorway.

‘In another moment you may be discovered,’ said Marion. ‘Not now! Wait, if you can, in some concealment. I will come presently.’

He waved his hand to her, and was gone. ‘Don’t go to bed. Wait here for me!’ said Marion, hurriedly. ‘I have been seeking to speak to you for an hour past. Oh, be true to me!’

Eagerly seizing her bewildered hand, and pressing it with both her own to her breast—an action more expressive, in its passion of entreaty, than the most eloquent appeal in words,—Marion withdrew; as the light of the returning lantern flashed into the room.

‘All still and peaceable. Nobody there. Fancy, I suppose,’ said Mr. Britain, as he locked and barred the door. ‘One of the effects of having a lively imagination. Halloa! Why, what’s the matter?’

Clemency, who could not conceal the effects of her surprise and concern, was sitting in a chair: pale, and trembling from head to foot.

‘Matter!’ she repeated, chafing her hands and elbows, nervously, and looking anywhere but at him. ‘That’s good in you, Britain, that is! After going and frightening one out of one’s life with noises and lanterns, and I don’t know what all. Matter! Oh, yes!’

‘If you’re frightened out of your life by a lantern, Clemmy,’ said Mr. Britain, composedly blowing it out and hanging it up again, ‘that apparition’s very soon got rid of. But you’re as bold as brass in general,’ he said, stopping to observe her; ‘and were, after the noise and the lantern too. What have you taken into your head? Not an idea, eh?’

But, as Clemency bade him good night very much after her usual fashion, and began to bustle about with a show of going to bed herself immediately, Little Britain, after giving utterance to the original remark that it was impossible to account for a woman’s whims, bade her good night in return, and taking up his candle strolled drowsily away to bed.

When all was quiet, Marion returned.

‘Open the door,’ she said; ‘and stand there close beside me, while I speak to him, outside.’

Timid as her manner was, it still evinced a resolute and settled purpose, such as Clemency could not resist. She softly unbarred the door: but before turning the key, looked round on the young creature waiting to issue forth when she should open it.

The face was not averted or cast down, but looking full upon her, in its pride of youth and beauty. Some simple sense of the slightness of the barrier that interposed itself between the happy home and honoured love of the fair girl, and what might be the desolation of that home, and shipwreck of its dearest treasure, smote so keenly on the tender heart of Clemency, and so filled it to overflowing with sorrow and compassion, that, bursting into tears, she threw her arms round Marion’s neck.

‘It’s little that I know, my dear,’ cried Clemency, ‘very little; but I know that this should not be. Think of what you do!’

‘I have thought of it many times,’ said Marion, gently.

‘Once more,’ urged Clemency. ‘Till to-morrow.’ Marion shook her head.

‘For Mr. Alfred’s sake,’ said Clemency, with homely earnestness. ‘Him that you used to love so dearly, once!’

She hid her face, upon the instant, in her hands, repeating ‘Once!’ as if it rent her heart.

‘Let me go out,’ said Clemency, soothing her. ‘I’ll tell him what you like. Don’t cross the door-step to-night. I’m sure no good will come of it. Oh, it was an unhappy day when Mr. Warden was ever brought here! Think of your good father, darling—of your sister.’

‘I have,’ said Marion, hastily raising her head. ‘You don’t know what I do. I must speak to him. You are the best and truest friend in all the world for what you have said to me, but I must take this step. Will you go with me, Clemency,’ she kissed her on her friendly face, ‘or shall I go alone?’

Sorrowing and wondering, Clemency turned the key, and opened the door. Into the dark and doubtful night that lay beyond the threshold, Marion passed quickly, holding by her hand.

In the dark night he joined her, and they spoke together earnestly and long; and the hand that held so fast by Clemency’s, now trembled, now turned deadly cold, now clasped and closed on hers, in the strong feeling of the speech it emphasised unconsciously. When they returned, he followed to the door, and pausing there a moment, seized the other hand, and pressed it to his lips. Then, stealthily withdrew.

The door was barred and locked again, and once again she stood beneath her father’s roof. Not bowed down by the secret that she brought there, though so young; but, with that same expression on her face for which I had no name before, and shining through her tears.

Again she thanked and thanked her humble friend, and trusted to her, as she said, with confidence, implicitly. Her chamber safely reached, she fell upon her knees; and with her secret weighing on her heart, could pray!

Could rise up from her prayers, so tranquil and serene, and bending over her fond sister in her slumber, look upon her face and smile—though sadly: murmuring as she kissed her forehead, how that Grace had been a mother to her, ever, and she loved her as a child!

Could draw the passive arm about her neck when lying down to rest—it seemed to cling there, of its own will, protectingly and tenderly even in sleep—and breathe upon the parted lips, God bless her!

Could sink into a peaceful sleep, herself; but for one dream, in which she cried out, in her innocent and touching voice, that she was quite alone, and they had all forgotten her.

A month soon passes, even at its tardiest pace. The month appointed to elapse between that night and the return, was quick of foot, and went by, like a vapour.

The day arrived. A raging winter day, that shook the old house, sometimes, as if it shivered in the blast. A day to make home doubly home. To give the chimney-corner new delights. To shed a ruddier glow upon the faces gathered round the hearth, and draw each fireside group into a closer and more social league, against the roaring elements without. Such a wild winter day as best prepares the way for shut-out night; for curtained rooms, and cheerful looks; for music, laughter, dancing, light, and jovial entertainment!

All these the Doctor had in store to welcome Alfred back. They knew that he could not arrive till night; and they would make the night air ring, he said, as he approached. All his old friends should congregate about him. He should not miss a face that he had known and liked. No! They should every one be there!

So, guests were bidden, and musicians were engaged, and tables spread, and floors prepared for active feet, and bountiful provision made, of every hospitable kind. Because it was the Christmas season, and his eyes were all unused to English holly and its sturdy green, the dancing-room was garlanded and hung with it; and the red berries gleamed an English welcome to him, peeping from among the leaves.

It was a busy day for all of them: a busier day for none of them than Grace, who noiselessly presided everywhere, and was the cheerful mind of all the preparations. Many a time that day (as well as many a time within the fleeting month preceding it), did Clemency glance anxiously, and almost fearfully, at Marion. She saw her paler, perhaps, than usual; but there was a sweet composure on her face that made it lovelier than ever.

At night when she was dressed, and wore upon her head a wreath that Grace had proudly twined about it—its mimic flowers were Alfred’s favourites, as Grace remembered when she chose them—that old expression, pensive, almost sorrowful, and yet so spiritual, high, and stirring, sat again upon her brow, enhanced a hundred-fold.

‘The next wreath I adjust on this fair head, will be a marriage wreath,’ said Grace; ‘or I am no true prophet, dear.’

Her sister smiled, and held her in her arms.

‘A moment, Grace. Don’t leave me yet. Are you sure that I want nothing more?’

Her care was not for that. It was her sister’s face she thought of, and her eyes were fixed upon it, tenderly.

‘My art,’ said Grace, ‘can go no farther, dear girl; nor your beauty. I never saw you look so beautiful as now.’

‘I never was so happy,’ she returned.

‘Ay, but there is a greater happiness in store. In such another home, as cheerful and as bright as this looks now,’ said Grace, ‘Alfred and his young wife will soon be living.’

She smiled again. ‘It is a happy home, Grace, in your fancy. I can see it in your eyes. I know it will be happy, dear. How glad I am to know it.’

‘Well,’ cried the Doctor, bustling in. ‘Here we are, all ready for Alfred, eh? He can’t be here until pretty late—an hour or so before midnight—so there’ll be plenty of time for making merry before he comes. He’ll not find us with the ice unbroken. Pile up the fire here, Britain! Let it shine upon the holly till it winks again. It’s a world of nonsense, Puss; true lovers and all the rest of it—all nonsense; but we’ll be nonsensical with the rest of ’em, and give our true lover a mad welcome. Upon my word!’ said the old Doctor, looking at his daughters proudly, ‘I’m not clear to-night, among other absurdities, but that I’m the father of two handsome girls.’

‘All that one of them has ever done, or may do—may do, dearest father—to cause you pain or grief, forgive her,’ said Marion, ‘forgive her now, when her heart is full. Say that you forgive her. That you will forgive her. That she shall always share your love, and—,’ and the rest was not said, for her face was hidden on the old man’s shoulder.

‘Tut, tut, tut,’ said the Doctor gently. ‘Forgive! What have I to forgive? Heyday, if our true lovers come back to flurry us like this, we must hold ’em at a distance; we must send expresses out to stop ’em short upon the road, and bring ’em on a mile or two a day, until we’re properly prepared to meet ’em. Kiss me, Puss. Forgive! Why, what a silly child you are! If you had vexed and crossed me fifty times a day, instead of not at all, I’d forgive you everything, but such a supplication. Kiss me again, Puss. There! Prospective and retrospective—a clear score between us. Pile up the fire here! Would you freeze the people on this bleak December night! Let us be light, and warm, and merry, or I’ll not forgive some of you!’

So gaily the old Doctor carried it! And the fire was piled up, and the lights were bright, and company arrived, and a murmuring of lively tongues began, and already there was a pleasant air of cheerful excitement stirring through all the house.

More and more company came flocking in. Bright eyes sparkled upon Marion; smiling lips gave her joy of his return; sage mothers fanned themselves, and hoped she mightn’t be too youthful and inconstant for the quiet round of home; impetuous fathers fell into disgrace for too much exaltation of her beauty; daughters envied her; sons envied him; innumerable pairs of lovers profited by the occasion; all were interested, animated, and expectant.

Mr. and Mrs. Craggs came arm in arm, but Mrs. Snitchey came alone. ‘Why, what’s become of him?’ inquired the Doctor.

The feather of a Bird of Paradise in Mrs. Snitchey’s turban, trembled as if the Bird of Paradise were alive again, when she said that doubtless Mr. Craggs knew. She was never told.

‘That nasty office,’ said Mrs. Craggs.

‘I wish it was burnt down,’ said Mrs. Snitchey.

‘He’s—he’s—there’s a little matter of business that keeps my partner rather late,’ said Mr. Craggs, looking uneasily about him.

‘Oh-h! Business. Don’t tell me!’ said Mrs. Snitchey.

‘We know what business means,’ said Mrs. Craggs.

But their not knowing what it meant, was perhaps the reason why Mrs. Snitchey’s Bird of Paradise feather quivered so portentously, and why all the pendant bits on Mrs. Craggs’s ear-rings shook like little bells.

‘I wonder you could come away, Mr. Craggs,’ said his wife.

‘Mr. Craggs is fortunate, I’m sure!’ said Mrs. Snitchey.

‘That office so engrosses ’em,’ said Mrs. Craggs.

‘A person with an office has no business to be married at all,’ said Mrs. Snitchey.

Then, Mrs. Snitchey said, within herself, that that look of hers had pierced to Craggs’s soul, and he knew it; and Mrs. Craggs observed to Craggs, that ‘his Snitcheys’ were deceiving him behind his back, and he would find it out when it was too late.

Still, Mr. Craggs, without much heeding these remarks, looked uneasily about until his eye rested on Grace, to whom he immediately presented himself.

‘Good evening, ma’am,’ said Craggs. ‘You look charmingly. Your—Miss—your sister, Miss Marion, is she—’

‘Oh, she’s quite well, Mr. Craggs.’

‘Yes—I—is she here?’ asked Craggs.

‘Here! Don’t you see her yonder? Going to dance?’ said Grace.

Mr. Craggs put on his spectacles to see the better; looked at her through them, for some time; coughed; and put them, with an air of satisfaction, in their sheath again, and in his pocket.

Now the music struck up, and the dance commenced. The bright fire crackled and sparkled, rose and fell, as though it joined the dance itself, in right good fellowship. Sometimes, it roared as if it would make music too. Sometimes, it flashed and beamed as if it were the eye of the old room: it winked too, sometimes, like a knowing patriarch, upon the youthful whisperers in corners. Sometimes, it sported with the holly-boughs; and, shining on the leaves by fits and starts, made them look as if they were in the cold winter night again, and fluttering in the wind. Sometimes its genial humour grew obstreperous, and passed all bounds; and then it cast into the room, among the twinkling feet, with a loud burst, a shower of harmless little sparks, and in its exultation leaped and bounded, like a mad thing, up the broad old chimney.

Another dance was near its close, when Mr. Snitchey touched his partner, who was looking on, upon the arm.

Mr. Craggs started, as if his familiar had been a spectre.

‘Is he gone?’ he asked.

‘Hush! He has been with me,’ said Snitchey, ‘for three hours and more. He went over everything. He looked into all our arrangements for him, and was very particular indeed. He—Humph!’

The dance was finished. Marion passed close before him, as he spoke. She did not observe him, or his partner; but, looked over her shoulder towards her sister in the distance, as she slowly made her way into the crowd, and passed out of their view.

‘You see! All safe and well,’ said Mr. Craggs. ‘He didn’t recur to that subject, I suppose?’

‘Not a word.’

‘And is he really gone? Is he safe away?’

‘He keeps to his word. He drops down the river with the tide in that shell of a boat of his, and so goes out to sea on this dark night!—a dare-devil he is—before the wind. There’s no such lonely road anywhere else. That’s one thing. The tide flows, he says, an hour before midnight—about this time. I’m glad it’s over.’ Mr. Snitchey wiped his forehead, which looked hot and anxious.

‘What do you think,’ said Mr. Craggs, ‘about—’

‘Hush!’ replied his cautious partner, looking straight before him. ‘I understand you. Don’t mention names, and don’t let us, seem to be talking secrets. I don’t know what to think; and to tell you the truth, I don’t care now. It’s a great relief. His self-love deceived him, I suppose. Perhaps the young lady coquetted a little. The evidence would seem to point that way. Alfred not arrived?’

‘Not yet,’ said Mr. Craggs. ‘Expected every minute.’

‘Good.’ Mr. Snitchey wiped his forehead again. ‘It’s a great relief. I haven’t been so nervous since we’ve been in partnership. I intend to spend the evening now, Mr. Craggs.’

Mrs. Craggs and Mrs. Snitchey joined them as he announced this intention. The Bird of Paradise was in a state of extreme vibration, and the little bells were ringing quite audibly.

‘It has been the theme of general comment, Mr. Snitchey,’ said Mrs. Snitchey. ‘I hope the office is satisfied.’

‘Satisfied with what, my dear?’ asked Mr. Snitchey.

‘With the exposure of a defenceless woman to ridicule and remark,’ returned his wife. ‘That is quite in the way of the office, that is.’

‘I really, myself,’ said Mrs. Craggs, ‘have been so long accustomed to connect the office with everything opposed to domesticity, that I am glad to know it as the avowed enemy of my peace. There is something honest in that, at all events.’

‘My dear,’ urged Mr. Craggs, ‘your good opinion is invaluable, but I never avowed that the office was the enemy of your peace.’

‘No,’ said Mrs. Craggs, ringing a perfect peal upon the little bells. ‘Not you, indeed. You wouldn’t be worthy of the office, if you had the candour to.’

‘As to my having been away to-night, my dear,’ said Mr. Snitchey, giving her his arm, ‘the deprivation has been mine, I’m sure; but, as Mr. Craggs knows—’

Mrs. Snitchey cut this reference very short by hitching her husband to a distance, and asking him to look at that man. To do her the favour to look at him!

‘At which man, my dear?’ said Mr. Snitchey.

‘Your chosen companion; I’m no companion to you, Mr. Snitchey.’

‘Yes, yes, you are, my dear,’ he interposed.

‘No, no, I’m not,’ said Mrs. Snitchey with a majestic smile. ‘I know my station. Will you look at your chosen companion, Mr. Snitchey; at your referee, at the keeper of your secrets, at the man you trust; at your other self, in short?’

The habitual association of Self with Craggs, occasioned Mr. Snitchey to look in that direction.

‘If you can look that man in the eye this night,’ said Mrs. Snitchey, ‘and not know that you are deluded, practised upon, made the victim of his arts, and bent down prostrate to his will by some unaccountable fascination which it is impossible to explain and against which no warning of mine is of the least avail, all I can say is—I pity you!’

At the very same moment Mrs. Craggs was oracular on the cross subject. Was it possible, she said, that Craggs could so blind himself to his Snitcheys, as not to feel his true position? Did he mean to say that he had seen his Snitcheys come into that room, and didn’t plainly see that there was reservation, cunning, treachery, in the man? Would he tell her that his very action, when he wiped his forehead and looked so stealthily about him, didn’t show that there was something weighing on the conscience of his precious Snitcheys (if he had a conscience), that wouldn’t bear the light? Did anybody but his Snitcheys come to festive entertainments like a burglar?—which, by the way, was hardly a clear illustration of the case, as he had walked in very mildly at the door. And would he still assert to her at noon-day (it being nearly midnight), that his Snitcheys were to be justified through thick and thin, against all facts, and reason, and experience?

Neither Snitchey nor Craggs openly attempted to stem the current which had thus set in, but, both were content to be carried gently along it, until its force abated. This happened at about the same time as a general movement for a country dance; when Mr. Snitchey proposed himself as a partner to Mrs. Craggs, and Mr. Craggs gallantly offered himself to Mrs. Snitchey; and after some such slight evasions as ‘why don’t you ask somebody else?’ and ‘you’ll be glad, I know, if I decline,’ and ‘I wonder you can dance out of the office’ (but this jocosely now), each lady graciously accepted, and took her place.

It was an old custom among them, indeed, to do so, and to pair off, in like manner, at dinners and suppers; for they were excellent friends, and on a footing of easy familiarity. Perhaps the false Craggs and the wicked Snitchey were a recognised fiction with the two wives, as Doe and Roe, incessantly running up and down bailiwicks, were with the two husbands: or, perhaps the ladies had instituted, and taken upon themselves, these two shares in the business, rather than be left out of it altogether. But, certain it is, that each wife went as gravely and steadily to work in her vocation as her husband did in his, and would have considered it almost impossible for the Firm to maintain a successful and respectable existence, without her laudable exertions.

But, now, the Bird of Paradise was seen to flutter down the middle; and the little bells began to bounce and jingle in poussette; and the Doctor’s rosy face spun round and round, like an expressive pegtop highly varnished; and breathless Mr. Craggs began to doubt already, whether country dancing had been made ‘too easy,’ like the rest of life; and Mr. Snitchey, with his nimble cuts and capers, footed it for Self and Craggs, and half-a-dozen more.

Now, too, the fire took fresh courage, favoured by the lively wind the dance awakened, and burnt clear and high. It was the Genius of the room, and present everywhere. It shone in people’s eyes, it sparkled in the jewels on the snowy necks of girls, it twinkled at their ears as if it whispered to them slyly, it flashed about their waists, it flickered on the ground and made it rosy for their feet, it bloomed upon the ceiling that its glow might set off their bright faces, and it kindled up a general illumination in Mrs. Craggs’s little belfry.

Now, too, the lively air that fanned it, grew less gentle as the music quickened and the dance proceeded with new spirit; and a breeze arose that made the leaves and berries dance upon the wall, as they had often done upon the trees; and the breeze rustled in the room as if an invisible company of fairies, treading in the foot-steps of the good substantial revellers, were whirling after them. Now, too, no feature of the Doctor’s face could be distinguished as he spun and spun; and now there seemed a dozen Birds of Paradise in fitful flight; and now there were a thousand little bells at work; and now a fleet of flying skirts was ruffled by a little tempest, when the music gave in, and the dance was over.

Hot and breathless as the Doctor was, it only made him the more impatient for Alfred’s coming.

‘Anything been seen, Britain? Anything been heard?’

‘Too dark to see far, sir. Too much noise inside the house to hear.’

‘That’s right! The gayer welcome for him. How goes the time?’

‘Just twelve, sir. He can’t be long, sir.’

‘Stir up the fire, and throw another log upon it,’ said the Doctor. ‘Let him see his welcome blazing out upon the night—good boy!—as he comes along!’

He saw it—Yes! From the chaise he caught the light, as he turned the corner by the old church. He knew the room from which it shone. He saw the wintry branches of the old trees between the light and him. He knew that one of those trees rustled musically in the summer time at the window of Marion’s chamber.

The tears were in his eyes. His heart throbbed so violently that he could hardly bear his happiness. How often he had thought of this time—pictured it under all circumstances—feared that it might never come—yearned, and wearied for it—far away!

Again the light! Distinct and ruddy; kindled, he knew, to give him welcome, and to speed him home. He beckoned with his hand, and waved his hat, and cheered out, loud, as if the light were they, and they could see and hear him, as he dashed towards them through the mud and mire, triumphantly.

Stop! He knew the Doctor, and understood what he had done. He would not let it be a surprise to them. But he could make it one, yet, by going forward on foot. If the orchard-gate were open, he could enter there; if not, the wall was easily climbed, as he knew of old; and he would be among them in an instant.

He dismounted from the chaise, and telling the driver—even that was not easy in his agitation—to remain behind for a few minutes, and then to follow slowly, ran on with exceeding swiftness, tried the gate, scaled the wall, jumped down on the other side, and stood panting in the old orchard.

There was a frosty rime upon the trees, which, in the faint light of the clouded moon, hung upon the smaller branches like dead garlands. Withered leaves crackled and snapped beneath his feet, as he crept softly on towards the house. The desolation of a winter night sat brooding on the earth, and in the sky. But, the red light came cheerily towards him from the windows; figures passed and repassed there; and the hum and murmur of voices greeted his ear sweetly.

Listening for hers: attempting, as he crept on, to detach it from the rest, and half believing that he heard it: he had nearly reached the door, when it was abruptly opened, and a figure coming out encountered his. It instantly recoiled with a half-suppressed cry.

‘Clemency,’ he said, ‘don’t you know me?’

‘Don’t come in!’ she answered, pushing him back. ‘Go away. Don’t ask me why. Don’t come in.’

‘What is the matter?’ he exclaimed.

‘I don’t know. I—I am afraid to think. Go back. Hark!’

There was a sudden tumult in the house. She put her hands upon her ears. A wild scream, such as no hands could shut out, was heard; and Grace—distraction in her looks and manner—rushed out at the door.

‘Grace!’ He caught her in his arms. ‘What is it! Is she dead!’

She disengaged herself, as if to recognise his face, and fell down at his feet.

A crowd of figures came about them from the house. Among them was her father, with a paper in his hand.

‘What is it!’ cried Alfred, grasping his hair with his hands, and looking in an agony from face to face, as he bent upon his knee beside the insensible girl. ‘Will no one look at me? Will no one speak to me? Does no one know me? Is there no voice among you all, to tell me what it is!’

There was a murmur among them. ‘She is gone.’

‘Gone!’ he echoed.

‘Fled, my dear Alfred!’ said the Doctor, in a broken voice, and with his hands before his face. ‘Gone from her home and us. To-night! She writes that she has made her innocent and blameless choice—entreats that we will forgive her—prays that we will not forget her—and is gone.’

‘With whom? Where?’

He started up, as if to follow in pursuit; but, when they gave way to let him pass, looked wildly round upon them, staggered back, and sunk down in his former attitude, clasping one of Grace’s cold hands in his own.

There was a hurried running to and fro, confusion, noise, disorder, and no purpose. Some proceeded to disperse themselves about the roads, and some took horse, and some got lights, and some conversed together, urging that there was no trace or track to follow. Some approached him kindly, with the view of offering consolation; some admonished him that Grace must be removed into the house, and that he prevented it. He never heard them, and he never moved.

The snow fell fast and thick. He looked up for a moment in the air, and thought that those white ashes strewn upon his hopes and misery, were suited to them well. He looked round on the whitening ground, and thought how Marion’s foot-prints would be hushed and covered up, as soon as made, and even that remembrance of her blotted out. But he never felt the weather and he never stirred.

Part the Third

THE world had grown six years older since that night of the return. It was a warm autumn afternoon, and there had been heavy rain. The sun burst suddenly from among the clouds; and the old battle-ground, sparkling brilliantly and cheerfully at sight of it in one green place, flashed a responsive welcome there, which spread along the country side as if a joyful beacon had been lighted up, and answered from a thousand stations.

How beautiful the landscape kindling in the light, and that luxuriant influence passing on like a celestial presence, brightening everything! The wood, a sombre mass before, revealed its varied tints of yellow, green, brown, red: its different forms of trees, with raindrops glittering on their leaves and twinkling as they fell. The verdant meadow-land, bright and glowing, seemed as if it had been blind, a minute since, and now had found a sense of sight wherewith to look up at the shining sky. Corn-fields, hedge-rows, fences, homesteads, and clustered roofs, the steeple of the church, the stream, the water-mill, all sprang out of the gloomy darkness smiling. Birds sang sweetly, flowers raised their drooping heads, fresh scents arose from the invigorated ground; the blue expanse above extended and diffused itself; already the sun’s slanting rays pierced mortally the sullen bank of cloud that lingered in its flight; and a rainbow, spirit of all the colours that adorned the earth and sky, spanned the whole arch with its triumphant glory.

At such a time, one little roadside Inn, snugly sheltered behind a great elm-tree with a rare seat for idlers encircling its capacious bole, addressed a cheerful front towards the traveller, as a house of entertainment ought, and tempted him with many mute but significant assurances of a comfortable welcome. The ruddy sign-board perched up in the tree, with its golden letters winking in the sun, ogled the passer-by, from among the green leaves, like a jolly face, and promised good cheer. The horse-trough, full of clear fresh water, and the ground below it sprinkled with droppings of fragrant hay, made every horse that passed, prick up his ears. The crimson curtains in the lower rooms, and the pure white hangings in the little bed-chambers above, beckoned, Come in! with every breath of air. Upon the bright green shutters, there were golden legends about beer and ale, and neat wines, and good beds; and an affecting picture of a brown jug frothing over at the top. Upon the window-sills were flowering plants in bright red pots, which made a lively show against the white front of the house; and in the darkness of the doorway there were streaks of light, which glanced off from the surfaces of bottles and tankards.

On the door-step, appeared a proper figure of a landlord, too; for, though he was a short man, he was round and broad, and stood with his hands in his pockets, and his legs just wide enough apart to express a mind at rest upon the subject of the cellar, and an easy confidence—too calm and virtuous to become a swagger—in the general resources of the Inn. The superabundant moisture, trickling from everything after the late rain, set him off well. Nothing near him was thirsty. Certain top-heavy dahlias, looking over the palings of his neat well-ordered garden, had swilled as much as they could carry—perhaps a trifle more—and may have been the worse for liquor; but the sweet-briar, roses, wall-flowers, the plants at the windows, and the leaves on the old tree, were in the beaming state of moderate company that had taken no more than was wholesome for them, and had served to develop their best qualities. Sprinkling dewy drops about them on the ground, they seemed profuse of innocent and sparkling mirth, that did good where it lighted, softening neglected corners which the steady rain could seldom reach, and hurting nothing.

This village Inn had assumed, on being established, an uncommon sign. It was called The Nutmeg-Grater. And underneath that household word, was inscribed, up in the tree, on the same flaming board, and in the like golden characters, By Benjamin Britain.

At a second glance, and on a more minute examination of his face, you might have known that it was no other than Benjamin Britain himself who stood in the doorway—reasonably changed by time, but for the better; a very comfortable host indeed.

‘Mrs. B.,’ said Mr. Britain, looking down the road, ‘is rather late. It’s tea-time.’

As there was no Mrs. Britain coming, he strolled leisurely out into the road and looked up at the house, very much to his satisfaction. ‘It’s just the sort of house,’ said Benjamin, ‘I should wish to stop at, if I didn’t keep it.’

Then, he strolled towards the garden-paling, and took a look at the dahlias. They looked over at him, with a helpless drowsy hanging of their heads: which bobbed again, as the heavy drops of wet dripped off them.

‘You must be looked after,’ said Benjamin. ‘Memorandum, not to forget to tell her so. She’s a long time coming!’

Mr. Britain’s better half seemed to be by so very much his better half, that his own moiety of himself was utterly cast away and helpless without her.

‘She hadn’t much to do, I think,’ said Ben. ‘There were a few little matters of business after market, but not many. Oh! here we are at last!’

A chaise-cart, driven by a boy, came clattering along the road: and seated in it, in a chair, with a large well-saturated umbrella spread out to dry behind her, was the plump figure of a matronly woman, with her bare arms folded across a basket which she carried on her knee, several other baskets and parcels lying crowded around her, and a certain bright good nature in her face and contented awkwardness in her manner, as she jogged to and fro with the motion of her carriage, which smacked of old times, even in the distance. Upon her nearer approach, this relish of by-gone days was not diminished; and when the cart stopped at the Nutmeg-Grater door, a pair of shoes, alighting from it, slipped nimbly through Mr. Britain’s open arms, and came down with a substantial weight upon the pathway, which shoes could hardly have belonged to any one but Clemency Newcome.

In fact they did belong to her, and she stood in them, and a rosy comfortable-looking soul she was: with as much soap on her glossy face as in times of yore, but with whole elbows now, that had grown quite dimpled in her improved condition.

‘You’re late, Clemmy!’ said Mr. Britain.

‘Why, you see, Ben, I’ve had a deal to do!’ she replied, looking busily after the safe removal into the house of all the packages and baskets: ‘eight, nine, ten—where’s eleven? Oh! my basket’s eleven! It’s all right. Put the horse up, Harry, and if he coughs again give him a warm mash to-night. Eight, nine, ten. Why, where’s eleven? Oh I forgot, it’s all right. How’s the children, Ben?’

‘Hearty, Clemmy, hearty.’

‘Bless their precious faces!’ said Mrs. Britain, unbonneting her own round countenance (for she and her husband were by this time in the bar), and smoothing her hair with her open hands. ‘Give us a kiss, old man!’

Mr. Britain promptly complied.

‘I think,’ said Mrs. Britain, applying herself to her pockets and drawing forth an immense bulk of thin books and crumpled papers: a very kennel of dogs’-ears: ‘I’ve done everything. Bills all settled—turnips sold—brewer’s account looked into and paid—’bacco pipes ordered—seventeen pound four, paid into the Bank—Doctor Heathfield’s charge for little Clem—you’ll guess what that is—Doctor Heathfield won’t take nothing again, Ben.’

‘I thought he wouldn’t,’ returned Ben.

‘No. He says whatever family you was to have, Ben, he’d never put you to the cost of a halfpenny. Not if you was to have twenty.’

Mr. Britain’s face assumed a serious expression, and he looked hard at the wall.

‘An’t it kind of him?’ said Clemency.

‘Very,’ returned Mr. Britain. ‘It’s the sort of kindness that I wouldn’t presume upon, on any account.’

‘No,’ retorted Clemency. ‘Of course not. Then there’s the pony—he fetched eight pound two; and that an’t bad, is it?’

‘It’s very good,’ said Ben.

‘I’m glad you’re pleased!’ exclaimed his wife. ‘I thought you would be; and I think that’s all, and so no more at present from yours and cetrer, C. Britain. Ha ha ha! There! Take all the papers, and lock ’em up. Oh! Wait a minute. Here’s a printed bill to stick on the wall. Wet from the printer’s. How nice it smells!’

‘What’s this?’ said Ben, looking over the document.

‘I don’t know,’ replied his wife. ‘I haven’t read a word of it.’

‘“To be sold by Auction,”’ read the host of the Nutmeg-Grater, ‘“unless previously disposed of by private contract.”’

‘They always put that,’ said Clemency.

‘Yes, but they don’t always put this,’ he returned. ‘Look here, “Mansion,” &c.—“offices,” &c., “shrubberies,” &c., “ring fence,” &c. “Messrs. Snitchey and Craggs,” &c., “ornamental portion of the unencumbered freehold property of Michael Warden, Esquire, intending to continue to reside abroad”!’

‘Intending to continue to reside abroad!’ repeated Clemency.

‘Here it is,’ said Britain. ‘Look!’

‘And it was only this very day that I heard it whispered at the old house, that better and plainer news had been half promised of her, soon!’ said Clemency, shaking her head sorrowfully, and patting her elbows as if the recollection of old times unconsciously awakened her old habits. ‘Dear, dear, dear! There’ll be heavy hearts, Ben, yonder.’

Mr. Britain heaved a sigh, and shook his head, and said he couldn’t make it out: he had left off trying long ago. With that remark, he applied himself to putting up the bill just inside the bar window. Clemency, after meditating in silence for a few moments, roused herself, cleared her thoughtful brow, and bustled off to look after the children.

Though the host of the Nutmeg-Grater had a lively regard for his good-wife, it was of the old patronising kind, and she amused him mightily. Nothing would have astonished him so much, as to have known for certain from any third party, that it was she who managed the whole house, and made him, by her plain straightforward thrift, good-humour, honesty, and industry, a thriving man. So easy it is, in any degree of life (as the world very often finds it), to take those cheerful natures that never assert their merit, at their own modest valuation; and to conceive a flippant liking of people for their outward oddities and eccentricities, whose innate worth, if we would look so far, might make us blush in the comparison!

It was comfortable to Mr. Britain, to think of his own condescension in having married Clemency. She was a perpetual testimony to him of the goodness of his heart, and the kindness of his disposition; and he felt that her being an excellent wife was an illustration of the old precept that virtue is its own reward.

He had finished wafering up the bill, and had locked the vouchers for her day’s proceedings in the cupboard—chuckling all the time, over her capacity for business—when, returning with the news that the two Master Britains were playing in the coach-house under the superintendence of one Betsey, and that little Clem was sleeping ‘like a picture,’ she sat down to tea, which had awaited her arrival, on a little table. It was a very neat little bar, with the usual display of bottles and glasses; a sedate clock, right to the minute (it was half-past five); everything in its place, and everything furbished and polished up to the very utmost.

‘It’s the first time I’ve sat down quietly to-day, I declare,’ said Mrs. Britain, taking a long breath, as if she had sat down for the night; but getting up again immediately to hand her husband his tea, and cut him his bread-and-butter; ‘how that bill does set me thinking of old times!’

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Britain, handling his saucer like an oyster, and disposing of its contents on the same principle.

‘That same Mr. Michael Warden,’ said Clemency, shaking her head at the notice of sale, ‘lost me my old place.’

‘And got you your husband,’ said Mr. Britain.

‘Well! So he did,’ retorted Clemency, ‘and many thanks to him.’

‘Man’s the creature of habit,’ said Mr. Britain, surveying her, over his saucer. ‘I had somehow got used to you, Clem; and I found I shouldn’t be able to get on without you. So we went and got made man and wife. Ha! ha! We! Who’d have thought it!’

‘Who indeed!’ cried Clemency. ‘It was very good of you, Ben.’

‘No, no, no,’ replied Mr. Britain, with an air of self-denial. ‘Nothing worth mentioning.’

‘Oh yes it was, Ben,’ said his wife, with great simplicity; ‘I’m sure I think so, and am very much obliged to you. Ah!’ looking again at the bill; ‘when she was known to be gone, and out of reach, dear girl, I couldn’t help telling—for her sake quite as much as theirs—what I knew, could I?’

‘You told it, anyhow,’ observed her husband.

‘And Dr. Jeddler,’ pursued Clemency, putting down her tea-cup, and looking thoughtfully at the bill, ‘in his grief and passion turned me out of house and home! I never have been so glad of anything in all my life, as that I didn’t say an angry word to him, and hadn’t any angry feeling towards him, even then; for he repented that truly, afterwards. How often he has sat in this room, and told me over and over again he was sorry for it!—the last time, only yesterday, when you were out. How often he has sat in this room, and talked to me, hour after hour, about one thing and another, in which he made believe to be interested!—but only for the sake of the days that are gone by, and because he knows she used to like me, Ben!’

‘Why, how did you ever come to catch a glimpse of that, Clem?’ asked her husband: astonished that she should have a distinct perception of a truth which had only dimly suggested itself to his inquiring mind.

‘I don’t know, I’m sure,’ said Clemency, blowing her tea, to cool it. ‘Bless you, I couldn’t tell you, if you was to offer me a reward of a hundred pound.’

He might have pursued this metaphysical subject but for her catching a glimpse of a substantial fact behind him, in the shape of a gentleman attired in mourning, and cloaked and booted like a rider on horseback, who stood at the bar-door. He seemed attentive to their conversation, and not at all impatient to interrupt it.

Clemency hastily rose at this sight. Mr. Britain also rose and saluted the guest. ‘Will you please to walk up-stairs, sir? There’s a very nice room up-stairs, sir.’

‘Thank you,’ said the stranger, looking earnestly at Mr. Britain’s wife. ‘May I come in here?’

‘Oh, surely, if you like, sir,’ returned Clemency, admitting him.

‘What would you please to want, sir?’

The bill had caught his eye, and he was reading it.

‘Excellent property that, sir,’ observed Mr. Britain.

He made no answer; but, turning round, when he had finished reading, looked at Clemency with the same observant curiosity as before. ‘You were asking me,’—he said, still looking at her,—‘What you would please to take, sir,’ answered Clemency, stealing a glance at him in return.

‘If you will let me have a draught of ale,’ he said, moving to a table by the window, ‘and will let me have it here, without being any interruption to your meal, I shall be much obliged to you.’ He sat down as he spoke, without any further parley, and looked out at the prospect. He was an easy, well-knit figure of a man in the prime of life. His face, much browned by the sun, was shaded by a quantity of dark hair; and he wore a moustache. His beer being set before him, he filled out a glass, and drank, good-humouredly, to the house; adding, as he put the tumbler down again:

‘It’s a new house, is it not?’

‘Not particularly new, sir,’ replied Mr. Britain.

‘Between five and six years old,’ said Clemency; speaking very distinctly.

‘I think I heard you mention Dr. Jeddler’s name, as I came in,’ inquired the stranger. ‘That bill reminds me of him; for I happen to know something of that story, by hearsay, and through certain connexions of mine.—Is the old man living?’

‘Yes, he’s living, sir,’ said Clemency.

‘Much changed?’

‘Since when, sir?’ returned Clemency, with remarkable emphasis and expression.

‘Since his daughter—went away.’

‘Yes! he’s greatly changed since then,’ said Clemency. ‘He’s grey and old, and hasn’t the same way with him at all; but, I think he’s happy now. He has taken on with his sister since then, and goes to see her very often. That did him good, directly. At first, he was sadly broken down; and it was enough to make one’s heart bleed, to see him wandering about, railing at the world; but a great change for the better came over him after a year or two, and then he began to like to talk about his lost daughter, and to praise her, ay and the world too! and was never tired of saying, with the tears in his poor eyes, how beautiful and good she was. He had forgiven her then. That was about the same time as Miss Grace’s marriage. Britain, you remember?’

Mr. Britain remembered very well.

‘The sister is married then,’ returned the stranger. He paused for some time before he asked, ‘To whom?’

Clemency narrowly escaped oversetting the tea-board, in her emotion at this question.

‘Did you never hear?’ she said.

‘I should like to hear,’ he replied, as he filled his glass again, and raised it to his lips.

‘Ah! It would be a long story, if it was properly told,’ said Clemency, resting her chin on the palm of her left hand, and supporting that elbow on her right hand, as she shook her head, and looked back through the intervening years, as if she were looking at a fire. ‘It would be a long story, I am sure.’

‘But told as a short one,’ suggested the stranger.

Told as a short one,’ repeated Clemency in the same thoughtful tone, and without any apparent reference to him, or consciousness of having auditors, ‘what would there be to tell? That they grieved together, and remembered her together, like a person dead; that they were so tender of her, never would reproach her, called her back to one another as she used to be, and found excuses for her! Every one knows that. I’m sure I do. No one better,’ added Clemency, wiping her eyes with her hand.

‘And so,’ suggested the stranger.

‘And so,’ said Clemency, taking him up mechanically, and without any change in her attitude or manner, ‘they at last were married. They were married on her birth-day—it comes round again to-morrow—very quiet, very humble like, but very happy. Mr. Alfred said, one night when they were walking in the orchard, “Grace, shall our wedding-day be Marion’s birth-day?” And it was.’

‘And they have lived happily together?’ said the stranger.

‘Ay,’ said Clemency. ‘No two people ever more so. They have had no sorrow but this.’

She raised her head as with a sudden attention to the circumstances under which she was recalling these events, and looked quickly at the stranger. Seeing that his face was turned toward the window, and that he seemed intent upon the prospect, she made some eager signs to her husband, and pointed to the bill, and moved her mouth as if she were repeating with great energy, one word or phrase to him over and over again. As she uttered no sound, and as her dumb motions like most of her gestures were of a very extraordinary kind, this unintelligible conduct reduced Mr. Britain to the confines of despair. He stared at the table, at the stranger, at the spoons, at his wife—followed her pantomime with looks of deep amazement and perplexity—asked in the same language, was it property in danger, was it he in danger, was it she—answered her signals with other signals expressive of the deepest distress and confusion—followed the motions of her lips—guessed half aloud ‘milk and water,’ ‘monthly warning,’ ‘mice and walnuts’—and couldn’t approach her meaning.

Clemency gave it up at last, as a hopeless attempt; and moving her chair by very slow degrees a little nearer to the stranger, sat with her eyes apparently cast down but glancing sharply at him now and then, waiting until he should ask some other question. She had not to wait long; for he said, presently:

‘And what is the after history of the young lady who went away? They know it, I suppose?’

Clemency shook her head. ‘I’ve heard,’ she said, ‘that Doctor Jeddler is thought to know more of it than he tells. Miss Grace has had letters from her sister, saying that she was well and happy, and made much happier by her being married to Mr. Alfred: and has written letters back. But there’s a mystery about her life and fortunes, altogether, which nothing has cleared up to this hour, and which—’

She faltered here, and stopped.

‘And which’—repeated the stranger.

‘Which only one other person, I believe, could explain,’ said Clemency, drawing her breath quickly.

‘Who may that be?’ asked the stranger.

‘Mr. Michael Warden!’ answered Clemency, almost in a shriek: at once conveying to her husband what she would have had him understand before, and letting Michael Warden know that he was recognised.

‘You remember me, sir?’ said Clemency, trembling with emotion; ‘I saw just now you did! You remember me, that night in the garden. I was with her!’

‘Yes. You were,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir,’ returned Clemency. ‘Yes, to be sure. This is my husband, if you please. Ben, my dear Ben, run to Miss Grace—run to Mr. Alfred—run somewhere, Ben! Bring somebody here, directly!’

‘Stay!’ said Michael Warden, quietly interposing himself between the door and Britain. ‘What would you do?’

‘Let them know that you are here, sir,’ answered Clemency, clapping her hands in sheer agitation. ‘Let them know that they may hear of her, from your own lips; let them know that she is not quite lost to them, but that she will come home again yet, to bless her father and her loving sister—even her old servant, even me,’ she struck herself upon the breast with both hands, ‘with a sight of her sweet face. Run, Ben, run!’ And still she pressed him on towards the door, and still Mr. Warden stood before it, with his hand stretched out, not angrily, but sorrowfully.

‘Or perhaps,’ said Clemency, running past her husband, and catching in her emotion at Mr. Warden’s cloak, ‘perhaps she’s here now; perhaps she’s close by. I think from your manner she is. Let me see her, sir, if you please. I waited on her when she was a little child. I saw her grow to be the pride of all this place. I knew her when she was Mr. Alfred’s promised wife. I tried to warn her when you tempted her away. I know what her old home was when she was like the soul of it, and how it changed when she was gone and lost. Let me speak to her, if you please!’

He gazed at her with compassion, not unmixed with wonder: but, he made no gesture of assent.

‘I don’t think she can know,’ pursued Clemency, ‘how truly they forgive her; how they love her; what joy it would be to them, to see her once more. She may be timorous of going home. Perhaps if she sees me, it may give her new heart. Only tell me truly, Mr. Warden, is she with you?’

‘She is not,’ he answered, shaking his head.

This answer, and his manner, and his black dress, and his coming back so quietly, and his announced intention of continuing to live abroad, explained it all. Marion was dead.

He didn’t contradict her; yes, she was dead! Clemency sat down, hid her face upon the table, and cried.

At that moment, a grey-headed old gentleman came running in: quite out of breath, and panting so much that his voice was scarcely to be recognised as the voice of Mr. Snitchey.

‘Good Heaven, Mr. Warden!’ said the lawyer, taking him aside, ‘what wind has blown—’ He was so blown himself, that he couldn’t get on any further until after a pause, when he added, feebly, ‘you here?’

‘An ill-wind, I am afraid,’ he answered. ‘If you could have heard what has just passed—how I have been besought and entreated to perform impossibilities—what confusion and affliction I carry with me!’

‘I can guess it all. But why did you ever come here, my good sir?’ retorted Snitchey.

‘Come! How should I know who kept the house? When I sent my servant on to you, I strolled in here because the place was new to me; and I had a natural curiosity in everything new and old, in these old scenes; and it was outside the town. I wanted to communicate with you, first, before appearing there. I wanted to know what people would say to me. I see by your manner that you can tell me. If it were not for your confounded caution, I should have been possessed of everything long ago.’

‘Our caution!’ returned the lawyer, ‘speaking for Self and Craggs—deceased,’ here Mr. Snitchey, glancing at his hat-band, shook his head, ‘how can you reasonably blame us, Mr. Warden? It was understood between us that the subject was never to be renewed, and that it wasn’t a subject on which grave and sober men like us (I made a note of your observations at the time) could interfere. Our caution too! When Mr. Craggs, sir, went down to his respected grave in the full belief—’

‘I had given a solemn promise of silence until I should return, whenever that might be,’ interrupted Mr. Warden; ‘and I have kept it.’

‘Well, sir, and I repeat it,’ returned Mr. Snitchey, ‘we were bound to silence too. We were bound to silence in our duty towards ourselves, and in our duty towards a variety of clients, you among them, who were as close as wax. It was not our place to make inquiries of you on such a delicate subject. I had my suspicions, sir; but, it is not six months since I have known the truth, and been assured that you lost her.’

‘By whom?’ inquired his client.

‘By Doctor Jeddler himself, sir, who at last reposed that confidence in me voluntarily. He, and only he, has known the whole truth, years and years.’

‘And you know it?’ said his client.

‘I do, sir!’ replied Snitchey; ‘and I have also reason to know that it will be broken to her sister to-morrow evening. They have given her that promise. In the meantime, perhaps you’ll give me the honour of your company at my house; being unexpected at your own. But, not to run the chance of any more such difficulties as you have had here, in case you should be recognised—though you’re a good deal changed; I think I might have passed you myself, Mr. Warden—we had better dine here, and walk on in the evening. It’s a very good place to dine at, Mr. Warden: your own property, by-the-bye. Self and Craggs (deceased) took a chop here sometimes, and had it very comfortably served. Mr. Craggs, sir,’ said Snitchey, shutting his eyes tight for an instant, and opening them again, ‘was struck off the roll of life too soon.’

‘Heaven forgive me for not condoling with you,’ returned Michael Warden, passing his hand across his forehead, ‘but I’m like a man in a dream at present. I seem to want my wits. Mr. Craggs—yes—I am very sorry we have lost Mr. Craggs.’ But he looked at Clemency as he said it, and seemed to sympathise with Ben, consoling her.

‘Mr. Craggs, sir,’ observed Snitchey, ‘didn’t find life, I regret to say, as easy to have and to hold as his theory made it out, or he would have been among us now. It’s a great loss to me. He was my right arm, my right leg, my right ear, my right eye, was Mr. Craggs. I am paralytic without him. He bequeathed his share of the business to Mrs. Craggs, her executors, administrators, and assigns. His name remains in the Firm to this hour. I try, in a childish sort of a way, to make believe, sometimes, he’s alive. You may observe that I speak for Self and Craggs—deceased, sir—deceased,’ said the tender-hearted attorney, waving his pocket-handkerchief.

Michael Warden, who had still been observant of Clemency, turned to Mr. Snitchey when he ceased to speak, and whispered in his ear.

‘Ah, poor thing!’ said Snitchey, shaking his head. ‘Yes. She was always very faithful to Marion. She was always very fond of her. Pretty Marion! Poor Marion! Cheer up, Mistress—you are married now, you know, Clemency.’

Clemency only sighed, and shook her head.

‘Well, well! Wait till to-morrow,’ said the lawyer, kindly.

‘To-morrow can’t bring back’ the dead to life, Mister,’ said Clemency, sobbing.

‘No. It can’t do that, or it would bring back Mr. Craggs, deceased,’ returned the lawyer. ‘But it may bring some soothing circumstances; it may bring some comfort. Wait till to-morrow!’

So Clemency, shaking his proffered hand, said she would; and Britain, who had been terribly cast down at sight of his despondent wife (which was like the business hanging its head), said that was right; and Mr. Snitchey and Michael Warden went up-stairs; and there they were soon engaged in a conversation so cautiously conducted, that no murmur of it was audible above the clatter of plates and dishes, the hissing of the frying-pan, the bubbling of saucepans, the low monotonous waltzing of the jack—with a dreadful click every now and then as if it had met with some mortal accident to its head, in a fit of giddiness—and all the other preparations in the kitchen for their dinner.

---

To-morrow was a bright and peaceful day; and nowhere were the autumn tints more beautifully seen, than from the quiet orchard of the Doctor’s house. The snows of many winter nights had melted from that ground, the withered leaves of many summer times had rustled there, since she had fled. The honey-suckle porch was green again, the trees cast bountiful and changing shadows on the grass, the landscape was as tranquil and serene as it had ever been; but where was she!

Not there. Not there. She would have been a stranger sight in her old home now, even than that home had been at first, without her. But, a lady sat in the familiar place, from whose heart she had never passed away; in whose true memory she lived, unchanging, youthful, radiant with all promise and all hope; in whose affection—and it was a mother’s now, there was a cherished little daughter playing by her side—she had no rival, no successor; upon whose gentle lips her name was trembling then.

The spirit of the lost girl looked out of those eyes. Those eyes of Grace, her sister, sitting with her husband in the orchard, on their wedding-day, and his and Marion’s birth-day.

He had not become a great man; he had not grown rich; he had not forgotten the scenes and friends of his youth; he had not fulfilled any one of the Doctor’s old predictions. But, in his useful, patient, unknown visiting of poor men’s homes; and in his watching of sick beds; and in his daily knowledge of the gentleness and goodness flowering the by-paths of this world, not to be trodden down beneath the heavy foot of poverty, but springing up, elastic, in its track, and making its way beautiful; he had better learned and proved, in each succeeding year, the truth of his old faith. The manner of his life, though quiet and remote, had shown him how often men still entertained angels, unawares, as in the olden time; and how the most unlikely forms—even some that were mean and ugly to the view, and poorly clad—became irradiated by the couch of sorrow, want, and pain, and changed to ministering spirits with a glory round their heads.

He lived to better purpose on the altered battle-ground, perhaps, than if he had contended restlessly in more ambitious lists; and he was happy with his wife, dear Grace.

And Marion. Had he forgotten her?

‘The time has flown, dear Grace,’ he said, ‘since then;’ they had been talking of that night; ‘and yet it seems a long long while ago. We count by changes and events within us. Not by years.’

‘Yet we have years to count by, too, since Marion was with us,’ returned Grace. ‘Six times, dear husband, counting to-night as one, we have sat here on her birth-day, and spoken together of that happy return, so eagerly expected and so long deferred. Ah when will it be! When will it be!’

Her husband attentively observed her, as the tears collected in her eyes; and drawing nearer, said:

‘But, Marion told you, in that farewell letter which she left for you upon your table, love, and which you read so often, that years must pass away before it could be. Did she not?’

She took a letter from her breast, and kissed it, and said ‘Yes.’

‘That through these intervening years, however happy she might be, she would look forward to the time when you would meet again, and all would be made clear; and that she prayed you, trustfully and hopefully to do the same. The letter runs so, does it not, my dear?’

‘Yes, Alfred.’

‘And every other letter she has written since?’

‘Except the last—some months ago—in which she spoke of you, and what you then knew, and what I was to learn to-night.’

He looked towards the sun, then fast declining, and said that the appointed time was sunset.

‘Alfred!’ said Grace, laying her hand upon his shoulder earnestly, ‘there is something in this letter—this old letter, which you say I read so often—that I have never told you. But, to-night, dear husband, with that sunset drawing near, and all our life seeming to soften and become hushed with the departing day, I cannot keep it secret.’

‘What is it, love?’

‘When Marion went away, she wrote me, here, that you had once left her a sacred trust to me, and that now she left you, Alfred, such a trust in my hands: praying and beseeching me, as I loved her, and as I loved you, not to reject the affection she believed (she knew, she said) you would transfer to me when the new wound was healed, but to encourage and return it.’

‘—And make me a proud, and happy man again, Grace. Did she say so?’

‘She meant, to make myself so blest and honoured in your love,’ was his wife’s answer, as he held her in his arms.

‘Hear me, my dear!’ he said.—‘No. Hear me so!’—and as he spoke, he gently laid the head she had raised, again upon his shoulder. ‘I know why I have never heard this passage in the letter, until now. I know why no trace of it ever showed itself in any word or look of yours at that time. I know why Grace, although so true a friend to me, was hard to win to be my wife. And knowing it, my own! I know the priceless value of the heart I gird within my arms, and thank GOD for the rich possession!’

She wept, but not for sorrow, as he pressed her to his heart. After a brief space, he looked down at the child, who was sitting at their feet playing with a little basket of flowers, and bade her look how golden and how red the sun was.

‘Alfred,’ said Grace, raising her head quickly at these words. ‘The sun is going down. You have not forgotten what I am to know before it sets.’

‘You are to know the truth of Marion’s history, my love,’ he answered.

‘All the truth,’ she said, imploringly. ‘Nothing veiled from me, any more. That was the promise. Was it not?’

‘It was,’ he answered.

‘Before the sun went down on Marion’s birth-day. And you see it, Alfred? It is sinking fast.’

He put his arm about her waist, and, looking steadily into her eyes, rejoined:

‘That truth is not reserved so long for me to tell, dear Grace. It is to come from other lips.’

‘From other lips!’ she faintly echoed.

‘Yes. I know your constant heart, I know how brave you are, I know that to you a word of preparation is enough. You have said, truly, that the time is come. It is. Tell me that you have present fortitude to bear a trial—a surprise—a shock: and the messenger is waiting at the gate.’

‘What messenger?’ she said. ‘And what intelligence does he bring?’

‘I am pledged,’ he answered her, preserving his steady look, ‘to say no more. Do you think you understand me?’

‘I am afraid to think,’ she said.

There was that emotion in his face, despite its steady gaze, which frightened her. Again she hid her own face on his shoulder, trembling, and entreated him to pause—a moment.

‘Courage, my wife! When you have firmness to receive the messenger, the messenger is waiting at the gate. The sun is setting on Marion’s birth-day. Courage, courage, Grace!’

She raised her head, and, looking at him, told him she was ready. As she stood, and looked upon him going away, her face was so like Marion’s as it had been in her later days at home, that it was wonderful to see. He took the child with him. She called her back—she bore the lost girl’s name—and pressed her to her bosom. The little creature, being released again, sped after him, and Grace was left alone.

She knew not what she dreaded, or what hoped; but remained there, motionless, looking at the porch by which they had disappeared.

Ah! what was that, emerging from its shadow; standing on its threshold! That figure, with its white garments rustling in the evening air; its head laid down upon her father’s breast, and pressed against it to his loving heart! O God! was it a vision that came bursting from the old man’s arms, and with a cry, and with a waving of its hands, and with a wild precipitation of itself upon her in its boundless love, sank down in her embrace!

‘Oh, Marion, Marion! Oh, my sister! Oh, my heart’s dear love! Oh, joy and happiness unutterable, so to meet again!’

It was no dream, no phantom conjured up by hope and fear, but Marion, sweet Marion! So beautiful, so happy, so unalloyed by care and trial, so elevated and exalted in her loveliness, that as the setting sun shone brightly on her upturned face, she might have been a spirit visiting the earth upon some healing mission.

Clinging to her sister, who had dropped upon a seat and bent down over her—and smiling through her tears—and kneeling, close before her, with both arms twining round her, and never turning for an instant from her face—and with the glory of the setting sun upon her brow, and with the soft tranquillity of evening gathering around them—Marion at length broke silence; her voice, so calm, low, clear, and pleasant, well-tuned to the time.

‘When this was my dear home, Grace, as it will be now again—’

‘Stay, my sweet love! A moment! O Marion, to hear you speak again.’

She could not bear the voice she loved so well, at first.

‘When this was my dear home, Grace, as it will be now again, I loved him from my soul. I loved him most devotedly. I would have died for him, though I was so young. I never slighted his affection in my secret breast for one brief instant. It was far beyond all price to me. Although it is so long ago, and past, and gone, and everything is wholly changed, I could not bear to think that you, who love so well, should think I did not truly love him once. I never loved him better, Grace, than when he left this very scene upon this very day. I never loved him better, dear one, than I did that night when I left here.’

Her sister, bending over her, could look into her face, and hold her fast.

‘But he had gained, unconsciously,’ said Marion, with a gentle smile, ‘another heart, before I knew that I had one to give him. That heart—yours, my sister!—was so yielded up, in all its other tenderness, to me; was so devoted, and so noble; that it plucked its love away, and kept its secret from all eyes but mine—Ah! what other eyes were quickened by such tenderness and gratitude!—and was content to sacrifice itself to me. But, I knew something of its depths. I knew the struggle it had made. I knew its high, inestimable worth to him, and his appreciation of it, let him love me as he would. I knew the debt I owed it. I had its great example every day before me. What you had done for me, I knew that I could do, Grace, if I would, for you. I never laid my head down on my pillow, but I prayed with tears to do it. I never laid my head down on my pillow, but I thought of Alfred’s own words on the day of his departure, and how truly he had said (for I knew that, knowing you) that there were victories gained every day, in struggling hearts, to which these fields of battle were nothing. Thinking more and more upon the great endurance cheerfully sustained, and never known or cared for, that there must be, every day and hour, in that great strife of which he spoke, my trial seemed to grow light and easy. And He who knows our hearts, my dearest, at this moment, and who knows there is no drop of bitterness or grief—of anything but unmixed happiness—in mine, enabled me to make the resolution that I never would be Alfred’s wife. That he should be my brother, and your husband, if the course I took could bring that happy end to pass; but that I never would (Grace, I then loved him dearly, dearly!) be his wife!’

‘O Marion! O Marion!’

‘I had tried to seem indifferent to him;’ and she pressed her sister’s face against her own; ‘but that was hard, and you were always his true advocate. I had tried to tell you of my resolution, but you would never hear me; you would never understand me. The time was drawing near for his return. I felt that I must act, before the daily intercourse between us was renewed. I knew that one great pang, undergone at that time, would save a lengthened agony to all of us. I knew that if I went away then, that end must follow which has followed, and which has made us both so happy, Grace! I wrote to good Aunt Martha, for a refuge in her house: I did not then tell her all, but something of my story, and she freely promised it. While I was contesting that step with myself, and with my love of you, and home, Mr. Warden, brought here by an accident, became, for some time, our companion.’

‘I have sometimes feared of late years, that this might have been,’ exclaimed her sister; and her countenance was ashy-pale. ‘You never loved him—and you married him in your self-sacrifice to me!’

‘He was then,’ said Marion, drawing her sister closer to her, ‘on the eve of going secretly away for a long time. He wrote to me, after leaving here; told me what his condition and prospects really were; and offered me his hand. He told me he had seen I was not happy in the prospect of Alfred’s return. I believe he thought my heart had no part in that contract; perhaps thought I might have loved him once, and did not then; perhaps thought that when I tried to seem indifferent, I tried to hide indifference—I cannot tell. But I wished that you should feel me wholly lost to Alfred—hopeless to him—dead. Do you understand me, love?’

Her sister looked into her face, attentively. She seemed in doubt.

‘I saw Mr. Warden, and confided in his honour; charged him with my secret, on the eve of his and my departure. He kept it. Do you understand me, dear?’

Grace looked confusedly upon her. She scarcely seemed to hear.

‘My love, my sister!’ said Marion, ‘recall your thoughts a moment; listen to me. Do not look so strangely on me. There are countries, dearest, where those who would abjure a misplaced passion, or would strive, against some cherished feeling of their hearts and conquer it, retire into a hopeless solitude, and close the world against themselves and worldly loves and hopes for ever. When women do so, they assume that name which is so dear to you and me, and call each other Sisters. But, there may be sisters, Grace, who, in the broad world out of doors, and underneath its free sky, and in its crowded places, and among its busy life, and trying to assist and cheer it and to do some good,—learn the same lesson; and who, with hearts still fresh and young, and open to all happiness and means of happiness, can say the battle is long past, the victory long won. And such a one am I! You understand me now?’

Still she looked fixedly upon her, and made no reply.

‘Oh Grace, dear Grace,’ said Marion, clinging yet more tenderly and fondly to that breast from which she had been so long exiled, ‘if you were not a happy wife and mother—if I had no little namesake here—if Alfred, my kind brother, were not your own fond husband—from whence could I derive the ecstasy I feel to-night! But, as I left here, so I have returned. My heart has known no other love, my hand has never been bestowed apart from it. I am still your maiden sister, unmarried, unbetrothed: your own loving old Marion, in whose affection you exist alone and have no partner, Grace!’

She understood her now. Her face relaxed: sobs came to her relief; and falling on her neck, she wept and wept, and fondled her as if she were a child again.

When they were more composed, they found that the Doctor, and his sister good Aunt Martha, were standing near at hand, with Alfred.

‘This is a weary day for me,’ said good Aunt Martha, smiling through her tears, as she embraced her nieces; ‘for I lose my dear companion in making you all happy; and what can you give me, in return for my Marion?’

‘A converted brother,’ said the Doctor.

‘That’s something, to be sure,’ retorted Aunt Martha, ‘in such a farce as—’

‘No, pray don’t,’ said the doctor penitently.

‘Well, I won’t,’ replied Aunt Martha. ‘But, I consider myself ill used. I don’t know what’s to become of me without my Marion, after we have lived together half-a-dozen years.’

‘You must come and live here, I suppose,’ replied the Doctor. ‘We shan’t quarrel now, Martha.’

‘Or you must get married, Aunt,’ said Alfred.

‘Indeed,’ returned the old lady, ‘I think it might be a good speculation if I were to set my cap at Michael Warden, who, I hear, is come home much the better for his absence in all respects. But as I knew him when he was a boy, and I was not a very young woman then, perhaps he mightn’t respond. So I’ll make up my mind to go and live with Marion, when she marries, and until then (it will not be very long, I dare say) to live alone. What do you say, Brother?’

‘I’ve a great mind to say it’s a ridiculous world altogether, and there’s nothing serious in it,’ observed the poor old Doctor.

‘You might take twenty affidavits of it if you chose, Anthony,’ said his sister; ‘but nobody would believe you with such eyes as those.’

‘It’s a world full of hearts,’ said the Doctor, hugging his youngest daughter, and bending across her to hug Grace—for he couldn’t separate the sisters; ‘and a serious world, with all its folly—even with mine, which was enough to have swamped the whole globe; and it is a world on which the sun never rises, but it looks upon a thousand bloodless battles that are some set-off against the miseries and wickedness of Battle-Fields; and it is a world we need be careful how we libel, Heaven forgive us, for it is a world of sacred mysteries, and its Creator only knows what lies beneath the surface of His lightest image!’

---

You would not be the better pleased with my rude pen, if it dissected and laid open to your view the transports of this family, long severed and now reunited. Therefore, I will not follow the poor Doctor through his humbled recollection of the sorrow he had had, when Marion was lost to him; nor, will I tell how serious he had found that world to be, in which some love, deep-anchored, is the portion of all human creatures; nor, how such a trifle as the absence of one little unit in the great absurd account, had stricken him to the ground. Nor, how, in compassion for his distress, his sister had, long ago, revealed the truth to him by slow degrees, and brought him to the knowledge of the heart of his self-banished daughter, and to that daughter’s side.

Nor, how Alfred Heathfield had been told the truth, too, in the course of that then current year; and Marion had seen him, and had promised him, as her brother, that on her birth-day, in the evening, Grace should know it from her lips at last.

‘I beg your pardon, Doctor,’ said Mr. Snitchey, looking into the orchard, ‘but have I liberty to come in?’

Without waiting for permission, he came straight to Marion, and kissed her hand, quite joyfully.

‘If Mr. Craggs had been alive, my dear Miss Marion,’ said Mr. Snitchey, ‘he would have had great interest in this occasion. It might have suggested to him, Mr. Alfred, that our life is not too easy perhaps: that, taken altogether, it will bear any little smoothing we can give it; but Mr. Craggs was a man who could endure to be convinced, sir. He was always open to conviction. If he were open to conviction, now, I—this is weakness. Mrs. Snitchey, my dear,’—at his summons that lady appeared from behind the door, ‘you are among old friends.’

Mrs. Snitchey having delivered her congratulations, took her husband aside.

‘One moment, Mr. Snitchey,’ said that lady. ‘It is not in my nature to rake up the ashes of the departed.’

‘No, my dear,’ returned her husband.

‘Mr. Craggs is—’

‘Yes, my dear, he is deceased,’ said Snitchey.

‘But I ask you if you recollect,’ pursued his wife, ‘that evening of the ball? I only ask you that. If you do; and if your memory has not entirely failed you, Mr. Snitchey; and if you are not absolutely in your dotage; I ask you to connect this time with that—to remember how I begged and prayed you, on my knees—’

‘Upon your knees, my dear?’ said Mr. Snitchey.

‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Snitchey, confidently, ‘and you know it—to beware of that man—to observe his eye—and now to tell me whether I was right, and whether at that moment he knew secrets which he didn’t choose to tell.’

‘Mrs. Snitchey,’ returned her husband, in her ear, ‘Madam. Did you ever observe anything in my eye?’

‘No,’ said Mrs. Snitchey, sharply. ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’

‘Because, Madam, that night,’ he continued, twitching her by the sleeve, ‘it happens that we both knew secrets which we didn’t choose to tell, and both knew just the same professionally. And so the less you say about such things the better, Mrs. Snitchey; and take this as a warning to have wiser and more charitable eyes another time. Miss Marion, I brought a friend of yours along with me. Here! Mistress!’

Poor Clemency, with her apron to her eyes, came slowly in, escorted by her husband; the latter doleful with the presentiment, that if she abandoned herself to grief, the Nutmeg-Grater was done for.

‘Now, Mistress,’ said the lawyer, checking Marion as she ran towards her, and interposing himself between them, ‘what’s the matter with you?’

‘The matter!’ cried poor Clemency.—When, looking up in wonder, and in indignant remonstrance, and in the added emotion of a great roar from Mr. Britain, and seeing that sweet face so well remembered close before her, she stared, sobbed, laughed, cried, screamed, embraced her, held her fast, released her, fell on Mr. Snitchey and embraced him (much to Mrs. Snitchey’s indignation), fell on the Doctor and embraced him, fell on Mr. Britain and embraced him, and concluded by embracing herself, throwing her apron over her head, and going into hysterics behind it.

A stranger had come into the orchard, after Mr. Snitchey, and had remained apart, near the gate, without being observed by any of the group; for they had little spare attention to bestow, and that had been monopolised by the ecstasies of Clemency. He did not appear to wish to be observed, but stood alone, with downcast eyes; and there was an air of dejection about him (though he was a gentleman of a gallant appearance) which the general happiness rendered more remarkable.

None but the quick eyes of Aunt Martha, however, remarked him at all; but, almost as soon as she espied him, she was in conversation with him. Presently, going to where Marion stood with Grace and her little namesake, she whispered something in Marion’s ear, at which she started, and appeared surprised; but soon recovering from her confusion, she timidly approached the stranger, in Aunt Martha’s company, and engaged in conversation with him too.

‘Mr. Britain,’ said the lawyer, putting his hand in his pocket, and bringing out a legal-looking document, while this was going on, ‘I congratulate you. You are now the whole and sole proprietor of that freehold tenement, at present occupied and held by yourself as a licensed tavern, or house of public entertainment, and commonly called or known by the sign of the Nutmeg-Grater. Your wife lost one house, through my client Mr. Michael Warden; and now gains another. I shall have the pleasure of canvassing you for the county, one of these fine mornings.’

‘Would it make any difference in the vote if the sign was altered, sir?’ asked Britain.

‘Not in the least,’ replied the lawyer.

‘Then,’ said Mr. Britain, handing him back the conveyance, ‘just clap in the words, “and Thimble,” will you be so good; and I’ll have the two mottoes painted up in the parlour instead of my wife’s portrait.’

‘And let me,’ said a voice behind them; it was the stranger’s—Michael Warden’s; ‘let me claim the benefit of those inscriptions. Mr. Heathfield and Dr. Jeddler, I might have deeply wronged you both. That I did not, is no virtue of my own. I will not say that I am six years wiser than I was, or better. But I have known, at any rate, that term of self-reproach. I can urge no reason why you should deal gently with me. I abused the hospitality of this house; and learnt by my own demerits, with a shame I never have forgotten, yet with some profit too, I would fain hope, from one,’ he glanced at Marion, ‘to whom I made my humble supplication for forgiveness, when I knew her merit and my deep unworthiness. In a few days I shall quit this place for ever. I entreat your pardon. Do as you would be done by! Forget and Forgive!’

---

TIME—from whom I had the latter portion of this story, and with whom I have the pleasure of a personal acquaintance of some five-and-thirty years’ duration—informed me, leaning easily upon his scythe, that Michael Warden never went away again, and never sold his house, but opened it afresh, maintained a golden means of hospitality, and had a wife, the pride and honour of that countryside, whose name was Marion. But, as I have observed that Time confuses facts occasionally, I hardly know what weight to give to his authority.

Part the First

ONCE upon a time, it matters little when, and in stalwart England, it matters little where, a fierce battle was fought. It was fought upon a long summer day when the waving grass was green. Many a wild flower formed by the Almighty Hand to be a perfumed goblet for the dew, felt its enamelled cup filled high with blood that day, and shrinking dropped. Many an insect deriving its delicate colour from harmless leaves and herbs, was stained anew that day by dying men, and marked its frightened way with an unnatural track. The painted butterfly took blood into the air upon the edges of its wings. The stream ran red. The trodden ground became a quagmire, whence, from sullen pools collected in the prints of human feet and horses’ hoofs, the one prevailing hue still lowered and glimmered at the sun.

Heaven keep us from a knowledge of the sights the moon beheld upon that field, when, coming up above the black line of distant rising-ground, softened and blurred at the edge by trees, she rose into the sky and looked upon the plain, strewn with upturned faces that had once at mothers’ breasts sought mothers’ eyes, or slumbered happily. Heaven keep us from a knowledge of the secrets whispered afterwards upon the tainted wind that blew across the scene of that day’s work and that night’s death and suffering! Many a lonely moon was bright upon the battle-ground, and many a star kept mournful watch upon it, and many a wind from every quarter of the earth blew over it, before the traces of the fight were worn away.

They lurked and lingered for a long time, but survived in little things; for, Nature, far above the evil passions of men, soon recovered Her serenity, and smiled upon the guilty battle-ground as she had done before, when it was innocent. The larks sang high above it; the swallows skimmed and dipped and flitted to and fro; the shadows of the flying clouds pursued each other swiftly, over grass and corn and turnip-field and wood, and over roof and church-spire in the nestling town among the trees, away into the bright distance on the borders of the sky and earth, where the red sunsets faded. Crops were sown, and grew up, and were gathered in; the stream that had been crimsoned, turned a watermill; men whistled at the plough; gleaners and haymakers were seen in quiet groups at work; sheep and oxen pastured; boys whooped and called, in fields, to scare away the birds; smoke rose from cottage chimneys; sabbath bells rang peacefully; old people lived and died; the timid creatures of the field, the simple flowers of the bush and garden, grew and withered in their destined terms: and all upon the fierce and bloody battle-ground, where thousands upon thousands had been killed in the great fight. But, there were deep green patches in the growing corn at first, that people looked at awfully. Year after year they re-appeared; and it was known that underneath those fertile spots, heaps of men and horses lay buried, indiscriminately, enriching the ground. The husbandmen who ploughed those places, shrunk from the great worms abounding there; and the sheaves they yielded, were, for many a long year, called the Battle Sheaves, and set apart; and no one ever knew a Battle Sheaf to be among the last load at a Harvest Home. For a long time, every furrow that was turned, revealed some fragments of the fight. For a long time, there were wounded trees upon the battle-ground; and scraps of hacked and broken fence and wall, where deadly struggles had been made; and trampled parts where not a leaf or blade would grow. For a long time, no village girl would dress her hair or bosom with the sweetest flower from that field of death: and after many a year had come and gone, the berries growing there, were still believed to leave too deep a stain upon the hand that plucked them.

The Seasons in their course, however, though they passed as lightly as the summer clouds themselves, obliterated, in the lapse of time, even these remains of the old conflict; and wore away such legendary traces of it as the neighbouring people carried in their minds, until they dwindled into old wives’ tales, dimly remembered round the winter fire, and waning every year. Where the wild flowers and berries had so long remained upon the stem untouched, gardens arose, and houses were built, and children played at battles on the turf. The wounded trees had long ago made Christmas logs, and blazed and roared away. The deep green patches were no greener now than the memory of those who lay in dust below. The ploughshare still turned up from time to time some rusty bits of metal, but it was hard to say what use they had ever served, and those who found them wondered and disputed. An old dinted corselet, and a helmet, had been hanging in the church so long, that the same weak half-blind old man who tried in vain to make them out above the whitewashed arch, had marvelled at them as a baby. If the host slain upon the field, could have been for a moment reanimated in the forms in which they fell, each upon the spot that was the bed of his untimely death, gashed and ghastly soldiers would have stared in, hundreds deep, at household door and window; and would have risen on the hearths of quiet homes; and would have been the garnered store of barns and granaries; and would have started up between the cradled infant and its nurse; and would have floated with the stream, and whirled round on the mill, and crowded the orchard, and burdened the meadow, and piled the rickyard high with dying men. So altered was the battle-ground, where thousands upon thousands had been killed in the great fight.

Prima parte

UNA volta, poco importa quando, e nella robusta Inghilterra, poco importa dove, si combatté una feroce battaglia. Fu combattuta in un lungo giorno di estate quando l’erba ondulante era verde. Molti fiori selvatici creati dalla Mano Onnipotente per essere calici profumati per la rugiada, sentirono quel giorno il loro calice smaltato riempirsi fino all’orlo di sangue e, ritraendosi, caddero. Molti insetti che derivano il loro delicato colore da innocue foglie ed erbe, furono quel giorno macchiati nuovamente dagli uomini morenti e segnarono la loro via spaventata con una traccia innaturale. La farfalla dipinta portò il sangue nell’aria ai bordi delle sue ali. Il ruscello corse rosso. Il terreno calpestato divenne un pantano, da cui, da pozze cupide raccolte nelle impronte dei piedi umani e degli zoccoli dei cavalli, l’unica tonalità prevalente ancora si abbassava e brillava al sole.

Che il cielo ci preservi dalla conoscenza delle scene che la luna vide in quel campo quando, sorgendo sopra la linea nera del terreno circostante, addolcita e sfumata ai bordi dagli alberi, essa si levò nel cielo e guardò sulla pianura disseminata di volti rivolti verso l’alto che un tempo avevano cercato gli occhi delle madri presso i loro seni o vi si erano addormentati felici. Che il cielo ci preservi dalla conoscenza dei segreti sussurrati in seguito dal contaminato vento che soffiava sulla scena del lavoro di quel giorno e della notte di morte e sofferenza! Molte furono le notti in cui una solitaria luna illuminò il campo di battaglia, molte le stelle che vegliarono malinconiche su di esso, molti i venti provenienti da ogni angolo della terra che vi soffiarono sopra prima che le tracce dello scontro svanissero.

Si nascondevano e si aggiravano per un lungo periodo, ma sopravvissero in piccole cose; perché la Natura, ben al di sopra delle malvage passioni degli uomini, presto riacquistò la sua serenità e sorrise sul campo di battaglia colpevole come aveva fatto prima, quando era innocente. I lucherini cantavano in alto sopra di esso; le rondini sfrecciavano, si tuffavano e volteggiavano avanti e indietro; le ombre delle nuvole che volavano inseguivano velocemente l’una con l’altra, su prati e campi di grano e rape e boschi, e su tetti e guglie chiesa nella cittadina accoccolata tra gli alberi, fino alla luminosa distanza ai confini del cielo e della terra, dove i tramonti rossi svanivano. I raccolti furono seminati, cresciuti e mietuti; il ruscello che era stato insanguinato fece girare un mulino ad acqua; gli uomini fischiavano al lavoro dell’aratro; si vedevano gruppi tranquilli di spigolatrici e falcianti al lavoro; pascolavano pecore e buoi; i ragazzi urlavano e chiamavano nei campi per allontanare gli uccelli; il fumo saliva dai camini delle casette; le campane del sabato suonavano pacifiche; anziani vivevano e morivano; i timidi animali dei campi, i semplici fiori degli arbusti e dei giardini, crescevano e appassivano nei loro cicli predeterminati: e tutto ciò sul feroce e insanguinato campo di battaglia, dove migliaia e migliaia erano stati uccisi nella grande lotta. Ma, all’inizio c’erano macchie verdi scuro nel grano in crescita che la gente guardava con timore. Anno dopo anno riapparivano; ed era noto che sotto quei punti fertili giacevano cumuli di uomini e cavalli sepolti, indiscriminatamente, arricchendo il terreno. I contadini che aravano quei luoghi si ritraevano dai grandi vermi abbondanti lì; e le fascine che producevano erano, per molti lunghi anni, chiamate le Fascine della Battaglia, e venivano messe da parte; e nessuno mai seppe di una Fascina della Battaglia che fosse tra gli ultimi carichi in un Raccolto Terminato. Per un lungo periodo, ogni solco rivoltato rivelava alcuni frammenti della lotta. Per un lungo periodo, ci furono alberi feriti sul campo di battaglia; e pezzi di recinti e muri sfasciati e rotti, dove si erano combattute lotte mortali; e parti calpestate dove non cresceva una foglia o un filo d’erba. Per un lungo periodo, nessuna ragazza del villaggio avrebbe acconciato i capelli o il seno con il fiore più dolce di quel campo di morte: e dopo che molti anni erano venuti e andati, si credeva ancora che le bacche cresciute lì lasciassero una macchia troppo profonda sulla mano che le coglieva.

Le stagioni, nel loro corso, tuttavia, sebbene passassero leggermente come le stesse nuvole d’estate, cancellarono, col trascorrere del tempo, anche questi resti dell’antico conflitto; e consumarono quelle tracce leggendarie che il popolo vicino conservava nella memoria, fino a ridurle in vecchie storie da donne, vagamente ricordate intorno al fuoco d’inverno, e ogni anno più tenui. Dove i fiori selvaggi e le bacche erano rimasti tanto tempo sul gambo indisturbati, sorsero giardini, furono costruite case, e i bambini giocavano a battaglie sull’erba. Gli alberi feriti da tempo si erano già trasformati in ceppi di Natale, e ardevano e crepitavano. Le macchie di verde intenso non erano più verdi ora della memoria di coloro che giacevano in polvere sotto. L’aratro ancora ogni tanto portava alla luce qualche pezzo arrugginito di metallo, ma era difficile dire a quale uso fossero mai serviti, e chi li trovava si chiedeva e discuteva. Un vecchio corpetto ammaccato e un elmo erano appesi in chiesa da tanto tempo che lo stesso anziano mezzo cieco che cercava invano di distinguerli sopra l’arco imbiancato, li aveva ammirati quand’era bambino. Se gli uccisi sul campo potessero essere stati per un momento rianimati nelle forme in cui erano caduti, ognuno nel punto che fu il letto della loro morte prematura, soldati sfigurati e spaventosi avrebbero fissato a centinaia le porte e le finestre delle case; e si sarebbero alzati sui focolari di tranquille dimore; e sarebbero stati la scorta accumulata nei granai; e si sarebbero levati tra il bambino nella culla e la sua balia; e avrebbero galleggiato col corso del fiume, e vorticato intorno al mulino, e affollato l’orto, e appesantito il prato, e ammucchiato in alti covoni di morenti i cortili. Tanto era cambiato il campo di battaglia, dove migliaia e migliaia erano stati uccisi nella grande lotta.

Nowhere more altered, perhaps, about a hundred years ago, than in one little orchard attached to an old stone house with a honeysuckle porch; where, on a bright autumn morning, there were sounds of music and laughter, and where two girls danced merrily together on the grass, while some half-dozen peasant women standing on ladders, gathering the apples from the trees, stopped in their work to look down, and share their enjoyment. It was a pleasant, lively, natural scene; a beautiful day, a retired spot; and the two girls, quite unconstrained and careless, danced in the freedom and gaiety of their hearts.

If there were no such thing as display in the world, my private opinion is, and I hope you agree with me, that we might get on a great deal better than we do, and might be infinitely more agreeable company than we are. It was charming to see how these girls danced. They had no spectators but the apple-pickers on the ladders. They were very glad to please them, but they danced to please themselves (or at least you would have supposed so); and you could no more help admiring, than they could help dancing. How they did dance!

Not like opera-dancers. Not at all. And not like Madame Anybody’s finished pupils. Not the least. It was not quadrille dancing, nor minuet dancing, nor even country-dance dancing. It was neither in the old style, nor the new style, nor the French style, nor the English style: though it may have been, by accident, a trifle in the Spanish style, which is a free and joyous one, I am told, deriving a delightful air of off-hand inspiration, from the chirping little castanets. As they danced among the orchard trees, and down the groves of stems and back again, and twirled each other lightly round and round, the influence of their airy motion seemed to spread and spread, in the sun-lighted scene, like an expanding circle in the water. Their streaming hair and fluttering skirts, the elastic grass beneath their feet, the boughs that rustled in the morning air—the flashing leaves, the speckled shadows on the soft green ground—the balmy wind that swept along the landscape, glad to turn the distant windmill, cheerily—everything between the two girls, and the man and team at plough upon the ridge of land, where they showed against the sky as if they were the last things in the world—seemed dancing too.

At last, the younger of the dancing sisters, out of breath, and laughing gaily, threw herself upon a bench to rest. The other leaned against a tree hard by. The music, a wandering harp and fiddle, left off with a flourish, as if it boasted of its freshness; though the truth is, it had gone at such a pace, and worked itself to such a pitch of competition with the dancing, that it never could have held on, half a minute longer. The apple-pickers on the ladders raised a hum and murmur of applause, and then, in keeping with the sound, bestirred themselves to work again like bees.

The more actively, perhaps, because an elderly gentleman, who was no other than Doctor Jeddler himself—it was Doctor Jeddler’s house and orchard, you should know, and these were Doctor Jeddler’s daughters—came bustling out to see what was the matter, and who the deuce played music on his property, before breakfast. For he was a great philosopher, Doctor Jeddler, and not very musical.

‘Music and dancing to-day!’ said the Doctor, stopping short, and speaking to himself. ‘I thought they dreaded to-day. But it’s a world of contradictions. Why, Grace, why, Marion!’ he added, aloud, ‘is the world more mad than usual this morning?’

‘Make some allowance for it, father, if it be,’ replied his younger daughter, Marion, going close to him, and looking into his face, ‘for it’s somebody’s birth-day.’

‘Somebody’s birth-day, Puss!’ replied the Doctor. ‘Don’t you know it’s always somebody’s birth-day? Did you never hear how many new performers enter on this—ha! ha! ha!—it’s impossible to speak gravely of it—on this preposterous and ridiculous business called Life, every minute?’

‘No, father!’

‘No, not you, of course; you’re a woman—almost,’ said the Doctor. ‘By-the-by,’ and he looked into the pretty face, still close to his, ‘I suppose it’s your birth-day.’

‘No! Do you really, father?’ cried his pet daughter, pursing up her red lips to be kissed.

‘There! Take my love with it,’ said the Doctor, imprinting his upon them; ‘and many happy returns of the—the idea!—of the day. The notion of wishing happy returns in such a farce as this,’ said the Doctor to himself, ‘is good! Ha! ha! ha!’

Doctor Jeddler was, as I have said, a great philosopher, and the heart and mystery of his philosophy was, to look upon the world as a gigantic practical joke; as something too absurd to be considered seriously, by any rational man. His system of belief had been, in the beginning, part and parcel of the battle-ground on which he lived, as you shall presently understand.

‘Well! But how did you get the music?’ asked the Doctor. ‘Poultry-stealers, of course! Where did the minstrels come from?’

‘Alfred sent the music,’ said his daughter Grace, adjusting a few simple flowers in her sister’s hair, with which, in her admiration of that youthful beauty, she had herself adorned it half-an-hour before, and which the dancing had disarranged.

‘Oh! Alfred sent the music, did he?’ returned the Doctor.

‘Yes. He met it coming out of the town as he was entering early. The men are travelling on foot, and rested there last night; and as it was Marion’s birth-day, and he thought it would please her, he sent them on, with a pencilled note to me, saying that if I thought so too, they had come to serenade her.’

‘Ay, ay,’ said the Doctor, carelessly, ‘he always takes your opinion.’

‘And my opinion being favourable,’ said Grace, good-humouredly; and pausing for a moment to admire the pretty head she decorated, with her own thrown back; ‘and Marion being in high spirits, and beginning to dance, I joined her. And so we danced to Alfred’s music till we were out of breath. And we thought the music all the gayer for being sent by Alfred. Didn’t we, dear Marion?’

Forse nessun luogo era più trasformato di uno piccolo frutteto annesso a una vecchia casa in pietra con un portico ricoperto da caprifoglio, circa cent’anni fa; dove, in una luminosa mattina d’autunno, si udivano suoni di musica e risate, e dove due ragazze danzavano allegramente insieme sull’erba, mentre un gruppo di sei donne contadine, in piedi su delle scale, raccoglievano le mele dagli alberi, interrompendo il loro lavoro per guardare giù e condividere la loro gioia. Era una scena piacevole, vivace e naturale; un giorno bellissimo, un luogo appartato; e le due ragazze, del tutto disinibite e spensierate, danzavano nella libertà e gaiezza dei loro cuori.

Se non ci fosse stata una cosa come lo sfoggio nel mondo, la mia opinione personale è che potremmo cavarcela molto meglio di quanto facciamo e saremmo compagnia infinitamente più piacevole. Era incantevole vedere come ballavano queste ragazze. Non avevano spettatori se non i raccoglitori di mele sulle scale. Erano felici di compiacerli, ma ballavano per compiacere loro stesse (o almeno lo si sarebbe supposto); e non potevi fare a meno di ammirarle più di quanto loro potessero fare a meno di ballare. Come ballavano!

Non come le ballerine d’opera. Niente affatto. E nemmeno come le allieve perfezionate della Madame Chi-sa-chi. Neanche un po’. Non era danza di quadrille, né danza di minuetto, né tantomeno ballo popolare. Non era nello stile antico, né in quello moderno, né in quello francese, né in quello inglese: anche se poteva essere, per caso, un po’ in stile spagnolo, che mi hanno detto essere uno stile libero e gioioso, che trae un delizioso aspetto di ispirazione spontanea dal fruscio dei piccoli castagnetti. Mentre danzavano tra gli alberi del frutteto, lungo i viali di tronchi e ritornando indietro, e si giravano leggermente l’una intorno all’altra, l’influenza del loro movimento aereo sembrava diffondersi e diffondersi nella scena illuminata dal sole, come un cerchio che si allarga nell’acqua. I loro capelli scompigliati e le gonne fluttuanti, l’erba elastica sotto i loro piedi, i rami che frusciavano nell’aria mattutina — le foglie scintillanti, le ombre screziate sul morbido terreno verde — la brezza profumata che spazzava il paesaggio, felice di far girare il mulino lontano in modo allegro — tutto tra le due ragazze e l’uomo con i suoi buoi al lavoro arando sulla cresta del terreno, dove si stagliavano contro il cielo come se fossero le ultime cose del mondo — sembrava danzare anch’esso.

Alla fine la più giovane delle sorelle danzanti, senza fiato e ridendo allegramente, si lasciò cadere su una panchina per riposare. L’altra si appoggiò a un albero vicino. La musica, di un’arpa errante e di un violino, terminò con un trillo, come se ne fosse orgogliosa; anche se la verità è che aveva suonato così velocemente ed era arrivata a tale livello di competizione con la danza da non poter continuare per più di mezzo minuto. I raccoglitori di mele sulle scale sollevarono un brusio di applausi e poi, in sintonia col suono, si rimisero al lavoro come api.

Forse più attivamente perché un anziano signore, che non era altri che lo stesso dottor Jeddler — era la casa e il frutteto del dottor Jeddler, dovreste saperlo, e queste erano le figlie del dottor Jeddler — uscì precipitosamente per vedere che cosa stesse succedendo e chi diavolo suonasse musica sulla sua proprietà prima della colazione. Perché era un grande filosofo, il dottor Jeddler, e non molto musicale.

«Musica e danza oggi!», disse il Dottore fermandosi di colpo, parlando tra sé. «Pensavo che temessero oggi. Ma è un mondo pieno di contraddizioni. Perché, Grace, perché, Marion!» aggiunse ad alta voce, «il mondo è più pazzo del solito questa mattina?»

«Fategli un po’ di sconto, padre», rispose la figlia minore, Marion, avvicinandosi a lui e guardandolo in faccia, «se è così, perché oggi è il compleanno di qualcuno.»

«È il compleanno di qualcuno, Gattina!» rispose il Dottore. «Non lo sai che è sempre il compleanno di qualcuno? Non hai mai sentito quante nuove attrici e attori si esibiscono in questo—ah! ah! ah!—è impossibile parlarne seriamente—in questa impresa assurda e ridicola chiamata Vita, ogni minuto?»

‘No, padre!’

«No, non lei, naturalmente; è una donna — quasi», disse il dottore. «A proposito» e guardò quel grazioso visetto ancora vicino al suo, «immagino che sia il suo compleanno».

«No! Lo dici davvero, papà?» esclamò la sua figlia prediletta, facendo il broncio con le sue labbra rosse per essere baciata.

«Ecco! Prendete il mio amore con esso», disse il Dottore, imprimendo il suo su di loro; «e tanti felici ritorni del—dell’idea!—del giorno. L’idea di augurare felici ritorni in una farsa come questa», disse il Dottore tra sé e sé, «è buona! Ha! ha! ha!»

Il dottor Jeddler era, come ho detto, un grande filosofo e il cuore e il mistero della sua filosofia consisteva nel considerare il mondo una gigantesca battuta pratica; qualcosa di troppo assurdo per essere preso sul serio da qualsiasi uomo ragionevole. Il suo sistema di credenze era, all’inizio, parte integrante del campo di battaglia su cui viveva, come capirete tra poco.

«Ebbene! Ma come avete fatto ad avere la musica?» chiese il Dottore. «Naturalmente dai ladri di pollame! Da dove venivano i menestrelli?»

«Alfred ha mandato la musica», disse sua figlia Grace, sistemando alcuni semplici fiori nei capelli di sua sorella, con i quali, nella sua ammirazione per quella giovane bellezza, li aveva adornati mezz’ora prima e che il ballo aveva scompigliato.

«Oh! Alfred ha mandato la musica, dunque?» rispose il Dottore.

«Sì. L’ha incontrata mentre usciva dalla città proprio quando lui stava entrando di buon mattino. Gli uomini viaggiano a piedi e si sono fermati lì ieri notte; dato che era il compleanno di Marion, e pensava che le avrebbe fatto piacere, li ha mandati avanti con un biglietto scritto a mano per me, dicendo che se fossi stato d’accordo anch’io, erano venuti a farle una serenata.»

“Sì, sì”, disse il Dottore con nonchalance, “lui prende sempre la tua opinione.”

«E dato che la mia opinione era favorevole», disse Grace con bonomia; e dopo aver fatto una pausa per ammirare il grazioso capo che adornava, mentre i suoi erano gettati all’indietro; «e dato che Marion era di ottimo umore e cominciava a ballare, mi unii a lei. E così ballammo al suono della musica di Alfred fino ad essere senza fiato. E pensavamo che la musica fosse ancora più allegra perché mandata da Alfred. Non è vero, cara Marion?»

‘Oh, I don’t know, Grace. How you tease me about Alfred.’

‘Tease you by mentioning your lover?’ said her sister.

‘I am sure I don’t much care to have him mentioned,’ said the wilful beauty, stripping the petals from some flowers she held, and scattering them on the ground. ‘I am almost tired of hearing of him; and as to his being my lover—’

‘Hush! Don’t speak lightly of a true heart, which is all your own, Marion,’ cried her sister, ‘even in jest. There is not a truer heart than Alfred’s in the world!’

‘No-no,’ said Marion, raising her eyebrows with a pleasant air of careless consideration, ‘perhaps not. But I don’t know that there’s any great merit in that. I—I don’t want him to be so very true. I never asked him. If he expects that I— But, dear Grace, why need we talk of him at all, just now!’

It was agreeable to see the graceful figures of the blooming sisters, twined together, lingering among the trees, conversing thus, with earnestness opposed to lightness, yet, with love responding tenderly to love. And it was very curious indeed to see the younger sister’s eyes suffused with tears, and something fervently and deeply felt, breaking through the wilfulness of what she said, and striving with it painfully.

The difference between them, in respect of age, could not exceed four years at most; but Grace, as often happens in such cases, when no mother watches over both (the Doctor’s wife was dead), seemed, in her gentle care of her young sister, and in the steadiness of her devotion to her, older than she was; and more removed, in course of nature, from all competition with her, or participation, otherwise than through her sympathy and true affection, in her wayward fancies, than their ages seemed to warrant. Great character of mother, that, even in this shadow and faint reflection of it, purifies the heart, and raises the exalted nature nearer to the angels!

The Doctor’s reflections, as he looked after them, and heard the purport of their discourse, were limited at first to certain merry meditations on the folly of all loves and likings, and the idle imposition practised on themselves by young people, who believed for a moment, that there could be anything serious in such bubbles, and were always undeceived—always!

But, the home-adorning, self-denying qualities of Grace, and her sweet temper, so gentle and retiring, yet including so much constancy and bravery of spirit, seemed all expressed to him in the contrast between her quiet household figure and that of his younger and more beautiful child; and he was sorry for her sake—sorry for them both—that life should be such a very ridiculous business as it was.

The Doctor never dreamed of inquiring whether his children, or either of them, helped in any way to make the scheme a serious one. But then he was a Philosopher.

A kind and generous man by nature, he had stumbled, by chance, over that common Philosopher’s stone (much more easily discovered than the object of the alchemist’s researches), which sometimes trips up kind and generous men, and has the fatal property of turning gold to dross and every precious thing to poor account.

‘Britain!’ cried the Doctor. ‘Britain! Holloa!’

A small man, with an uncommonly sour and discontented face, emerged from the house, and returned to this call the unceremonious acknowledgment of ‘Now then!’

‘Where’s the breakfast table?’ said the Doctor.

‘In the house,’ returned Britain.

‘Are you going to spread it out here, as you were told last night?’ said the Doctor. ‘Don’t you know that there are gentlemen coming? That there’s business to be done this morning, before the coach comes by? That this is a very particular occasion?’

‘I couldn’t do anything, Dr. Jeddler, till the women had done getting in the apples, could I?’ said Britain, his voice rising with his reasoning, so that it was very loud at last.

‘Well, have they done now?’ replied the Doctor, looking at his watch, and clapping his hands. ‘Come! make haste! where’s Clemency?’

‘Here am I, Mister,’ said a voice from one of the ladders, which a pair of clumsy feet descended briskly. ‘It’s all done now. Clear away, gals. Everything shall be ready for you in half a minute, Mister.’

With that she began to bustle about most vigorously; presenting, as she did so, an appearance sufficiently peculiar to justify a word of introduction.

She was about thirty years old, and had a sufficiently plump and cheerful face, though it was twisted up into an odd expression of tightness that made it comical. But, the extraordinary homeliness of her gait and manner, would have superseded any face in the world. To say that she had two left legs, and somebody else’s arms, and that all four limbs seemed to be out of joint, and to start from perfectly wrong places when they were set in motion, is to offer the mildest outline of the reality. To say that she was perfectly content and satisfied with these arrangements, and regarded them as being no business of hers, and that she took her arms and legs as they came, and allowed them to dispose of themselves just as it happened, is to render faint justice to her equanimity. Her dress was a prodigious pair of self-willed shoes, that never wanted to go where her feet went; blue stockings; a printed gown of many colours, and the most hideous pattern procurable for money; and a white apron. She always wore short sleeves, and always had, by some accident, grazed elbows, in which she took so lively an interest, that she was continually trying to turn them round and get impossible views of them. In general, a little cap placed somewhere on her head; though it was rarely to be met with in the place usually occupied in other subjects, by that article of dress; but, from head to foot she was scrupulously clean, and maintained a kind of dislocated tidiness. Indeed, her laudable anxiety to be tidy and compact in her own conscience as well as in the public eye, gave rise to one of her most startling evolutions, which was to grasp herself sometimes by a sort of wooden handle (part of her clothing, and familiarly called a busk), and wrestle as it were with her garments, until they fell into a symmetrical arrangement.

‘Oh, non lo so, Grace. Come mi prendi in giro per via di Alfred.’

«Ti prendo in giro menzionando il tuo amante?» disse la sorella.

«Sono sicura di non volerlo molto menzionare», disse la capricciosa bellezza, strappando i petali da alcuni fiori che teneva in mano e spargendoli a terra. «Ne sono quasi stanca di sentir parlare; e quanto al fatto che sia il mio amante—»

«Zitta! Non parlare con leggerezza di un cuore sincero che è tutto tuo, Marion», esclamò la sorella, «anche se è uno scherzo. Non c’è un cuore più sincero di quello di Alfredo al mondo!»

«No-no», disse Marion, alzando le sopracciglia con un’aria piacevole di considerazione noncurante, «forse no. Ma non so che ci sia alcun grande merito in questo. Io-io non voglio che lui sia così veramente fedele. Non gliel’ho mai chiesto. Se si aspetta che io. Ma, cara Grace, perché dovremmo parlare di lui proprio adesso!»

Era piacevole vedere le graziose figure delle fiorite sorelle, intrecciate insieme, che indugiavano tra gli alberi, conversando così, con serietà contrapposta alla leggerezza, eppure con amore che rispondeva teneramente all’amore. E fu davvero molto curioso vedere gli occhi della sorella minore riempirsi di lacrime, e qualcosa di sentito fervidamente e profondamente, irrompere attraverso l’arbitrio di ciò che diceva, e scontrarsi con esso dolorosamente.

La differenza d’età tra loro non poteva superare i quattro anni al massimo; ma Grace, come spesso accade in questi casi, quando nessuna madre veglia su entrambe (la moglie del Dottore era morta), sembrava, nella sua gentile cura per la giovane sorella e nella costanza della sua devozione verso di lei, più vecchia di quanto fosse; e più distante, nel corso della natura, da ogni competizione con lei o partecipazione, se non attraverso la sua simpatia e il suo vero affetto, alle sue fantasie capricciose, di quanto le loro età sembrassero garantire. Grande carattere di madre, quello, che anche in questa ombra e debole riflessione di essa, purifica il cuore e solleva la sublime natura più vicina agli angeli!

Le riflessioni del dottore mentre li osservava e ascoltava il contenuto della loro conversazione si limitavano all’inizio a certe allegre meditazioni sulla follia di tutti gli amori e i sentimenti, e sull’oziosa imposizione che i giovani praticano su se stessi credendo per un momento che in tali bolla possa esserci qualcosa di serio, mentre vengono sempre disillusi — sempre!

Ma le qualità di Grace che adornavano la casa e si negavano per gli altri, il suo dolce temperamento così gentile e riservato, ma che includeva tanta costanza e coraggio d’animo, sembravano tutti espressi a lui nel contrasto tra la sua tranquilla figura domestica e quella della sua più giovane e bella figlia; e gli dispiaceva per lei - dispiaceva a entrambi - che la vita fosse un affare così ridicolo come era.

Il Dottore non si sognò mai di chiedersi se i suoi figli, o uno di loro, avessero contribuito in qualche modo a rendere il progetto serio. Ma era un Filosofo.

Uomo di natura buono e generoso, era inciampato per caso in quella pietra filosofale comune (molto più facile da scoprire dell’oggetto delle ricerche degli alchimisti), che talvolta fa inciampare gli uomini buoni e generosi, e ha la fatale proprietà di trasformare l’oro in scoria e ogni cosa preziosa in povero conto.

‘Inghilterra!’ gridò il Dottore. ‘Inghilterra! Ehi!’

Un uomo di piccola statura, con una faccia insolitamente acida e malcontenta, emerse dalla casa e rispose a questa chiamata con il poco cerimonioso riconoscimento di “Ebbene!”

«Dov’è la tavola della colazione?» disse il dottore.

«Nella casa», rispose Britannia.

«Avete intenzione di stenderlo qui, come vi è stato detto ieri sera?» disse il dottore. «Non sapete che ci sono dei gentiluomini in arrivo? Che c’è da fare questa mattina, prima che passi la diligenza? Che si tratta di un’occasione molto particolare?»

«Non potevo fare nulla, dottor Jeddler, finché le donne non avessero finito di raccogliere le mele, vero?» disse Britannia, la cui voce si alzava insieme alla sua argomentazione, tanto che alla fine era diventata molto forte.

«Bene, hanno finito?» rispose il dottore guardando l’orologio e battendo le mani. «Su, sbrigatevi! dov’è Clemency?»

«Eccomi qui, signore», disse una voce da uno dei candelieri, che un paio di piedi goffi scendevano con vivacità. «Ora è tutto fatto. Via libera, ragazze. Tutto sarà pronto per voi in mezzo minuto, signore».

Detto ciò si mise ad agitarsi con grande vigore; presentando così un aspetto abbastanza peculiare da giustificare una parola di introduzione.

Aveva circa trent’anni e un viso abbastanza paffuto e allegra, anche se era contorto in una strana espressione di tensione che lo rendeva comico. Ma l’incredibile bruttezza del suo modo di camminare e di comportarsi avrebbe eclissato qualsiasi volto al mondo. Dire che aveva due piedi sinistri, le braccia di qualcun altro, e che tutti e quattro gli arti sembravano slogati e partivano da punti completamente sbagliati quando si mettevano in movimento, è offrire il più mite abbozzo della realtà. Dire che era perfettamente contenta e soddisfatta di questi arrangiamenti, li considerava una faccenda che non la riguardava e prendeva le sue braccia e gambe così come venivano, lasciando che si disponessero da sole come capitava, è rendere un pallido giustizia alla sua equanimità. Il suo abbigliamento consisteva in un paio di scarpe autonome enormi, che non volevano mai andare dove andavano i suoi piedi; calze blu; una gonna stampata di molti colori e con il motivo più orribile procurabile con denaro; e un grembiule bianco. Indossava sempre maniche corte e aveva sempre, per qualche incidente, i gomiti sbucciati, nei quali si interessava così vivacemente che cercava continuamente di girarli e ottenere visioni impossibili di essi. In generale portava un piccolo copricapo posizionato da qualche parte sulla testa; anche se raramente lo si trovava nel posto solitamente occupato in altri soggetti da quell’articolo d’abbigliamento; ma, dalla testa ai piedi era scrupolosamente pulita e manteneva una specie di ordinata dislocazione. Infatti, la sua lodevole ansia di essere ordinata e compatta nella propria coscienza così come agli occhi del pubblico, dava origine a una delle sue evoluzioni più sorprendenti, che era afferrarsi talvolta per una sorta di maniglia di legno (parte del suo abbigliamento, chiamata familiarmente busk) e lottare come se fosse con i suoi vestiti, fino a quando non cadevano in un arrangiamento simmetrico.

Such, in outward form and garb, was Clemency Newcome; who was supposed to have unconsciously originated a corruption of her own Christian name, from Clementina (but nobody knew, for the deaf old mother, a very phenomenon of age, whom she had supported almost from a child, was dead, and she had no other relation); who now busied herself in preparing the table, and who stood, at intervals, with her bare red arms crossed, rubbing her grazed elbows with opposite hands, and staring at it very composedly, until she suddenly remembered something else she wanted, and jogged off to fetch it.

‘Here are them two lawyers a-coming, Mister!’ said Clemency, in a tone of no very great good-will.

‘Ah!’ cried the Doctor, advancing to the gate to meet them. ‘Good morning, good morning! Grace, my dear! Marion! Here are Messrs. Snitchey and Craggs. Where’s Alfred!’

‘He’ll be back directly, father, no doubt,’ said Grace. ‘He had so much to do this morning in his preparations for departure, that he was up and out by daybreak. Good morning, gentlemen.’

‘Ladies!’ said Mr. Snitchey, ‘for Self and Craggs,’ who bowed, ‘good morning! Miss,’ to Marion, ‘I kiss your hand.’ Which he did. ‘And I wish you’—which he might or might not, for he didn’t look, at first sight, like a gentleman troubled with many warm outpourings of soul, in behalf of other people, ‘a hundred happy returns of this auspicious day.’

‘Ha ha ha!’ laughed the Doctor thoughtfully, with his hands in his pockets. ‘The great farce in a hundred acts!’

‘You wouldn’t, I am sure,’ said Mr. Snitchey, standing a small professional blue bag against one leg of the table, ‘cut the great farce short for this actress, at all events, Doctor Jeddler.’

‘No,’ returned the Doctor. ‘God forbid! May she live to laugh at it, as long as she can laugh, and then say, with the French wit, “The farce is ended; draw the curtain.”’

‘The French wit,’ said Mr. Snitchey, peeping sharply into his blue bag, ‘was wrong, Doctor Jeddler, and your philosophy is altogether wrong, depend upon it, as I have often told you. Nothing serious in life! What do you call law?’

‘A joke,’ replied the Doctor.

‘Did you ever go to law?’ asked Mr. Snitchey, looking out of the blue bag.

‘Never,’ returned the Doctor.

‘If you ever do,’ said Mr. Snitchey, ‘perhaps you’ll alter that opinion.’

Craggs, who seemed to be represented by Snitchey, and to be conscious of little or no separate existence or personal individuality, offered a remark of his own in this place. It involved the only idea of which he did not stand seized and possessed in equal moieties with Snitchey; but, he had some partners in it among the wise men of the world.

‘It’s made a great deal too easy,’ said Mr. Craggs.

‘Law is?’ asked the Doctor.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Craggs, ‘everything is. Everything appears to me to be made too easy, now-a-days. It’s the vice of these times. If the world is a joke (I am not prepared to say it isn’t), it ought to be made a very difficult joke to crack. It ought to be as hard a struggle, sir, as possible. That’s the intention. But, it’s being made far too easy. We are oiling the gates of life. They ought to be rusty. We shall have them beginning to turn, soon, with a smooth sound. Whereas they ought to grate upon their hinges, sir.’

Mr. Craggs seemed positively to grate upon his own hinges, as he delivered this opinion; to which he communicated immense effect—being a cold, hard, dry, man, dressed in grey and white, like a flint; with small twinkles in his eyes, as if something struck sparks out of them. The three natural kingdoms, indeed, had each a fanciful representative among this brotherhood of disputants; for Snitchey was like a magpie or raven (only not so sleek), and the Doctor had a streaked face like a winter-pippin, with here and there a dimple to express the peckings of the birds, and a very little bit of pigtail behind that stood for the stalk.

As the active figure of a handsome young man, dressed for a journey, and followed by a porter bearing several packages and baskets, entered the orchard at a brisk pace, and with an air of gaiety and hope that accorded well with the morning, these three drew together, like the brothers of the sister Fates, or like the Graces most effectually disguised, or like the three weird prophets on the heath, and greeted him.

‘Happy returns, Alf!’ said the Doctor, lightly.

‘A hundred happy returns of this auspicious day, Mr. Heathfield!’ said Snitchey, bowing low.

‘Returns!’ Craggs murmured in a deep voice, all alone.

‘Why, what a battery!’ exclaimed Alfred, stopping short, ‘and one—two—three—all foreboders of no good, in the great sea before me. I am glad you are not the first I have met this morning: I should have taken it for a bad omen. But, Grace was the first—sweet, pleasant Grace—so I defy you all!’

‘If you please, Mister, I was the first you know,’ said Clemency Newcome. ‘She was walking out here, before sunrise, you remember. I was in the house.’

‘That’s true! Clemency was the first,’ said Alfred. ‘So I defy you with Clemency.’

‘Ha, ha, ha,—for Self and Craggs,’ said Snitchey. ‘What a defiance!’

‘Not so bad a one as it appears, may be,’ said Alfred, shaking hands heartily with the Doctor, and also with Snitchey and Craggs, and then looking round. ‘Where are the—Good Heavens!’

With a start, productive for the moment of a closer partnership between Jonathan Snitchey and Thomas Craggs than the subsisting articles of agreement in that wise contemplated, he hastily betook himself to where the sisters stood together, and—however, I needn’t more particularly explain his manner of saluting Marion first, and Grace afterwards, than by hinting that Mr. Craggs may possibly have considered it ‘too easy.’

Perhaps to change the subject, Dr. Jeddler made a hasty move towards the breakfast, and they all sat down at table. Grace presided; but so discreetly stationed herself, as to cut off her sister and Alfred from the rest of the company. Snitchey and Craggs sat at opposite corners, with the blue bag between them for safety; the Doctor took his usual position, opposite to Grace. Clemency hovered galvanically about the table, as waitress; and the melancholy Britain, at another and a smaller board, acted as Grand Carver of a round of beef and a ham.

Tale era, nell’aspetto esteriore e nel vestiario, Clemency Newcome; si credeva che avesse inconsapevolmente dato origine a una corruzione del suo stesso nome di battesimo, da Clementina (ma nessuno lo sapeva, perché la vecchia madre sorda, un vero fenomeno di età, che aveva mantenuto quasi fin da quando era ancora una bambina, era morta, e non aveva altri parenti); ora si dava da fare a preparare il tavolo, e ogni tanto stava lì con le braccia rosse incrociate, strofinandosi i gomiti graffiati con le mani opposte, fissando tutto molto compostamente, finché all’improvviso ricordava qualcos’altro che voleva, e si metteva in moto per andare a prenderlo.

«Eccoli là quei due avvocati che arrivano, signore!» disse Clemency con un tono non molto benevolo.

«Ah!» esclamò il dottore avvicinandosi al cancello per accoglierli «buongiorno, buongiorno! Grace, mia cara! Marion! Ecco i signori Snitchey e Craggs. Dov’è Alfred?»

«Tornerà subito, padre, senza alcun dubbio», disse Grace. «Aveva così tanto da fare questa mattina nei suoi preparativi per la partenza che è uscito all’alba. Buongiorno, signori».

«Signore!» disse il signor Snitchey, «per me e Craggs», che si inchinò, «buongiorno! Signorina», a Marion, «le bacio la mano.» E così fece. «E le auguro» — cosa che poteva o non poter fare, perché al primo sguardo non sembrava un gentiluomo tormentato da molte calde effusioni di anima a favore degli altri — «cento felici ricorrenze di questo giorno fausto.»

«Ah ah ah!» rise il dottore pensieroso, con le mani nelle tasche. «La grande farsa in cento atti!»

«Ne sono sicuro che non lo farebbe», disse il signor Snitchey appoggiando una piccola borsa blu da professionista contro uno dei piedi del tavolo, «interrompere la grande farsa per questa attrice, almeno in questo caso, dottor Jeddler.»

«No», rispose il dottore. «Dio ce ne scampi! Possa vivere per ridere di questo, finché potrà ridere, e poi dire, con l’ingegno francese: “La farsa è finita; tirate giù la tenda.”»

«L’arguzia francese» disse il signor Snitchey scrutando attentamente nella sua borsa blu «aveva torto, dottor Jeddler, e la sua filosofia è del tutto errata, ne può stare certo, come le ho spesso ripetuto. Niente di serio nella vita! E lei che cosa chiama legge?»

«Uno scherzo», rispose il dottore.

«Avete mai avuto a che fare con la legge?», chiese il signor Snitchey guardando fuori dalla borsa blu.

«Mai», rispose il dottore.

“Se mai lo farai,” disse il signor Snitchey, “forse cambierai idea.”

Craggs, che sembrava essere rappresentato da Snitchey e non si rendeva conto di avere un’esistenza separata o una personalità individuale, fece qui una sua osservazione personale. Essa implicava l’unica idea della quale non era co-proprietario in parti uguali con Snitchey; ma aveva alcuni soci tra i saggi del mondo.

«È reso molto troppo facile», disse il signor Craggs.

«La legge è?» chiese il dottore.

«Sì», disse il signor Craggs, «tutto è così. Tutto mi sembra troppo facile, al giorno d’oggi. È il vizio di questi tempi. Se il mondo è uno scherzo (non sono preparato a dire che non lo sia), dovrebbe essere uno scherzo molto difficile da indovinare. Dovrebbe essere una lotta quanto più ardua possibile, signore. Questo è l’intento. Ma si sta rendendo tutto troppo facile. Stiamo ungendo i cardini della vita. Dovrebbero arrugginiti. Presto li sentiremo girare con un suono fluido. Mentre invece dovrebbero stridere sui loro perni, signore».

Il signor Craggs sembrava letteralmente cigolare sui propri cardini mentre esprimeva questa opinione, alla quale dava un effetto immenso: era un uomo freddo, duro e asciutto, vestito di grigio e bianco come un sasso; con piccoli luccichii negli occhi, come se qualcosa ne facesse schizzare scintille. I tre regni naturali avevano infatti ciascuno un rappresentante fantasioso tra questa fraternità di contendenti; poiché Snitchey era simile a una gazza o a un corvo (solo meno lucido), e il dottore aveva un volto striato come una mela invernale, con qua e là una fossetta che esprimeva i beccattoni degli uccelli, e un piccolissimo codino dietro che faceva da gambo.

Quando la figura attiva di un giovane bello, vestito per un viaggio, e seguito da un facchino che portava diversi pacchi e cesti, entrò nell’orto a passo svelto, con un’aria di gaiezza e speranza che si accordava bene con la mattinata, questi tre si avvicinarono, come i fratelli delle sorelle Parche, o come le Grazie più efficacemente travestite, o come i tre strani profeti sulla landa, e lo salutarono.

«Buon ritorno, Alf!» disse il Dottore, con leggerezza.

«Centinaia di felici ricorrenze di questo giorno propizio, signor Heathfield!» disse Snitchey inchinandosi profondamente.

«Ritorni!» mormorò Craggs con voce profonda, tutto solo.

«Ma che batteria!», esclamò Alfredo fermandosi di colpo «e una, due, tre, tutte predittive di niente di buono nel grande mare davanti a me. Sono contento che tu non sia il primo che ho incontrato stamattina: l’avrei presa per un cattivo auspicio. Ma Grace è stata la prima, dolce e piacevole Grace, quindi sfido tutti voi!»

«Se non le dispiace, signore, sono stata io la prima che lei conosce», disse Clemency Newcome. «Stava passeggiando qui fuori, prima dell’alba, se lo ricorda. Io ero in casa.»

‘È vero! Clemency è stata la prima’, disse Alfred. ‘Quindi ti sfido con Clemency.’

«Ah, ah, ah, — per il Sé e Craggs», disse Snitchey. «Che sfida!»

«Non è poi così cattivo come sembra», disse Alfredo stringendo calorosamente la mano al dottore e anche a Snitchey e Craggs, per poi guardarsi intorno. «Dove sono i. Buon Dio!»

Con un sobbalzo che per il momento produsse una più stretta collaborazione tra Jonathan Snitchey e Thomas Craggs di quella prevista dagli articoli dell’accordo esistenti, si affrettò a raggiungere le sorelle che stavano insieme e—tuttavia, non è necessario spiegare più dettagliatamente il modo in cui salutò prima Marion e poi Grace, se non suggerendo che Mr. Craggs potrebbe averlo considerato “troppo facile”.

Forse per cambiare argomento, il dottor Jeddler si avvicinò in fretta alla colazione e tutti si sedettero a tavola. Grace presiedeva; ma si era posizionata con tanta discrezione da isolare sua sorella e Alfred dal resto della compagnia. Snitchey e Craggs erano seduti agli angoli opposti, con la borsa blu tra loro per sicurezza; il dottore prese il suo solito posto di fronte a Grace. Clemency si aggirava galvanicamente intorno al tavolo come cameriera; e il malinconico Britain, su un altro tavolo più piccolo, agiva da Grande Scalpellino per una bistecca di manzo e un prosciutto.

‘Meat?’ said Britain, approaching Mr. Snitchey, with the carving knife and fork in his hands, and throwing the question at him like a missile.

‘Certainly,’ returned the lawyer.

‘Do you want any?’ to Craggs.

‘Lean and well done,’ replied that gentleman.

Having executed these orders, and moderately supplied the Doctor (he seemed to know that nobody else wanted anything to eat), he lingered as near the Firm as he decently could, watching with an austere eye their disposition of the viands, and but once relaxing the severe expression of his face. This was on the occasion of Mr. Craggs, whose teeth were not of the best, partially choking, when he cried out with great animation, ‘I thought he was gone!’

‘Now, Alfred,’ said the Doctor, ‘for a word or two of business, while we are yet at breakfast.’

‘While we are yet at breakfast,’ said Snitchey and Craggs, who seemed to have no present idea of leaving off.

Although Alfred had not been breakfasting, and seemed to have quite enough business on his hands as it was, he respectfully answered:

‘If you please, sir.’

‘If anything could be serious,’ the Doctor began, ‘in such a—’

‘Farce as this, sir,’ hinted Alfred.

‘In such a farce as this,’ observed the Doctor, ‘it might be this recurrence, on the eve of separation, of a double birth-day, which is connected with many associations pleasant to us four, and with the recollection of a long and amicable intercourse. That’s not to the purpose.’

‘Ah! yes, yes, Dr. Jeddler,’ said the young man. ‘It is to the purpose. Much to the purpose, as my heart bears witness this morning; and as yours does too, I know, if you would let it speak. I leave your house to-day; I cease to be your ward to-day; we part with tender relations stretching far behind us, that never can be exactly renewed, and with others dawning—yet before us,’ he looked down at Marion beside him, ‘fraught with such considerations as I must not trust myself to speak of now. Come, come!’ he added, rallying his spirits and the Doctor at once, ‘there’s a serious grain in this large foolish dust-heap, Doctor. Let us allow to-day, that there is One.’

‘To-day!’ cried the Doctor. ‘Hear him! Ha, ha, ha! Of all days in the foolish year. Why, on this day, the great battle was fought on this ground. On this ground where we now sit, where I saw my two girls dance this morning, where the fruit has just been gathered for our eating from these trees, the roots of which are struck in Men, not earth,—so many lives were lost, that within my recollection, generations afterwards, a churchyard full of bones, and dust of bones, and chips of cloven skulls, has been dug up from underneath our feet here. Yet not a hundred people in that battle knew for what they fought, or why; not a hundred of the inconsiderate rejoicers in the victory, why they rejoiced. Not half a hundred people were the better for the gain or loss. Not half-a-dozen men agree to this hour on the cause or merits; and nobody, in short, ever knew anything distinct about it, but the mourners of the slain. Serious, too!’ said the Doctor, laughing. ‘Such a system!’

‘But, all this seems to me,’ said Alfred, ‘to be very serious.’

‘Serious!’ cried the Doctor. ‘If you allowed such things to be serious, you must go mad, or die, or climb up to the top of a mountain, and turn hermit.’

‘Besides—so long ago,’ said Alfred.

‘Long ago!’ returned the Doctor. ‘Do you know what the world has been doing, ever since? Do you know what else it has been doing? I don’t!’

‘It has gone to law a little,’ observed Mr. Snitchey, stirring his tea.

‘Although the way out has been always made too easy,’ said his partner.

‘And you’ll excuse my saying, Doctor,’ pursued Mr. Snitchey, ‘having been already put a thousand times in possession of my opinion, in the course of our discussions, that, in its having gone to law, and in its legal system altogether, I do observe a serious side—now, really, a something tangible, and with a purpose and intention in it—’

Clemency Newcome made an angular tumble against the table, occasioning a sounding clatter among the cups and saucers.

‘Heyday! what’s the matter there?’ exclaimed the Doctor.

‘It’s this evil-inclined blue bag,’ said Clemency, ‘always tripping up somebody!’

‘With a purpose and intention in it, I was saying,’ resumed Snitchey, ‘that commands respect. Life a farce, Dr. Jeddler? With law in it?’

The Doctor laughed, and looked at Alfred.

‘Granted, if you please, that war is foolish,’ said Snitchey. ‘There we agree. For example. Here’s a smiling country,’ pointing it out with his fork, ‘once overrun by soldiers—trespassers every man of ’em—and laid waste by fire and sword. He, he, he! The idea of any man exposing himself, voluntarily, to fire and sword! Stupid, wasteful, positively ridiculous; you laugh at your fellow-creatures, you know, when you think of it! But take this smiling country as it stands. Think of the laws appertaining to real property; to the bequest and devise of real property; to the mortgage and redemption of real property; to leasehold, freehold, and copyhold estate; think,’ said Mr. Snitchey, with such great emotion that he actually smacked his lips, ‘of the complicated laws relating to title and proof of title, with all the contradictory precedents and numerous acts of parliament connected with them; think of the infinite number of ingenious and interminable chancery suits, to which this pleasant prospect may give rise; and acknowledge, Dr. Jeddler, that there is a green spot in the scheme about us! I believe,’ said Mr. Snitchey, looking at his partner, ‘that I speak for Self and Craggs?’

Mr. Craggs having signified assent, Mr. Snitchey, somewhat freshened by his recent eloquence, observed that he would take a little more beef and another cup of tea.

‘I don’t stand up for life in general,’ he added, rubbing his hands and chuckling, ‘it’s full of folly; full of something worse. Professions of trust, and confidence, and unselfishness, and all that! Bah, bah, bah! We see what they’re worth. But, you mustn’t laugh at life; you’ve got a game to play; a very serious game indeed! Everybody’s playing against you, you know, and you’re playing against them. Oh! it’s a very interesting thing. There are deep moves upon the board. You must only laugh, Dr. Jeddler, when you win—and then not much. He, he, he! And then not much,’ repeated Snitchey, rolling his head and winking his eye, as if he would have added, ‘you may do this instead!’

«Carne?», disse Britannia avvicinandosi al signor Snitchey con il coltello e la forchetta da cucina in mano, scagliando la domanda come un proiettile.

«Certamente», rispose l’avvocato.

«Ne vuoi anche tu?» a Craggs.

«Magra e ben fatta», rispose il gentiluomo.

Eseguiti questi ordini e fornito al Dottore un’offerta moderata di cibo (sembrava sapere che nessun altro desiderasse mangiare), rimase nei pressi della ditta il più a lungo possibile, osservando con occhio austero la disposizione dei cibi e rilassando solo una volta l’espressione severa del suo volto. Ciò avvenne quando il signor Craggs, che non aveva i denti migliori, si soffocò parzialmente, e lui gridò con grande vivacità: «Pensavo fosse morto!»

«Ora, Alfredo», disse il Dottore, «per una parola o due di affari, mentre siamo ancora a colazione.»

«Mentre siamo ancora a colazione», dissero Snitchey e Craggs, che sembravano non avere alcuna intenzione di smettere per il momento.

Anche se Alfredo non aveva fatto colazione e sembrava avere già abbastanza faccende tra le mani, rispose con rispetto:

‘Per favore, signore.’

‘Qualsiasi cosa potesse essere seria,’ iniziò il Dottore, ‘in un tale, ’

«Farsa come questa, signore», insinuò Alfredo.

«In una farsa come questa», osservò il Dottore, «potrebbe essere questo ritorno, alla vigilia della separazione, di un doppio compleanno, che è legato a tanti ricordi piacevoli per noi quattro e al pensiero di una lunga e amichevole frequentazione. Ma non è il caso di parlarne».

«Ah! sì, sì, dottor Jeddler», disse il giovane uomo. «È proprio al caso. Molto al caso, come testimonia il mio cuore questa mattina; e come fa anche il suo, lo so, se solo glielo lasciasse dire. Oggi lascio la sua casa; oggi cesso di essere il suo pupillo; ci separiamo con teneri legami che si estendono lontano alle nostre spalle e che mai potranno essere esattamente rinnovati, e con altri che stanno sorgendo davanti a noi», guardò in basso verso Marion al suo fianco, «carichi di considerazioni di cui non mi fido ancora di parlare. Su, su!» aggiunse, rianimando il proprio spirito e quello del dottore, «c’è un granello serio in questo grande mucchio di sciocca polvere, dottore. Ammettiamo oggi che ce n’è Uno».

«Oggi!» esclamò il Dottore. «Sentitelo! Ah, ah, ah! Di tutti i giorni dell’anno più sciocco. Perché proprio oggi si combatté la grande battaglia su questo terreno. Su questo terreno dove ora siamo seduti, dove ho visto stamattina le mie due ragazze danzare, dove il frutto è stato appena raccolto per noi da questi alberi, le cui radici affondano negli uomini e non nella terra, persero la vita così tante persone che, entro i limiti della mia memoria, generazioni dopo sono stati dissotterrati sotto ai nostri piedi qui un cimitero pieno di ossa, polvere d’ossa e schegge di teschi spaccati. Eppure non più di cento persone in quella battaglia sapevano per cosa combattevano o perché; non più di cento tra i festanti insensibili alla vittoria sapevano perché festeggiavano. Non più di cinquanta persone trassero vantaggio dal guadagno o dalla perdita. A tutt’oggi, non più di sei uomini sono d’accordo sulla causa o sui meriti; e in breve, nessuno ha mai saputo qualcosa di preciso al riguardo, se non i lamenti dei caduti. Serio, anche!» disse il Dottore ridendo. «Che sistema!»

‘Ma tutto questo mi sembra,’ disse Alfredo, ‘molto serio.’

«Seriamente!» esclamò il dottore «se permettessi che queste cose siano prese sul serio, dovresti impazzire o morire, oppure arrampicarti fino alla cima di una montagna e diventare eremita.»

«Inoltre — è passato tanto tempo», disse Alfred.

«Molti anni fa!» rispose il dottore «Sai cosa ha fatto il mondo da allora in poi? Sai cos’altro ha fatto? Io no!»

«La cosa è finita in tribunale un pochino», osservò il signor Snitchey mescolando il tè.

«Anche se la via d’uscita è stata sempre troppo facile», disse il suo socio.

«E mi scuserete se lo dico, Dottore», proseguì il signor Snitchey, «avendo già mille volte espresso la mia opinione nel corso delle nostre discussioni, che, per quanto riguarda l’aver portato in tribunale e tutto il sistema legale in generale, io vi scorgo un aspetto serio — ora, davvero, qualcosa di tangibile, con uno scopo e un’intenzione ben definiti —»

Clemency Newcome fece una caduta angolare contro il tavolo, provocando un fragoroso tintinnio tra le tazze e i piattini.

«Ehi là! che succede?» esclamò il dottore.

‘È questa maledetta borsa blu’, disse Clemency, ‘che fa sempre inciampare qualcuno!’

«Con uno scopo e un’intenzione ben definiti, dicevo» riprese Snitchey «che ciò merita rispetto. La vita è una farsa, dottor Jeddler? Con la legge che vi si inserisce?»

Il dottore rise e guardò Alfred.

«Concediamo pure che la guerra sia una follia», disse Snitchey. «Su questo siamo d’accordo. Per esempio: ecco un paese sorridente» indicandolo con la forchetta, «un tempo invaso da soldati — tutti dei trasgressori — e devastato dal fuoco e dalla spada. Ah ah ah! L’idea che qualcuno si esponga volontariamente al fuoco e alla spada! Stupido, dispendioso, assolutamente ridicolo; vi fate beffe dei vostri simili, lo sapete, quando ci pensate! Ma prendiamo questo paese sorridente com’è. Pensate alle leggi relative ai beni immobili; alla donazione e allo stanziamento di beni immobili; all’ipoteca e al riscatto di beni immobili; agli affitti, ai possedimenti in piena proprietà e a quelli con titolo copiativo; pensate», disse il signor Snitchey con tale emozione che si leccò addirittura le labbra, «alle leggi complesse relative al diritto di proprietà e alla prova del diritto di proprietà, con tutti i precedenti contraddittori e le numerose leggi parlamentari ad essi collegate; pensate all’infinito numero di ingegnosi e interminabili processi in sede giudiziaria che questa piacevole prospettiva può generare; e riconoscete, dottor Jeddler, che c’è un punto verde nel sistema intorno a noi! Credo», disse il signor Snitchey guardando il suo socio, «che io parli per me e Craggs?»

Il signor Craggs avendo espresso il suo consenso, il signor Snitchey, un po’ rinvigorito dalla sua eloquenza di poco fa, osservò che si sarebbe preso un altro pezzetto di carne e una tazza di tè.

«Non difendo la vita in generale», aggiunse strofinandosi le mani e ridacchiando, «è piena di follia; piena di qualcosa di peggio. Professioni di fiducia, e confidenza, e altruismo, e tutto quanto! Bah, bah, bah! Vediamo che valore hanno. Ma non bisogna ridere della vita; avete un gioco da giocare; un gioco molto serio davvero! Tutti stanno giocando contro di voi, sapete, e voi state giocando contro loro. Oh! è una cosa molto interessante. Ci sono mosse profonde sulla scacchiera. Dovete ridere solo quando vincerete - e anche allora non troppo. He, he, he! E nemmeno troppo», ripeté Snitchey, facendo roteare la testa e strizzando l’occhio, come se avesse voluto aggiungere: «potete fare questo invece!»

‘Well, Alfred!’ cried the Doctor, ‘what do you say now?’

‘I say, sir,’ replied Alfred, ‘that the greatest favour you could do me, and yourself too, I am inclined to think, would be to try sometimes to forget this battle-field and others like it in that broader battle-field of Life, on which the sun looks every day.’

‘Really, I’m afraid that wouldn’t soften his opinions, Mr. Alfred,’ said Snitchey. ‘The combatants are very eager and very bitter in that same battle of Life. There’s a great deal of cutting and slashing, and firing into people’s heads from behind. There is terrible treading down, and trampling on. It is rather a bad business.’

‘I believe, Mr. Snitchey,’ said Alfred, ‘there are quiet victories and struggles, great sacrifices of self, and noble acts of heroism, in it—even in many of its apparent lightnesses and contradictions—not the less difficult to achieve, because they have no earthly chronicle or audience—done every day in nooks and corners, and in little households, and in men’s and women’s hearts—any one of which might reconcile the sternest man to such a world, and fill him with belief and hope in it, though two-fourths of its people were at war, and another fourth at law; and that’s a bold word.’

Both the sisters listened keenly.

‘Well, well!’ said the Doctor, ‘I am too old to be converted, even by my friend Snitchey here, or my good spinster sister, Martha Jeddler; who had what she calls her domestic trials ages ago, and has led a sympathising life with all sorts of people ever since; and who is so much of your opinion (only she’s less reasonable and more obstinate, being a woman), that we can’t agree, and seldom meet. I was born upon this battle-field. I began, as a boy, to have my thoughts directed to the real history of a battle-field. Sixty years have gone over my head, and I have never seen the Christian world, including Heaven knows how many loving mothers and good enough girls like mine here, anything but mad for a battle-field. The same contradictions prevail in everything. One must either laugh or cry at such stupendous inconsistencies; and I prefer to laugh.’

Britain, who had been paying the profoundest and most melancholy attention to each speaker in his turn, seemed suddenly to decide in favour of the same preference, if a deep sepulchral sound that escaped him might be construed into a demonstration of risibility. His face, however, was so perfectly unaffected by it, both before and afterwards, that although one or two of the breakfast party looked round as being startled by a mysterious noise, nobody connected the offender with it.

Except his partner in attendance, Clemency Newcome; who rousing him with one of those favourite joints, her elbows, inquired, in a reproachful whisper, what he laughed at.

‘Not you!’ said Britain.

‘Who then?’

‘Humanity,’ said Britain. ‘That’s the joke!’

‘What between master and them lawyers, he’s getting more and more addle-headed every day!’ cried Clemency, giving him a lunge with the other elbow, as a mental stimulant. ‘Do you know where you are? Do you want to get warning?’

‘I don’t know anything,’ said Britain, with a leaden eye and an immovable visage. ‘I don’t care for anything. I don’t make out anything. I don’t believe anything. And I don’t want anything.’

Although this forlorn summary of his general condition may have been overcharged in an access of despondency, Benjamin Britain—sometimes called Little Britain, to distinguish him from Great; as we might say Young England, to express Old England with a decided difference—had defined his real state more accurately than might be supposed. For, serving as a sort of man Miles to the Doctor’s Friar Bacon, and listening day after day to innumerable orations addressed by the Doctor to various people, all tending to show that his very existence was at best a mistake and an absurdity, this unfortunate servitor had fallen, by degrees, into such an abyss of confused and contradictory suggestions from within and without, that Truth at the bottom of her well, was on the level surface as compared with Britain in the depths of his mystification. The only point he clearly comprehended, was, that the new element usually brought into these discussions by Snitchey and Craggs, never served to make them clearer, and always seemed to give the Doctor a species of advantage and confirmation. Therefore, he looked upon the Firm as one of the proximate causes of his state of mind, and held them in abhorrence accordingly.

‘But, this is not our business, Alfred,’ said the Doctor. ‘Ceasing to be my ward (as you have said) to-day; and leaving us full to the brim of such learning as the Grammar School down here was able to give you, and your studies in London could add to that, and such practical knowledge as a dull old country Doctor like myself could graft upon both; you are away, now, into the world. The first term of probation appointed by your poor father, being over, away you go now, your own master, to fulfil his second desire. And long before your three years’ tour among the foreign schools of medicine is finished, you’ll have forgotten us. Lord, you’ll forget us easily in six months!’

‘If I do—But you know better; why should I speak to you!’ said Alfred, laughing.

‘I don’t know anything of the sort,’ returned the Doctor. ‘What do you say, Marion?’

Marion, trifling with her teacup, seemed to say—but she didn’t say it—that he was welcome to forget, if he could. Grace pressed the blooming face against her cheek, and smiled.

‘I haven’t been, I hope, a very unjust steward in the execution of my trust,’ pursued the Doctor; ‘but I am to be, at any rate, formally discharged, and released, and what not this morning; and here are our good friends Snitchey and Craggs, with a bagful of papers, and accounts, and documents, for the transfer of the balance of the trust fund to you (I wish it was a more difficult one to dispose of, Alfred, but you must get to be a great man and make it so), and other drolleries of that sort, which are to be signed, sealed, and delivered.’

«Bene, Alfred!», esclamò il dottore, «che cosa ne pensi adesso?»

«Le dico, signore», rispose Alfredo, «che il più grande favore che potrebbe farmi, e anche a se stesso, sono incline a pensare, sarebbe di provare talvolta a dimenticare questo campo di battaglia e altri simili in quel più ampio campo di battaglia della Vita, su cui il sole splende ogni giorno.»

«In verità temo che questo non ammorbidirebbe le sue opinioni, signor Alfred», disse Snitchey. «I contendenti sono molto accaniti e molto aspri in quella stessa battaglia della Vita. C’è un gran tagliare e sgozzare, e sparare alla testa delle persone da dietro. Ci sono terribili calpestii e pestaggi. È una faccenda piuttosto brutta».

«Credo, signor Snitchey», disse Alfredo, «che ci siano vittorie e lotte silenziose, grandi sacrifici di sé e nobili atti di eroismo, in essa — anche in molte delle sue apparenti leggerezze e contraddizioni — non meno difficili da realizzare perché non hanno cronaca terrena né pubblico — compiuti ogni giorno negli angoli più remoti, nelle piccole famiglie, nei cuori degli uomini e delle donne — ognuno dei quali potrebbe riconciliare l’uomo più severo con un mondo del genere e riempirlo di fede e speranza in esso, anche se due quarti della sua popolazione fossero in guerra e un altro quarto intentasse cause; ed è una parola audace.»

Entrambe le sorelle ascoltavano con attenzione.

«Bene, bene!» disse il Dottore, «sono troppo vecchio per convertirmi, anche se mi ci provasse il mio amico Snitchey qui presente o la mia buona sorella nubile Martha Jeddler; che ebbe quello che chiama i suoi problemi domestici moltissimi anni fa e da allora ha condotto una vita di compassione per ogni sorta di persone; e che è così d’accordo con voi (solo che è meno ragionevole e più ostinata, essendo donna), che non riusciamo a metterci d’accordo e ci vediamo di rado. Sono nato su questo campo di battaglia. Da ragazzo ho cominciato ad avere i miei pensieri rivolti alla vera storia di un campo di battaglia. Sessant’anni sono passati sulla mia testa, e non ho mai visto il mondo cristiano, che include Dio sa quante amorevoli madri e brave ragazze come la mia qui presente, altro che pazzo per i campi di battaglia. Le stesse contraddizioni prevalgono in tutto. Di fronte a tali enormi incongruenze bisogna o ridere o piangere; io preferisco ridere».

La Gran Bretagna, che aveva prestato la più profonda e malinconica attenzione ad ogni oratore in turno, sembrò improvvisamente decidere per la stessa preferenza, se un suono profondo e sepolcrale che gli sfuggì potesse essere interpretato come una dimostrazione di risibilità. Il suo volto, tuttavia, non ne fu affatto influenzato, né prima né dopo, tanto che anche se uno o due dei partecipanti alla colazione si guardarono intorno sorpresi da un rumore misterioso, nessuno associò il responsabile a quel suono.

Tranne la sua compagna presente, Clemency Newcome, che lo svegliò con uno dei suoi gomiti prediletti e gli chiese, sussurrando rimproverosa, di cosa stesse ridendo.

«Non voi!» disse Britannia.

‘Chi allora?’

‘L’umanità’, disse la Gran Bretagna. ‘Questa è la battuta!’

«Tra il padrone e quei maledetti avvocati, diventa sempre più scemo di giorno in giorno!» gridò Clemency dandogli una gomitata con l’altro gomito come stimolante mentale. «Sai dove sei? Vuoi essere sfrattato?»

«Non so nulla», disse Britannia con uno sguardo torpido e un volto immobile, «non mi interessa nulla, non capisco nulla, non credo a nulla e non voglio nulla».

Anche se questo desolante riassunto del suo stato generale potrebbe essere stato esagerato in un momento di disperazione, Benjamin Britain — a volte chiamato Little Britain per distinguerlo dal Grande; come diremmo Young England per esprimere Old England con una netta differenza — aveva definito il suo vero stato più accuratamente di quanto si potesse supporre. Infatti, servendo come una sorta di Miles per il Dottore che era un Frate Bacon, e ascoltando giorno dopo giorno innumerevoli orazioni rivolte dal Dottore a varie persone, tutte tese a dimostrare che la sua stessa esistenza era al meglio un errore e un’assurdità, questo sfortunato servitore era caduto, gradualmente, in un tale abisso di suggerimenti confusi e contraddittori da dentro e da fuori, che la Verità sul fondo del suo pozzo, si trovava a livello della superficie rispetto a Britain nelle profondità della sua mistificazione. L’unico punto che comprendeva chiaramente era che il nuovo elemento solitamente introdotto in queste discussioni da Snitchey e Craggs, non serviva mai a renderle più chiare, e sembrava sempre dare al Dottore una sorta di vantaggio e conferma. Pertanto, considerava lo Studio come una delle cause prossime del suo stato d’animo, e li detestava di conseguenza.

«Ma questo non è affar nostro, Alfred», disse il Dottore. «Oggi hai cessato di essere mio pupillo (come hai detto tu); e ora che ci lasci pieno fino all’orlo di quella conoscenza che la Scuola Elementare qui sotto ha potuto darti, e i tuoi studi a Londra hanno aggiunto a ciò, e quella pratica conoscenza che un vecchio Dottore di campagna come me poteva innestare su entrambi; ora te ne vai nel mondo. Il primo periodo di prova stabilito da tuo padre è finito, quindi adesso te ne vai libero, padrone di te stesso, per realizzare il suo secondo desiderio. E molto prima che i tuoi tre anni tra le scuole di medicina straniere siano finiti, ci avrai già dimenticati. Dio mio, ci dimenticherai facilmente in sei mesi!»

«Se lo faccio. Ma tu sai meglio di me; perché dovrei parlarti!» disse Alfred ridendo.

‘Non so nulla di simile’, rispose il Dottore. ‘Cosa ne pensi, Marion?’

Marion, giocherellando con la sua tazza di tè, sembrava dire — ma non lo disse — che lui era libero di dimenticare, se poteva. Grace premette il viso fiorito contro la guancia e sorrise.

«Spero di non essere stato un amministratore troppo ingiusto nell’esecuzione del mio compito», continuò il Dottore; «ma in ogni caso questa mattina sarò formalmente dimesso e liberato da ogni responsabilità, e qui ci sono i nostri buoni amici Snitchey e Craggs con un sacco di documenti, conti e carte per trasferire a voi il saldo del fondo fiduciario (mi auguro che fosse più difficile da smaltire, Alfred, ma dovete diventare un grande uomo e renderlo tale), oltre ad altre sciocchezze del genere che devono essere firmate, sigillate e consegnate.»

‘And duly witnessed as by law required,’ said Snitchey, pushing away his plate, and taking out the papers, which his partner proceeded to spread upon the table; ‘and Self and Craggs having been co-trustees with you, Doctor, in so far as the fund was concerned, we shall want your two servants to attest the signatures—can you read, Mrs. Newcome?’

‘I an’t married, Mister,’ said Clemency.

‘Oh! I beg your pardon. I should think not,’ chuckled Snitchey, casting his eyes over her extraordinary figure. ‘You can read?’

‘A little,’ answered Clemency.

‘The marriage service, night and morning, eh?’ observed the lawyer, jocosely.

‘No,’ said Clemency. ‘Too hard. I only reads a thimble.’

‘Read a thimble!’ echoed Snitchey. ‘What are you talking about, young woman?’

Clemency nodded. ‘And a nutmeg-grater.’

‘Why, this is a lunatic! a subject for the Lord High Chancellor!’ said Snitchey, staring at her.

—‘If possessed of any property,’ stipulated Craggs.

Grace, however, interposing, explained that each of the articles in question bore an engraved motto, and so formed the pocket library of Clemency Newcome, who was not much given to the study of books.

‘Oh, that’s it, is it, Miss Grace!’ said Snitchey.

‘Yes, yes. Ha, ha, ha! I thought our friend was an idiot. She looks uncommonly like it,’ he muttered, with a supercilious glance. ‘And what does the thimble say, Mrs. Newcome?’

‘I an’t married, Mister,’ observed Clemency.

‘Well, Newcome. Will that do?’ said the lawyer. ‘What does the thimble say, Newcome?’

How Clemency, before replying to this question, held one pocket open, and looked down into its yawning depths for the thimble which wasn’t there,—and how she then held an opposite pocket open, and seeming to descry it, like a pearl of great price, at the bottom, cleared away such intervening obstacles as a handkerchief, an end of wax candle, a flushed apple, an orange, a lucky penny, a cramp bone, a padlock, a pair of scissors in a sheath more expressively describable as promising young shears, a handful or so of loose beads, several balls of cotton, a needle-case, a cabinet collection of curl-papers, and a biscuit, all of which articles she entrusted individually and separately to Britain to hold,—is of no consequence.

Nor how, in her determination to grasp this pocket by the throat and keep it prisoner (for it had a tendency to swing, and twist itself round the nearest corner), she assumed and calmly maintained, an attitude apparently inconsistent with the human anatomy and the laws of gravity. It is enough that at last she triumphantly produced the thimble on her finger, and rattled the nutmeg-grater: the literature of both those trinkets being obviously in course of wearing out and wasting away, through excessive friction.

‘That’s the thimble, is it, young woman?’ said Mr. Snitchey, diverting himself at her expense. ‘And what does the thimble say?’

‘It says,’ replied Clemency, reading slowly round as if it were a tower, ‘For-get and For-give.’

Snitchey and Craggs laughed heartily. ‘So new!’ said Snitchey. ‘So easy!’ said Craggs. ‘Such a knowledge of human nature in it!’ said Snitchey. ‘So applicable to the affairs of life!’ said Craggs.

‘And the nutmeg-grater?’ inquired the head of the Firm.

‘The grater says,’ returned Clemency, ‘Do as you—wold—be—done by.’

‘Do, or you’ll be done brown, you mean,’ said Mr. Snitchey.

‘I don’t understand,’ retorted Clemency, shaking her head vaguely. ‘I an’t no lawyer.’

‘I am afraid that if she was, Doctor,’ said Mr. Snitchey, turning to him suddenly, as if to anticipate any effect that might otherwise be consequent on this retort, ‘she’d find it to be the golden rule of half her clients. They are serious enough in that—whimsical as your world is—and lay the blame on us afterwards. We, in our profession, are little else than mirrors after all, Mr. Alfred; but, we are generally consulted by angry and quarrelsome people who are not in their best looks, and it’s rather hard to quarrel with us if we reflect unpleasant aspects. I think,’ said Mr. Snitchey, ‘that I speak for Self and Craggs?’

‘Decidedly,’ said Craggs.

‘And so, if Mr. Britain will oblige us with a mouthful of ink,’ said Mr. Snitchey, returning to the papers, ‘we’ll sign, seal, and deliver as soon as possible, or the coach will be coming past before we know where we are.’

If one might judge from his appearance, there was every probability of the coach coming past before Mr. Britain knew where he was; for he stood in a state of abstraction, mentally balancing the Doctor against the lawyers, and the lawyers against the Doctor, and their clients against both, and engaged in feeble attempts to make the thimble and nutmeg-grater (a new idea to him) square with anybody’s system of philosophy; and, in short, bewildering himself as much as ever his great namesake has done with theories and schools. But, Clemency, who was his good Genius—though he had the meanest possible opinion of her understanding, by reason of her seldom troubling herself with abstract speculations, and being always at hand to do the right thing at the right time—having produced the ink in a twinkling, tendered him the further service of recalling him to himself by the application of her elbows; with which gentle flappers she so jogged his memory, in a more literal construction of that phrase than usual, that he soon became quite fresh and brisk.

How he laboured under an apprehension not uncommon to persons in his degree, to whom the use of pen and ink is an event, that he couldn’t append his name to a document, not of his own writing, without committing himself in some shadowy manner, or somehow signing away vague and enormous sums of money; and how he approached the deeds under protest, and by dint of the Doctor’s coercion, and insisted on pausing to look at them before writing (the cramped hand, to say nothing of the phraseology, being so much Chinese to him), and also on turning them round to see whether there was anything fraudulent underneath; and how, having signed his name, he became desolate as one who had parted with his property and rights; I want the time to tell. Also, how the blue bag containing his signature, afterwards had a mysterious interest for him, and he couldn’t leave it; also, how Clemency Newcome, in an ecstasy of laughter at the idea of her own importance and dignity, brooded over the whole table with her two elbows, like a spread eagle, and reposed her head upon her left arm as a preliminary to the formation of certain cabalistic characters, which required a deal of ink, and imaginary counterparts whereof she executed at the same time with her tongue. Also, how, having once tasted ink, she became thirsty in that regard, as tame tigers are said to be after tasting another sort of fluid, and wanted to sign everything, and put her name in all kinds of places. In brief, the Doctor was discharged of his trust and all its responsibilities; and Alfred, taking it on himself, was fairly started on the journey of life.

«E debitamente testimoniato come richiesto dalla legge», disse Snitchey, allontanando il piatto e tirando fuori i documenti, che il suo socio si mise a dispiegare sul tavolo; «e Self e Craggs essendo stati co-trustees con lei, Dottore, per quanto riguarda il fondo, avremo bisogno dei suoi due servi per attestare le firme: sa leggere, signora Newcome?»

«Non sono sposata, signore», disse Clemency.

«Oh! Le chiedo scusa. Certo che no», ridacchiò Snitchey, passando lo sguardo sulla sua figura straordinaria. «Sa leggere?»

«Un po’», rispose Clemency.

«Il servizio di matrimonio, notte e mattina, eh?» osservò l’avvocato, scherzando.

‘No’, disse Clemency, ‘troppo difficile. Leggo solo un cucchiaino’.

“Leggere un cucchiaio!” fece eco Snitchey. “Di cosa stai parlando, giovane donna?”

Clemency annuì. ‘E un grattugia noce moscata.’

«Ma questa è una pazza! Un caso per il Lord Cancelliere!», disse Snitchey, fissandola.

«Se fosse in possesso di qualche proprietà», stabilì Craggs.

Tuttavia Grace intervenne e spiegò che ciascuno degli articoli in questione portava un motto inciso e così formavano la biblioteca tascabile di Clemency Newcome, che non era molto incline allo studio dei libri.

«Ah, è questo il punto, signorina Grace!» disse Snitchey.

«Sì, sì. Ah, ah, ah! Pensavo che la nostra amica fosse un’idiota. Ha l’aria di esserlo», borbottò con uno sguardo sprezzante. «E cosa dice il ditale, signora Newcome?»

«Non sono sposata, signore», osservò Clemency.

«Bene, Newcome. Va bene così?» disse l’avvocato. «Cosa dice il cucchiaino da tè, Newcome?»

Come Clemency, prima di rispondere alla domanda, tenesse aperto un taschino e guardasse nelle sue profondità spalancate in cerca del ditale che non c’era, — e come poi tenesse aperto il taschino opposto, e sembrando scorgervelo, come una perla di grande valore, sul fondo, rimuovesse gli ostacoli intermedi quali un fazzoletto, la fine di una candela di cera, una mela arrossata, un’arancia, un penny fortunato, un osso contro i crampi, un lucchetto, un paio di forbici in un fodero più esprimibilmente descrivibile come promettenti giovani cesoie, una manciata o giù di lì di perline sciolte, diversi gomitoli di cotone, un portaspilli, una collezione da salotto di bigodini, e un biscotto, tutti articoli che affidava singolarmente e separatamente a Britain affinché li tenesse in mano, — non ha importanza.

Né come, nella sua determinazione di afferrare questa tasca per la gola e tenerla prigioniera (perché aveva una tendenza a dondolare e torcersi intorno all’angolo più vicino), lei assumesse e mantenesse con calma un atteggiamento apparentemente incompatibile con l’anatomia umana e le leggi della gravità. Basta che alla fine estrasse trionfalmente il ditale dal dito, facendo tintinnare la grattugia per i semi di noce: era evidente che la letteratura di entrambi questi oggetti stava andando incontro a un logoramento e una consumazione attraverso un’attrizione eccessiva.

«Questo è il ditale, vero, giovane donna?» disse il signor Snitchey, divertendosi alle sue spalle. «E cosa dice il ditale?»

«Dice», rispose Clemency, leggendo lentamente tutto intorno come se fosse una torre, «Dimentica e Perdona».

Snitchey e Craggs risero di gusto. «Così nuovo!» disse Snitchey. «Così facile!» disse Craggs. «Che conoscenza della natura umana!» disse Snitchey. «Tanto adatto agli affari della vita!» disse Craggs.

«E il grattugia noce moscata?» chiese il capo dell’azienda.

«Il grattugia dice», rispose Clemency, «Fai agli altri quello che vorresti fosse fatto a te».

«Fai così o ti ritroverai nei guai, intendi dire», disse il signor Snitchey.

‘Non capisco’, ribatté Clemency, scuotendo la testa vagamente. ‘Non sono un avvocato.’

«Temo che se lo fosse, dottore», disse il signor Snitchey, rivolgendosi a lui improvvisamente, come per anticipare qualsiasi effetto che altrimenti potrebbe derivare da questa replica, «scoprirebbe che è la regola aurea della metà dei suoi clienti. Sono seri in proposito - per quanto il suo mondo sia capriccioso - e poi ci addossano la colpa. Nella nostra professione, dopotutto, siamo poco più che specchi, signor Alfred; ma generalmente veniamo consultati da persone arrabbiate e litigiose che non sono nelle loro migliori condizioni, ed è piuttosto difficile litigare con noi se riflettiamo aspetti spiacevoli. Penso», disse il signor Snitchey, «che io parli a nome di me stesso e Craggs?»

«Decisamente», disse Craggs.

«E così, se il signor Britain vuole avere la compiacenza di bagnare un po’ le labbra nell’inchiostro», disse il signor Snitchey, tornando ai documenti, «firmeremo, sigilleremo e consegneremo al più presto possibile, o l’autobus passerà prima che ce ne accorgiamo».

Se si poteva giudicare dall’aspetto suo, era molto probabile che il calesse passasse prima che Mr. Britain sapesse dove lui fosse; perché stava in uno stato di astrazione, bilanciando mentalmente il Dottore contro gli avvocati e gli avvocati contro il Dottore, e i loro clienti contro entrambi, e impegnato in deboli tentativi di far quadrare la calza da dito e lo schiacciapatate (un’idea nuova per lui) con il sistema di filosofia di chiunque; e, insomma, confondendosi tanto quanto mai abbia fatto il suo grande omonimo con teorie e scuole. Ma Clemency, che era la sua buona Genia — sebbene lui avesse l’opinione più meschina possibile del suo intelletto, per ragione di lei che raramente si dava pensiero di speculazioni astratte, ed era sempre a portata di mano per fare la cosa giusta al momento giusto tempo — avendo prodotto l’inchiostro in un batter d’occhio, gli offrì il servizio ulteriore di richiamarlo in sé con l’applicazione dei suoi gomiti; con i quali delicati agitatori lei così stimolò la sua memoria, in una costruzione più letterale di quella frase del solito, che presto divenne tutto fresco e vivace.

Come egli fosse oppresso da un timore non raro nelle persone del suo livello, per le quali l’uso della penna e dell’inchiostro è un evento straordinario, al punto che non poteva apporre il proprio nome a un documento, scritto da altri, senza sentirsi in qualche modo compromesso o come se stesse firmando chissà quali enormi somme di denaro; e come si avvicinasse ai documenti con riluttanza e solo per insistenza del Dottore, e insistesse nel volerli esaminare prima di scrivere (la grafia stretta, senza parlare della terminologia, gli erano tanto incomprensibili quanto il cinese), e anche nel girarli per vedere se ci fosse qualcosa di fraudolento sul retro; e come, dopo aver firmato, si sentisse desolato come chi ha rinunciato ai propri beni e diritti; vorrei avere il tempo di raccontarlo. Anche come la borsa blu contenente la sua firma, in seguito, suscitò in lui un interesse misterioso, tanto che non riusciva a staccarsene; e anche come Clemency Newcome, in estasi di risate all’idea della propria importanza e dignità, si protendesse sopra tutto il tavolo con i gomiti, come un’aquila spiegata, e appoggiasse la testa sul braccio sinistro prima di formare certi caratteri cabalistici, che richiedevano molto inchiostro, e le cui controparti immaginarie eseguiva nello stesso tempo con la lingua. Anche come, una volta assaggiato l’inchiostro, ne fosse diventata assetata, così si dice che accada ai tigri addomesticate dopo aver assaporato un altro tipo di fluido, e volesse firmare tutto, mettendo il suo nome in ogni sorta di posti. In breve, il Dottore fu sollevato dal suo incarico e da tutte le sue responsabilità; e Alfred, assumendoselo, si mise finalmente in cammino nel viaggio della vita.

‘Britain!’ said the Doctor. ‘Run to the gate, and watch for the coach. Time flies, Alfred.’

‘Yes, sir, yes,’ returned the young man, hurriedly. ‘Dear Grace! a moment! Marion—so young and beautiful, so winning and so much admired, dear to my heart as nothing else in life is—remember! I leave Marion to you!’

‘She has always been a sacred charge to me, Alfred. She is doubly so, now. I will be faithful to my trust, believe me.’

‘I do believe it, Grace. I know it well. Who could look upon your face, and hear your voice, and not know it! Ah, Grace! If I had your well-governed heart, and tranquil mind, how bravely I would leave this place to-day!’

‘Would you?’ she answered with a quiet smile.

‘And yet, Grace—Sister, seems the natural word.’

‘Use it!’ she said quickly. ‘I am glad to hear it. Call me nothing else.’

‘And yet, sister, then,’ said Alfred, ‘Marion and I had better have your true and steadfast qualities serving us here, and making us both happier and better. I wouldn’t carry them away, to sustain myself, if I could!’

‘Coach upon the hill-top!’ exclaimed Britain.

‘Time flies, Alfred,’ said the Doctor.

Marion had stood apart, with her eyes fixed upon the ground; but, this warning being given, her young lover brought her tenderly to where her sister stood, and gave her into her embrace.

‘I have been telling Grace, dear Marion,’ he said, ‘that you are her charge; my precious trust at parting. And when I come back and reclaim you, dearest, and the bright prospect of our married life lies stretched before us, it shall be one of our chief pleasures to consult how we can make Grace happy; how we can anticipate her wishes; how we can show our gratitude and love to her; how we can return her something of the debt she will have heaped upon us.’

The younger sister had one hand in his; the other rested on her sister’s neck. She looked into that sister’s eyes, so calm, serene, and cheerful, with a gaze in which affection, admiration, sorrow, wonder, almost veneration, were blended. She looked into that sister’s face, as if it were the face of some bright angel. Calm, serene, and cheerful, the face looked back on her and on her lover.

‘And when the time comes, as it must one day,’ said Alfred,—‘I wonder it has never come yet, but Grace knows best, for Grace is always right—when she will want a friend to open her whole heart to, and to be to her something of what she has been to us—then, Marion, how faithful we will prove, and what delight to us to know that she, our dear good sister, loves and is loved again, as we would have her!’

Still the younger sister looked into her eyes, and turned not—even towards him. And still those honest eyes looked back, so calm, serene, and cheerful, on herself and on her lover.

‘And when all that is past, and we are old, and living (as we must!) together—close together—talking often of old times,’ said Alfred—‘these shall be our favourite times among them—this day most of all; and, telling each other what we thought and felt, and hoped and feared at parting; and how we couldn’t bear to say good bye—’

‘Coach coming through the wood!’ cried Britain.

‘Yes! I am ready—and how we met again, so happily in spite of all; we’ll make this day the happiest in all the year, and keep it as a treble birth-day. Shall we, dear?’

‘Yes!’ interposed the elder sister, eagerly, and with a radiant smile. ‘Yes! Alfred, don’t linger. There’s no time. Say good bye to Marion. And Heaven be with you!’

He pressed the younger sister to his heart. Released from his embrace, she again clung to her sister; and her eyes, with the same blended look, again sought those so calm, serene, and cheerful.

‘Farewell, my boy!’ said the Doctor. ‘To talk about any serious correspondence or serious affections, and engagements and so forth, in such a—ha ha ha!—you know what I mean—why that, of course, would be sheer nonsense. All I can say is, that if you and Marion should continue in the same foolish minds, I shall not object to have you for a son-in-law one of these days.’

‘Over the bridge!’ cried Britain.

‘Let it come!’ said Alfred, wringing the Doctor’s hand stoutly. ‘Think of me sometimes, my old friend and guardian, as seriously as you can! Adieu, Mr. Snitchey! Farewell, Mr. Craggs!’

‘Coming down the road!’ cried Britain.

‘A kiss of Clemency Newcome for long acquaintance’ sake! Shake hands, Britain! Marion, dearest heart, good bye! Sister Grace! remember!’

The quiet household figure, and the face so beautiful in its serenity, were turned towards him in reply; but Marion’s look and attitude remained unchanged.

The coach was at the gate. There was a bustle with the luggage. The coach drove away. Marion never moved.

‘He waves his hat to you, my love,’ said Grace. ‘Your chosen husband, darling. Look!’

The younger sister raised her head, and, for a moment, turned it. Then, turning back again, and fully meeting, for the first time, those calm eyes, fell sobbing on her neck.

‘Oh, Grace. God bless you! But I cannot bear to see it, Grace! It breaks my heart.’

«Inghilterra!» disse il Dottore «Corri al cancello e aspetta la diligenza. Il tempo vola, Alfred.»

«Sì, signore, sì», rispose il giovane con fretta. «Cara Grace! un momento! Marion — così giovane e bella, così affascinante e tanto ammirata, cara al mio cuore come nulla altro nella vita lo è — ricordati! Lascio Marion a te!»

«È sempre stata per me un sacro dovere, Alfred. Ora lo è ancora di più. Ti assicuro che sarò fedele al mio compito».

«Ci credo davvero, Grace. Lo so bene. Chi potrebbe guardare il tuo viso, e ascoltare la tua voce, e non saperlo! Ah, Grace! Se avessi il tuo cuore ben governato e la mente tranquilla, come me ne andrei coraggiosamente da questo posto oggi!»

«Lo vorreste?» rispose con un sorriso tranquillo.

‘Eppure, Grace. Sorella sembra la parola giusta.’

“Usalo!” disse in fretta. “Sono felice di sentirtelo dire. Non chiamarmi diversamente.”

«Eppure, sorella, allora», disse Alfredo, «è meglio che Marion ed io ci serviamo qui delle tue qualità vere e costanti, che ci rendano entrambi più felici e migliori. Non le porterei via con me per sostenermi, anche se potessi!»

«Carrozza sulla cima della collina!» esclamò Britannia.

«Il tempo vola, Alfred», disse il dottore.

Marion era rimasta in disparte con lo sguardo fisso a terra; ma, dato questo avvertimento, il suo giovane amante la condusse teneramente dove si trovava sua sorella e la affidò al suo abbraccio.

«Ho detto a Grace, cara Marion», disse lui, «che sei sotto la sua responsabilità; il mio prezioso affidamento al momento della separazione. E quando tornerò e ti riprenderò con me, mia adorata, e la brillante prospettiva della nostra vita matrimoniale si stenderà davanti a noi, uno dei nostri maggiori piaceri sarà quello di pensare a come possiamo rendere felice Grace; a come possiamo anticipare i suoi desideri; a come possiamo dimostrarle la nostra gratitudine e amore; a come possiamo restituirle qualcosa del debito che ci avrà accumulato addosso.»

La sorella minore aveva una mano nella sua; l’altra riposava sul collo della sorella maggiore. Guardò negli occhi di quella sorella, così calmi, sereni e allegri, con uno sguardo in cui si mescolavano affetto, ammirazione, dolore, meraviglia, quasi venerazione. Guardava il volto di quella sorella come se fosse quello di un luminoso angelo. Calmo, sereno e allegro, quel volto la guardò a sua volta insieme al suo amante.

«E quando verrà il momento, come dovrà venire un giorno», disse Alfred, «mi meraviglio che non sia ancora arrivato, ma Grace sa meglio di tutti, perché Grace ha sempre ragione: quando lei vorrà avere un amico a cui aprire tutto il suo cuore e che per lei rappresenti qualcosa di ciò che lei è stata per noi - allora, Marion, quanto ci dimostreremo fedeli e quale gioia sarà sapere che lei, la nostra cara buona sorella, ama ed è ricambiata come vorremmo!»

Eppure la sorella minore continuava a guardarla negli occhi e non si voltava nemmeno verso di lui. E quegli occhi sinceri continuavano a rispondere al suo sguardo, così calmi, sereni e allegri, su se stessa e sul suo amante.

«E quando tutto questo sarà passato e saremo vecchi e vivremo (come dobbiamo!) insieme — molto insieme — parlando spesso dei tempi antichi», disse Alfred, «questi saranno i nostri tempi preferiti tra loro — questo giorno più di tutti; e raccontandoci l’un l’altro cosa pensavamo e sentivamo, speravamo e temevamo al momento della partenza; e come non riuscissimo a sopportare il salutarci —»

«Un carro attraversa il bosco!» gridò Britannia.

«Sì! Sono pronta — e come ci siamo ritrovati di nuovo, così felicemente nonostante tutto; faremo di questo giorno il più felice dell’anno intero, e lo terremo come un triplice compleanno. Lo faremo, caro?»

«Sì!» intervenne la sorella maggiore con entusiasmo e un sorriso raggiante. «Sì! Alfred, non indugiare. Non c’è tempo. Di’ addio a Marion. E che il Cielo sia con te!»

Egli strinse al cuore la sorella minore. Liberata dal suo abbraccio, ella si aggrappò nuovamente alla sorella; e i suoi occhi, con lo stesso sguardo misto, cercarono di nuovo quelli così calmi, sereni e allegri.

«Addio, ragazzo mio!» disse il dottore «Parlare di corrispondenza seria o affetti seri e fidanzamenti e così via, in un momento del genere—ha ha ha!—sapete cosa voglio dire—beh, naturalmente sarebbe pura follia. Tutto ciò che posso dire è che se voi e Marion continuerete a essere della stessa sciocca opinione, non avrò nulla da obiettare nel vedervi un giorno mio genero».

«Sull’altra sponda del ponte!» gridò Britannia.

«Che venga pure!» disse Alfredo stringendo con vigore la mano del dottore. «Pensate a me qualche volta, mio vecchio amico e tutore, il più seriamente possibile! Addio, signor Snitchey! Arrivederci, signor Craggs!»

«Scendendo per la strada!» gridò Britannia.

«Un bacio di Clemency Newcome per il lungo tempo che ci siamo conosciuti! Stringi la mano, Inghilterra! Addio, Marion, cuore mio più caro! Sorella Grace, ricordati!»

La tranquilla figura domestica e il volto così bello nella sua serenità si rivolsero verso di lui in risposta; ma lo sguardo e l’atteggiamento di Marion rimasero immutati.

La diligenza era al cancello. C’era un trambusto con i bagagli. La diligenza partì. Marion non si mosse mai.

«Ti saluta con il cappello, mio amore», disse Grace. «Il tuo sposo eletto, tesoro. Guarda!»

La sorella minore alzò la testa e per un momento la girò. Poi, voltandosi di nuovo e incontrando pienamente, per la prima volta, quegli occhi calmi, scoppiò in singhiozzi sul suo collo.

“Oh, Grace, Dio ti benedica! Ma non posso sopportare di vederlo, Grace! Mi spezza il cuore.”

Part the Second

SNITCHEY AND CRAGGS had a snug little office on the old Battle Ground, where they drove a snug little business, and fought a great many small pitched battles for a great many contending parties. Though it could hardly be said of these conflicts that they were running fights—for in truth they generally proceeded at a snail’s pace—the part the Firm had in them came so far within the general denomination, that now they took a shot at this Plaintiff, and now aimed a chop at that Defendant, now made a heavy charge at an estate in Chancery, and now had some light skirmishing among an irregular body of small debtors, just as the occasion served, and the enemy happened to present himself. The Gazette was an important and profitable feature in some of their fields, as in fields of greater renown; and in most of the Actions wherein they showed their generalship, it was afterwards observed by the combatants that they had had great difficulty in making each other out, or in knowing with any degree of distinctness what they were about, in consequence of the vast amount of smoke by which they were surrounded.

The offices of Messrs. Snitchey and Craggs stood convenient, with an open door down two smooth steps, in the market-place; so that any angry farmer inclining towards hot water, might tumble into it at once. Their special council-chamber and hall of conference was an old back-room up-stairs, with a low dark ceiling, which seemed to be knitting its brows gloomily in the consideration of tangled points of law. It was furnished with some high-backed leathern chairs, garnished with great goggle-eyed brass nails, of which, every here and there, two or three had fallen out—or had been picked out, perhaps, by the wandering thumbs and forefingers of bewildered clients. There was a framed print of a great judge in it, every curl in whose dreadful wig had made a man’s hair stand on end. Bales of papers filled the dusty closets, shelves, and tables; and round the wainscot there were tiers of boxes, padlocked and fireproof, with people’s names painted outside, which anxious visitors felt themselves, by a cruel enchantment, obliged to spell backwards and forwards, and to make anagrams of, while they sat, seeming to listen to Snitchey and Craggs, without comprehending one word of what they said.

Snitchey and Craggs had each, in private life as in professional existence, a partner of his own. Snitchey and Craggs were the best friends in the world, and had a real confidence in one another; but Mrs. Snitchey, by a dispensation not uncommon in the affairs of life, was on principle suspicious of Mr. Craggs; and Mrs. Craggs was on principle suspicious of Mr. Snitchey. ‘Your Snitcheys indeed,’ the latter lady would observe, sometimes, to Mr. Craggs; using that imaginative plural as if in disparagement of an objectionable pair of pantaloons, or other articles not possessed of a singular number; ‘I don’t see what you want with your Snitcheys, for my part. You trust a great deal too much to your Snitcheys, I think, and I hope you may never find my words come true.’ While Mrs. Snitchey would observe to Mr. Snitchey, of Craggs, ‘that if ever he was led away by man he was led away by that man, and that if ever she read a double purpose in a mortal eye, she read that purpose in Craggs’s eye.’ Notwithstanding this, however, they were all very good friends in general: and Mrs. Snitchey and Mrs. Craggs maintained a close bond of alliance against ‘the office,’ which they both considered the Blue chamber, and common enemy, full of dangerous (because unknown) machinations.

In this office, nevertheless, Snitchey and Craggs made honey for their several hives. Here, sometimes, they would linger, of a fine evening, at the window of their council-chamber overlooking the old battle-ground, and wonder (but that was generally at assize time, when much business had made them sentimental) at the folly of mankind, who couldn’t always be at peace with one another and go to law comfortably. Here, days, and weeks, and months, and years, passed over them: their calendar, the gradually diminishing number of brass nails in the leathern chairs, and the increasing bulk of papers on the tables. Here, nearly three years’ flight had thinned the one and swelled the other, since the breakfast in the orchard; when they sat together in consultation at night.

Not alone; but, with a man of thirty, or about that time of life, negligently dressed, and somewhat haggard in the face, but well-made, well-attired, and well-looking, who sat in the armchair of state, with one hand in his breast, and the other in his dishevelled hair, pondering moodily. Messrs. Snitchey and Craggs sat opposite each other at a neighbouring desk. One of the fireproof boxes, unpadlocked and opened, was upon it; a part of its contents lay strewn upon the table, and the rest was then in course of passing through the hands of Mr. Snitchey; who brought it to the candle, document by document; looked at every paper singly, as he produced it; shook his head, and handed it to Mr. Craggs; who looked it over also, shook his head, and laid it down. Sometimes, they would stop, and shaking their heads in concert, look towards the abstracted client. And the name on the box being Michael Warden, Esquire, we may conclude from these premises that the name and the box were both his, and that the affairs of Michael Warden, Esquire, were in a bad way.

‘That’s all,’ said Mr. Snitchey, turning up the last paper. ‘Really there’s no other resource. No other resource.’

‘All lost, spent, wasted, pawned, borrowed, and sold, eh?’ said the client, looking up.

‘All,’ returned Mr. Snitchey.

‘Nothing else to be done, you say?’

‘Nothing at all.’

The client bit his nails, and pondered again.

‘And I am not even personally safe in England? You hold to that, do you?’

Seconda parte

SNITCHEY E CRAGGS avevano un accogliente ufficio sul vecchio Campo di Battaglia, dove gestivano una piccola e redditizia attività, combattendo molte battaglie campali per molti clienti in contesa. Sebbene non si potesse dire che questi conflitti fossero veri e propri scontri a fuoco — poiché in realtà procedevano generalmente al passo di una lumaca — la parte che lo Studio aveva in essi rientrava così ampiamente nella denominazione generale, che ora prendevano di mira questo querelante, e ora colpivano quel convenuto, ora lanciavano un pesante attacco a un patrimonio sotto il controllo della Corte dei Conti, e ora si scontravano in qualche schermaglia tra un gruppo irregolare di piccoli debitori, proprio come l’occasione lo richiedeva, e il nemico capitava a tiro. La Gazzetta era una caratteristica importante e redditizia in alcuni dei loro campi d’azione, così come nei campi più rinomati; e nella maggior parte delle cause nelle quali dimostravano la loro abilità strategica, i contendenti osservarono in seguito di aver avuto grande difficoltà a riconoscersi l’un l’altro o a capire con una certa chiarezza cosa stessero facendo, a causa della vastissima quantità di fumo che li circondava.

Gli uffici di Messrs. Snitchey e Craggs si trovavano in posizione comoda nella piazza del mercato, con una porta aperta su due gradini levigati; così che qualsiasi agricoltore arrabbiato incline all’acqua calda potesse cadere dentro subito. La loro sala di consigli speciali e la sala delle conferenze era un vecchio locale sul retro al piano superiore, con un soffitto basso e scuro, che sembrava corrugare le sopracciglia in modo cupo mentre considerava i punti intricati della legge. Era arredata con alcune sedie di pelle ad alto schienale, guarnite con grandi chiodi di ottone a occhio di pesce, dei quali qua e là ne mancavano due o tre - oppure erano stati estratti, forse, dai pollici vaganti e dalle dita indice dei clienti disorientati. C’era una stampa incorniciata di un grande giudice, i cui riccioli della terribile parrucca facevano rizzare i capelli a chiunque li vedesse. I pacchi di documenti riempivano gli armadi polverosi, le mensole e i tavoli; e intorno al rivestimento in legno c’erano file di cassette, con lucchetti e ignifughe, con i nomi delle persone dipinti all’esterno, che i visitatori ansiosi si sentivano obbligati a compitare avanti e indietro, e a fare anagrammi, mentre sedevano apparentemente ad ascoltare Snitchey e Craggs, senza comprendere una parola di ciò che dicevano.

Snitchey e Craggs avevano ciascuno, nella vita privata come in quella professionale, un socio di cui potevano fidarsi. Snitchey e Craggs erano i migliori amici del mondo e si affidavano l’uno all’altro; ma la signora Snitchey, per una dispensa non rara negli affari della vita, era in linea di principio sospettosa nei confronti del signor Craggs; e la signora Craggs era in linea di principio sospettosa nei confronti del signor Snitchey. «I vostri Snitcheys», osservava talvolta quest’ultima al signor Craggs, usando quel plurale immaginativo come se volesse screditare un paio di pantaloni odiosi o altri articoli privi di numero singolare; «non capisco che cosa vogliate dai vostri Snitcheys. Voi vi fidate troppo dei vostri Snitcheys, io penso, e spero che non dobbiate mai scoprire che avevo ragione». Mentre la signora Snitchey osservava al signor Snitchey a proposito di Craggs: «se mai fu ingannato da un uomo, è stato ingannato da quell’uomo; e se mai lessi uno scopo doppio in un occhio umano, lo lessi nell’occhio di Craggs». Nonostante ciò, tuttavia, erano tutti molto buoni amici in generale: e la signora Snitchey e la signora Craggs mantenevano un solido legame d’alleanza contro «l’ufficio», che entrambe consideravano la camera Blu, il nemico comune pieno di pericolose (perché ignote) macchinazioni.

In questo ufficio, tuttavia, Snitchey e Craggs producevano miele per le loro diverse arnie. A volte, qui, si soffermavano nelle belle serate alla finestra della loro sala di consiglio che dava sul vecchio campo di battaglia, e si chiedevano (ma questo succedeva generalmente in occasione delle sessioni giudiziarie, quando il gran lavoro li rendeva sentimentali) come mai l’umanità fosse così sciocca da non riuscire a vivere sempre in pace gli uni con gli altri e a portare avanti cause legali senza problemi. Qui, giorni, settimane, mesi e anni passavano su di loro: il loro calendario era dato dal numero progressivamente decrescente dei chiodi di ottone nelle sedie di pelle e dall’aumento del volume delle carte sui tavoli. Qui, quasi tre anni dopo la colazione nel frutteto, l’uno si era assottigliato e l’altro aumentato, mentre erano seduti insieme a consultarsi di notte.

Non solo; ma con un uomo di trent’anni o giù di lì, vestito trascuratamente e piuttosto smunto in volto, ma ben fatto, ben abbigliato e ben aspetto, che sedeva nella poltrona d’onore con una mano sul petto e l’altra tra i capelli scompigliati, pensieroso. I signori Snitchey e Craggs erano seduti uno di fronte all’altro a una scrivania vicina. Una delle cassette ignifughe, senza lucchetto e aperta, era sopra la scrivania; parte del suo contenuto giaceva sparpagliato sul tavolo, mentre il resto stava passando tra le mani del signor Snitchey, che lo portava alla luce della candela documento per documento; guardava ogni carta singolarmente, man mano che la tirava fuori; scuoteva la testa e la porgeva al signor Craggs; che la esaminava a sua volta, scuoteva la testa e la deponeva. A volte si fermavano, scuotendo le teste all’unisono, e guardavano il cliente assorto. E dato che sul cassetto era scritto Michael Warden, Esquire, possiamo concludere da questi presupposti che sia il nome che la scatola erano suoi, e che gli affari del signor Michael Warden fossero in cattive acque.

«Questo è tutto», disse il signor Snitchey, girando l’ultimo foglio. «In verità non c’è altra risorsa. Non c’è altra risorsa».

«Tutto perso, speso, sperperato, dato in pegno, preso a prestito e venduto, eh?» disse il cliente alzando lo sguardo.

«Tutto», rispose il signor Snitchey.

‘Non c’è altro da fare, dite?’

‘Niente di niente.’

Il cliente si morse le unghie e rifletté di nuovo.

‘Non sono nemmeno al sicuro personalmente in Inghilterra? Lo sostenete davvero?’

‘In no part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland,’ replied Mr. Snitchey.

‘A mere prodigal son with no father to go back to, no swine to keep, and no husks to share with them? Eh?’ pursued the client, rocking one leg over the other, and searching the ground with his eyes.

Mr. Snitchey coughed, as if to deprecate the being supposed to participate in any figurative illustration of a legal position. Mr. Craggs, as if to express that it was a partnership view of the subject, also coughed.

‘Ruined at thirty!’ said the client. ‘Humph!’

‘Not ruined, Mr. Warden,’ returned Snitchey. ‘Not so bad as that. You have done a good deal towards it, I must say, but you are not ruined. A little nursing—’

‘A little Devil,’ said the client.

‘Mr. Craggs,’ said Snitchey, ‘will you oblige me with a pinch of snuff? Thank you, sir.’

As the imperturbable lawyer applied it to his nose with great apparent relish and a perfect absorption of his attention in the proceeding, the client gradually broke into a smile, and, looking up, said:

‘You talk of nursing. How long nursing?’

‘How long nursing?’ repeated Snitchey, dusting the snuff from his fingers, and making a slow calculation in his mind. ‘For your involved estate, sir? In good hands? S. and C.’s, say? Six or seven years.’

‘To starve for six or seven years!’ said the client with a fretful laugh, and an impatient change of his position.

‘To starve for six or seven years, Mr. Warden,’ said Snitchey, ‘would be very uncommon indeed. You might get another estate by showing yourself, the while. But, we don’t think you could do it—speaking for Self and Craggs—and consequently don’t advise it.’

‘What do you advise?’

‘Nursing, I say,’ repeated Snitchey. ‘Some few years of nursing by Self and Craggs would bring it round. But to enable us to make terms, and hold terms, and you to keep terms, you must go away; you must live abroad. As to starvation, we could ensure you some hundreds a-year to starve upon, even in the beginning—I dare say, Mr. Warden.’

‘Hundreds,’ said the client. ‘And I have spent thousands!’

‘That,’ retorted Mr. Snitchey, putting the papers slowly back into the cast-iron box, ‘there is no doubt about. No doubt a—bout,’ he repeated to himself, as he thoughtfully pursued his occupation.

The lawyer very likely knew his man; at any rate his dry, shrewd, whimsical manner, had a favourable influence on the client’s moody state, and disposed him to be more free and unreserved. Or, perhaps the client knew his man, and had elicited such encouragement as he had received, to render some purpose he was about to disclose the more defensible in appearance. Gradually raising his head, he sat looking at his immovable adviser with a smile, which presently broke into a laugh.

‘After all,’ he said, ‘my iron-headed friend—’

Mr. Snitchey pointed out his partner. ‘Self and—excuse me—Craggs.’

‘I beg Mr. Craggs’s pardon,’ said the client. ‘After all, my iron-headed friends,’ he leaned forward in his chair, and dropped his voice a little, ‘you don’t know half my ruin yet.’

Mr. Snitchey stopped and stared at him. Mr. Craggs also stared.

‘I am not only deep in debt,’ said the client, ‘but I am deep in—’

‘Not in love!’ cried Snitchey.

‘Yes!’ said the client, falling back in his chair, and surveying the Firm with his hands in his pockets. ‘Deep in love.’

‘And not with an heiress, sir?’ said Snitchey.

‘Not with an heiress.’

‘Nor a rich lady?’

‘Nor a rich lady that I know of—except in beauty and merit.’

‘A single lady, I trust?’ said Mr. Snitchey, with great expression.

‘Certainly.’

‘It’s not one of Dr. Jeddler’s daughters?’ said Snitchey, suddenly squaring his elbows on his knees, and advancing his face at least a yard.

‘Yes!’ returned the client.

‘Not his younger daughter?’ said Snitchey.

‘Yes!’ returned the client.

‘Mr. Craggs,’ said Snitchey, much relieved, ‘will you oblige me with another pinch of snuff? Thank you! I am happy to say it don’t signify, Mr. Warden; she’s engaged, sir, she’s bespoke. My partner can corroborate me. We know the fact.’

‘We know the fact,’ repeated Craggs.

‘Why, so do I perhaps,’ returned the client quietly. ‘What of that! Are you men of the world, and did you never hear of a woman changing her mind?’

‘There certainly have been actions for breach,’ said Mr. Snitchey, ‘brought against both spinsters and widows, but, in the majority of cases—’

‘Cases!’ interposed the client, impatiently. ‘Don’t talk to me of cases. The general precedent is in a much larger volume than any of your law books. Besides, do you think I have lived six weeks in the Doctor’s house for nothing?’

‘I think, sir,’ observed Mr. Snitchey, gravely addressing himself to his partner, ‘that of all the scrapes Mr. Warden’s horses have brought him into at one time and another—and they have been pretty numerous, and pretty expensive, as none know better than himself, and you, and I—the worst scrape may turn out to be, if he talks in this way, this having ever been left by one of them at the Doctor’s garden wall, with three broken ribs, a snapped collar-bone, and the Lord knows how many bruises. We didn’t think so much of it, at the time when we knew he was going on well under the Doctor’s hands and roof; but it looks bad now, sir. Bad? It looks very bad. Doctor Jeddler too—our client, Mr. Craggs.’

‘Mr. Alfred Heathfield too—a sort of client, Mr. Snitchey,’ said Craggs.

‘Mr. Michael Warden too, a kind of client,’ said the careless visitor, ‘and no bad one either: having played the fool for ten or twelve years. However, Mr. Michael Warden has sown his wild oats now—there’s their crop, in that box; and he means to repent and be wise. And in proof of it, Mr. Michael Warden means, if he can, to marry Marion, the Doctor’s lovely daughter, and to carry her away with him.’

‘Really, Mr. Craggs,’ Snitchey began.

«Nessuna parte del Regno Unito di Gran Bretagna e Irlanda», rispose il signor Snitchey.

«Un semplice figliol prodigo senza un padre a cui tornare, senza maiali da custodire e senza baccelli da condividere con loro? Eh?» proseguì il cliente, dondolando una gamba sull’altra e scrutando il terreno con gli occhi.

Il signor Snitchey tossì per far intendere che non si doveva supporre che partecipasse in alcuna illustrazione figurativa di una posizione legale. Il signor Craggs, come se volesse esprimere che era un punto di vista societario sull’argomento, tossì anch’egli.

“Rovinato a trent’anni!” disse il cliente. “Humph!”

«Non rovinato, signor Warden», rispose Snitchey. «Non così male. Devo dire che ci avete messo del vostro, ma non siete rovinato. Un po’ di cura, »

«Un piccolo diavolo», disse il cliente.

“Signor Craggs,” disse Snitchey, “mi farebbe il favore di darmi un pizzico di tabacco da fiuto? Grazie, signore.”

Mentre l’avvocato imperturbabile se lo applicava al naso con grande apparente piacere e una perfetta assorbimento della sua attenzione nel procedimento, il cliente gradualmente si aprì in un sorriso e, guardando su, disse:

‘Parli di cure. Quanto tempo di cure?’

«Per quanto tempo dovrà essere curato?» ripeté Snitchey, spolverando il tabacco da fiuto dalle dita e facendo un calcolo lento nella sua mente. «Per la vostra complicata situazione finanziaria, signore? In buone mani? Diciamo quelle di S. e C.? Sei o sette anni.»

«Morire di fame per sei o sette anni!» disse il cliente con una risata nervosa e un impaziente cambiamento della sua posizione.

«Morire di fame per sei o sette anni, signor Warden», disse Snitchey, «sarebbe davvero molto insolito. Potreste ottenere un altro patrimonio mostrandovi nel frattempo. Ma non crediamo che potreste farlo — parlando a nome mio e di Craggs — e quindi non lo consigliamo».

‘Che cosa consigliate?’

«L’infermieristica, dico io», ripeté Snitchey. «Alcuni anni di cure da parte di Self e Craggs lo rimetterebbero in sesto. Ma per permetterci di fare un accordo, mantenerlo e a voi di rispettarlo, dovete andarvene; dovete vivere all’estero. Per quanto riguarda la fame, potremmo assicurarvi qualche centinaio di sterline l’anno su cui morire di fame, anche all’inizio — ne sono sicuro, signor Warden».

«Centinaia», disse il cliente. «E ho speso migliaia!»

«Su questo», ribatté il signor Snitchey rimettendo lentamente i documenti nella scatola di ghisa, «non ci sono dubbi. Nessun dubbio a—proposito», ripeté tra sé mentre proseguiva pensieroso il suo lavoro.

L’avvocato conosceva molto probabilmente il suo uomo; comunque il suo modo di fare asciutto, acuto e bizzarro ebbe un’influenza favorevole sullo stato d’animo cupo del cliente e lo indusse a essere più libero e schietto. O forse era il cliente che conosceva il suo uomo ed aveva tratto dall’incoraggiamento ricevuto la possibilità di rendere un proposito che stava per rivelare più difendibile in apparenza. Alzando gradualmente la testa, si mise a guardare il suo immutabile consigliere con un sorriso che ben presto si trasformò in una risata.

‘Dopotutto,’ disse lui, ‘il mio amico dalla testa di ferro, ’

Il signor Snitchey indicò il suo socio: «Io e — scusatemi — Craggs».

«Chiedo scusa al signor Craggs», disse il cliente. «Dopo tutto, miei amici dal cervello di ferro», si sporse in avanti sulla sedia e abbassò un po’ la voce, «non conoscete ancora metà della mia rovina».

Il signor Snitchey si fermò e lo fissò. Anche il signor Craggs lo fissò.

‘Non sono solo profondamente in debito,’ disse il cliente, ‘ma sono profondamente in, ’

«Non innamorato!» gridò Snitchey.

«Sì!», disse il cliente, lasciandosi cadere sulla sedia e osservando lo Studio con le mani nelle tasche. «Immerso nell’amore.»

«E non con un’ereditiera, signore?» disse Snitchey.

‘Non con un’ereditiera.’

‘Neanche una signora ricca?’

«Né una signora ricca che io conosca — se non per bellezza e merito.»

«Una signorina nubile, spero?» disse il signor Snitchey con grande enfasi.

‘Senz’altro.’

«Non è una delle figlie del dottor Jeddler?», disse Snitchey, appoggiando improvvisamente i gomiti sulle ginocchia e sporgendosi in avanti di almeno un metro con il viso.

«Sì!» rispose il cliente.

«Non la figlia minore?» disse Snitchey.

«Sì!» rispose il cliente.

«Signor Craggs», disse Snitchey, molto sollevato, «vuole farmi il favore di darmi un’altra presa di tabacco da fiuto? Grazie! Sono felice di dire che non ha importanza, signor Warden; è fidanzata, signore, è stata prenotata. Il mio socio può confermarlo. Conosciamo i fatti».

«Conosciamo il fatto», ripeté Craggs.

«Ebbene, forse lo faccio anch’io», rispose tranquillamente il cliente. «Che importa! Siete uomini di mondo e non avete mai sentito parlare di una donna che cambia idea?»

«Certamente ci sono state azioni per rottura di promessa» disse il signor Snitchey «intese sia contro ragazze nubili che vedove, ma nella maggior parte dei casi — »

«Casi!» interpose il cliente, impaziente. «Non mi parlate di casi. Il precedente generale è contenuto in un volume molto più grande di tutti i vostri libri di legge. Inoltre, pensate che io abbia vissuto sei settimane nella casa del Dottore per niente?»

«Penso, signore», osservò gravemente il signor Snitchey rivolgendosi al suo socio, «che di tutti i guai nei quali i cavalli del signor Warden lo hanno cacciato in un momento e nell’altro - ed è stato piuttosto frequente, e piuttosto costoso, come nessuno sa meglio di lui, lei e me - il peggior guaio potrebbe rivelarsi, se continua a parlare così, questo fatto di essere stato lasciato da uno di loro al muro del giardino del dottore con tre costole rotte, una clavicola spezzata e chissà quante contusioni. Non ci siamo preoccupati troppo in quel momento quando sapevamo che stava andando a bene sotto le cure del dottore e nel suo tetto; ma ora sembra una cosa brutta, signore. Brutta? Sembra davvero molto brutta. Anche il dottor Jeddler - nostro cliente, signor Craggs».

«Anche il signor Alfred Heathfield — una specie di cliente, signor Snitchey», disse Craggs.

«Anche il signor Michael Warden, una specie di cliente», disse l’ospite incurante, «e non proprio un cattivo: avendo fatto lo sciocco per dieci o dodici anni. Comunque, il signor Michael Warden ha ormai seminato i suoi semi selvaggi — ecco il loro raccolto, in quella scatola; e vuole pentirsi e diventare saggio. E a prova di ciò, il signor Michael Warden intende, se può, sposare Marion, la deliziosa figlia del Dottore, e portarla via con sé».

«Davvero, signor Craggs», cominciò Snitchey.

‘Really, Mr. Snitchey, and Mr. Craggs, partners both,’ said the client, interrupting him; ‘you know your duty to your clients, and you know well enough, I am sure, that it is no part of it to interfere in a mere love affair, which I am obliged to confide to you. I am not going to carry the young lady off, without her own consent. There’s nothing illegal in it. I never was Mr. Heathfield’s bosom friend. I violate no confidence of his. I love where he loves, and I mean to win where he would win, if I can.’

‘He can’t, Mr. Craggs,’ said Snitchey, evidently anxious and discomfited. ‘He can’t do it, sir. She dotes on Mr. Alfred.’

‘Does she?’ returned the client.

‘Mr. Craggs, she dotes on him, sir,’ persisted Snitchey.

‘I didn’t live six weeks, some few months ago, in the Doctor’s house for nothing; and I doubted that soon,’ observed the client. ‘She would have doted on him, if her sister could have brought it about; but I watched them. Marion avoided his name, avoided the subject: shrunk from the least allusion to it, with evident distress.’

‘Why should she, Mr. Craggs, you know? Why should she, sir?’ inquired Snitchey.

‘I don’t know why she should, though there are many likely reasons,’ said the client, smiling at the attention and perplexity expressed in Mr. Snitchey’s shining eye, and at his cautious way of carrying on the conversation, and making himself informed upon the subject; ‘but I know she does. She was very young when she made the engagement—if it may be called one, I am not even sure of that—and has repented of it, perhaps. Perhaps—it seems a foppish thing to say, but upon my soul I don’t mean it in that light—she may have fallen in love with me, as I have fallen in love with her.’

‘He, he! Mr. Alfred, her old playfellow too, you remember, Mr. Craggs,’ said Snitchey, with a disconcerted laugh; ‘knew her almost from a baby!’

‘Which makes it the more probable that she may be tired of his idea,’ calmly pursued the client, ‘and not indisposed to exchange it for the newer one of another lover, who presents himself (or is presented by his horse) under romantic circumstances; has the not unfavourable reputation—with a country girl—of having lived thoughtlessly and gaily, without doing much harm to anybody; and who, for his youth and figure, and so forth—this may seem foppish again, but upon my soul I don’t mean it in that light—might perhaps pass muster in a crowd with Mr. Alfred himself.’

There was no gainsaying the last clause, certainly; and Mr. Snitchey, glancing at him, thought so. There was something naturally graceful and pleasant in the very carelessness of his air. It seemed to suggest, of his comely face and well-knit figure, that they might be greatly better if he chose: and that, once roused and made earnest (but he never had been earnest yet), he could be full of fire and purpose. ‘A dangerous sort of libertine,’ thought the shrewd lawyer, ‘to seem to catch the spark he wants, from a young lady’s eyes.’

‘Now, observe, Snitchey,’ he continued, rising and taking him by the button, ‘and Craggs,’ taking him by the button also, and placing one partner on either side of him, so that neither might evade him. ‘I don’t ask you for any advice. You are right to keep quite aloof from all parties in such a matter, which is not one in which grave men like you could interfere, on any side. I am briefly going to review in half-a-dozen words, my position and intention, and then I shall leave it to you to do the best for me, in money matters, that you can: seeing, that, if I run away with the Doctor’s beautiful daughter (as I hope to do, and to become another man under her bright influence), it will be, for the moment, more chargeable than running away alone. But I shall soon make all that up in an altered life.’

‘I think it will be better not to hear this, Mr. Craggs?’ said Snitchey, looking at him across the client.

‘I think not,’ said Craggs.—Both listened attentively.

‘Well! You needn’t hear it,’ replied their client. ‘I’ll mention it, however. I don’t mean to ask the Doctor’s consent, because he wouldn’t give it me. But I mean to do the Doctor no wrong or harm, because (besides there being nothing serious in such trifles, as he says) I hope to rescue his child, my Marion, from what I see—I know—she dreads, and contemplates with misery: that is, the return of this old lover. If anything in the world is true, it is true that she dreads his return. Nobody is injured so far. I am so harried and worried here just now, that I lead the life of a flying-fish. I skulk about in the dark, I am shut out of my own house, and warned off my own grounds; but, that house, and those grounds, and many an acre besides, will come back to me one day, as you know and say; and Marion will probably be richer—on your showing, who are never sanguine—ten years hence as my wife, than as the wife of Alfred Heathfield, whose return she dreads (remember that), and in whom or in any man, my passion is not surpassed. Who is injured yet? It is a fair case throughout. My right is as good as his, if she decide in my favour; and I will try my right by her alone. You will like to know no more after this, and I will tell you no more. Now you know my purpose, and wants. When must I leave here?’

‘In a week,’ said Snitchey. ‘Mr. Craggs?’

‘In something less, I should say,’ responded Craggs.

‘In a month,’ said the client, after attentively watching the two faces. ‘This day month. To-day is Thursday. Succeed or fail, on this day month I go.’

‘It’s too long a delay,’ said Snitchey; ‘much too long. But let it be so. I thought he’d have stipulated for three,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Are you going? Good night, sir!’

‘Good night!’ returned the client, shaking hands with the Firm.

«Davvero, signor Snitchey e signor Craggs, entrambi soci», disse il cliente, interrompendolo; «voi conoscete il vostro dovere verso i clienti, e ne siete certamente ben consapevoli, che non fa parte di esso interferire in una semplice questione d’amore, che mi vedo costretto a confidarvi. Non ho intenzione di portar via la giovane signora senza il suo consenso. Non c’è nulla di illegale in questo. Non sono mai stato l’amico fraterno del signor Heathfield. Non violo alcuna sua confidenza. Amo dove lui ama, e intendo vincere dove lui vorrebbe vincere, se posso».

«Non può, signor Craggs», disse Snitchey, evidentemente ansioso e turbato, «non può farlo, signore. Lei è innamorata del signor Alfredo».

«Lo fa?» rispose la cliente.

«La signorina è molto affezionata al signor Craggs, signore», insistette Snitchey.

«Non ho vissuto sei settimane nella casa del Dottore per niente qualche mese fa; e presto ne dubitai», osservò il cliente. «Avrebbe perso la testa per lui se sua sorella lo avesse permesso, ma li tenevo d’occhio. Marion evitava di pronunciare il suo nome, evitava l’argomento: si ritraeva al minimo accenno con evidente disagio».

«Perché avrebbe dovuto farlo, signor Craggs, lo sapete bene! Perché avrebbe dovuto farlo, signore?» chiese Snitchey.

«Non so perché dovrei, anche se ci sono molte ragioni probabili», disse il cliente, sorridendo all’attenzione e alla perplessità espresse nell’occhio lucente del signor Snitchey, e al suo modo cauto di proseguire la conversazione e di informarsi sull’argomento; «ma so che lo fa. Era molto giovane quando ha preso l’impegno - se si può chiamare così, non ne sono nemmeno sicuro - e forse se ne è pentita. Forse - sembra una cosa frivola da dire, ma sulla mia anima non lo intendo in quel senso - potrebbe essersi innamorata di me, come io mi sono innamorato di lei».

«Ah, ah! Anche il signor Alfred, il suo vecchio compagno di giochi, lo ricorda, signor Craggs», disse Snitchey con una risata imbarazzata, «la conosceva quasi da quando era un bebè!»

«Il che rende ancora più probabile», proseguì con calma il cliente, «che lei possa essere stanca della sua idea e non indisposta ad scambiarla per quella di un amante più recente, che si presenta (o è presentato dal suo cavallo) in circostanze romantiche; ha la reputazione, tutt’altro che sfavorevole — con una ragazza del paese — di aver vissuto senza pensieri e allegramente, senza fare molto male a nessuno; e che, per la sua giovinezza e il suo aspetto, eccetera — questo può sembrare di nuovo frivolo, ma sulla mia anima non lo intendo in quel senso — potrebbe forse passare inosservato tra la folla anche con l’onorevole Alfredo.»

Non si poteva negare l’ultima clausola, certamente; e il signor Snitchey, guardandolo, pensò la stessa cosa. C’era qualcosa di naturalmente elegante e piacevole nella sua stessa disinvoltura. Sembrava suggerire, del suo bel viso e della sua figura ben costruita, che potessero essere molto migliori se lo avesse voluto: e che, una volta risvegliato e reso serio (ma non era mai stato serio ancora), potesse essere pieno di fuoco e propositi. «Un libertino pericoloso», pensò l’avvocato astuto, «per sembrare di cogliere la scintilla che gli manca negli occhi di una giovane signora».

«Ora, ascoltate, Snitchey», continuò, alzandosi e prendendolo per il pomello della giacca, «e Craggs», afferrando anche lui per il pomello, mettendo un socio da ciascun lato di sé in modo che nessuno dei due potesse sfuggirgli. «Non vi chiedo alcun consiglio. Avete ragione a rimanere del tutto estranei a tutte le parti in una faccenda come questa, nella quale uomini seri come voi non potrebbero intervenire, da nessuna parte. In breve, con poche parole, vi esporrò la mia posizione e il mio intento, dopodiché lascerò a voi di fare per me quanto meglio potrete nelle questioni finanziarie: dato che, se fuggissi via con la bellissima figlia del dottore (come spero di fare, e di diventare un altro uomo sotto la sua luminosa influenza), ciò sarebbe, per il momento, più costoso che scappare da solo. Ma presto compenserò tutto questo con una vita diversa.»

«Penso che sarebbe meglio non ascoltare questo, signor Craggs?» disse Snitchey, guardandolo dall’altra parte del cliente.

«Io non credo», disse Craggs. — Entrambi ascoltarono con attenzione.

«Bene! Non c’è bisogno che lo sentiate», rispose il loro cliente. «Tuttavia ne parlerò. Non intendo chiedere il consenso del Dottore, perché non me lo darebbe. Ma non voglio fare alcun torto o danno al Dottore, perché (oltre al fatto che in tali frivolezze non c’è nulla di serio, come dice lui) spero di salvare la sua figlia, la mia Marion, da ciò che vedo — so — lei teme e contempla con disperazione: cioè il ritorno di questo vecchio amante. Se c’è qualcosa al mondo che è vera, è vero che teme il suo ritorno. Fin qui nessuno è stato danneggiato. In questo momento sono così perseguitato e preoccupato qui che vivo la vita di un pesce volante. Mi nascondo nel buio, vengo cacciato fuori dalla mia stessa casa, e allontanato dai miei terreni; ma quella casa, quei terreni, e molti altri acri oltre, un giorno torneranno a me, come sapete e dite; e Marion probabilmente sarà più ricca — secondo voi che non siete mai ottimisti — tra dieci anni come mia moglie, che come la moglie di Alfred Heathfield, il cui ritorno lei teme (ricordatevelo), e in cui o in qualsiasi altro uomo, la mia passione non è superata. Chi è stato danneggiato finora? È un caso equo in ogni aspetto. Il mio diritto è buono quanto il suo, se lei decide a mio favore; e cercherò di far valere il mio diritto con lei da sola. Dopo questo non vorrete sapere altro, e io non vi dirò altro. Ora conoscete il mio scopo e i miei desideri. Quando devo andarmene?»

‘Entro una settimana’, disse Snitchey. ‘Signor Craggs?’

«Direi in qualcosa di meno», rispose Craggs.

«Tra un mese», disse il cliente dopo aver osservato con attenzione i due volti, «precisamente tra un mese da oggi. Oggi è giovedì. Che io riesca o fallisca, tra un mese esatto partirò».

«È un ritardo troppo lungo», disse Snitchey; «troppo lungo, davvero. Ma sia come vuole. Pensavo che avrebbe chiesto tre anni», mormorò tra sé e sé. «Se ne va? Buona notte, signore!»

«Buona notte!», rispose il cliente stringendo la mano alla Ditta.

‘You’ll live to see me making a good use of riches yet. Henceforth the star of my destiny is, Marion!’

‘Take care of the stairs, sir,’ replied Snitchey; ‘for she don’t shine there. Good night!’

‘Good night!’

So they both stood at the stair-head with a pair of office-candles, watching him down. When he had gone away, they stood looking at each other.

‘What do you think of all this, Mr. Craggs?’ said Snitchey.

Mr. Craggs shook his head.

‘It was our opinion, on the day when that release was executed, that there was something curious in the parting of that pair; I recollect,’ said Snitchey.

‘It was,’ said Mr. Craggs.

‘Perhaps he deceives himself altogether,’ pursued Mr. Snitchey, locking up the fireproof box, and putting it away; ‘or, if he don’t, a little bit of fickleness and perfidy is not a miracle, Mr. Craggs. And yet I thought that pretty face was very true. I thought,’ said Mr. Snitchey, putting on his great-coat (for the weather was very cold), drawing on his gloves, and snuffing out one candle, ‘that I had even seen her character becoming stronger and more resolved of late. More like her sister’s.’

‘Mrs. Craggs was of the same opinion,’ returned Craggs.

‘I’d really give a trifle to-night,’ observed Mr. Snitchey, who was a good-natured man, ‘if I could believe that Mr. Warden was reckoning without his host; but, light-headed, capricious, and unballasted as he is, he knows something of the world and its people (he ought to, for he has bought what he does know, dear enough); and I can’t quite think that. We had better not interfere: we can do nothing, Mr. Craggs, but keep quiet.’

‘Nothing,’ returned Craggs.

‘Our friend the Doctor makes light of such things,’ said Mr. Snitchey, shaking his head. ‘I hope he mayn’t stand in need of his philosophy. Our friend Alfred talks of the battle of life,’ he shook his head again, ‘I hope he mayn’t be cut down early in the day. Have you got your hat, Mr. Craggs? I am going to put the other candle out.’ Mr. Craggs replying in the affirmative, Mr. Snitchey suited the action to the word, and they groped their way out of the council-chamber, now dark as the subject, or the law in general.

---

My story passes to a quiet little study, where, on that same night, the sisters and the hale old Doctor sat by a cheerful fireside. Grace was working at her needle. Marion read aloud from a book before her. The Doctor, in his dressing-gown and slippers, with his feet spread out upon the warm rug, leaned back in his easy-chair, and listened to the book, and looked upon his daughters.

They were very beautiful to look upon. Two better faces for a fireside, never made a fireside bright and sacred. Something of the difference between them had been softened down in three years’ time; and enthroned upon the clear brow of the younger sister, looking through her eyes, and thrilling in her voice, was the same earnest nature that her own motherless youth had ripened in the elder sister long ago. But she still appeared at once the lovelier and weaker of the two; still seemed to rest her head upon her sister’s breast, and put her trust in her, and look into her eyes for counsel and reliance. Those loving eyes, so calm, serene, and cheerful, as of old.

‘“And being in her own home,”’ read Marion, from the book; ‘“her home made exquisitely dear by these remembrances, she now began to know that the great trial of her heart must soon come on, and could not be delayed. O Home, our comforter and friend when others fall away, to part with whom, at any step between the cradle and the grave”’—

‘Marion, my love!’ said Grace.

‘Why, Puss!’ exclaimed her father, ‘what’s the matter?’

She put her hand upon the hand her sister stretched towards her, and read on; her voice still faltering and trembling, though she made an effort to command it when thus interrupted.

‘“To part with whom, at any step between the cradle and the grave, is always sorrowful. O Home, so true to us, so often slighted in return, be lenient to them that turn away from thee, and do not haunt their erring footsteps too reproachfully! Let no kind looks, no well-remembered smiles, be seen upon thy phantom face. Let no ray of affection, welcome, gentleness, forbearance, cordiality, shine from thy white head. Let no old loving word, or tone, rise up in judgment against thy deserter; but if thou canst look harshly and severely, do, in mercy to the Penitent!”’

‘Dear Marion, read no more to-night,’ said Grace for she was weeping.

‘I cannot,’ she replied, and closed the book. ‘The words seem all on fire!’

The Doctor was amused at this; and laughed as he patted her on the head.

‘What! overcome by a story-book!’ said Doctor Jeddler. ‘Print and paper! Well, well, it’s all one. It’s as rational to make a serious matter of print and paper as of anything else. But, dry your eyes, love, dry your eyes. I dare say the heroine has got home again long ago, and made it up all round—and if she hasn’t, a real home is only four walls; and a fictitious one, mere rags and ink. What’s the matter now?’

‘It’s only me, Mister,’ said Clemency, putting in her head at the door.

‘And what’s the matter with you?’ said the Doctor.

‘Oh, bless you, nothing an’t the matter with me,’ returned Clemency—and truly too, to judge from her well-soaped face, in which there gleamed as usual the very soul of good-humour, which, ungainly as she was, made her quite engaging. Abrasions on the elbows are not generally understood, it is true, to range within that class of personal charms called beauty-spots. But, it is better, going through the world, to have the arms chafed in that narrow passage, than the temper: and Clemency’s was sound and whole as any beauty’s in the land.

«Vedrai che un giorno mi vedrai fare buon uso della ricchezza. Da oggi in poi la stella del mio destino è te, Marion!»

«Fate attenzione alle scale, signore», rispose Snitchey, «perché lì non brilla. Buona notte!»

«Buona notte!»

Così i due rimasero in cima alle scale con un paio di candele da ufficio, guardandolo scendere. Quando se ne fu andato, si guardarono l’un l’altro.

«Che cosa ne pensa di tutto questo, signor Craggs?» disse Snitchey.

Il signor Craggs scosse la testa.

«Era nostra opinione, il giorno in cui fu firmata quella liberatoria, che ci fosse qualcosa di curioso nella separazione di quel paio; me ne ricordo», disse Snitchey.

«Era», disse il signor Craggs.

«Forse si illude completamente», proseguì il signor Snitchey, chiudendo a chiave la cassetta ignifuga e riponendola; «o se non è così, un po’ di inaffidabilità e perfidia non sono certo miracoli, signor Craggs. Eppure pensavo che quel visino fosse molto sincero. Pensavo», disse il signor Snitchey indossando il cappotto (perché faceva molto freddo), infilando i guanti ed spegnendo una candela, «di aver persino notato che ultimamente il suo carattere stava diventando più forte e deciso. Più simile a quello di sua sorella».

«La signora Craggs era dello stesso parere», rispose Craggs.

«Mi piacerebbe davvero dare qualcosa stasera», osservò il signor Snitchey, che era un uomo di buon carattere, «se potessi credere che il signor Warden stia calcolando senza considerare l’ospite; ma, per quanto sia leggero di testa, capriccioso e instabile, conosce qualcosa del mondo e delle sue persone (dovrebbe, perché ha comprato ciò che sa a un prezzo caro); e non riesco proprio a pensarlo. È meglio se non interferiamo: non possiamo fare nulla, signor Craggs, se non stare tranquilli».

«Nulla», rispose Craggs.

«Il nostro amico il Dottore minimizza queste cose», disse il signor Snitchey, scuotendo la testa. «Spero che non debba mai aver bisogno della sua filosofia. Il nostro amico Alfred parla della battaglia della vita», scosse di nuovo la testa, «spero che non venga abbattuto all’inizio del giorno. Avete il cappello, signor Craggs? Sto per spegnere l’altra candela». Il signor Craggs rispose affermativamente e il signor Snitchey mise in atto le sue parole; poi si fecero strada tastoni fuori dalla sala del consiglio, ora buia come l’argomento o la legge in generale.

---

La mia storia si sposta in uno studio tranquillo dove, quella stessa notte, le sorelle e il sano vecchio Dottore sedevano accanto a un caminetto allegro. Grace lavorava al suo ricamo. Marion leggeva ad alta voce da un libro davanti a sé. Il Dottore, in vestaglia e pantofole, con i piedi distesi sul tappeto caldo, era appoggiato alla sua poltrona e ascoltava il libro mentre guardava le sue figlie.

Erano molto belle da vedere. Due volti più adatti per un caminetto non ne hanno mai reso uno luminoso e sacro. Qualcosa della differenza tra loro si era attenuata in tre anni di tempo; e troneggiava sulla fronte serena della sorella minore, guardando attraverso i suoi occhi e vibrando nella sua voce, la stessa seria natura che l’infanzia senza madre della sorella maggiore aveva maturato tanto tempo fa. Ma lei appariva ancora allo stesso tempo la più graziosa e la più debole delle due; sembrava ancora appoggiare la testa sul seno di sua sorella, riporre in lei la propria fiducia e cercare nei suoi occhi consiglio e sostegno. Quegli occhi amorevoli, così calmi, sereni e allegri come un tempo.

«“E trovandosi nella sua stessa casa”,» lesse Marion dal libro, «“nella sua casa resa squisitamente cara da questi ricordi, ora cominciò a capire che la grande prova del suo cuore sarebbe presto arrivata e non poteva essere rimandata. O Casa, nostro consolatore e amico quando gli altri ci abbandonano, separarsi da te, in qualsiasi momento tra la culla e la tomba”» —

«Marion, il mio amore!», disse Grace.

“Ma, gattina!” esclamò suo padre, “cosa c’è?”

Lei posò la mano su quella che sua sorella le tendeva e continuò a leggere; la sua voce ancora vacillante e tremante, anche se fece uno sforzo per controllarla quando fu così interrotta.

«“Separarsi da chiunque, a qualsiasi passo tra la culla e la tomba, è sempre doloroso. O Casa, così fedele a noi, così spesso trascurata in cambio, sii indulgente con coloro che si allontanano da te, e non perseguitare i loro passi erranti troppo rimproverosamente! Non lasciare che nessuno sguardo gentile, nessun sorriso ben ricordato, appaia sul tuo volto fantasma. Non lasciare che nessun raggio di affetto, accoglienza, dolcezza, tolleranza, cordialità, brilla dalla tua testa bianca. Non lasciare che nessuna vecchia parola d’amore o tono si alzi in giudizio contro il tuo disertore; ma se puoi guardare aspramente e severamente, fallo, per pietà del Penitente!”»

«Cara Marion, non leggere più stasera», disse Grace perché stava piangendo.

«Non posso», rispose lei e chiuse il libro. «Le parole sembrano tutte in fiamme!»

Il dottore si divertì per questo e rise mentre le accarezzava la testa.

«Che cosa! sconfitta da un libro di storie!» disse il dottor Jeddler. «Stampa e carta! Beh, beh, è tutto lo stesso. È altrettanto ragionevole prendere sul serio la stampa e la carta come qualsiasi altra cosa. Ma asciugati gli occhi, tesoro, asciugati gli occhi. Oso dire che l’eroina è già tornata a casa da tempo e ha sistemato tutto, e se non lo ha fatto, una vera casa sono solo quattro mura; e una fittizia, semplici stracci e inchiostro. Che cosa c’è adesso?»

«Sono solo io, signore», disse Clemency, mettendo dentro la testa dalla porta.

«E che cosa c’è che non va in te?» disse il dottore.

«Oh, benedetti voi, non c’è niente che non vada», rispose Clemency — e davvero, a giudicare dalla sua faccia ben insaponata, nella quale brillava come al solito la vera anima del buon-umore, che, per quanto fosse goffa, la rendeva piuttosto attraente. È vero che le abrasioni sui gomiti non sono generalmente considerate tra quelle attrattive personali chiamate macchie di bellezza. Ma è meglio, nel camminare per il mondo, avere le braccia sfregiate in quel passaggio stretto, piuttosto che l’umore: e quello di Clemency era sano e integro come quello di qualsiasi bellezza del paese.

‘Nothing an’t the matter with me,’ said Clemency, entering, ‘but—come a little closer, Mister.’

The Doctor, in some astonishment, complied with this invitation.

‘You said I wasn’t to give you one before them, you know,’ said Clemency.

A novice in the family might have supposed, from her extraordinary ogling as she said it, as well as from a singular rapture or ecstasy which pervaded her elbows, as if she were embracing herself, that ‘one,’ in its most favourable interpretation, meant a chaste salute. Indeed the Doctor himself seemed alarmed, for the moment; but quickly regained his composure, as Clemency, having had recourse to both her pockets—beginning with the right one, going away to the wrong one, and afterwards coming back to the right one again—produced a letter from the Post-office.

‘Britain was riding by on a errand,’ she chuckled, handing it to the Doctor, ‘and see the mail come in, and waited for it. There’s A. H. in the corner. Mr. Alfred’s on his journey home, I bet. We shall have a wedding in the house—there was two spoons in my saucer this morning. Oh Luck, how slow he opens it!’

All this she delivered, by way of soliloquy, gradually rising higher and higher on tiptoe, in her impatience to hear the news, and making a corkscrew of her apron, and a bottle of her mouth. At last, arriving at a climax of suspense, and seeing the Doctor still engaged in the perusal of the letter, she came down flat upon the soles of her feet again, and cast her apron, as a veil, over her head, in a mute despair, and inability to bear it any longer.

‘Here! Girls!’ cried the Doctor. ‘I can’t help it: I never could keep a secret in my life. There are not many secrets, indeed, worth being kept in such a—well! never mind that. Alfred’s coming home, my dears, directly.’

‘Directly!’ exclaimed Marion.

‘What! The story-book is soon forgotten!’ said the Doctor, pinching her cheek. ‘I thought the news would dry those tears. Yes. “Let it be a surprise,” he says, here. But I can’t let it be a surprise. He must have a welcome.’

‘Directly!’ repeated Marion.

‘Why, perhaps not what your impatience calls “directly,”’ returned the doctor; ‘but pretty soon too. Let us see. Let us see. To-day is Thursday, is it not? Then he promises to be here, this day month.’

‘This day month!’ repeated Marion, softly.

‘A gay day and a holiday for us,’ said the cheerful voice of her sister Grace, kissing her in congratulation. ‘Long looked forward to, dearest, and come at last.’

She answered with a smile; a mournful smile, but full of sisterly affection. As she looked in her sister’s face, and listened to the quiet music of her voice, picturing the happiness of this return, her own face glowed with hope and joy.

And with a something else; a something shining more and more through all the rest of its expression; for which I have no name. It was not exultation, triumph, proud enthusiasm. They are not so calmly shown. It was not love and gratitude alone, though love and gratitude were part of it. It emanated from no sordid thought, for sordid thoughts do not light up the brow, and hover on the lips, and move the spirit like a fluttered light, until the sympathetic figure trembles.

Dr. Jeddler, in spite of his system of philosophy—which he was continually contradicting and denying in practice, but more famous philosophers have done that—could not help having as much interest in the return of his old ward and pupil as if it had been a serious event. So he sat himself down in his easy-chair again, stretched out his slippered feet once more upon the rug, read the letter over and over a great many times, and talked it over more times still.

‘Ah! The day was,’ said the Doctor, looking at the fire, ‘when you and he, Grace, used to trot about arm-in-arm, in his holiday time, like a couple of walking dolls. You remember?’

‘I remember,’ she answered, with her pleasant laugh, and plying her needle busily.

‘This day month, indeed!’ mused the Doctor. ‘That hardly seems a twelve month ago. And where was my little Marion then!’

‘Never far from her sister,’ said Marion, cheerily, ‘however little. Grace was everything to me, even when she was a young child herself.’

‘True, Puss, true,’ returned the Doctor. ‘She was a staid little woman, was Grace, and a wise housekeeper, and a busy, quiet, pleasant body; bearing with our humours and anticipating our wishes, and always ready to forget her own, even in those times. I never knew you positive or obstinate, Grace, my darling, even then, on any subject but one.’

‘I am afraid I have changed sadly for the worse, since,’ laughed Grace, still busy at her work. ‘What was that one, father?’

‘Alfred, of course,’ said the Doctor. ‘Nothing would serve you but you must be called Alfred’s wife; so we called you Alfred’s wife; and you liked it better, I believe (odd as it seems now), than being called a Duchess, if we could have made you one.’

‘Indeed?’ said Grace, placidly.

‘Why, don’t you remember?’ inquired the Doctor.

‘I think I remember something of it,’ she returned, ‘but not much. It’s so long ago.’ And as she sat at work, she hummed the burden of an old song, which the Doctor liked.

‘Alfred will find a real wife soon,’ she said, breaking off; ‘and that will be a happy time indeed for all of us. My three years’ trust is nearly at an end, Marion. It has been a very easy one. I shall tell Alfred, when I give you back to him, that you have loved him dearly all the time, and that he has never once needed my good services. May I tell him so, love?’

‘Tell him, dear Grace,’ replied Marion, ‘that there never was a trust so generously, nobly, steadfastly discharged; and that I have loved you, all the time, dearer and dearer every day; and O! how dearly now!’

«Non c’è niente che non vada in me», disse Clemency entrando, «ma, avvicinatevi un po’, signore».

Il dottore, con un certo stupore, accettò l’invito.

«Avete detto che non dovevo darvene uno davanti a loro, sapete», disse Clemency.

Un novizio in famiglia avrebbe potuto supporre, dal suo straordinario sguardo languido mentre lo diceva, così come da una singolare rapina o estasi che pervadeva i suoi gomiti, come se si stesse abbracciando, che ‘uno’, nella sua interpretazione più favorevole, significasse un saluto casto. Infatti anche il Dottore sembrò spaventato, per un momento; ma rapidamente riacquistò la calma, mentre Clemency, avendo fatto ricorso a entrambe le sue tasche—cominciando con quella destra, passando poi alla sinistra e infine tornando di nuovo alla destra—produsse una lettera dall’ufficio postale.

«La Gran Bretagna stava passando per un incarico», rise, porgendola al Dottore, «e ha visto arrivare la posta e ha aspettato. C’è A.H. nell’angolo. Il signor Alfredo è in viaggio verso casa, scommetto. Avremo un matrimonio nella casa: questa mattina c’erano due cucchiaini nel mio piattino. Oh, Fortuna, come lo apre lentamente!»

Tutto questo lo disse come un soliloquio, alzandosi sempre più sulla punta dei piedi nella sua impazienza di sentire le novità, torcendosi il grembiule a forma di trottola e la bocca a forma di bottiglia. Infine, raggiunto l’apice della suspense e vedendo che il dottore era ancora intento nella lettura della lettera, tornò ad appoggiarsi piatta sulle suole dei piedi e si gettò il grembiule sulla testa come un velo, in muto dispero e nell’incapacità di sopportarlo oltre.

«Ecco! Ragazze!» gridò il Dottore «Non posso farci niente: non sono mai stato capace di mantenere un segreto in vita mia. Non ci sono molti segreti, infatti, che valga la pena custodire in una—be’! lasciamo perdere questo. Alfred sta tornando a casa, mie care, subito».

«Subito!» esclamò Marion.

«Che cosa! Il libro di storie è presto dimenticato!» disse il Dottore, pizzicandole la guancia. «Pensavo che la notizia avrebbe asciugato quelle lacrime. Sì. “Che sia una sorpresa”, dice qui. Ma non posso lasciare che sia una sorpresa. Deve essere accolto con un benvenuto.»

«Subito!» ripeté Marion.

«Perché, forse non “direttamente”, come dice la vostra impazienza», rispose il dottore; «ma abbastanza presto. Vediamo un po’. Oggi è giovedì, vero? Allora promette di essere qui questo mese».

«Questo giorno del mese!», ripeté Marion a bassa voce.

«Una giornata allegra e una festa per noi», disse la voce allegra di sua sorella Grace, baciandola a mo’ di congratulazione. «Aspettata da tanto tempo, mia cara, ed ora finalmente arrivata».

Rispose con un sorriso; un sorriso malinconico, ma pieno di affetto fraterno. Mentre guardava il volto della sorella e ascoltava la musica tranquilla della sua voce, immaginando la felicità di questo ritorno, il suo viso si illuminò di speranza e gioia.

E con qualcos’altro; un qualcosa che brillava sempre più attraverso tutto il resto della sua espressione; per cui non ho nome. Non era esultanza, trionfo, entusiasmo orgoglioso. Questi sentimenti non si manifestano in modo così calmo. Non erano amore e gratitudine soli, sebbene amore e gratitudine ne facessero parte. Non emanava da alcun pensiero meschino, perché i pensieri meschini non illuminano la fronte, né aleggiano sulle labbra, né muovono lo spirito come una luce tremolante, fino a far tremare la figura simpatetica.

Il dottor Jeddler, nonostante il suo sistema di filosofia — che continuamente contraddiceva e negava nella pratica, ma anche filosofi più famosi hanno fatto altrettanto — non poteva fare a meno di interessarsi al ritorno della sua vecchia pupilla e allievo come se si fosse trattato di un evento importante. Così si sedette nuovamente sulla sua poltrona, distese ancora una volta i piedi calzati di pantofole sul tappeto, lesse la lettera più e più volte, e ne parlò ancora più spesso.

«Ah! Il giorno era», disse il Dottore guardando il fuoco, «quando tu e lui, Grace, usavate trotterellare a braccetto nel suo periodo di vacanza, come una coppia di bambole ambulanti. Te lo ricordi?»

«Me lo ricordo», rispose lei con la sua piacevole risata e continuando a lavorare di ago con solerzia.

«Questo giorno del mese prossimo!» rifletté il dottore «Non sembra neanche passato un anno. E dove era la mia piccola Marion allora?»

«Non lontana da sua sorella», disse Marion allegra, «per quanto piccola.
Grace era tutto per me, anche quando lei stessa era una giovane bambina.»

«È vero, Puss, è vero», rispose il Dottore. «Era una donna seria, era Grace, e una brava amministratrice di casa, e una persona affaccendata, tranquilla, piacevole; sopportava i nostri umori e anticipava i nostri desideri, ed era sempre pronta a dimenticare i propri, anche in quei tempi. Non ti ho mai vista decisa o ostinata, Grace, mia cara, nemmeno allora, su qualsiasi argomento tranne uno».

«Temo di essere cambiata tristemente in peggio da allora», rise Grace, continuando a lavorare. «Quale era quello, padre?»

«Alfred, naturalmente», disse il Dottore. «Non vi sarebbe stato niente di meglio per voi se non essere chiamata la moglie di Alfred; così vi abbiamo chiamata la moglie di Alfred; e credo che ciò vi piacesse (per quanto possa sembrare strano ora) più che essere chiamata Duchessa, se fossimo stati in grado di farvi diventare tale.»

«Davvero?», disse Grace con calma.

«Ma non vi ricordate?» chiese il dottore.

«Penso di ricordare qualcosa», rispose lei, «ma non molto. È passato tanto tempo». E mentre sedeva al lavoro, canticchiava il ritornello di una vecchia canzone che piaceva al Dottore.

«Alfredo troverà presto una vera moglie», disse, interrompendosi; «e quello sarà un momento davvero felice per tutti noi. La mia fiducia di tre anni sta per finire, Marion. È stata molto facile. Dirò ad Alfredo, quando ti restituirò a lui, che lo hai amato teneramente tutto il tempo, e che non ha mai avuto bisogno dei miei servigi. Posso dirglielo, amore?»

«Diglielo, cara Grace», rispose Marion, «che non c’è mai stato un impegno così generosamente, nobilmente e costantemente mantenuto; e che ho amato te, in tutto questo periodo, sempre più ogni giorno; e O! quanto ti amo ora!»

‘Nay,’ said her cheerful sister, returning her embrace, ‘I can scarcely tell him that; we will leave my deserts to Alfred’s imagination. It will be liberal enough, dear Marion; like your own.’

With that, she resumed the work she had for a moment laid down, when her sister spoke so fervently: and with it the old song the Doctor liked to hear. And the Doctor, still reposing in his easy-chair, with his slippered feet stretched out before him on the rug, listened to the tune, and beat time on his knee with Alfred’s letter, and looked at his two daughters, and thought that among the many trifles of the trifling world, these trifles were agreeable enough.

Clemency Newcome, in the meantime, having accomplished her mission and lingered in the room until she had made herself a party to the news, descended to the kitchen, where her coadjutor, Mr. Britain, was regaling after supper, surrounded by such a plentiful collection of bright pot-lids, well-scoured saucepans, burnished dinner-covers, gleaming kettles, and other tokens of her industrious habits, arranged upon the walls and shelves, that he sat as in the centre of a hall of mirrors. The majority did not give forth very flattering portraits of him, certainly; nor were they by any means unanimous in their reflections; as some made him very long-faced, others very broad-faced, some tolerably well-looking, others vastly ill-looking, according to their several manners of reflecting: which were as various, in respect of one fact, as those of so many kinds of men. But they all agreed that in the midst of them sat, quite at his ease, an individual with a pipe in his mouth, and a jug of beer at his elbow, who nodded condescendingly to Clemency, when she stationed herself at the same table.

‘Well, Clemmy,’ said Britain, ‘how are you by this time, and what’s the news?’

Clemency told him the news, which he received very graciously. A gracious change had come over Benjamin from head to foot. He was much broader, much redder, much more cheerful, and much jollier in all respects. It seemed as if his face had been tied up in a knot before, and was now untwisted and smoothed out.

‘There’ll be another job for Snitchey and Craggs, I suppose,’ he observed, puffing slowly at his pipe. ‘More witnessing for you and me, perhaps, Clemmy!’

‘Lor!’ replied his fair companion, with her favourite twist of her favourite joints. ‘I wish it was me, Britain!’

‘Wish what was you?’

‘A-going to be married,’ said Clemency.

Benjamin took his pipe out of his mouth and laughed heartily. ‘Yes! you’re a likely subject for that!’ he said. ‘Poor Clem!’ Clemency for her part laughed as heartily as he, and seemed as much amused by the idea. ‘Yes,’ she assented, ‘I’m a likely subject for that; an’t I?’

‘You’ll never be married, you know,’ said Mr. Britain, resuming his pipe.

‘Don’t you think I ever shall though?’ said Clemency, in perfect good faith.

Mr. Britain shook his head. ‘Not a chance of it!’

‘Only think!’ said Clemency. ‘Well!—I suppose you mean to, Britain, one of these days; don’t you?’

A question so abrupt, upon a subject so momentous, required consideration. After blowing out a great cloud of smoke, and looking at it with his head now on this side and now on that, as if it were actually the question, and he were surveying it in various aspects, Mr. Britain replied that he wasn’t altogether clear about it, but—ye-es—he thought he might come to that at last.

‘I wish her joy, whoever she may be!’ cried Clemency.

‘Oh she’ll have that,’ said Benjamin, ‘safe enough.’

‘But she wouldn’t have led quite such a joyful life as she will lead, and wouldn’t have had quite such a sociable sort of husband as she will have,’ said Clemency, spreading herself half over the table, and staring retrospectively at the candle, ‘if it hadn’t been for—not that I went to do it, for it was accidental, I am sure—if it hadn’t been for me; now would she, Britain?’

‘Certainly not,’ returned Mr. Britain, by this time in that high state of appreciation of his pipe, when a man can open his mouth but a very little way for speaking purposes; and sitting luxuriously immovable in his chair, can afford to turn only his eyes towards a companion, and that very passively and gravely. ‘Oh! I’m greatly beholden to you, you know, Clem.’

‘Lor, how nice that is to think of!’ said Clemency.

At the same time, bringing her thoughts as well as her sight to bear upon the candle-grease, and becoming abruptly reminiscent of its healing qualities as a balsam, she anointed her left elbow with a plentiful application of that remedy.

‘You see I’ve made a good many investigations of one sort and another in my time,’ pursued Mr. Britain, with the profundity of a sage, ‘having been always of an inquiring turn of mind; and I’ve read a good many books about the general Rights of things and Wrongs of things, for I went into the literary line myself, when I began life.’

‘Did you though!’ cried the admiring Clemency.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Britain: ‘I was hid for the best part of two years behind a bookstall, ready to fly out if anybody pocketed a volume; and after that, I was light porter to a stay and mantua maker, in which capacity I was employed to carry about, in oilskin baskets, nothing but deceptions—which soured my spirits and disturbed my confidence in human nature; and after that, I heard a world of discussions in this house, which soured my spirits fresh; and my opinion after all is, that, as a safe and comfortable sweetener of the same, and as a pleasant guide through life, there’s nothing like a nutmeg-grater.’

Clemency was about to offer a suggestion, but he stopped her by anticipating it.

‘Com-bined,’ he added gravely, ‘with a thimble.’

‘Do as you wold, you know, and cetrer, eh!’ observed Clemency, folding her arms comfortably in her delight at this avowal, and patting her elbows. ‘Such a short cut, an’t it?’

«No», disse la sua allegra sorella, ricambiando l’abbraccio, «non posso dirglielo; lasceremo che le mie virtù siano immaginate da Alfred. Sarà generoso abbastanza, cara Marion; come il tuo».

Detto ciò, riprese il lavoro che aveva momentaneamente deposto quando sua sorella parlò con tanto fervore: e insieme al lavoro riprese l’antica canzone che piaceva al Dottore ascoltare. E il Dottore, ancora seduto nella sua poltrona, con i piedi calzati di pantofole allungati davanti a sé sul tappeto, ascoltava la melodia e batteva il ritmo sulla ginocchia con la lettera di Alfredo, guardando le sue due figlie e pensando che tra i molti fronzoli del mondo frivolo, questi fronzoli erano abbastanza piacevoli.

Clemency Newcome, nel frattempo, avendo compiuto la sua missione e attardandosi nella stanza finché non si era resa partecipe della notizia, scese in cucina, dove il suo coadiutore, Mr. Britain, stava banchettando dopo cena, circondato da una così abbondante collezione di lucidi coperchi delle pentole, ben-lucidate casseruole, splendenti copriportate, fiammanti bollitori e altri segni delle sue abitudini laboriose, disposti sulle pareti e sugli scaffali, che sedeva come al centro di una sala degli specchi. La maggior parte non offrivano ritratti molto lusinghieri di lui, certamente; né erano per nulla unanimi nelle loro riflessioni; poiché alcuni lo rendevano dal viso molto lungo, altri molto largo, alcuni tollerabilmente ben-aspetto, altri terribilmente brutti, secondo i loro diversi modi di riflettere: che erano altrettanto vari, rispetto a un fatto, come quelli di tanti tipi di uomini. Ma tutti concordavano sul fatto che in mezzo a loro sedeva, del tutto a suo agio, un individuo con una pipa in bocca e una brocca di birra al gomito, che annuiva in modo condiscendente a Clemency quando si sistemò allo stesso tavolo.

«Bene, Clemmy», disse Britannia, «come stai a quest’ora e quali sono le novità?»

Clemency gli diede la notizia che lui accolse con grande gentilezza. Una trasformazione cortese era avvenuta su Benjamin dalla testa ai piedi. Era molto più largo, molto più rosso, molto più allegro e molto più gioviale in tutti i sensi. Sembrava che il suo volto fosse stato prima stretto in un nodo ed ora si fosse districato e levigato.

«Ci sarà un altro lavoro per Snitchey e Craggs, immagino», osservò, aspirando lentamente la pipa. «Forse ci saranno altri testimoni da sentire per te e per me, Clemmy!»

«Oh!» rispose la sua graziosa compagna con il suo solito movimento delle sue articolazioni preferite «vorrei essere io al posto tuo, Britannia!»

‘Che cosa desideri?’

«Sta per sposarsi», disse Clemency.

Beniamino si tolse la pipa di bocca e rise di gusto. «Sì!» disse «sei proprio il soggetto adatto per questo! Povera Clem!» Clemency da parte sua rideva tanto quanto lui, e sembrava divertita dall’idea. «Sì», assentì lei, «sono proprio la persona giusta per questo; non è vero?»

«Non vi sposerete mai, sapete», disse il signor Britain riprendendo la pipa.

«Non credete che io lo farò mai?» disse Clemency con perfetta buona fede.

Il signor Britain scosse la testa: “Neanche per sogno!”

«Pensaci solo!» disse Clemency. «Beh! — Immagino che tu intenda farlo, Britannia, un giorno o l’altro; non è così?»

Una domanda così brusca su un argomento tanto importante richiedeva riflessione. Dopo aver soffiato fuori una grande nuvola di fumo e averla osservata con la testa prima da questa parte, poi da quella, come se fosse stata davvero la questione in esame e lui l’avesse scrutata sotto vari aspetti, il signor Britain rispose che non era del tutto chiaro al riguardo, ma—sì—pensava di poter arrivare a una conclusione alla fine.

«Le auguro ogni felicità, chiunque sia!» esclamò Clemency.

“Oh, la avrà”, disse Benjamin, “senza dubbio”.

«Ma non avrebbe condotto una vita così gioiosa come quella che conduce ora e non avrebbe avuto un marito così socievole come quello che ha», disse Clemency, appoggiandosi a metà sul tavolo e fissando la candela in modo retrospettivo, «se non fosse stato per—non che io l’abbia fatto di proposito, perché è stato un incidente, ne sono sicura—se non fosse stato per me; ora lo sarebbe stata, Britain?»

«Certamente no», rispose il signor Britain, che per questo momento si trovava in quello stato di alta apprezzamento della sua pipa, quando un uomo può aprire la bocca solo un pochino per parlare; e seduto immobile con lusso nella sua poltrona, poteva permettersi di girare solo gli occhi verso un compagno, e questo in modo molto passivo e grave. «Oh! Sono davvero grato a voi, sapete, Clem».

«Oh, che bello ci si sente a pensarci!» disse Clemency.

Nello stesso tempo, portando i suoi pensieri e la sua vista sulla cera della candela, e ricordandosi improvvisamente delle sue proprietà curative come balsamo, si cosparse il gomito sinistro con un’abbondante applicazione di quel rimedio.

«Vedete che ho fatto parecchie indagini di vario genere nel mio tempo», continuò il signor Britain con la profondità di un saggio, «avendo sempre avuto una mentalità curiosa; e ho letto molti libri sui diritti generali delle cose e sugli ingiusti torti che si commettono, perché io stesso mi sono dedicato alla carriera letteraria quando ho iniziato la mia vita.»

«L’avete fatto!», esclamò la ammirata Clemenza.

«Sì», disse il signor Britain: «Mi sono nascosto per quasi due anni dietro un banco dei libri, pronto a saltare fuori se qualcuno infilava in tasca un volume; e dopo, ho fatto il facchino leggero presso una sarta di corsetti e abiti da sera, dove mi occupavo di portare in giro, dentro cestini cerati, nient’altro che inganni — cosa che ha amareggiato il mio spirito e turbato la mia fiducia nella natura umana; e dopo ho ascoltato un sacco di discussioni in questa casa, che hanno nuovamente amareggiato il mio spirito; e alla fine, secondo me, come sicuro e comodo addolcente per tutto questo, e come piacevole guida nella vita, non c’è niente di meglio di un grattugia noce moscata.»

Clemency stava per fare una proposta, ma lui la fermò anticipandola.

“Combinato,” aggiunse con serietà, “con un ditale.”

«Fate come vi pare, sapete, e così via, eh!» osservò Clemency, incrociando le braccia con comodo nel suo entusiasmo per questa confessione e dandosi dei colpetti sui gomiti. «Che scorciatoia, non è vero?»

‘I’m not sure,’ said Mr. Britain, ‘that it’s what would be considered good philosophy. I’ve my doubts about that; but it wears well, and saves a quantity of snarling, which the genuine article don’t always.’

‘See how you used to go on once, yourself, you know!’ said Clemency.

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Britain. ‘But the most extraordinary thing, Clemmy, is that I should live to be brought round, through you. That’s the strange part of it. Through you! Why, I suppose you haven’t so much as half an idea in your head.’

Clemency, without taking the least offence, shook it, and laughed and hugged herself, and said, ‘No, she didn’t suppose she had.’

‘I’m pretty sure of it,’ said Mr. Britain.

‘Oh! I dare say you’re right,’ said Clemency. ‘I don’t pretend to none. I don’t want any.’

Benjamin took his pipe from his lips, and laughed till the tears ran down his face. ‘What a natural you are, Clemmy!’ he said, shaking his head, with an infinite relish of the joke, and wiping his eyes. Clemency, without the smallest inclination to dispute it, did the like, and laughed as heartily as he.

‘I can’t help liking you,’ said Mr. Britain; ‘you’re a regular good creature in your way, so shake hands, Clem. Whatever happens, I’ll always take notice of you, and be a friend to you.’

‘Will you?’ returned Clemency. ‘Well! that’s very good of you.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr. Britain, giving her his pipe to knock the ashes out of it; ‘I’ll stand by you. Hark! That’s a curious noise!’

‘Noise!’ repeated Clemency.

‘A footstep outside. Somebody dropping from the wall, it sounded like,’ said Britain. ‘Are they all abed up-stairs?’

‘Yes, all abed by this time,’ she replied.

‘Didn’t you hear anything?’

‘No.’

They both listened, but heard nothing.

‘I tell you what,’ said Benjamin, taking down a lantern. ‘I’ll have a look round, before I go to bed myself, for satisfaction’s sake. Undo the door while I light this, Clemmy.’

Clemency complied briskly; but observed as she did so, that he would only have his walk for his pains, that it was all his fancy, and so forth. Mr. Britain said ‘very likely;’ but sallied out, nevertheless, armed with the poker, and casting the light of the lantern far and near in all directions.

‘It’s as quiet as a churchyard,’ said Clemency, looking after him; ‘and almost as ghostly too!’

Glancing back into the kitchen, she cried fearfully, as a light figure stole into her view, ‘What’s that!’

‘Hush!’ said Marion in an agitated whisper. ‘You have always loved me, have you not!’

‘Loved you, child! You may be sure I have.’

‘I am sure. And I may trust you, may I not? There is no one else just now, in whom I can trust.’

‘Yes,’ said Clemency, with all her heart.

‘There is some one out there,’ pointing to the door, ‘whom I must see, and speak with, to-night. Michael Warden, for God’s sake retire! Not now!’

Clemency started with surprise and trouble as, following the direction of the speaker’s eyes, she saw a dark figure standing in the doorway.

‘In another moment you may be discovered,’ said Marion. ‘Not now! Wait, if you can, in some concealment. I will come presently.’

He waved his hand to her, and was gone. ‘Don’t go to bed. Wait here for me!’ said Marion, hurriedly. ‘I have been seeking to speak to you for an hour past. Oh, be true to me!’

Eagerly seizing her bewildered hand, and pressing it with both her own to her breast—an action more expressive, in its passion of entreaty, than the most eloquent appeal in words,—Marion withdrew; as the light of the returning lantern flashed into the room.

‘All still and peaceable. Nobody there. Fancy, I suppose,’ said Mr. Britain, as he locked and barred the door. ‘One of the effects of having a lively imagination. Halloa! Why, what’s the matter?’

Clemency, who could not conceal the effects of her surprise and concern, was sitting in a chair: pale, and trembling from head to foot.

‘Matter!’ she repeated, chafing her hands and elbows, nervously, and looking anywhere but at him. ‘That’s good in you, Britain, that is! After going and frightening one out of one’s life with noises and lanterns, and I don’t know what all. Matter! Oh, yes!’

‘If you’re frightened out of your life by a lantern, Clemmy,’ said Mr. Britain, composedly blowing it out and hanging it up again, ‘that apparition’s very soon got rid of. But you’re as bold as brass in general,’ he said, stopping to observe her; ‘and were, after the noise and the lantern too. What have you taken into your head? Not an idea, eh?’

But, as Clemency bade him good night very much after her usual fashion, and began to bustle about with a show of going to bed herself immediately, Little Britain, after giving utterance to the original remark that it was impossible to account for a woman’s whims, bade her good night in return, and taking up his candle strolled drowsily away to bed.

When all was quiet, Marion returned.

‘Open the door,’ she said; ‘and stand there close beside me, while I speak to him, outside.’

Timid as her manner was, it still evinced a resolute and settled purpose, such as Clemency could not resist. She softly unbarred the door: but before turning the key, looked round on the young creature waiting to issue forth when she should open it.

The face was not averted or cast down, but looking full upon her, in its pride of youth and beauty. Some simple sense of the slightness of the barrier that interposed itself between the happy home and honoured love of the fair girl, and what might be the desolation of that home, and shipwreck of its dearest treasure, smote so keenly on the tender heart of Clemency, and so filled it to overflowing with sorrow and compassion, that, bursting into tears, she threw her arms round Marion’s neck.

‘It’s little that I know, my dear,’ cried Clemency, ‘very little; but I know that this should not be. Think of what you do!’

«Non sono sicuro», disse il signor Britain, «che sia considerata una buona filosofia. Ho i miei dubbi al riguardo; ma si porta bene e risparmia un sacco di brontolii, cosa che l’articolo genuino non fa sempre.»

«Guarda come ti comportavi una volta, tu stesso lo sai!» disse Clemency.

«Ah!» disse il signor Britain «ma la cosa più straordinaria, Clemmy, è che io sia ancora vivo e mi abbia fatto tornare in sé attraverso di te. Questa è la parte strana della faccenda. Attraverso di te! Perché, immagino che tu non abbia nemmeno mezza idea in testa».

Clemency, senza prendersela minimamente, gli strinse la mano e rise e si abbracciò da sola e disse: «No, non credo di averlo fatto».

«Ne sono quasi sicuro», disse il signor Britain.

«Oh! Scommetto che avete ragione», disse Clemency, «non pretendo nulla del genere e non ne voglio».

Benjamin tolse la pipa dalle labbra e rise fino a far scorrere le lacrime lungo il viso. «Che ingenua sei, Clemmy!» disse, scrollando la testa con un gusto infinito per lo scherzo, asciugandosi gli occhi. Clemency, senza alcuna intenzione di contestare, fece altrettanto e rise altrettanto di cuore come lui.

«Non posso fare a meno di volerti bene», disse il signor Britain; «sei una creatura davvero buona nel tuo genere, quindi stringiamoci la mano, Clem. Qualunque cosa accada, terrò sempre conto di te e sarò un amico per te».

«Lo farai?» rispose Clemency. «Beh! sei molto gentile».

«Sì, sì», disse il signor Britain, porgendole la pipa per farne uscire le ceneri «ti sosterrò. Ascolta! Che rumore curioso!»

«Rumore!», ripeté Clemency.

«Un passo fuori. Qualcuno che cade dal muro, mi è parso di sentire», disse Britannia. «Sono tutti a letto al piano di sopra?»

«Sì, tutti a letto per quest’ora», rispose lei.

‘Non hai sentito nulla?’

‘No.’

Entrambi ascoltarono, ma non udirono nulla.

«Le dico una cosa», disse Benjamin, prendendo una lanterna. «Mi guarderò un po’ intorno prima di andare a letto io stesso, per tranquillità. Apri la porta mentre accendo questa, Clemmy».

Clemency acconsentì prontamente; ma osservò mentre lo faceva che lui avrebbe solo sprecato il suo tempo a fare una passeggiata, che era tutto frutto della sua fantasia e così via. Il signor Britain disse “molto probabile”; ma uscì ugualmente, armato del poker, e illuminando con la lanterna lontano e vicino in tutte le direzioni.

«È silenzioso come un cimitero», disse Clemency guardandolo allontanarsi, «e quasi altrettanto spettrale!»

Guardando indietro in cucina, gridò spaventata quando una figura chiara le apparve davanti: «Che cos’è!»

“Zitto!” disse Marion sussurrando agitata. “Mi hai sempre amato, vero?”

«Ti ho amato, bambino! Puoi star certo che l’ho fatto».

«Ne sono sicuro. E posso fidarmi di lei, vero? Non c’è nessun altro al momento in cui io possa avere fiducia».

«Sì», disse Clemenza con tutto il cuore.

«C’è qualcuno là fuori», indicando la porta, «che devo vedere e con cui devo parlare stasera. Michael Warden, per l’amor di Dio, ritirati! Non ora!»

Clemency si svegliò con sorpresa e preoccupazione quando, seguendo la direzione degli occhi del suo interlocutore, vide una figura scura che stava sulla porta.

«Tra un momento potreste essere scoperto», disse Marion. «Non ora! Aspettate, se possibile, nascosto da qualche parte. Tornerò presto».

Le fece un cenno con la mano e se ne andò. «Non andare a letto. Aspettami qui!» disse Marion in fretta. «Cerco di parlarti da un’ora. Oh, resta fedele a me!»

Afferrando con impeto la mano disorientata di lei e stringendola al seno con ambedue le sue — un gesto più espressivo, nella sua passione supplichevole, del più eloquente appello in parole — Marion si ritirò mentre la luce della lanterna che tornava lampeggiava nella stanza.

«Tutto tranquillo e pacifico. Nessuno in giro. Sarà stata la mia fantasia, immagino», disse il signor Britain mentre chiudeva a chiave e assicurava la porta. «Uno degli effetti di avere un’immaginazione vivace. Ehi! Ma che succede?»

Clemenza, che non riusciva a nascondere gli effetti della sua sorpresa e preoccupazione, era seduta su una sedia, pallida e tremante dalla testa ai piedi.

«Fatto!» ripeté lei strofinandosi nervosamente le mani e i gomiti, guardando dappertutto tranne che lui. «Questo è proprio da te, Britannia! Dopo esserti andata in giro a spaventare la gente a morte con rumori e lanterne, e non so cos’altro ancora! Fatto! Oh, sì!»

«Se ti spaventa a morte una lanterna, Clemmy», disse il signor Britain, spegnendola con calma e appendendola di nuovo, «quell’apparizione si sconfigge in un attimo. Ma sei generalmente coraggiosa come l’oro», aggiunse, fermandosi per osservarla; «e lo eri anche dopo il rumore e la lanterna. Cosa ti è venuto in mente? Niente di niente, eh?»

Ma mentre Clemency lo salutava con un buon notte molto simile al suo solito modo di fare, e cominciava a darsi da fare come se volesse andare subito a letto anche lei, Little Britain, dopo aver espresso l’originale osservazione che era impossibile spiegare i capricci di una donna, le restituì il buon notte e, presa la candela, si allontanò assonnato verso la sua camera.

Quando tutto fu tranquillo, Marion tornò.

«Aprite la porta», disse lei «e restate lì vicino a me mentre gli parlo, fuori.»

Timida com’era la sua maniera, essa rivelava ancora uno scopo risoluto e deciso, che Clemency non poteva resistere. Sganciò dolcemente il chiavistello: ma prima di girare la chiave, guardò indietro verso la giovane creatura che aspettava di uscire quando l’avesse aperta.

Il volto non era distolto o abbassato, ma la guardava pienamente, con il suo orgoglio di giovinezza e bellezza. Un semplice senso della fragilità dell’ostacolo che si frapponeva tra la felice casa e l’onorato amore della bella ragazza, e ciò che poteva essere la desolazione di quella casa, e il naufragio del suo tesoro più caro, colpì così profondamente il tenero cuore di Clemency, e lo riempì fino a traboccare di dolore e compassione, che, scoppiando in lacrime, gettò le braccia al collo di Marion.

«So poco, mia cara», esclamò Clemenza, «poco davvero; ma so che questo non dovrebbe essere. Pensa a quello che fai!»

‘I have thought of it many times,’ said Marion, gently.

‘Once more,’ urged Clemency. ‘Till to-morrow.’ Marion shook her head.

‘For Mr. Alfred’s sake,’ said Clemency, with homely earnestness. ‘Him that you used to love so dearly, once!’

She hid her face, upon the instant, in her hands, repeating ‘Once!’ as if it rent her heart.

‘Let me go out,’ said Clemency, soothing her. ‘I’ll tell him what you like. Don’t cross the door-step to-night. I’m sure no good will come of it. Oh, it was an unhappy day when Mr. Warden was ever brought here! Think of your good father, darling—of your sister.’

‘I have,’ said Marion, hastily raising her head. ‘You don’t know what I do. I must speak to him. You are the best and truest friend in all the world for what you have said to me, but I must take this step. Will you go with me, Clemency,’ she kissed her on her friendly face, ‘or shall I go alone?’

Sorrowing and wondering, Clemency turned the key, and opened the door. Into the dark and doubtful night that lay beyond the threshold, Marion passed quickly, holding by her hand.

In the dark night he joined her, and they spoke together earnestly and long; and the hand that held so fast by Clemency’s, now trembled, now turned deadly cold, now clasped and closed on hers, in the strong feeling of the speech it emphasised unconsciously. When they returned, he followed to the door, and pausing there a moment, seized the other hand, and pressed it to his lips. Then, stealthily withdrew.

The door was barred and locked again, and once again she stood beneath her father’s roof. Not bowed down by the secret that she brought there, though so young; but, with that same expression on her face for which I had no name before, and shining through her tears.

Again she thanked and thanked her humble friend, and trusted to her, as she said, with confidence, implicitly. Her chamber safely reached, she fell upon her knees; and with her secret weighing on her heart, could pray!

Could rise up from her prayers, so tranquil and serene, and bending over her fond sister in her slumber, look upon her face and smile—though sadly: murmuring as she kissed her forehead, how that Grace had been a mother to her, ever, and she loved her as a child!

Could draw the passive arm about her neck when lying down to rest—it seemed to cling there, of its own will, protectingly and tenderly even in sleep—and breathe upon the parted lips, God bless her!

Could sink into a peaceful sleep, herself; but for one dream, in which she cried out, in her innocent and touching voice, that she was quite alone, and they had all forgotten her.

A month soon passes, even at its tardiest pace. The month appointed to elapse between that night and the return, was quick of foot, and went by, like a vapour.

The day arrived. A raging winter day, that shook the old house, sometimes, as if it shivered in the blast. A day to make home doubly home. To give the chimney-corner new delights. To shed a ruddier glow upon the faces gathered round the hearth, and draw each fireside group into a closer and more social league, against the roaring elements without. Such a wild winter day as best prepares the way for shut-out night; for curtained rooms, and cheerful looks; for music, laughter, dancing, light, and jovial entertainment!

All these the Doctor had in store to welcome Alfred back. They knew that he could not arrive till night; and they would make the night air ring, he said, as he approached. All his old friends should congregate about him. He should not miss a face that he had known and liked. No! They should every one be there!

So, guests were bidden, and musicians were engaged, and tables spread, and floors prepared for active feet, and bountiful provision made, of every hospitable kind. Because it was the Christmas season, and his eyes were all unused to English holly and its sturdy green, the dancing-room was garlanded and hung with it; and the red berries gleamed an English welcome to him, peeping from among the leaves.

It was a busy day for all of them: a busier day for none of them than Grace, who noiselessly presided everywhere, and was the cheerful mind of all the preparations. Many a time that day (as well as many a time within the fleeting month preceding it), did Clemency glance anxiously, and almost fearfully, at Marion. She saw her paler, perhaps, than usual; but there was a sweet composure on her face that made it lovelier than ever.

At night when she was dressed, and wore upon her head a wreath that Grace had proudly twined about it—its mimic flowers were Alfred’s favourites, as Grace remembered when she chose them—that old expression, pensive, almost sorrowful, and yet so spiritual, high, and stirring, sat again upon her brow, enhanced a hundred-fold.

‘The next wreath I adjust on this fair head, will be a marriage wreath,’ said Grace; ‘or I am no true prophet, dear.’

Her sister smiled, and held her in her arms.

‘A moment, Grace. Don’t leave me yet. Are you sure that I want nothing more?’

Her care was not for that. It was her sister’s face she thought of, and her eyes were fixed upon it, tenderly.

‘My art,’ said Grace, ‘can go no farther, dear girl; nor your beauty. I never saw you look so beautiful as now.’

‘I never was so happy,’ she returned.

‘Ay, but there is a greater happiness in store. In such another home, as cheerful and as bright as this looks now,’ said Grace, ‘Alfred and his young wife will soon be living.’

She smiled again. ‘It is a happy home, Grace, in your fancy. I can see it in your eyes. I know it will be happy, dear. How glad I am to know it.’

‘Well,’ cried the Doctor, bustling in. ‘Here we are, all ready for Alfred, eh? He can’t be here until pretty late—an hour or so before midnight—so there’ll be plenty of time for making merry before he comes. He’ll not find us with the ice unbroken. Pile up the fire here, Britain! Let it shine upon the holly till it winks again. It’s a world of nonsense, Puss; true lovers and all the rest of it—all nonsense; but we’ll be nonsensical with the rest of ’em, and give our true lover a mad welcome. Upon my word!’ said the old Doctor, looking at his daughters proudly, ‘I’m not clear to-night, among other absurdities, but that I’m the father of two handsome girls.’

«Ci ho pensato molte volte», disse Marion dolcemente.

«Ancora una volta», insistette Clemency. «Fino a domani». Marion scosse la testa.

«Per il bene del signor Alfred», disse Clemency con semplice sincerità. «Di lui che un tempo amavate tanto!»

Si nascose il volto tra le mani e ripeté «Una volta!» come se quelle parole le straziassero il cuore.

«Permettetemi di uscire», disse Clemency, cercando di calmarla. «Gli dirò quello che volete. Non oltrepassate la soglia stasera. Sono sicura che non ne verrà niente di buono. Oh, fu un giorno infelice quando il signor Warden venne qui! Pensate a vostro padre così buono, tesoro, alla vostra sorella».

«Ho deciso», disse Marion, sollevando in fretta la testa. «Non sapete cosa faccio. Devo assolutamente parlargli. Siete l’amica migliore e più sincera di tutto il mondo per quello che mi avete detto, ma devo compiere questo passo. Verrai con me, Clemency», le diede un bacio sulla sua amichevole faccia, «oppure andrò da sola?»

Tra il dolore e la meraviglia, Clemency girò la chiave e aprì la porta. Nella notte oscura e incerta che si estendeva oltre la soglia, Marion passò rapidamente, tenendo per mano sua sorella.

Nella notte buia si unì a lei e parlarono insieme seriamente e a lungo; e la mano che stringeva così forte quella di Clemency ora tremava, ora diventava gelida, ora le afferrava e stringeva la sua in una presa decisa, per enfatizzare inconsciamente il sentimento delle parole. Quando tornarono indietro, lui la seguì fino alla porta, si fermò un attimo lì, prese l’altra mano e se la portò alle labbra. Poi si ritirò furtivamente.

La porta fu sbarrata e chiusa a chiave di nuovo, e ancora una volta lei si trovò sotto il tetto del padre. Non abbattuta dal segreto che portava con sé, nonostante la sua giovane età; ma con quell’espressione sul viso per cui prima non avevo un nome, e che brillava attraverso le lacrime.

Ancora una volta ringraziò e ringraziò la sua umile amica, e si affidò a lei, come disse, con fiducia, implicitamente. Giunta sana e salva nella sua camera, cadde in ginocchio; e col suo segreto che le gravava sul cuore, riuscì a pregare!

Poteva alzarsi dalle sue preghiere così tranquilla e serena, chinarsi sulla sua amata sorella addormentata, guardarle il viso e sorridere - anche se tristemente: mormorando mentre le baciava la fronte che Grace era stata una madre per lei sempre, e l’amava come un figlio!

Poteva cingere il braccio passivo intorno al suo collo quando si coricava per riposare: sembrava che vi rimanesse attaccato di sua spontanea volontà, protettivamente e teneramente anche nel sonno - e soffiare sulle labbra socchiuse, Dio la benedica!

Avrebbe potuto cadere in un sonno tranquillo, se non fosse stato per un sogno nel quale lei gridava con la sua voce innocente e commovente che era completamente sola e tutti l’avevano dimenticata.

Un mese passa presto, anche al suo ritmo più lento. Il mese stabilito per trascorrere tra quella notte e il ritorno fu veloce di piedi e passò come un vapore.

Giunse il giorno. Un furioso giorno d’inverno che scuoteva la vecchia casa, a volte come se tremasse nel vento. Un giorno che rendeva l’accoglienza doppia, l’accoglienza. Che dava nuovi piaceri all’angolo del camino. Che diffondeva un bagliore più rosso sui volti raccolti attorno al focolare, e riuniva ogni gruppo accanto al fuoco in una lega più stretta e socievole contro gli elementi che ruggivano all’esterno. Un giorno d’inverno così selvaggio da preparare al meglio la strada alla notte esclusa, alle stanze con le tende tirate, agli sguardi allegri; per la musica, il riso, la danza, la luce e gli intrattenimenti gioiosi!

Il Dottore aveva tutto questo in serbo per dare il benvenuto ad Alfredo al suo ritorno. Sapevano che non poteva arrivare prima di notte; e avrebbero fatto risuonare l’aria della notte, disse, mentre si avvicinava. Tutti i suoi vecchi amici dovevano radunarsi intorno a lui. Non avrebbe dovuto perdere una faccia che aveva conosciuto e apprezzato. No! Tutti sarebbero stati lì!

Così furono invitati gli ospiti e ingaggiati i musicisti, apparecchiate le tavole, preparate le sale per accogliere piedi danzanti e abbondantemente fornite di ogni sorta di provviste. Era il periodo natalizio, e i suoi occhi non erano abituati all’agrifoglio inglese e al suo verde robusto; così la sala da ballo fu addobbata con ghirlande e festoni di agrifoglio, e le bacche rosse brillavano come un benvenuto inglese tra i fogli.

Fu una giornata impegnativa per tutti loro: non fu più faticosa per nessuno di loro quanto lo fu per Grace, che presiedeva ovunque in silenzio ed era la mente allegra di tutti i preparativi. Molte volte quel giorno (così come molte volte nel mese fugace che l’aveva preceduta), Clemency lanciò a Marion sguardi ansiosi e quasi timorosi. La vedeva forse più pallida del solito; ma sul suo volto c’era una dolce compostezza che lo rendeva ancora più amabile di prima.

Di notte, quando era vestita e portava sulla testa una ghirlanda che Grace aveva orgogliosamente intrecciato attorno ad essa — i suoi fiori imitati erano quelli preferiti da Alfred, come Grace ricordò quando li scelse — quella vecchia espressione pensierosa, quasi triste eppure così spirituale, alta e commovente, si posò di nuovo sulla sua fronte, centuplicata.

«Il prossimo ghirlanda che metterò su questa bella testa sarà una ghirlanda nuziale», disse Grace, «o non sono un vero profeta, tesoro.»

Sua sorella sorrise e la strinse tra le sue braccia.

‘Un momento, Grace. Non andartene ancora. Sei sicura che non voglio altro?’

Ma non era di questo che si preoccupava. Pensava al volto della sorella, e lo fissava con dolcezza.

«La mia arte», disse Grace, «non può andare oltre, cara ragazza; né la tua bellezza. Non ti ho mai vista così bella come ora.»

«Non sono mai stata così felice», rispose lei.

«Sì, ma li attende una felicità ancora più grande. In un altro focolare altrettanto allegro e luminoso come questo appare ora», disse Grace, «presto vivranno Alfred e sua giovane moglie».

Sorrise di nuovo. «È una casa felice, Grace, nella tua immaginazione. Lo vedo nei tuoi occhi. So che sarà felice, cara. Sono così contenta di saperlo».

«Bene», esclamò il Dottore entrando di corsa. «Eccoci qui, tutti pronti per Alfredo, eh? Non potrà arrivare prima di molto tardi — un’ora o giù di lì prima di mezzanotte — quindi ci sarà tutto il tempo del mondo per divertirci prima che arrivi. Non troverà la compagnia con il ghiaccio intatto. Accatasta qui la legna, Britain! Fallo brillare sulle foglie di agrifoglio finché non luccicheranno di nuovo. È un mondo di assurdità, Puss; i veri amanti e tutto il resto — tutte assurdità; ma saremo altrettanto assurdi come loro e daremo al nostro vero innamorato una accoglienza folle. Parola mia!», disse il vecchio Dottore, guardando le sue figlie con orgoglio, «non sono sicuro stasera, tra tutte le altre assurdità, ma che io sia il padre di due ragazze bellissime».

‘All that one of them has ever done, or may do—may do, dearest father—to cause you pain or grief, forgive her,’ said Marion, ‘forgive her now, when her heart is full. Say that you forgive her. That you will forgive her. That she shall always share your love, and—,’ and the rest was not said, for her face was hidden on the old man’s shoulder.

‘Tut, tut, tut,’ said the Doctor gently. ‘Forgive! What have I to forgive? Heyday, if our true lovers come back to flurry us like this, we must hold ’em at a distance; we must send expresses out to stop ’em short upon the road, and bring ’em on a mile or two a day, until we’re properly prepared to meet ’em. Kiss me, Puss. Forgive! Why, what a silly child you are! If you had vexed and crossed me fifty times a day, instead of not at all, I’d forgive you everything, but such a supplication. Kiss me again, Puss. There! Prospective and retrospective—a clear score between us. Pile up the fire here! Would you freeze the people on this bleak December night! Let us be light, and warm, and merry, or I’ll not forgive some of you!’

So gaily the old Doctor carried it! And the fire was piled up, and the lights were bright, and company arrived, and a murmuring of lively tongues began, and already there was a pleasant air of cheerful excitement stirring through all the house.

More and more company came flocking in. Bright eyes sparkled upon Marion; smiling lips gave her joy of his return; sage mothers fanned themselves, and hoped she mightn’t be too youthful and inconstant for the quiet round of home; impetuous fathers fell into disgrace for too much exaltation of her beauty; daughters envied her; sons envied him; innumerable pairs of lovers profited by the occasion; all were interested, animated, and expectant.

Mr. and Mrs. Craggs came arm in arm, but Mrs. Snitchey came alone. ‘Why, what’s become of him?’ inquired the Doctor.

The feather of a Bird of Paradise in Mrs. Snitchey’s turban, trembled as if the Bird of Paradise were alive again, when she said that doubtless Mr. Craggs knew. She was never told.

‘That nasty office,’ said Mrs. Craggs.

‘I wish it was burnt down,’ said Mrs. Snitchey.

‘He’s—he’s—there’s a little matter of business that keeps my partner rather late,’ said Mr. Craggs, looking uneasily about him.

‘Oh-h! Business. Don’t tell me!’ said Mrs. Snitchey.

‘We know what business means,’ said Mrs. Craggs.

But their not knowing what it meant, was perhaps the reason why Mrs. Snitchey’s Bird of Paradise feather quivered so portentously, and why all the pendant bits on Mrs. Craggs’s ear-rings shook like little bells.

‘I wonder you could come away, Mr. Craggs,’ said his wife.

‘Mr. Craggs is fortunate, I’m sure!’ said Mrs. Snitchey.

‘That office so engrosses ’em,’ said Mrs. Craggs.

‘A person with an office has no business to be married at all,’ said Mrs. Snitchey.

Then, Mrs. Snitchey said, within herself, that that look of hers had pierced to Craggs’s soul, and he knew it; and Mrs. Craggs observed to Craggs, that ‘his Snitcheys’ were deceiving him behind his back, and he would find it out when it was too late.

Still, Mr. Craggs, without much heeding these remarks, looked uneasily about until his eye rested on Grace, to whom he immediately presented himself.

‘Good evening, ma’am,’ said Craggs. ‘You look charmingly. Your—Miss—your sister, Miss Marion, is she—’

‘Oh, she’s quite well, Mr. Craggs.’

‘Yes—I—is she here?’ asked Craggs.

‘Here! Don’t you see her yonder? Going to dance?’ said Grace.

Mr. Craggs put on his spectacles to see the better; looked at her through them, for some time; coughed; and put them, with an air of satisfaction, in their sheath again, and in his pocket.

Now the music struck up, and the dance commenced. The bright fire crackled and sparkled, rose and fell, as though it joined the dance itself, in right good fellowship. Sometimes, it roared as if it would make music too. Sometimes, it flashed and beamed as if it were the eye of the old room: it winked too, sometimes, like a knowing patriarch, upon the youthful whisperers in corners. Sometimes, it sported with the holly-boughs; and, shining on the leaves by fits and starts, made them look as if they were in the cold winter night again, and fluttering in the wind. Sometimes its genial humour grew obstreperous, and passed all bounds; and then it cast into the room, among the twinkling feet, with a loud burst, a shower of harmless little sparks, and in its exultation leaped and bounded, like a mad thing, up the broad old chimney.

Another dance was near its close, when Mr. Snitchey touched his partner, who was looking on, upon the arm.

Mr. Craggs started, as if his familiar had been a spectre.

‘Is he gone?’ he asked.

‘Hush! He has been with me,’ said Snitchey, ‘for three hours and more. He went over everything. He looked into all our arrangements for him, and was very particular indeed. He—Humph!’

The dance was finished. Marion passed close before him, as he spoke. She did not observe him, or his partner; but, looked over her shoulder towards her sister in the distance, as she slowly made her way into the crowd, and passed out of their view.

‘You see! All safe and well,’ said Mr. Craggs. ‘He didn’t recur to that subject, I suppose?’

‘Not a word.’

‘And is he really gone? Is he safe away?’

‘He keeps to his word. He drops down the river with the tide in that shell of a boat of his, and so goes out to sea on this dark night!—a dare-devil he is—before the wind. There’s no such lonely road anywhere else. That’s one thing. The tide flows, he says, an hour before midnight—about this time. I’m glad it’s over.’ Mr. Snitchey wiped his forehead, which looked hot and anxious.

«Tutto ciò che una di loro ha mai fatto o potrebbe fare — potrebbe fare, caro padre — per causarti dolore o afflizione, perdonala», disse Marion, «perdonala ora, quando il suo cuore è pieno. Di’ che la perdoni. Che la perdonerai. Che lei condividerà sempre il tuo amore, e—,» e il resto non fu detto, perché il suo viso era nascosto sulla spalla del vecchio.

«Tut, tut, tut», disse il dottore dolcemente. «Perdonare! Cosa dovrei perdonare? Ehi, se i nostri veri amanti tornano a turbare così la nostra tranquillità, dovremo tenerli a distanza; dovremo mandare corrieri per fermarli sulla strada, e farli venire di un miglio o due al giorno, finché non saremo pronti ad accoglierli. Baciala, Puss. Perdonare! Ma che sciocca bambina sei! Se mi avessi irritato e contrariato cinquanta volte al giorno, invece di non averlo fatto affatto, ti perdonerei tutto, ma una tale supplica! Baciala ancora, Puss. Ecco! Prospettiva e retrospettiva - un conto chiaro tra noi. Accatastate la fiamma qui! Volete far gelare le persone in questa fredda notte di dicembre? Sii leggera, calda e allegra, o non perdonerò alcuni di voi!»

E così allegramente il vecchio dottore lo portò avanti! E il fuoco era acceso e le luci erano luminose, e arrivarono gli ospiti, e cominciò un mormorio di voci vivaci, e già si respirava una piacevole aria di allegra eccitazione che pervadeva tutta la casa.

Sempre più gente accorreva. Occhi lucenti brillavano su Marion; labbra sorridenti le esprimevano la gioia del suo ritorno; sagge madri si agitavano con i loro ventagli e speravano che non fosse troppo giovane e inconstante per il tranquillo giro della casa; padri impetuosi cadevano in disgrazia perché esaltavano troppo la sua bellezza; le figlie le erano invidiose; i figli invidiavano lui; innumerevoli coppie di innamorati approfittarono dell’occasione; tutti erano interessati, animati e pieni d’attesa.

Il signor e la signora Craggs arrivarono a braccetto, ma la signora Snitchey venne da sola. «Perché, che ne è stato di lui?» chiese il dottore.

La piuma di un uccello del paradiso nel turbante della signora Snitchey vibrò come se l’uccello del paradiso fosse tornato in vita, quando disse che senza dubbio il signor Craggs lo sapeva. A lei non fu mai detto nulla.

«Quell’ufficio sgradevole», disse la signora Craggs.

«Vorrei che fosse bruciato», disse la signora Snitchey.

«Lui, lui, c’è una piccola questione di affari che trattiene il mio socio fino a tardi», disse il signor Craggs guardandosi intorno con aria inquieta.

«Oh-oh! Affari. Non dirmelo!» disse la signora Snitchey.

«Noi sappiamo che cosa significa affari», disse la signora Craggs.

Ma il fatto che non sapessero cosa significasse era forse la ragione per cui la piuma del uccello del paradiso della signora Snitchey vibrava in modo così portentoso, e perché tutti i pezzi pendenti degli orecchini della signora Craggs tremavano come piccole campane.

«Mi chiedo se lei potrebbe allontanarsi, signor Craggs», disse sua moglie.

«Il signor Craggs è fortunato, ne sono sicura!» disse la signora Snitchey.

«Quell’ufficio li assorbe così tanto», disse la signora Craggs.

«Una persona che ha un ufficio non dovrebbe sposarsi affatto», disse la signora Snitchey.

Poi la signora Snitchey disse tra sé che quello sguardo suo aveva trapassato fino all’anima di Craggs e lui lo sapeva; e la signora Craggs osservò a Craggs che “i suoi Snitcheys” lo stavano ingannando alle sue spalle, e se ne sarebbe accorto quando fosse stato troppo tardi.

Tuttavia il signor Craggs, senza prestare molta attenzione a queste osservazioni, guardò in giro con aria preoccupata finché i suoi occhi si posarono su Grace, a cui si presentò immediatamente.

«Buonasera, signora», disse Craggs. «Avete un aspetto incantevole. La vostra, la signorina, vostra sorella, la signorina Marion, è, »

«Oh, sta benissimo, signor Craggs».

«Sì—io—è qui?» chiese Craggs.

«Ecco! Non la vedi laggiù? Sta per andare a ballare?», disse Grace.

Il signor Craggs si mise gli occhiali per vedere meglio; la guardò attraverso di essi per qualche tempo; tossì; e li ripose con aria soddisfatta nel fodero e poi in tasca.

Ora la musica attaccò e il ballo ebbe inizio. Il vivido fuoco scoppiettava e scintillava, si alzava e cadeva come se partecipasse anch’esso al ballo, in perfetta armonia. A volte ruggiva come se volesse fare musica anche lui. A volte brillava e splendeva come se fosse l’occhio della vecchia stanza: a volte ammiccava, come un patriarca saggio, verso i giovani bisbigliatori negli angoli. A volte giocava con le fronde di agrifoglio; e illuminando a intermittenza le foglie, le faceva sembrare di nuovo in una fredda notte d’inverno, sventolanti nel vento. A volte il suo geniale umore diventava irrequieto e superava ogni limite; e allora lanciava nella stanza, tra i piedi che danzavano, con un forte scoppio, una pioggia di innocue piccole scintille, e nella sua esultanza saltellava e si agitava come una cosa pazza su per il grande vecchio camino.

Un’altra danza stava per concludersi quando il signor Snitchey toccò sul braccio la sua compagna, che lo osservava.

Il signor Craggs ebbe un sussulto come se il suo familiare fosse stato uno spettro.

«È andato via?» chiese.

«Ssst! È stato con me», disse Snitchey, «per tre ore buone e più ancora. Ha ripassato tutto. Ha esaminato tutti i nostri accordi per lui, e si è dimostrato davvero molto particolareggiato. Lui. Uhm!»

La danza era finita. Marion gli passò vicino mentre lui parlava. Non lo notò né notò il suo partner; ma guardò oltre la spalla verso sua sorella in lontananza, mentre si faceva lentamente strada tra la folla e scompariva dalla loro vista.

«Vedete! Tutti sani e salvi», disse il signor Craggs. «Non ha ripreso quell’argomento, immagino?»

‘Niente da dire.’

‘È davvero partito? È al sicuro?’

«Mantiene la parola data. Scende lungo il fiume con la marea in quella barca fragile e così va a finire in mare in questa buia notte! — è un temerario — davanti al vento. Non esiste una strada così solitaria da nessun’altra parte. Questa è una cosa. La marea, dice lui, fluisce un’ora prima di mezzanotte — circa a questa ora. Sono contento che sia finita». Il signor Snitchey si asciugò la fronte, che appariva calda e preoccupata.

‘What do you think,’ said Mr. Craggs, ‘about—’

‘Hush!’ replied his cautious partner, looking straight before him. ‘I understand you. Don’t mention names, and don’t let us, seem to be talking secrets. I don’t know what to think; and to tell you the truth, I don’t care now. It’s a great relief. His self-love deceived him, I suppose. Perhaps the young lady coquetted a little. The evidence would seem to point that way. Alfred not arrived?’

‘Not yet,’ said Mr. Craggs. ‘Expected every minute.’

‘Good.’ Mr. Snitchey wiped his forehead again. ‘It’s a great relief. I haven’t been so nervous since we’ve been in partnership. I intend to spend the evening now, Mr. Craggs.’

Mrs. Craggs and Mrs. Snitchey joined them as he announced this intention. The Bird of Paradise was in a state of extreme vibration, and the little bells were ringing quite audibly.

‘It has been the theme of general comment, Mr. Snitchey,’ said Mrs. Snitchey. ‘I hope the office is satisfied.’

‘Satisfied with what, my dear?’ asked Mr. Snitchey.

‘With the exposure of a defenceless woman to ridicule and remark,’ returned his wife. ‘That is quite in the way of the office, that is.’

‘I really, myself,’ said Mrs. Craggs, ‘have been so long accustomed to connect the office with everything opposed to domesticity, that I am glad to know it as the avowed enemy of my peace. There is something honest in that, at all events.’

‘My dear,’ urged Mr. Craggs, ‘your good opinion is invaluable, but I never avowed that the office was the enemy of your peace.’

‘No,’ said Mrs. Craggs, ringing a perfect peal upon the little bells. ‘Not you, indeed. You wouldn’t be worthy of the office, if you had the candour to.’

‘As to my having been away to-night, my dear,’ said Mr. Snitchey, giving her his arm, ‘the deprivation has been mine, I’m sure; but, as Mr. Craggs knows—’

Mrs. Snitchey cut this reference very short by hitching her husband to a distance, and asking him to look at that man. To do her the favour to look at him!

‘At which man, my dear?’ said Mr. Snitchey.

‘Your chosen companion; I’m no companion to you, Mr. Snitchey.’

‘Yes, yes, you are, my dear,’ he interposed.

‘No, no, I’m not,’ said Mrs. Snitchey with a majestic smile. ‘I know my station. Will you look at your chosen companion, Mr. Snitchey; at your referee, at the keeper of your secrets, at the man you trust; at your other self, in short?’

The habitual association of Self with Craggs, occasioned Mr. Snitchey to look in that direction.

‘If you can look that man in the eye this night,’ said Mrs. Snitchey, ‘and not know that you are deluded, practised upon, made the victim of his arts, and bent down prostrate to his will by some unaccountable fascination which it is impossible to explain and against which no warning of mine is of the least avail, all I can say is—I pity you!’

At the very same moment Mrs. Craggs was oracular on the cross subject. Was it possible, she said, that Craggs could so blind himself to his Snitcheys, as not to feel his true position? Did he mean to say that he had seen his Snitcheys come into that room, and didn’t plainly see that there was reservation, cunning, treachery, in the man? Would he tell her that his very action, when he wiped his forehead and looked so stealthily about him, didn’t show that there was something weighing on the conscience of his precious Snitcheys (if he had a conscience), that wouldn’t bear the light? Did anybody but his Snitcheys come to festive entertainments like a burglar?—which, by the way, was hardly a clear illustration of the case, as he had walked in very mildly at the door. And would he still assert to her at noon-day (it being nearly midnight), that his Snitcheys were to be justified through thick and thin, against all facts, and reason, and experience?

Neither Snitchey nor Craggs openly attempted to stem the current which had thus set in, but, both were content to be carried gently along it, until its force abated. This happened at about the same time as a general movement for a country dance; when Mr. Snitchey proposed himself as a partner to Mrs. Craggs, and Mr. Craggs gallantly offered himself to Mrs. Snitchey; and after some such slight evasions as ‘why don’t you ask somebody else?’ and ‘you’ll be glad, I know, if I decline,’ and ‘I wonder you can dance out of the office’ (but this jocosely now), each lady graciously accepted, and took her place.

It was an old custom among them, indeed, to do so, and to pair off, in like manner, at dinners and suppers; for they were excellent friends, and on a footing of easy familiarity. Perhaps the false Craggs and the wicked Snitchey were a recognised fiction with the two wives, as Doe and Roe, incessantly running up and down bailiwicks, were with the two husbands: or, perhaps the ladies had instituted, and taken upon themselves, these two shares in the business, rather than be left out of it altogether. But, certain it is, that each wife went as gravely and steadily to work in her vocation as her husband did in his, and would have considered it almost impossible for the Firm to maintain a successful and respectable existence, without her laudable exertions.

But, now, the Bird of Paradise was seen to flutter down the middle; and the little bells began to bounce and jingle in poussette; and the Doctor’s rosy face spun round and round, like an expressive pegtop highly varnished; and breathless Mr. Craggs began to doubt already, whether country dancing had been made ‘too easy,’ like the rest of life; and Mr. Snitchey, with his nimble cuts and capers, footed it for Self and Craggs, and half-a-dozen more.

Now, too, the fire took fresh courage, favoured by the lively wind the dance awakened, and burnt clear and high. It was the Genius of the room, and present everywhere. It shone in people’s eyes, it sparkled in the jewels on the snowy necks of girls, it twinkled at their ears as if it whispered to them slyly, it flashed about their waists, it flickered on the ground and made it rosy for their feet, it bloomed upon the ceiling that its glow might set off their bright faces, and it kindled up a general illumination in Mrs. Craggs’s little belfry.

‘Che ne pensa,’ disse il signor Craggs, ‘di-’

«Ssst!» rispose il suo cauto compagno, guardando dritto davanti a sé. «Ti capisco. Non menzionare i nomi e non facciamo sembrare che stiamo parlando di segreti. Non so cosa pensare; e per dirti la verità, ora non mi interessa. È un grande sollievo. La sua auto-adorazione l’ha ingannato, immagino. Forse la giovane signora ha flirtato un po’. Le prove sembrerebbero indicare questa direzione. Alfredo non è arrivato?»

‘Non ancora,’ disse il signor Craggs, ‘si aspetta da un momento all’altro.’

«Bene». Il signor Snitchey si asciugò di nuovo la fronte. «È un grande sollievo. Non ero così nervoso da quando siamo entrati in società. Intendo trascorrere serenamente questa sera, signor Craggs».

La signora Craggs e la signora Snitchey si unirono a loro mentre lui annunciava questa intenzione. Il Uccello del Paradiso era in uno stato di estrema vibrazione, e le campane suonavano abbastanza udibilmente.

«È stato oggetto di commenti generali, signor Snitchey», disse la signora Snitchey. «Spero che l’ufficio sia soddisfatto».

«Soddisfatto di che cosa, mio caro?» chiese il signor Snitchey.

«Con l’esposizione di una donna indifesa al ridicolo e ai commenti», ribatté sua moglie. «Questo è proprio nel modo dell’ufficio, questo sì».

«In verità io stessa», disse la signora Craggs, «sono stata così a lungo abituata ad associare l’ufficio con tutto ciò che è contrario alla vita domestica, che sono contenta di sapere che esso è il dichiarato nemico della mia pace. In questo c’è qualcosa di onesto, almeno».

«Mia cara», insistette il signor Craggs, «la sua buona opinione è inestimabile, ma io non ho mai dichiarato che l’ufficio fosse il nemico della sua pace.»

«No», disse la signora Craggs, suonando un perfetto scampanio sulle piccole campane. «Non certo voi. Non sareste degno dell’incarico se aveste il coraggio di farlo».

«Per quanto riguarda la mia assenza di questa sera, mia cara», disse il signor Snitchey, offrendole il braccio, «la privazione è stata certamente mia; ma, come sa il signor Craggs—»

La signora Snitchey interruppe bruscamente questo accenno allontanando il marito e pregandolo di guardare quell’uomo. Di volerle fare la cortesia di guardarlo!

«A quale uomo, mio caro?» disse il signor Snitchey.

‘Il tuo compagno scelto; io non sono un compagno per te, signor Snitchey.’

«Sì, sì, lo sei, mia cara», intervenne lui.

«No, no, non lo sono», disse la signora Snitchey con un sorriso maestoso. «Conosco il mio posto. Vuoi guardare il tuo compagno scelto, signor Snitchey; il tuo arbitro, il custode dei tuoi segreti, l’uomo di cui ti fidi; in breve, il tuo altro io?»

L’abituale associazione del Sé con Craggs indusse il signor Snitchey a guardare in quella direzione.

«Se questa sera potete guardare quell’uomo negli occhi», disse la signora Snitchey, «e non capire di essere ingannato, manipolato, fatto vittima delle sue arti e piegato in adorazione alla sua volontà da un fascino inspiegabile che è impossibile spiegare e contro il quale nessun mio avvertimento può servire a nulla, tutto ciò che posso dire è: vi compatisco!»

Proprio nello stesso momento la signora Craggs si esprimeva in modo oracolare sul tema della croce. Era possibile, diceva lei, che Craggs potesse essere così cieco nei confronti dei suoi Snitcheys da non capire qual era la sua vera posizione? Intendeva forse dire che aveva visto i suoi Snitcheys entrare in quella stanza e non si rendeva conto che quell’uomo nascondeva una riserva, un’astuzia, una tradimento? Avrebbe osato dirle che il suo stesso comportamento, quando si asciugava la fronte e guardava furtivamente intorno a sé, non dimostrava forse che c’era qualcosa che gravava sulla coscienza dei suoi preziosi Snitcheys (se ne aveva una), qualcosa che non poteva sopportare la luce? C’era forse qualcuno, tranne i suoi Snitcheys, che veniva a feste e divertimenti come un ladro?—il che, tra parentesi, era difficilmente un esempio chiaro del caso, dato che lui era entrato molto tranquillamente dalla porta. E avrebbe ancora osato dirle a mezzogiorno (essendo quasi mezzanotte) che i suoi Snitcheys dovevano essere giustificati in ogni circostanza, contro tutti i fatti, la ragione e l’esperienza?

Né Snitchey né Craggs tentarono apertamente di arginare la corrente che si era così scatenata, ma entrambi furono contenti di lasciarsi trasportare dolcemente da essa fino a quando non si placò. Ciò accadde circa nello stesso momento in cui ci fu un movimento generale per una danza campestre; quando il signor Snitchey propose se stesso come partner alla signora Craggs, e il signor Craggs offrì galantemente sé stesso alla signora Snitchey; e dopo alcune lievi schermaglie come ‘perché non chiedi a qualcun altro?’ e ‘sarai contento, lo so, se rifiuto’, e ‘mi domando che tu possa ballare fuori dall’ufficio’ (ma questa era ormai una battuta scherzosa), ciascuna signora accettò con grazia e prese il suo posto.

Tra loro era una vecchia usanza, del resto, fare così e accoppiarsi allo stesso modo durante cene e pranzi; erano infatti ottimi amici e si trattavano con grande familiarità. Forse il falso Craggs e lo scellerato Snitchey erano un’immagine riconosciuta dalle due mogli, così come Doe e Roe che correvano incessantemente su e giù per i circondari lo erano per i due mariti; o forse le signore avevano istituito e assunto questi due ruoli nell’affare piuttosto che essere escluse del tutto. Ma è certo che ogni moglie si dedicava alla sua vocazione con la stessa serietà e costanza di suo marito, e avrebbe considerato quasi impossibile per l’azienda mantenere un’esistenza rispettabile e di successo senza i suoi meritevoli sforzi.

Ma ora l’uccello del paradiso si vide volteggiare al centro della scena; e le piccole campane cominciarono a rimbalzare e tintinnare in poussette; e il viso roseo del dottore girava vorticosamente, come una altamente laccata trottola espressiva; e il senza fiato signor Craggs cominciò già ad avere dubbi se la danza di campagna fosse stata resa “troppo facile”, come il resto della vita; e il signor Snitchey, con i suoi agili tagli e capriole, ballava per Se stesso e Craggs, e altri mezza dozzina.

Ora anche il fuoco riprendeva nuovo coraggio, favorito dal vivace vento che la danza aveva suscitato, e ardeva luminoso e alto. Era lo spirito della stanza, presente ovunque. Brillava negli occhi delle persone, scintillava nei gioielli sui colli candidi delle ragazze, luccicava alle loro orecchie come se sussurrasse loro all’orecchio con fare malizioso, lampeggiava intorno ai loro fianchi, tremolava sul pavimento e lo tingeva di rosso per i loro piedi, fioriva sul soffitto affinché il suo bagliore mettesse in risalto i loro volti luminosi, e accendeva una generale illuminazione nel piccolo campanile della signora Craggs.

Now, too, the lively air that fanned it, grew less gentle as the music quickened and the dance proceeded with new spirit; and a breeze arose that made the leaves and berries dance upon the wall, as they had often done upon the trees; and the breeze rustled in the room as if an invisible company of fairies, treading in the foot-steps of the good substantial revellers, were whirling after them. Now, too, no feature of the Doctor’s face could be distinguished as he spun and spun; and now there seemed a dozen Birds of Paradise in fitful flight; and now there were a thousand little bells at work; and now a fleet of flying skirts was ruffled by a little tempest, when the music gave in, and the dance was over.

Hot and breathless as the Doctor was, it only made him the more impatient for Alfred’s coming.

‘Anything been seen, Britain? Anything been heard?’

‘Too dark to see far, sir. Too much noise inside the house to hear.’

‘That’s right! The gayer welcome for him. How goes the time?’

‘Just twelve, sir. He can’t be long, sir.’

‘Stir up the fire, and throw another log upon it,’ said the Doctor. ‘Let him see his welcome blazing out upon the night—good boy!—as he comes along!’

He saw it—Yes! From the chaise he caught the light, as he turned the corner by the old church. He knew the room from which it shone. He saw the wintry branches of the old trees between the light and him. He knew that one of those trees rustled musically in the summer time at the window of Marion’s chamber.

The tears were in his eyes. His heart throbbed so violently that he could hardly bear his happiness. How often he had thought of this time—pictured it under all circumstances—feared that it might never come—yearned, and wearied for it—far away!

Again the light! Distinct and ruddy; kindled, he knew, to give him welcome, and to speed him home. He beckoned with his hand, and waved his hat, and cheered out, loud, as if the light were they, and they could see and hear him, as he dashed towards them through the mud and mire, triumphantly.

Stop! He knew the Doctor, and understood what he had done. He would not let it be a surprise to them. But he could make it one, yet, by going forward on foot. If the orchard-gate were open, he could enter there; if not, the wall was easily climbed, as he knew of old; and he would be among them in an instant.

He dismounted from the chaise, and telling the driver—even that was not easy in his agitation—to remain behind for a few minutes, and then to follow slowly, ran on with exceeding swiftness, tried the gate, scaled the wall, jumped down on the other side, and stood panting in the old orchard.

There was a frosty rime upon the trees, which, in the faint light of the clouded moon, hung upon the smaller branches like dead garlands. Withered leaves crackled and snapped beneath his feet, as he crept softly on towards the house. The desolation of a winter night sat brooding on the earth, and in the sky. But, the red light came cheerily towards him from the windows; figures passed and repassed there; and the hum and murmur of voices greeted his ear sweetly.

Listening for hers: attempting, as he crept on, to detach it from the rest, and half believing that he heard it: he had nearly reached the door, when it was abruptly opened, and a figure coming out encountered his. It instantly recoiled with a half-suppressed cry.

‘Clemency,’ he said, ‘don’t you know me?’

‘Don’t come in!’ she answered, pushing him back. ‘Go away. Don’t ask me why. Don’t come in.’

‘What is the matter?’ he exclaimed.

‘I don’t know. I—I am afraid to think. Go back. Hark!’

There was a sudden tumult in the house. She put her hands upon her ears. A wild scream, such as no hands could shut out, was heard; and Grace—distraction in her looks and manner—rushed out at the door.

‘Grace!’ He caught her in his arms. ‘What is it! Is she dead!’

She disengaged herself, as if to recognise his face, and fell down at his feet.

A crowd of figures came about them from the house. Among them was her father, with a paper in his hand.

‘What is it!’ cried Alfred, grasping his hair with his hands, and looking in an agony from face to face, as he bent upon his knee beside the insensible girl. ‘Will no one look at me? Will no one speak to me? Does no one know me? Is there no voice among you all, to tell me what it is!’

There was a murmur among them. ‘She is gone.’

‘Gone!’ he echoed.

‘Fled, my dear Alfred!’ said the Doctor, in a broken voice, and with his hands before his face. ‘Gone from her home and us. To-night! She writes that she has made her innocent and blameless choice—entreats that we will forgive her—prays that we will not forget her—and is gone.’

‘With whom? Where?’

He started up, as if to follow in pursuit; but, when they gave way to let him pass, looked wildly round upon them, staggered back, and sunk down in his former attitude, clasping one of Grace’s cold hands in his own.

There was a hurried running to and fro, confusion, noise, disorder, and no purpose. Some proceeded to disperse themselves about the roads, and some took horse, and some got lights, and some conversed together, urging that there was no trace or track to follow. Some approached him kindly, with the view of offering consolation; some admonished him that Grace must be removed into the house, and that he prevented it. He never heard them, and he never moved.

The snow fell fast and thick. He looked up for a moment in the air, and thought that those white ashes strewn upon his hopes and misery, were suited to them well. He looked round on the whitening ground, and thought how Marion’s foot-prints would be hushed and covered up, as soon as made, and even that remembrance of her blotted out. But he never felt the weather and he never stirred.

Ora anche l’aria vivace che la accarezzava divenne meno gentile man mano che la musica accelerava e il ballo procedeva con nuovo slancio; e si levò una brezza che fece danzare le foglie e i frutti sul muro, come avevano spesso fatto sugli alberi; e la brezza frusciava nella stanza come se un’invisibile compagnia di fate, calpestando le orme dei buoni festaioli sostanziali, stesse vorticando dietro di loro. Ora anche il volto del Dottore non poteva più essere distinto mentre girava e girava; ora sembravano una dozzina di Uccelli del Paradiso in un volo intermittente; ora c’erano mille piccole campane al lavoro; ora una flotta di gonne volanti fu scompigliata da una piccola tempesta, quando la musica si fermò e il ballo finì.

Anche se il dottore era accaldato e senza fiato, ciò lo rese ancora più impaziente per l’arrivo di Alfred.

‘È stato visto qualcosa, Britain? È stato sentito qualcosa?’

«Troppo buio per vedere lontano, signore. Troppo rumore all’interno della casa per sentire».

«Esatto! Un’accoglienza più allegra per lui. Come passa il tempo?»

‘Appena dodici anni, signore. Non può tardare molto, signore.’

«Attizza il fuoco e getta un altro ceppo sopra», disse il Dottore, «perché veda la sua accoglienza che arde nella notte - bravo ragazzo! - mentre sta arrivando!»

Lo vide—Sì! Dal calesse colse la luce, mentre girava l’angolo vicino alla vecchia chiesa. Conosceva la stanza da cui proveniva. Vide i rami invernali degli alberi vecchi tra lui e la luce. Sapeva che uno di quegli alberi frusciava musicalmente nel tempo estivo alla finestra della camera di Marion.

Gli occhi gli si riempirono di lacrime. Il cuore gli batteva così forte che a malapena riusciva a sopportare la sua felicità. Quante volte aveva pensato a questo momento—lo aveva immaginato in ogni circostanza—temeva che non sarebbe mai arrivato—lo desiderava, ne era stanco—lontano!

Ancora la luce! Distinta e rossastra; accesa, lo sapeva, per dargli il benvenuto e per affrettare il suo ritorno a casa. Fece un cenno con la mano, agitò il cappello e gridò forte, come se la luce fossero loro e potessero vederlo e sentirlo mentre si avvicinava trionfalmente a loro attraverso fango e melma.

Fermatevi! Conosceva il dottore e capiva cosa aveva fatto. Non voleva che fosse una sorpresa per loro. Ma poteva ancora farla, continuando a piedi. Se il cancello del frutteto era aperto, poteva entrare lì; se no, il muro si arrampicava facilmente, come sapeva da tempo; e sarebbe stato tra loro in un attimo.

Smontò dalla carrozza e disse al cocchiere — anche questo non fu facile nella sua agitazione — di aspettare qualche minuto e poi di seguirlo lentamente; quindi corse con estrema velocità, provò la porta, scavalcò il muro, saltò giù dall’altra parte e rimase ansante nel vecchio frutteto.

C’era una brina gelida sugli alberi che, nella fioca luce della luna velata dalle nuvole, pendeva dai rami più piccoli come ghirlande morte. Le foglie secche crepitavano e scricchiolavano sotto i suoi piedi mentre si avvicinava furtivamente alla casa. La desolazione di una notte d’inverno gravava sulla terra e nel cielo. Ma la luce rossa proveniente dalle finestre lo accolse allegramente; figure passavano e ripassavano davanti a quelle; e il brusio delle voci gli giungeva dolce all’orecchio.

Ascoltando la sua voce: cercando, mentre si avvicinava furtivamente, di distinguerla dalle altre e credendo quasi di udirlo: aveva quasi raggiunto la porta quando questa fu aperta bruscamente e una figura che usciva gli andò incontro. Questa indietreggiò immediatamente con un grido soffocato.

‘Clemency,’ disse lui, ‘non mi riconosci?’

«Non entrare!» rispose lei, spingendolo indietro. «Vattene. Non chiedermi perché. Non entrare».

«Che cosa succede?» esclamò.

‘Non lo so. Ho paura di pensare. Torniamo indietro. Ascolta!’

Ci fu un improvviso tumulto nella casa. Si mise le mani sulle orecchie. Si udì uno strillo selvaggio che nessuna mano avrebbe potuto soffocare; e Grace, con l’espressione e i modi di una donna disperata, uscì correndo dalla porta.

‘Grazia!’ La prese tra le braccia. ‘Cosa succede? È morta?’

Si staccò da lui come per riconoscere il suo volto e cadde ai suoi piedi.

Una folla di persone uscì dalla casa e si radunò intorno a loro. Tra queste c’era suo padre con un foglio di carta in mano.

«Che cosa è!» gridò Alfredo, afferrandosi i capelli con le mani e guardando in preda a una sofferenza atroce da un volto all’altro mentre si inginocchiava accanto alla ragazza priva di sensi. «Nessuno mi guarda? Nessuno mi parla? Non c’è nessuno che mi riconosca? Non c’è nessuna voce tra tutti voi per dirmi che cosa è!»

Si levò un mormorio tra loro: “Se n’è andata”.

«Scomparsa!» ripeté eco.

«Fuggita, mio caro Alfred!» disse il Dottore con voce spezzata e le mani davanti al viso. «Andata via da casa sua casa e da noi. Stasera stasera! Scrive che ha fatto la sua scelta innocente e senza colpa, implora il nostro perdono, prega di non essere dimenticata ed è andata via».

‘Con chi? Dove?’

Si alzò di scatto, come se volesse seguirli; ma quando si fecero da parte per lasciarlo passare, li guardò disperatamente intorno, vacillò all’indietro e ricadde nella sua posizione precedente, stringendo una delle fredde mani di Grace tra le sue.

Ci fu una corsa affannosa avanti e indietro, confusione, rumore, disordine, e nessuno scopo. Alcuni si dispersero lungo le strade, alcuni presero cavallo, altri procurarono delle luci, altri conversavano tra loro sostenendo che non c’era traccia o pista da seguire. Alcuni gli si avvicinarono gentilmente, con l’intento di offrirgli consolazione; alcuni lo ammonirono che Grace doveva essere portata in casa, e che lui ne impediva il trasferimento. Lui non li sentì mai, e non si mosse mai.

La neve cadeva fitta e veloce. Alzò lo sguardo verso il cielo per un momento, e pensò che quelle ceneri bianche sparse sulle sue speranze e sulla sua miseria, si adattavano a esse bene. Guardò intorno al terreno che si stava ricoprendo di bianco, e pensò come le impronte dei piedi di Marion sarebbero state soffocate e coperte non appena fatte, e anche quel ricordo di lei cancellato. Ma lui non sentiva il freddo e non si muoveva mai.

Part the Third

THE world had grown six years older since that night of the return. It was a warm autumn afternoon, and there had been heavy rain. The sun burst suddenly from among the clouds; and the old battle-ground, sparkling brilliantly and cheerfully at sight of it in one green place, flashed a responsive welcome there, which spread along the country side as if a joyful beacon had been lighted up, and answered from a thousand stations.

How beautiful the landscape kindling in the light, and that luxuriant influence passing on like a celestial presence, brightening everything! The wood, a sombre mass before, revealed its varied tints of yellow, green, brown, red: its different forms of trees, with raindrops glittering on their leaves and twinkling as they fell. The verdant meadow-land, bright and glowing, seemed as if it had been blind, a minute since, and now had found a sense of sight wherewith to look up at the shining sky. Corn-fields, hedge-rows, fences, homesteads, and clustered roofs, the steeple of the church, the stream, the water-mill, all sprang out of the gloomy darkness smiling. Birds sang sweetly, flowers raised their drooping heads, fresh scents arose from the invigorated ground; the blue expanse above extended and diffused itself; already the sun’s slanting rays pierced mortally the sullen bank of cloud that lingered in its flight; and a rainbow, spirit of all the colours that adorned the earth and sky, spanned the whole arch with its triumphant glory.

At such a time, one little roadside Inn, snugly sheltered behind a great elm-tree with a rare seat for idlers encircling its capacious bole, addressed a cheerful front towards the traveller, as a house of entertainment ought, and tempted him with many mute but significant assurances of a comfortable welcome. The ruddy sign-board perched up in the tree, with its golden letters winking in the sun, ogled the passer-by, from among the green leaves, like a jolly face, and promised good cheer. The horse-trough, full of clear fresh water, and the ground below it sprinkled with droppings of fragrant hay, made every horse that passed, prick up his ears. The crimson curtains in the lower rooms, and the pure white hangings in the little bed-chambers above, beckoned, Come in! with every breath of air. Upon the bright green shutters, there were golden legends about beer and ale, and neat wines, and good beds; and an affecting picture of a brown jug frothing over at the top. Upon the window-sills were flowering plants in bright red pots, which made a lively show against the white front of the house; and in the darkness of the doorway there were streaks of light, which glanced off from the surfaces of bottles and tankards.

On the door-step, appeared a proper figure of a landlord, too; for, though he was a short man, he was round and broad, and stood with his hands in his pockets, and his legs just wide enough apart to express a mind at rest upon the subject of the cellar, and an easy confidence—too calm and virtuous to become a swagger—in the general resources of the Inn. The superabundant moisture, trickling from everything after the late rain, set him off well. Nothing near him was thirsty. Certain top-heavy dahlias, looking over the palings of his neat well-ordered garden, had swilled as much as they could carry—perhaps a trifle more—and may have been the worse for liquor; but the sweet-briar, roses, wall-flowers, the plants at the windows, and the leaves on the old tree, were in the beaming state of moderate company that had taken no more than was wholesome for them, and had served to develop their best qualities. Sprinkling dewy drops about them on the ground, they seemed profuse of innocent and sparkling mirth, that did good where it lighted, softening neglected corners which the steady rain could seldom reach, and hurting nothing.

This village Inn had assumed, on being established, an uncommon sign. It was called The Nutmeg-Grater. And underneath that household word, was inscribed, up in the tree, on the same flaming board, and in the like golden characters, By Benjamin Britain.

At a second glance, and on a more minute examination of his face, you might have known that it was no other than Benjamin Britain himself who stood in the doorway—reasonably changed by time, but for the better; a very comfortable host indeed.

‘Mrs. B.,’ said Mr. Britain, looking down the road, ‘is rather late. It’s tea-time.’

As there was no Mrs. Britain coming, he strolled leisurely out into the road and looked up at the house, very much to his satisfaction. ‘It’s just the sort of house,’ said Benjamin, ‘I should wish to stop at, if I didn’t keep it.’

Then, he strolled towards the garden-paling, and took a look at the dahlias. They looked over at him, with a helpless drowsy hanging of their heads: which bobbed again, as the heavy drops of wet dripped off them.

‘You must be looked after,’ said Benjamin. ‘Memorandum, not to forget to tell her so. She’s a long time coming!’

Mr. Britain’s better half seemed to be by so very much his better half, that his own moiety of himself was utterly cast away and helpless without her.

‘She hadn’t much to do, I think,’ said Ben. ‘There were a few little matters of business after market, but not many. Oh! here we are at last!’

A chaise-cart, driven by a boy, came clattering along the road: and seated in it, in a chair, with a large well-saturated umbrella spread out to dry behind her, was the plump figure of a matronly woman, with her bare arms folded across a basket which she carried on her knee, several other baskets and parcels lying crowded around her, and a certain bright good nature in her face and contented awkwardness in her manner, as she jogged to and fro with the motion of her carriage, which smacked of old times, even in the distance. Upon her nearer approach, this relish of by-gone days was not diminished; and when the cart stopped at the Nutmeg-Grater door, a pair of shoes, alighting from it, slipped nimbly through Mr. Britain’s open arms, and came down with a substantial weight upon the pathway, which shoes could hardly have belonged to any one but Clemency Newcome.

Terza parte

IL mondo era diventato sei anni più vecchio da quella notte del ritorno. Era un caldo pomeriggio d’autunno, e aveva piovuto forte. Il sole scoppiò improvvisamente tra le nuvole; e il vecchio campo di battaglia, scintillando brillantemente e allegramente alla vista del sole in un luogo verde, mandò un benvenuto rispondendo, che si diffuse per la campagna come se fosse stato acceso un allegro segnale e risposto da mille postazioni.

Quanto è bella la campagna che si accende alla luce e quell’influenza rigogliosa che passa come una presenza celeste, illuminando tutto! Il bosco, prima un ammasso scuro, rivela le sue varie sfumature di giallo, verde, marrone, rosso: i suoi diversi alberi con le gocce di pioggia che brillano sulle loro foglie e scintillano cadendo. Il prato verde, luminoso e splendente, sembra fosse cieco un minuto fa e ora abbia ritrovato la vista per guardare il cielo lucente. Campi di grano, siepi, recinzioni, fattorie e tetti raggruppati, il campanile della chiesa, il ruscello, il mulino ad acqua, tutto emerge dal buio sorridente. Gli uccelli cantano dolcemente, i fiori alzano le loro teste cadenti, profumi freschi si sprigionano dalla terra rinverdita; l’ampia distesa blu sopra si estende e si diffonde; già i raggi obliqui del sole trapassano mortalmente la cupa massa di nuvole che indugia nel suo volo; e un arcobaleno, spirito di tutti i colori che adornano la terra e il cielo, attraversa l’intero arco con la sua gloria trionfante.

In un momento del genere, una piccola locanda sulla strada, accogliente riparata dietro a un grande olmo con una rara panchina per oziosi che circondava il suo ampio tronco, presentava un aspetto allegra verso i viaggiatori, come dovrebbe fare una casa di divertimento, e lo attirava con molte assicurazioni mute ma significative di un benvenuto confortevole. La targa rossa appesa all’albero, con le sue lettere dorate che luccicavano al sole, spiava il passante tra le verdi foglie, come un volto allegrissimo, e prometteva buon umore. Il abbeveratoio per i cavalli pieno di limpida fresca acqua e il terreno sotto di esso cosparso di residui di fieno profumato, facevano drizzare le orecchie a ogni cavallo che passava. Le tende cremisi nelle stanze al piano terra e i puri bianchi panneggi nelle piccole camere da letto sopra, invitavano “Entra!” con ogni soffio di vento. Sulle brillanti persiane verdi c’erano iscrizioni dorate riguardanti birra e ale, vini pregiati e buoni letti; e una commuovente immagine di un boccale marrone che traboccava dalla parte superiore. Sui davanzali delle finestre c’erano piante fiorite in vasi rossi brillanti, che facevano uno spettacolo vivace contro la facciata bianca della casa; e nell’oscurità del portone c’erano strisce di luce che si riflettevano dalle superfici delle bottiglie e dei boccali.

Sulla soglia apparve anche una figura degna di un locandiere; infatti, sebbene fosse un uomo basso, era tarchiato e largo, e stava in piedi con le mani nelle tasche e le gambe divaricate giusto quel tanto da esprimere una mente tranquilla riguardo alla cantina e una fiducia serena—troppo calma e virtuosa per essere presuntuosa—nelle risorse generali della locanda. L’umidità superflua, che colava da ogni cosa dopo la recente pioggia, lo valorizzava bene. Nulla intorno a lui era assetato. Certi dàlii top-heavy, che spuntavano oltre i pali del recinto del suo ordinato giardino ben curato, si erano scolati quanto potevano portare—magari un po’ di più—e forse ne avevano risentito; ma il biancospino, le rose, i muri fioriti, le piante alle finestre e le foglie dell’albero vecchio erano in uno stato radioso di compagnia moderata che non aveva bevuto più del necessario per loro, e ciò aveva contribuito a far emergere le loro migliori qualità. Spargendo gocce rugiadoso intorno a sé sul terreno, sembravano profondere una gioia innocente e scintillante che faceva bene dove cadeva, addolcendo angoli trascurati che la pioggia costante raramente raggiungeva, senza nuocere a nulla.

Questo villaggio aveva assunto, al momento della sua fondazione, un’insegna insolita. Si chiamava Il Grattugia Noce Moscata. E sotto quella parola di uso comune era inciso, su per l’albero, sulla stessa targa fiammeggiante e con le stesse lettere dorate: Di Benjamin Britain.

Al secondo sguardo e dopo un esame più attento del suo volto, avreste potuto capire che non era altri che lo stesso Benjamin Britain in piedi sulla porta: ragionevolmente cambiato dal tempo, ma per il meglio; un padrone di casa davvero accogliente.

«La signora B.», disse il signor Britain guardando giù per la strada, «è piuttosto in ritardo. È l’ora del tè».

Poiché la signora Britain non sarebbe venuta, si diresse con calma sulla strada e guardò in su verso la casa, molto soddisfatto. «È proprio il tipo di casa», disse Benjamin, «in cui mi piacerebbe fermarmi, se non fossi io a gestirla».

Poi si diresse verso la recinzione del giardino e diede un’occhiata ai dahlias. Lo guardarono con aria impotente e sonnolenta, con le teste che penzolavano: poi si raddrizzarono quando grosse gocce d’acqua caddero su di loro.

«Deve essere curata», disse Benjamin. «Nota: non dimenticare di dirglielo. Ci sta mettendo un bel po’ di tempo ad arrivare!»

La metà migliore del signor Britain sembrava essere così tanto la sua metà migliore, che la propria metà di lui era completamente abbandonata e impotente senza di lei.

«Non aveva molto da fare, credo», disse Ben. «C’erano alcune piccole faccende di lavoro dopo il mercato, ma non molte. Ah! finalmente siamo arrivati!»

Una carrozza trainata da un ragazzo venne sferragliando lungo la strada: e seduta su di essa, in una sedia, con un grande ombrello ben bagnato steso ad asciugare dietro di lei, c’era la paffuta figura di una donna matronale, con le braccia nude incrociate sopra un cesto che portava sulle ginocchia, e diversi altri cesti e pacchi ammassati intorno a lei. Nel suo volto si leggeva una certa natura allegra e buona, e nel suo modo di fare c’era una goffaggine contenta mentre sobbalzava avanti e indietro con il movimento della sua carrozza, che sapeva di tempi antichi anche da lontano. Al suo avvicinarsi, questo sapore dei giorni passati non diminuiva; e quando la carrozza si fermò davanti alla porta del Nutmeg-Grater, un paio di scarpe, scendendo da essa, scivolarono agilmente tra le braccia aperte del signor Britain e caddero con un peso sostanziale sul sentiero. Queste scarpe difficilmente potevano appartenere a qualcuno se non alla Clemency Newcome.

In fact they did belong to her, and she stood in them, and a rosy comfortable-looking soul she was: with as much soap on her glossy face as in times of yore, but with whole elbows now, that had grown quite dimpled in her improved condition.

‘You’re late, Clemmy!’ said Mr. Britain.

‘Why, you see, Ben, I’ve had a deal to do!’ she replied, looking busily after the safe removal into the house of all the packages and baskets: ‘eight, nine, ten—where’s eleven? Oh! my basket’s eleven! It’s all right. Put the horse up, Harry, and if he coughs again give him a warm mash to-night. Eight, nine, ten. Why, where’s eleven? Oh I forgot, it’s all right. How’s the children, Ben?’

‘Hearty, Clemmy, hearty.’

‘Bless their precious faces!’ said Mrs. Britain, unbonneting her own round countenance (for she and her husband were by this time in the bar), and smoothing her hair with her open hands. ‘Give us a kiss, old man!’

Mr. Britain promptly complied.

‘I think,’ said Mrs. Britain, applying herself to her pockets and drawing forth an immense bulk of thin books and crumpled papers: a very kennel of dogs’-ears: ‘I’ve done everything. Bills all settled—turnips sold—brewer’s account looked into and paid—’bacco pipes ordered—seventeen pound four, paid into the Bank—Doctor Heathfield’s charge for little Clem—you’ll guess what that is—Doctor Heathfield won’t take nothing again, Ben.’

‘I thought he wouldn’t,’ returned Ben.

‘No. He says whatever family you was to have, Ben, he’d never put you to the cost of a halfpenny. Not if you was to have twenty.’

Mr. Britain’s face assumed a serious expression, and he looked hard at the wall.

‘An’t it kind of him?’ said Clemency.

‘Very,’ returned Mr. Britain. ‘It’s the sort of kindness that I wouldn’t presume upon, on any account.’

‘No,’ retorted Clemency. ‘Of course not. Then there’s the pony—he fetched eight pound two; and that an’t bad, is it?’

‘It’s very good,’ said Ben.

‘I’m glad you’re pleased!’ exclaimed his wife. ‘I thought you would be; and I think that’s all, and so no more at present from yours and cetrer, C. Britain. Ha ha ha! There! Take all the papers, and lock ’em up. Oh! Wait a minute. Here’s a printed bill to stick on the wall. Wet from the printer’s. How nice it smells!’

‘What’s this?’ said Ben, looking over the document.

‘I don’t know,’ replied his wife. ‘I haven’t read a word of it.’

‘“To be sold by Auction,”’ read the host of the Nutmeg-Grater, ‘“unless previously disposed of by private contract.”’

‘They always put that,’ said Clemency.

‘Yes, but they don’t always put this,’ he returned. ‘Look here, “Mansion,” &c.—“offices,” &c., “shrubberies,” &c., “ring fence,” &c. “Messrs. Snitchey and Craggs,” &c., “ornamental portion of the unencumbered freehold property of Michael Warden, Esquire, intending to continue to reside abroad”!’

‘Intending to continue to reside abroad!’ repeated Clemency.

‘Here it is,’ said Britain. ‘Look!’

‘And it was only this very day that I heard it whispered at the old house, that better and plainer news had been half promised of her, soon!’ said Clemency, shaking her head sorrowfully, and patting her elbows as if the recollection of old times unconsciously awakened her old habits. ‘Dear, dear, dear! There’ll be heavy hearts, Ben, yonder.’

Mr. Britain heaved a sigh, and shook his head, and said he couldn’t make it out: he had left off trying long ago. With that remark, he applied himself to putting up the bill just inside the bar window. Clemency, after meditating in silence for a few moments, roused herself, cleared her thoughtful brow, and bustled off to look after the children.

Though the host of the Nutmeg-Grater had a lively regard for his good-wife, it was of the old patronising kind, and she amused him mightily. Nothing would have astonished him so much, as to have known for certain from any third party, that it was she who managed the whole house, and made him, by her plain straightforward thrift, good-humour, honesty, and industry, a thriving man. So easy it is, in any degree of life (as the world very often finds it), to take those cheerful natures that never assert their merit, at their own modest valuation; and to conceive a flippant liking of people for their outward oddities and eccentricities, whose innate worth, if we would look so far, might make us blush in the comparison!

It was comfortable to Mr. Britain, to think of his own condescension in having married Clemency. She was a perpetual testimony to him of the goodness of his heart, and the kindness of his disposition; and he felt that her being an excellent wife was an illustration of the old precept that virtue is its own reward.

He had finished wafering up the bill, and had locked the vouchers for her day’s proceedings in the cupboard—chuckling all the time, over her capacity for business—when, returning with the news that the two Master Britains were playing in the coach-house under the superintendence of one Betsey, and that little Clem was sleeping ‘like a picture,’ she sat down to tea, which had awaited her arrival, on a little table. It was a very neat little bar, with the usual display of bottles and glasses; a sedate clock, right to the minute (it was half-past five); everything in its place, and everything furbished and polished up to the very utmost.

‘It’s the first time I’ve sat down quietly to-day, I declare,’ said Mrs. Britain, taking a long breath, as if she had sat down for the night; but getting up again immediately to hand her husband his tea, and cut him his bread-and-butter; ‘how that bill does set me thinking of old times!’

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Britain, handling his saucer like an oyster, and disposing of its contents on the same principle.

‘That same Mr. Michael Warden,’ said Clemency, shaking her head at the notice of sale, ‘lost me my old place.’

‘And got you your husband,’ said Mr. Britain.

Infatti appartenevano a lei e lei era lì dentro, ed era un’anima rosea e dall’aspetto confortevole: con tanto sapone sul suo viso lucido come ai vecchi tempi, ma ora con gomiti interi che si erano fatti pieni di fossette in condizioni migliorate.

«Sei in ritardo, Clemmy!» disse il signor Britain.

«Perché vedi, Ben, ho avuto un sacco di cose da fare!» rispose lei, guardando con attenzione che tutti i pacchi e i cesti fossero stati trasportati in sicurezza nella casa: «otto, nove, dieci, dove è l’undicesimo? Ah! il mio cesto è l’undicesimo! Va tutto bene. Fai riposare il cavallo, Harry, e se tossisce di nuovo dagli una mangiata calda stasera. Otto, nove, dieci, dove è l’undicesimo? Ah, mi ero scordata, va tutto bene. Come stanno i bambini, Ben?»

‘Coraggioso, Clemmy, coraggioso.’

«Benedica il cielo quei loro cari visetti!» disse la signora Britain togliendosi il cappello e scoprendo il suo rotondo volto (perché lei e suo marito erano in quel momento al bar) e lisciandosi i capelli con le mani aperte. «Dammi un bacio, vecchio mio!»

Il signor Britain acconsentì prontamente.

«Penso», disse la signora Britain, frugando nelle sue tasche ed estraendone un enorme mucchio di libri sottili e fogli sgualciti: una vera cuccia di orecchie da cane: «di aver fatto tutto. Tutte le bollette pagate - i cavoli venduti - il conto del birraio esaminato e saldato - ordinati i tubi per la pipa - diciassette sterline e quattro scellini, depositati in banca - l’onorario del dottor Heathfield per il piccolo Clem - indovinerete quanto è - il dottor Heathfield non accetterà più niente, Ben.»

«Pensavo che non lo avrebbe fatto», rispose Ben.

«No. Dice che qualunque famiglia tu avessi dovuto avere, Ben, non ti avrebbe mai fatto spendere mezzo penny. Neanche se ne avessi dovuta avere venti».

Il volto del signor Britain assunse un’espressione seria e fissò intensamente il muro.

«Non è gentile da parte sua?» disse Clemency.

«Molto», rispose il signor Britain. «È quel tipo di gentilezza che non mi permetterei mai di sfruttare in alcun modo».

«No», ribatté Clemency. «Certo che no. Poi c’è il puledro: ha fruttato otto sterline e due scellini; e non è male, vero?»

«È davvero buono», disse Ben.

«Sono contenta che tu sia soddisfatto!» esclamò sua moglie. «Pensavo lo fossi; e credo che questo sia tutto, e quindi per ora niente altro da parte tua e cetera, C. Britain. Ha ha ha! Ecco fatto! Prendi tutti i documenti e chiudili a chiave. Oh! Aspetta un momento. Ecco una fattura stampata da attaccare al muro. È ancora umida dalla tipografia. Che buon profumo!»

«Che cos’è questo?» disse Ben, esaminando il documento.

‘Non lo so’, rispose sua moglie, ‘non ho letto una parola.’

«Da vendere all’asta», lesse l’oste del Macinino da noce moscata, «a meno che non venga precedentemente alienato con contratto privato.»

«Lo mettono sempre», disse Clemenza.

«Sì, ma non sempre mettono questo», replicò. «Guardate qui, “Mansion,” ecc.—“uffici”, ecc., “boschetti”, ecc., “recinzione”, ecc. “Il signori Snitchey e Craggs”, ecc., “parte ornamentale della proprietà libera non gravata di Michael Warden, Esquire, che intende continuare a risiedere all’estero»!

«Con l’intenzione di continuare a vivere all’estero!» ripeté Clemenza.

‘Ecco qui’, disse Britannia. ‘Guarda!’

«E fu proprio oggi che ho sentito sussurrare nella vecchia casa che presto ci sarebbero state notizie migliori e più chiare su di lei, quasi promesse!» disse Clemency scuotendo tristemente la testa e dandosi delle pacche sui gomiti come se il ricordo dei vecchi tempi le avesse inconsapevolmente risvegliato i suoi vecchi gesti. «Oh, oh, oh! Ci saranno cuori pesanti laggiù, Ben.»

Il signor Britain sospirò, scosse la testa e disse che non ci capiva niente: aveva smesso di provarci da tempo. Con quella frase si mise a incollare l’annuncio proprio dentro il finestrino del bar. Clemency, dopo aver meditato in silenzio per qualche istante, si riscosse, si schiarì la fronte pensierosa e si affrettò a badare ai bambini.

Sebbene l’oste del Grattugia-Macis nutrisse un vivo affetto per la sua buona moglie, era di quel vecchio tipo paternalistico e lei lo divertiva moltissimo. Nulla lo avrebbe sorpreso più che sapere con certezza da una terza persona che era lei a gestire l’intera casa e a renderlo un uomo prosperoso, grazie alla sua semplice economia diretta, al suo buon-umore, alla sua onestà e alla sua industriosità. Così facile è, in qualsiasi condizione di vita (come il mondo spesso scopre), prendere quelle nature allegre che non affermano mai il loro merito per la loro modesta valutazione; e concepire una simpatia frivola per le persone per le loro stranezze ed eccentricità esteriori, il cui valore innato, se solo volessimo guardare così lontano, potrebbe farci arrossire nel confronto!

Era confortante per il signor Britain pensare alla propria condiscendenza nel sposare Clemency. Lei era un perpetuo testimone della bontà del suo cuore e della gentilezza del suo carattere; ed egli sentiva che, essendo lei una moglie eccellente, ciò illustrava l’antico precetto secondo cui la virtù è la sua stessa ricompensa.

Aveva finito di incollare la fattura con una foglia di carta velina e aveva chiuso a chiave nel mobile i documenti relativi alle operazioni della giornata — ridacchiando tutto il tempo per l’abilità commerciale dimostrata da lei — quando, tornando con la notizia che i due piccoli Britains stavano giocando nella rimessa delle carrozze sotto la supervisione di una certa Betsey e che il piccolo Clem dormiva «come un angioletto», si sedette a prendere il tè, che l’aspettava su un tavolino. Era un bar molto ordinato, con la solita esposizione di bottiglie e bicchieri; una pendola sobria, precisa al minuto (erano le cinque e mezza); tutto era al suo posto e tutto luccicava e brillava fino all’ultimo dettaglio.

«È la prima volta che mi siedo tranquillamente oggi, lo dichiaro», disse la signora Britain, tirando un lungo respiro come se si fosse seduta per la notte; ma subito si alzò di nuovo per servire il tè a suo marito e tagliargli il pane burro; «come quella fattura mi fa pensare ai vecchi tempi!»

«Ah!», disse il signor Britain, maneggiando la sua tazzina come se fosse un’ostrica e consumandone il contenuto secondo lo stesso principio.

«Quello stesso signor Michael Warden», disse Clemency scuotendo la testa davanti all’avviso di vendita, «mi ha fatto perdere il mio vecchio posto.»

«E ti ha trovato tuo marito», disse il signor Britain.

‘Well! So he did,’ retorted Clemency, ‘and many thanks to him.’

‘Man’s the creature of habit,’ said Mr. Britain, surveying her, over his saucer. ‘I had somehow got used to you, Clem; and I found I shouldn’t be able to get on without you. So we went and got made man and wife. Ha! ha! We! Who’d have thought it!’

‘Who indeed!’ cried Clemency. ‘It was very good of you, Ben.’

‘No, no, no,’ replied Mr. Britain, with an air of self-denial. ‘Nothing worth mentioning.’

‘Oh yes it was, Ben,’ said his wife, with great simplicity; ‘I’m sure I think so, and am very much obliged to you. Ah!’ looking again at the bill; ‘when she was known to be gone, and out of reach, dear girl, I couldn’t help telling—for her sake quite as much as theirs—what I knew, could I?’

‘You told it, anyhow,’ observed her husband.

‘And Dr. Jeddler,’ pursued Clemency, putting down her tea-cup, and looking thoughtfully at the bill, ‘in his grief and passion turned me out of house and home! I never have been so glad of anything in all my life, as that I didn’t say an angry word to him, and hadn’t any angry feeling towards him, even then; for he repented that truly, afterwards. How often he has sat in this room, and told me over and over again he was sorry for it!—the last time, only yesterday, when you were out. How often he has sat in this room, and talked to me, hour after hour, about one thing and another, in which he made believe to be interested!—but only for the sake of the days that are gone by, and because he knows she used to like me, Ben!’

‘Why, how did you ever come to catch a glimpse of that, Clem?’ asked her husband: astonished that she should have a distinct perception of a truth which had only dimly suggested itself to his inquiring mind.

‘I don’t know, I’m sure,’ said Clemency, blowing her tea, to cool it. ‘Bless you, I couldn’t tell you, if you was to offer me a reward of a hundred pound.’

He might have pursued this metaphysical subject but for her catching a glimpse of a substantial fact behind him, in the shape of a gentleman attired in mourning, and cloaked and booted like a rider on horseback, who stood at the bar-door. He seemed attentive to their conversation, and not at all impatient to interrupt it.

Clemency hastily rose at this sight. Mr. Britain also rose and saluted the guest. ‘Will you please to walk up-stairs, sir? There’s a very nice room up-stairs, sir.’

‘Thank you,’ said the stranger, looking earnestly at Mr. Britain’s wife. ‘May I come in here?’

‘Oh, surely, if you like, sir,’ returned Clemency, admitting him.

‘What would you please to want, sir?’

The bill had caught his eye, and he was reading it.

‘Excellent property that, sir,’ observed Mr. Britain.

He made no answer; but, turning round, when he had finished reading, looked at Clemency with the same observant curiosity as before. ‘You were asking me,’—he said, still looking at her,—‘What you would please to take, sir,’ answered Clemency, stealing a glance at him in return.

‘If you will let me have a draught of ale,’ he said, moving to a table by the window, ‘and will let me have it here, without being any interruption to your meal, I shall be much obliged to you.’ He sat down as he spoke, without any further parley, and looked out at the prospect. He was an easy, well-knit figure of a man in the prime of life. His face, much browned by the sun, was shaded by a quantity of dark hair; and he wore a moustache. His beer being set before him, he filled out a glass, and drank, good-humouredly, to the house; adding, as he put the tumbler down again:

‘It’s a new house, is it not?’

‘Not particularly new, sir,’ replied Mr. Britain.

‘Between five and six years old,’ said Clemency; speaking very distinctly.

‘I think I heard you mention Dr. Jeddler’s name, as I came in,’ inquired the stranger. ‘That bill reminds me of him; for I happen to know something of that story, by hearsay, and through certain connexions of mine.—Is the old man living?’

‘Yes, he’s living, sir,’ said Clemency.

‘Much changed?’

‘Since when, sir?’ returned Clemency, with remarkable emphasis and expression.

‘Since his daughter—went away.’

‘Yes! he’s greatly changed since then,’ said Clemency. ‘He’s grey and old, and hasn’t the same way with him at all; but, I think he’s happy now. He has taken on with his sister since then, and goes to see her very often. That did him good, directly. At first, he was sadly broken down; and it was enough to make one’s heart bleed, to see him wandering about, railing at the world; but a great change for the better came over him after a year or two, and then he began to like to talk about his lost daughter, and to praise her, ay and the world too! and was never tired of saying, with the tears in his poor eyes, how beautiful and good she was. He had forgiven her then. That was about the same time as Miss Grace’s marriage. Britain, you remember?’

Mr. Britain remembered very well.

‘The sister is married then,’ returned the stranger. He paused for some time before he asked, ‘To whom?’

Clemency narrowly escaped oversetting the tea-board, in her emotion at this question.

‘Did you never hear?’ she said.

‘I should like to hear,’ he replied, as he filled his glass again, and raised it to his lips.

‘Ah! It would be a long story, if it was properly told,’ said Clemency, resting her chin on the palm of her left hand, and supporting that elbow on her right hand, as she shook her head, and looked back through the intervening years, as if she were looking at a fire. ‘It would be a long story, I am sure.’

‘But told as a short one,’ suggested the stranger.

Told as a short one,’ repeated Clemency in the same thoughtful tone, and without any apparent reference to him, or consciousness of having auditors, ‘what would there be to tell? That they grieved together, and remembered her together, like a person dead; that they were so tender of her, never would reproach her, called her back to one another as she used to be, and found excuses for her! Every one knows that. I’m sure I do. No one better,’ added Clemency, wiping her eyes with her hand.

«Bene! E così ha fatto», ribatté Clemency, «e gliene siamo molto grati.»

«L’uomo è un animale abituale», disse il signor Britain, osservandola sopra la sua tazzina. «Mi ero in qualche modo abituato a te, Clem; e ho scoperto che non sarei riuscito ad andare avanti senza di te. Così siamo andati e ci siamo fatti marito e moglie. Ah! ah! Noi! Chi l’avrebbe mai detto!»

‘Chi se non lui!’ esclamò Clemency. ‘Sei stato molto gentile, Ben.’

«No, no, no», rispose il signor Britain con un’aria di abnegazione. «Nulla che valga la pena di menzionare».

«Oh sì che lo era, Ben», disse sua moglie con grande semplicità «e ne sono sicura e ti ringrazio molto. Ah!» guardando di nuovo il conto; «quando seppi che era andata via, fuori portata, povera ragazza, non potevo fare a meno di dire — tanto per lei quanto per loro — quello che sapevo, no?»

«Comunque l’hai raccontata», osservò il marito.

«E il dottor Jeddler», continuò Clemency, posando la tazza di tè e guardando pensierosa il conto, «nella sua tristezza e rabbia mi ha cacciata fuori dalla casa e dal focolare! Non sono mai stata così felice in tutta la mia vita come quando non gli ho detto una parola di rancore, né ho provato alcun sentimento ostile verso di lui, nemmeno allora; perché si è pentito davvero, dopo. Quante volte è rimasto seduto in questa stanza a ripetermi che gli dispiaceva!—l’ultima volta proprio ieri, quando eri uscito. Quante volte è rimasto seduto qui e ha parlato con me per ore e ore di questo e quello, fingendo di essere interessato!—ma solo per il bene dei giorni passati, perché sapeva che lei mi voleva bene, Ben!»

«Perché, come hai fatto a intravedere una cosa del genere, Clem?» chiese il marito, stupito che lei avesse una percezione distinta di un vero che si era appena delineato confusamente nella sua mente indagatrice.

«Non lo so davvero», disse Clemency, soffiando sul tè per raffreddarlo, «perdonatemi, non saprei dirvelo neanche se mi offriste una ricompensa di cento sterline».

Avrebbe potuto continuare su questo argomento metafisico se non fosse stato per il fatto che lei aveva intravisto dietro di lui un fatto sostanziale, nella forma di un gentiluomo vestito a lutto e con mantello e stivali come un cavaliere a cavallo, che si trovava sulla porta del bar. Sembrava attento alla loro conversazione e per nulla impaziente di interromperla.

Clemency si alzò in fretta alla vista di questo spettacolo. Anche il signor Britain si alzò e salutò l’ospite. ‘Vuole avere la gentilezza di salire le scale, signore? C’è una stanza molto bella al piano di sopra, signore.’

«Grazie», disse lo sconosciuto, guardando con insistenza la moglie del signor Britain. «Posso entrare?»

«Oh, certamente, se le piace, signore», rispose Clemency facendolo entrare.

‘Che cosa desidera, signore?’

L’annuncio aveva attirato la sua attenzione e lui lo stava leggendo.

«Proprietà eccellente, signore», osservò il signor Britain.

Non rispose; ma voltandosi, dopo aver finito di leggere, guardò Clemency con la stessa curiosità osservatrice di prima. «Mi chiedevate, » — disse, continuando a guardarla — «Cosa gradite prendere?», rispose Clemency lanciandogli un’occhiata furtiva in cambio.

«Se mi permettete di prendere un bicchiere di birra», disse, avvicinandosi a un tavolo vicino alla finestra, «e se me lo lasciate bere qui, senza interrompervi il pasto, vi sarò molto grato». Si sedette mentre parlava, senza ulteriori indugi, e guardò fuori verso la vista. Era un uomo di corporatura robusta e ben proporzionata, nel fiore degli anni. Il suo volto, molto abbronzato dal sole, era ombreggiato da una quantità di capelli scuri; e portava i baffi. La sua birra fu messa davanti a lui, riempì un bicchiere e brindò alla casa con buon umore; aggiungendo, mentre posava il bicchiere:

«È una nuova casa, non è vero?»

«Non è particolarmente nuovo, signore», rispose il signor Britain.

«Tra i cinque e i sei anni», disse Clemenza, parlando con molta chiarezza.

«Penso di aver sentito menzionare il nome del dottor Jeddler mentre entravo», chiese lo sconosciuto. «Quella cambiale mi ricorda lui; perché mi è capitato di sapere qualcosa di quella storia, per sentito dire e attraverso certe mie conoscenze.—Il vecchio vive ancora?»

«Sì, è vivo, signore», disse Clemency.

‘Poco cambiato?’

«Da quando, signore?» rispose Clemency con un’enfasi e un’espressione notevoli.

‘Da quando sua figlia se ne è andata.’

«Sì! è molto cambiato da allora», disse Clemency. «È diventato grigio e vecchio, e non ha più lo stesso modo di fare; ma credo che ora sia felice. Si è riconciliato con sua sorella da allora, e va a trovarla spesso. Questo gli ha fatto bene subito. All’inizio era molto abbattuto; e bastava vederlo vagare in giro, imprecando contro il mondo, per far sanguinare il cuore di qualcuno; ma dopo un anno o due è avvenuto un grande cambiamento in meglio, e allora ha cominciato a voler parlare della figlia perduta, e a lodarla, ahimè anche il mondo! e non si stancava mai di dire, con le lacrime nei suoi poveri occhi, quanto fosse bella e buona. Allora l’aveva perdonata. Questo è successo più o meno nello stesso periodo del matrimonio della signorina Grace. Britain, te lo ricordi?»

Il signor Britain ricordava molto bene bene.

«Allora la sorella è sposata», rispose lo sconosciuto. Fece una pausa per qualche tempo prima di chiedere: «Con chi?»

Clemency rischiò di rovesciare il vassoio del tè per l’emozione suscitata da questa domanda.

«Non hai mai sentito parlare?» disse lei.

«Mi piacerebbe sentirlo», rispose, mentre riempiva di nuovo il bicchiere e lo portava alle labbra.

«Ah! Sarebbe una lunga storia, se fosse raccontata come si deve», disse Clemency, appoggiando il mento sul palmo della sua mano sinistra e sostenendo quel gomito con la sua mano destra, mentre scuoteva la testa e guardava indietro attraverso gli anni intermedi, come se stesse guardando un fuoco. «Sarebbe una lunga storia, ne sono sicura.»

«Ma raccontata in breve», suggerì lo sconosciuto.

«Raccontata in breve», ripeté Clemency con lo stesso tono pensieroso, e senza alcun apparente riferimento a lui o consapevolezza di avere ascoltatori, «cosa ci sarebbe da dire? Che hanno pianto insieme e ricordato lei insieme, come una persona morta; che erano così teneri con lei, non l’avrebbero mai rimproverata, la richiamavano l’uno all’altro com’era solita essere, e trovavano scuse per lei! Tutti lo sanno. Ne sono sicura. Nessuno meglio di me», aggiunse Clemency, asciugandosi gli occhi con la mano.

‘And so,’ suggested the stranger.

‘And so,’ said Clemency, taking him up mechanically, and without any change in her attitude or manner, ‘they at last were married. They were married on her birth-day—it comes round again to-morrow—very quiet, very humble like, but very happy. Mr. Alfred said, one night when they were walking in the orchard, “Grace, shall our wedding-day be Marion’s birth-day?” And it was.’

‘And they have lived happily together?’ said the stranger.

‘Ay,’ said Clemency. ‘No two people ever more so. They have had no sorrow but this.’

She raised her head as with a sudden attention to the circumstances under which she was recalling these events, and looked quickly at the stranger. Seeing that his face was turned toward the window, and that he seemed intent upon the prospect, she made some eager signs to her husband, and pointed to the bill, and moved her mouth as if she were repeating with great energy, one word or phrase to him over and over again. As she uttered no sound, and as her dumb motions like most of her gestures were of a very extraordinary kind, this unintelligible conduct reduced Mr. Britain to the confines of despair. He stared at the table, at the stranger, at the spoons, at his wife—followed her pantomime with looks of deep amazement and perplexity—asked in the same language, was it property in danger, was it he in danger, was it she—answered her signals with other signals expressive of the deepest distress and confusion—followed the motions of her lips—guessed half aloud ‘milk and water,’ ‘monthly warning,’ ‘mice and walnuts’—and couldn’t approach her meaning.

Clemency gave it up at last, as a hopeless attempt; and moving her chair by very slow degrees a little nearer to the stranger, sat with her eyes apparently cast down but glancing sharply at him now and then, waiting until he should ask some other question. She had not to wait long; for he said, presently:

‘And what is the after history of the young lady who went away? They know it, I suppose?’

Clemency shook her head. ‘I’ve heard,’ she said, ‘that Doctor Jeddler is thought to know more of it than he tells. Miss Grace has had letters from her sister, saying that she was well and happy, and made much happier by her being married to Mr. Alfred: and has written letters back. But there’s a mystery about her life and fortunes, altogether, which nothing has cleared up to this hour, and which—’

She faltered here, and stopped.

‘And which’—repeated the stranger.

‘Which only one other person, I believe, could explain,’ said Clemency, drawing her breath quickly.

‘Who may that be?’ asked the stranger.

‘Mr. Michael Warden!’ answered Clemency, almost in a shriek: at once conveying to her husband what she would have had him understand before, and letting Michael Warden know that he was recognised.

‘You remember me, sir?’ said Clemency, trembling with emotion; ‘I saw just now you did! You remember me, that night in the garden. I was with her!’

‘Yes. You were,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir,’ returned Clemency. ‘Yes, to be sure. This is my husband, if you please. Ben, my dear Ben, run to Miss Grace—run to Mr. Alfred—run somewhere, Ben! Bring somebody here, directly!’

‘Stay!’ said Michael Warden, quietly interposing himself between the door and Britain. ‘What would you do?’

‘Let them know that you are here, sir,’ answered Clemency, clapping her hands in sheer agitation. ‘Let them know that they may hear of her, from your own lips; let them know that she is not quite lost to them, but that she will come home again yet, to bless her father and her loving sister—even her old servant, even me,’ she struck herself upon the breast with both hands, ‘with a sight of her sweet face. Run, Ben, run!’ And still she pressed him on towards the door, and still Mr. Warden stood before it, with his hand stretched out, not angrily, but sorrowfully.

‘Or perhaps,’ said Clemency, running past her husband, and catching in her emotion at Mr. Warden’s cloak, ‘perhaps she’s here now; perhaps she’s close by. I think from your manner she is. Let me see her, sir, if you please. I waited on her when she was a little child. I saw her grow to be the pride of all this place. I knew her when she was Mr. Alfred’s promised wife. I tried to warn her when you tempted her away. I know what her old home was when she was like the soul of it, and how it changed when she was gone and lost. Let me speak to her, if you please!’

He gazed at her with compassion, not unmixed with wonder: but, he made no gesture of assent.

‘I don’t think she can know,’ pursued Clemency, ‘how truly they forgive her; how they love her; what joy it would be to them, to see her once more. She may be timorous of going home. Perhaps if she sees me, it may give her new heart. Only tell me truly, Mr. Warden, is she with you?’

‘She is not,’ he answered, shaking his head.

This answer, and his manner, and his black dress, and his coming back so quietly, and his announced intention of continuing to live abroad, explained it all. Marion was dead.

He didn’t contradict her; yes, she was dead! Clemency sat down, hid her face upon the table, and cried.

At that moment, a grey-headed old gentleman came running in: quite out of breath, and panting so much that his voice was scarcely to be recognised as the voice of Mr. Snitchey.

‘Good Heaven, Mr. Warden!’ said the lawyer, taking him aside, ‘what wind has blown—’ He was so blown himself, that he couldn’t get on any further until after a pause, when he added, feebly, ‘you here?’

‘An ill-wind, I am afraid,’ he answered. ‘If you could have heard what has just passed—how I have been besought and entreated to perform impossibilities—what confusion and affliction I carry with me!’

‘I can guess it all. But why did you ever come here, my good sir?’ retorted Snitchey.

«E così», suggerì lo sconosciuto.

«E così», disse Clemency, riprendendo il racconto meccanicamente e senza alcun cambiamento nella sua postura o nel suo modo di fare, «alla fine si sposarono. Si sposarono nel giorno del suo compleanno — che ricorre domani — molto tranquillamente, con molta umiltà, ma felicissimi. Il signor Alfredo disse una sera mentre passeggiavano nell’orto: “Grace, il nostro giorno di nozze sarà il compleanno di Marion?” E così fu».

«E hanno vissuto felici insieme?» disse lo sconosciuto.

‘Ay’, disse Clemency, ‘nessuna coppia è mai stata più unita. Non hanno avuto altro dolore se non questo.’

Levò la testa come se fosse stata colpita da un improvviso interesse per le circostanze in cui stava ricordando quegli eventi, e guardò rapidamente lo sconosciuto. Vedendo che il suo viso era rivolto verso la finestra, e che sembrava assorto nella contemplazione del paesaggio, fece alcuni segni impazienti a suo marito, indicò la fattura e muoveva le labbra come se stesse ripetendo con grande energia una parola o una frase più e più volte. Poiché non emetteva alcun suono, e poiché i suoi gesti muti, come la maggior parte dei suoi movimenti, erano di un genere molto straordinario, questo comportamento incomprensibile ridusse il signor Britain ai confini della disperazione. Fissò il tavolo, lo sconosciuto, i cucchiai, sua moglie—seguì la sua pantomima con espressioni di profonda meraviglia e perplessità—chiese nello stesso linguaggio se fosse una proprietà in pericolo, se fosse lui in pericolo, se fosse lei—rispose ai suoi segnali con altri segnali espressivi del più profondo disagio e confusione—seguì i movimenti delle sue labbra—indovinò a mezza voce ‘latte e acqua’, ‘avviso mensile’, ‘topi e noci’—e non riusciva ad avvicinarsi al suo significato.

Clemency alla fine rinunciò, giudicando il tentativo disperato; e spostando la sedia con estrema lentezza un po’ più vicino allo straniero, rimase seduta con gli occhi apparentemente abbassati ma lanciandogli ogni tanto delle occhiate acute, aspettando che lui facesse qualche altra domanda. Non dovette attendere a lungo; perché egli disse, poco dopo:

«E qual è la storia successiva della giovane signora che se ne andò? Immagino che lo sappiano».

Clemency scosse la testa. «Ho sentito dire», disse, «che si pensa che dottor Jeddler ne sappia più di quanto dica. La signorina Grace ha ricevuto lettere da sua sorella in cui diceva di stare bene e di essere felice, e che la sua felicità era aumentata dopo essersi sposata con il signor Alfred: e ha scritto delle lettere in risposta. Ma c’è un mistero riguardante la sua vita e le sue sorti, nel complesso, che nulla ha chiarito fino a questo momento, e che—»

Esitò qui e si fermò.

«E quale» — ripeté lo sconosciuto.

«Che credo solo un’altra persona potrebbe spiegare», disse Clemency, trattenendo il respiro.

«Chi può essere?» chiese lo sconosciuto.

«Signor Michael Warden!» rispose Clemency, quasi con un urlo: comunicando subito a suo marito ciò che avrebbe voluto fargli capire prima e facendo sapere a Michael Warden di essere stato riconosciuto.

«Vi ricordate di me, signore?» disse Clemency, tremante per l’emozione; «ho visto che vi siete appena ricordato! Vi ricordate di me, quella notte nel giardino. Ero con lei!»

«Sì. Lo eravate», disse lui.

«Sì, signore», rispose Clemency. «Certo che sì. Questo è mio marito, se non le dispiace. Ben, caro Ben, corri da Miss Grace — corri da Mr. Alfred — corri da qualcuno, Ben! Porta qui qualcuno subito!»

«Resta!», disse Michael Warden, mettendosi tranquillamente tra la porta e Brittanico. «Cosa vorresti fare?»

«Fate sapere che siete qui, signore», rispose Clemency, battendo le mani per pura agitazione. «Fate sapere che possono avere sue notizie dalle vostre stesse labbra; fate sapere che non è del tutto perduta per loro, ma che tornerà a casa ancora una volta a benedire suo padre e sua sorella amorevole — anche la sua vecchia serva, anche me», si colpì il petto con entrambe le mani, «con la vista del suo dolce volto. Corri, Ben, corri!» E continuò a spingerlo verso la porta, e ancora Mr Warden stava davanti ad essa, con la mano tesa, non in collera ma tristemente.

«O forse», disse Clemency correndo oltre suo marito e aggrappandosi nella sua emozione al mantello del signor Warden, «forse è qui ora; forse è vicina. Penso dal tuo comportamento che lo sia. Lascia che la veda, per favore. La assistevo quando era una piccola bambina. La vidi crescere fino a diventare l’orgoglio di questo posto. La conoscevo quando era la promessa sposa del signor Alfredo. Cercai di metterla in guardia quando tu la tentasti ad andarsene. So com’era la sua vecchia casa quando lei ne era come l’anima, e come cambiò quando se ne fu andata e si perse. Lascia che le parli, per favore!»

La guardò con compassione, non priva di meraviglia, ma non fece alcun gesto di assenso.

«Non credo che lei possa sapere», proseguì Clemency, «quanto sinceramente la perdonino; quanto la amino; quale gioia sarebbe per loro rivederla ancora una volta. Potrebbe aver paura di tornare a casa. Forse se mi vede le viene nuovo coraggio. Dica solo la verità, signor Warden: è con lei?»

«Non lo è», rispose lui scuotendo la testa.

Questa risposta e il suo contegno e i suoi abiti neri e il fatto che fosse tornato così tranquillamente e la sua dichiarata intenzione di continuare a vivere all’estero, spiegavano tutto. Marion era morta.

Non la contraddisse; sì, era morta! Clemenza si sedette, nascose il viso sul tavolo e pianse.

In quel momento entrò correndo un vecchio signore dai capelli grigi: senza fiato e ansimante così tanto che la sua voce era a malapena riconoscibile come quella del signor Snitchey.

«Buon Dio, signor Warden!» disse l’avvocato, prendendolo da parte «che vento ha soffiato—» Era così sconvolto lui stesso che non riuscì a proseguire finché dopo una pausa aggiunse debolmente: «lei qui?»

«Un vento nefasto, temo», rispose lui. «Se aveste potuto sentire ciò che è appena accaduto - come mi hanno pregato e supplicato di compiere cose impossibili - quale confusione e afflizione porto con me!»

«Posso immaginare tutto. Ma perché mai siete venuto qui, mio buon signore?» ribatté Snitchey.

‘Come! How should I know who kept the house? When I sent my servant on to you, I strolled in here because the place was new to me; and I had a natural curiosity in everything new and old, in these old scenes; and it was outside the town. I wanted to communicate with you, first, before appearing there. I wanted to know what people would say to me. I see by your manner that you can tell me. If it were not for your confounded caution, I should have been possessed of everything long ago.’

‘Our caution!’ returned the lawyer, ‘speaking for Self and Craggs—deceased,’ here Mr. Snitchey, glancing at his hat-band, shook his head, ‘how can you reasonably blame us, Mr. Warden? It was understood between us that the subject was never to be renewed, and that it wasn’t a subject on which grave and sober men like us (I made a note of your observations at the time) could interfere. Our caution too! When Mr. Craggs, sir, went down to his respected grave in the full belief—’

‘I had given a solemn promise of silence until I should return, whenever that might be,’ interrupted Mr. Warden; ‘and I have kept it.’

‘Well, sir, and I repeat it,’ returned Mr. Snitchey, ‘we were bound to silence too. We were bound to silence in our duty towards ourselves, and in our duty towards a variety of clients, you among them, who were as close as wax. It was not our place to make inquiries of you on such a delicate subject. I had my suspicions, sir; but, it is not six months since I have known the truth, and been assured that you lost her.’

‘By whom?’ inquired his client.

‘By Doctor Jeddler himself, sir, who at last reposed that confidence in me voluntarily. He, and only he, has known the whole truth, years and years.’

‘And you know it?’ said his client.

‘I do, sir!’ replied Snitchey; ‘and I have also reason to know that it will be broken to her sister to-morrow evening. They have given her that promise. In the meantime, perhaps you’ll give me the honour of your company at my house; being unexpected at your own. But, not to run the chance of any more such difficulties as you have had here, in case you should be recognised—though you’re a good deal changed; I think I might have passed you myself, Mr. Warden—we had better dine here, and walk on in the evening. It’s a very good place to dine at, Mr. Warden: your own property, by-the-bye. Self and Craggs (deceased) took a chop here sometimes, and had it very comfortably served. Mr. Craggs, sir,’ said Snitchey, shutting his eyes tight for an instant, and opening them again, ‘was struck off the roll of life too soon.’

‘Heaven forgive me for not condoling with you,’ returned Michael Warden, passing his hand across his forehead, ‘but I’m like a man in a dream at present. I seem to want my wits. Mr. Craggs—yes—I am very sorry we have lost Mr. Craggs.’ But he looked at Clemency as he said it, and seemed to sympathise with Ben, consoling her.

‘Mr. Craggs, sir,’ observed Snitchey, ‘didn’t find life, I regret to say, as easy to have and to hold as his theory made it out, or he would have been among us now. It’s a great loss to me. He was my right arm, my right leg, my right ear, my right eye, was Mr. Craggs. I am paralytic without him. He bequeathed his share of the business to Mrs. Craggs, her executors, administrators, and assigns. His name remains in the Firm to this hour. I try, in a childish sort of a way, to make believe, sometimes, he’s alive. You may observe that I speak for Self and Craggs—deceased, sir—deceased,’ said the tender-hearted attorney, waving his pocket-handkerchief.

Michael Warden, who had still been observant of Clemency, turned to Mr. Snitchey when he ceased to speak, and whispered in his ear.

‘Ah, poor thing!’ said Snitchey, shaking his head. ‘Yes. She was always very faithful to Marion. She was always very fond of her. Pretty Marion! Poor Marion! Cheer up, Mistress—you are married now, you know, Clemency.’

Clemency only sighed, and shook her head.

‘Well, well! Wait till to-morrow,’ said the lawyer, kindly.

‘To-morrow can’t bring back’ the dead to life, Mister,’ said Clemency, sobbing.

‘No. It can’t do that, or it would bring back Mr. Craggs, deceased,’ returned the lawyer. ‘But it may bring some soothing circumstances; it may bring some comfort. Wait till to-morrow!’

So Clemency, shaking his proffered hand, said she would; and Britain, who had been terribly cast down at sight of his despondent wife (which was like the business hanging its head), said that was right; and Mr. Snitchey and Michael Warden went up-stairs; and there they were soon engaged in a conversation so cautiously conducted, that no murmur of it was audible above the clatter of plates and dishes, the hissing of the frying-pan, the bubbling of saucepans, the low monotonous waltzing of the jack—with a dreadful click every now and then as if it had met with some mortal accident to its head, in a fit of giddiness—and all the other preparations in the kitchen for their dinner.

---

To-morrow was a bright and peaceful day; and nowhere were the autumn tints more beautifully seen, than from the quiet orchard of the Doctor’s house. The snows of many winter nights had melted from that ground, the withered leaves of many summer times had rustled there, since she had fled. The honey-suckle porch was green again, the trees cast bountiful and changing shadows on the grass, the landscape was as tranquil and serene as it had ever been; but where was she!

Not there. Not there. She would have been a stranger sight in her old home now, even than that home had been at first, without her. But, a lady sat in the familiar place, from whose heart she had never passed away; in whose true memory she lived, unchanging, youthful, radiant with all promise and all hope; in whose affection—and it was a mother’s now, there was a cherished little daughter playing by her side—she had no rival, no successor; upon whose gentle lips her name was trembling then.

«Come! Come faccio a sapere chi teneva la casa? Quando mandai il mio domestico da voi, mi sono venuto a spasso qui perché il posto era nuovo per me; e avevo una naturale curiosità in tutto ciò che è nuovo e vecchio, in queste antiche scene; ed era fuori città. Volevo comunicare con voi prima di apparire lì. Volevo sapere cosa avrebbero detto le persone a me. Vedendo il vostro comportamento capisco che potete dirmelo. Se non fosse per la vostra maledetta cautela, mi sarei già appropriato di tutto da tempo».

«La nostra cautela!» rispose l’avvocato «parlando per conto mio e di Craggs — defunto», qui il signor Snitchey, guardando la fascia del cappello, scosse il capo, «come potete ragionevolmente incolparci, signor Warden? Era stato stabilito tra noi che l’argomento non sarebbe mai più stato ripreso e che non era un argomento su cui uomini seri e gravi come noi (ho preso nota delle vostre osservazioni al momento) potessero intervenire. La nostra cautela anche! Quando il signor Craggs, signore, scese nella sua rispettabile tomba nella piena convinzione —»

«Avevo dato una solenne promessa di riservatezza fino al mio ritorno, qualunque fosse la data», interruppe il signor Warden; «e l’ho mantenuta.»

«Beh, signore, e lo ripeto», rispose il signor Snitchey, «eravamo obbligati al silenzio. Eravamo obbligati al silenzio nel nostro dovere verso noi stessi e nel nostro dovere verso una varietà di clienti, lei compreso, che erano discretissimi. Non spettava a noi fare domande su un argomento così delicato. Avevo i miei sospetti, signore; ma non sono ancora passati sei mesi da quando ho conosciuto la verità e mi è stato assicurato che l’aveva persa».

«Da chi?» chiese il suo cliente.

«Per opera dello stesso dottor Jeddler, signore, che alla fine ha riposto in me quella fiducia spontaneamente. Lui e solo lui conosce tutta la verità da anni e anni».

«E lo sa?» disse il suo cliente.

«Sì, signore!» rispose Snitchey; «e ho anche motivo di sapere che la notizia le verrà comunicata a sua sorella domani sera. Le hanno dato quella promessa. Nel frattempo, forse mi concederete l’onore della vostra compagnia nella mia casa; essendo inaspettato nella vostra. Ma, per non correre il rischio di altri inconvenienti come quelli che avete avuto qui, nel caso foste riconosciuto - sebbene siate molto cambiato; credo che io stesso vi avrei scambiato per un altro, signor Warden - è meglio cenare qui e fare una passeggiata stasera. È un posto ottimo dove cenare, signor Warden: tra l’altro, è di vostra proprietà. Io e Craggs (defunto) venivamo a volte qui per mangiare uno spezzatino e ci servivano molto bene. Il signor Craggs, signore», disse Snitchey, chiudendo gli occhi per un istante e aprendoli di nuovo, «è stato cancellato dal registro della vita troppo presto».

«Che il cielo mi perdoni se non vi porgo le mie condoglianze», rispose Michael Warden, passandosi una mano sulla fronte, «ma in questo momento sono come un uomo che si trova in un sogno. Mi sembra di aver bisogno dei miei sensi. Il signor Craggs—sì—mi dispiace molto che abbiamo perso il signor Craggs». Ma mentre lo diceva guardava Clemency e sembrava compatire Ben, consolandola.

«Il signor Craggs, signore», osservò Snitchey, «non ha trovato la vita, mi duole dirlo, così facile da possedere e mantenere come la sua teoria sosteneva, altrimenti sarebbe ancora tra noi. È una grande perdita per me. Era il mio braccio destro, la mia gamba destra, il mio orecchio destro, il mio occhio destro, era il signor Craggs. Senza di lui sono paralizzato. Ha lasciato in eredità la sua quota dell’azienda alla signora Craggs, ai suoi esecutori testamentari, amministratori e aventi causa. Il suo nome rimane nell’Azienda ancora oggi. Cerco, in un modo infantile, di fingere, a volte, che sia vivo. Potrete notare che parlo per me stesso e Craggs—defunto, signore—defunto», disse l’avvocato dal cuore tenero, agitando il fazzoletto.

Michael Warden, che aveva continuato a osservare Clemency, si rivolse al signor Snitchey quando smise di parlare e gli sussurrò all’orecchio.

«Ah, poverina!» disse Snitchey scuotendo la testa. «Sì. Lei è sempre stata molto fedele a Marion. Le voleva sempre molto bene. Bella Marion! Povera Marion! Coraggio, Mistress — ora siete sposata, sapete, Clemency».

Clemency sospirò e scosse la testa.

«Bene, bene! Aspettate fino a domani», disse l’avvocato con gentilezza.

«Domani non può riportare in vita» i morti, signore», disse Clemency singhiozzando.

«No. Non può farlo, altrimenti riporterebbe in vita il defunto signor Craggs», replicò l’avvocato. «Ma potrebbe portare circostanze consolatorie; potrebbe portare un po’ di conforto. Aspetti fino a domani!»

Così Clemency, stringendo la mano che le veniva offerta, disse che lo avrebbe fatto; e Britain, che era stato terribilmente abbattuto alla vista della moglie disperata (che sembrava il negozio con la testa china), disse che era giusto così; e il signor Snitchey e Michael Warden salirono al piano di sopra; e lì si impegnarono presto in una conversazione condotta con tanta cautela, che nessun mormorio fu udibile sopra il trambusto dei piatti e delle stoviglie, lo sfrigolio della padella, il bollire delle pentole, la monotona valzerina del girarrosto—con un terribile scatto di tanto in tanto come se avesse subito qualche incidente mortale alla testa, in un attacco di vertigine—e tutti gli altri preparativi in cucina per la loro cena.

---

Il giorno dopo era luminoso e tranquillo; e i colori dell’autunno non si vedevano da nessuna parte più belli che dal tranquillo frutteto della casa del Dottore. Le nevi di molte notti d’inverno erano sciolte da quel terreno, le foglie appassite di molti tempi d’estate vi avevano frusciato, da quando lei era fuggita. Il portico ricoperto di caprifoglio era di nuovo verde, gli alberi proiettavano ombre abbondanti e mutevoli sull’erba, il paesaggio era tranquillo e sereno come non mai; ma dove era lei!

Non lì. Non lì. Sarebbe stata una figura più straniera nella sua vecchia casa adesso, anche di quanto quella casa fosse stata all’inizio senza di lei. Ma in quel posto familiare sedeva una signora, dal cui cuore non era mai scomparsa; nella cui vera memoria viveva immutata, giovane, radiosa per tutte le promesse e tutte le speranze; nel suo affetto - ed ora quello di una madre, c’era una piccola figlia che giocava al suo fianco - non aveva rivali né successori; sulle cui labbra gentili il suo nome stava tremando in quel momento.

The spirit of the lost girl looked out of those eyes. Those eyes of Grace, her sister, sitting with her husband in the orchard, on their wedding-day, and his and Marion’s birth-day.

He had not become a great man; he had not grown rich; he had not forgotten the scenes and friends of his youth; he had not fulfilled any one of the Doctor’s old predictions. But, in his useful, patient, unknown visiting of poor men’s homes; and in his watching of sick beds; and in his daily knowledge of the gentleness and goodness flowering the by-paths of this world, not to be trodden down beneath the heavy foot of poverty, but springing up, elastic, in its track, and making its way beautiful; he had better learned and proved, in each succeeding year, the truth of his old faith. The manner of his life, though quiet and remote, had shown him how often men still entertained angels, unawares, as in the olden time; and how the most unlikely forms—even some that were mean and ugly to the view, and poorly clad—became irradiated by the couch of sorrow, want, and pain, and changed to ministering spirits with a glory round their heads.

He lived to better purpose on the altered battle-ground, perhaps, than if he had contended restlessly in more ambitious lists; and he was happy with his wife, dear Grace.

And Marion. Had he forgotten her?

‘The time has flown, dear Grace,’ he said, ‘since then;’ they had been talking of that night; ‘and yet it seems a long long while ago. We count by changes and events within us. Not by years.’

‘Yet we have years to count by, too, since Marion was with us,’ returned Grace. ‘Six times, dear husband, counting to-night as one, we have sat here on her birth-day, and spoken together of that happy return, so eagerly expected and so long deferred. Ah when will it be! When will it be!’

Her husband attentively observed her, as the tears collected in her eyes; and drawing nearer, said:

‘But, Marion told you, in that farewell letter which she left for you upon your table, love, and which you read so often, that years must pass away before it could be. Did she not?’

She took a letter from her breast, and kissed it, and said ‘Yes.’

‘That through these intervening years, however happy she might be, she would look forward to the time when you would meet again, and all would be made clear; and that she prayed you, trustfully and hopefully to do the same. The letter runs so, does it not, my dear?’

‘Yes, Alfred.’

‘And every other letter she has written since?’

‘Except the last—some months ago—in which she spoke of you, and what you then knew, and what I was to learn to-night.’

He looked towards the sun, then fast declining, and said that the appointed time was sunset.

‘Alfred!’ said Grace, laying her hand upon his shoulder earnestly, ‘there is something in this letter—this old letter, which you say I read so often—that I have never told you. But, to-night, dear husband, with that sunset drawing near, and all our life seeming to soften and become hushed with the departing day, I cannot keep it secret.’

‘What is it, love?’

‘When Marion went away, she wrote me, here, that you had once left her a sacred trust to me, and that now she left you, Alfred, such a trust in my hands: praying and beseeching me, as I loved her, and as I loved you, not to reject the affection she believed (she knew, she said) you would transfer to me when the new wound was healed, but to encourage and return it.’

‘—And make me a proud, and happy man again, Grace. Did she say so?’

‘She meant, to make myself so blest and honoured in your love,’ was his wife’s answer, as he held her in his arms.

‘Hear me, my dear!’ he said.—‘No. Hear me so!’—and as he spoke, he gently laid the head she had raised, again upon his shoulder. ‘I know why I have never heard this passage in the letter, until now. I know why no trace of it ever showed itself in any word or look of yours at that time. I know why Grace, although so true a friend to me, was hard to win to be my wife. And knowing it, my own! I know the priceless value of the heart I gird within my arms, and thank GOD for the rich possession!’

She wept, but not for sorrow, as he pressed her to his heart. After a brief space, he looked down at the child, who was sitting at their feet playing with a little basket of flowers, and bade her look how golden and how red the sun was.

‘Alfred,’ said Grace, raising her head quickly at these words. ‘The sun is going down. You have not forgotten what I am to know before it sets.’

‘You are to know the truth of Marion’s history, my love,’ he answered.

‘All the truth,’ she said, imploringly. ‘Nothing veiled from me, any more. That was the promise. Was it not?’

‘It was,’ he answered.

‘Before the sun went down on Marion’s birth-day. And you see it, Alfred? It is sinking fast.’

He put his arm about her waist, and, looking steadily into her eyes, rejoined:

‘That truth is not reserved so long for me to tell, dear Grace. It is to come from other lips.’

‘From other lips!’ she faintly echoed.

‘Yes. I know your constant heart, I know how brave you are, I know that to you a word of preparation is enough. You have said, truly, that the time is come. It is. Tell me that you have present fortitude to bear a trial—a surprise—a shock: and the messenger is waiting at the gate.’

‘What messenger?’ she said. ‘And what intelligence does he bring?’

‘I am pledged,’ he answered her, preserving his steady look, ‘to say no more. Do you think you understand me?’

‘I am afraid to think,’ she said.

There was that emotion in his face, despite its steady gaze, which frightened her. Again she hid her own face on his shoulder, trembling, and entreated him to pause—a moment.

‘Courage, my wife! When you have firmness to receive the messenger, the messenger is waiting at the gate. The sun is setting on Marion’s birth-day. Courage, courage, Grace!’

Lo spirito della ragazza perduta guardava fuori di quegli occhi. Quegli occhi di Grace, sua sorella, seduta con suo marito nell’orto, nel giorno del loro matrimonio e dell’anniversario della nascita di lui e di Marion.

Non era diventato un grande uomo; non si era arricchito; non aveva dimenticato le scene e gli amici della sua giovinezza; non aveva realizzato nessuna delle vecchie previsioni del Dottore. Ma, nelle sue utili, pazienti e sconosciute visite alle case dei poveri; e nel suo vegliare ai capezzali dei malati; e nella sua conoscenza quotidiana della gentilezza e bontà che fioriscono nei sentieri secondari di questo mondo, non per essere calpestati sotto il piede pesante della povertà, ma per sorgere elasticamente sulla sua scia, rendendo la strada bella; aveva imparato meglio e dimostrato, ogni anno successivo, la verità della sua vecchia fede. Il modo di vivere, sebbene tranquillo e appartato, gli aveva mostrato quanto spesso gli uomini ancora ospitassero angeli senza saperlo, come ai tempi antichi; e come le forme più improbabili — anche alcune che erano meschine e brutte alla vista, e mal vestite — fossero irradiate dal letto di dolore, bisogno e dolore, e trasformate in spiriti ministeriali con una gloria intorno alle loro teste.

Forse visse più utilmente sul campo di battaglia trasformato che se avesse combattuto senza requie in un’arena più ambiziosa; e fu felice con sua moglie, la cara Grace.

E Marion. Anche lui l’aveva dimenticata?

«Il tempo è volato, cara Grace», disse, «da allora»; avevano parlato di quella notte; «eppure sembra sia passata una lunga, lunghissima pezza. Noi contiamo i cambiamenti e gli eventi dentro di noi. Non gli anni».

«Eppure abbiamo anche gli anni da contare, da quando Marion è con noi», rispose Grace. «Sei volte, caro marito, contando la sera di oggi come una, siamo seduti qui nel suo compleanno e abbiamo parlato insieme di quel felice ritorno, tanto atteso e così a lungo rimandato. Ah quando sarà! Quando sarà!»

Il marito la osservava con attenzione mentre le lacrime le si accumulavano negli occhi, e avvicinandosi disse:

«Ma Marion vi ha detto, nella lettera d’addio che lasciò sul vostro tavolo, l’amore amore e che avete letto tante volte, che dovevano passare degli anni prima che ciò potesse accadere. Non è così?»

Estrasse una lettera dal seno, la baciò e disse: «Sì».

«Che in questi anni intermedi, per quanto felice potesse essere, avrebbe atteso con ansia il momento in cui vi sareste incontrati di nuovo e tutto sarebbe stato chiarito; e che ti pregava di fare lo stesso fiduciosamente e speranzosamente. La lettera dice così, vero, mia cara?»

‘Sì, Alfred.’

‘E tutte le altre lettere che ha scritto da allora?’

«Tranne l’ultima — alcuni mesi fa — in cui parlò di te e di ciò che sapevi allora, e di ciò che avrei dovuto apprendere stasera.»

Guardò verso il sole che stava tramontando e disse che l’ora stabilita era il tramonto.

«Alfred!», disse Grace posandogli la mano sulla spalla con fervore, «c’è qualcosa in questa lettera - questa vecchia lettera che dici io legga così spesso - che non ti ho mai detto. Ma questa sera, caro marito, con quel tramonto che si avvicina e tutta la nostra vita che sembra ammorbidirsi e calmarsi col giorno che se ne va, non posso più tenerlo nascosto».

«Che cos’è dunque l’amore?»

«Quando Marion se ne andò mi scrisse qui che tu le avevi lasciato una volta un sacro affido a me e che ora lei ti lasciava, Alfredo, un tale affido nelle mie mani: pregandomi e implorandomi, poiché l’amavo io come amavo te, di non respingere il sentimento che credeva (sapeva, diceva) tu avresti trasferito a me quando la nuova ferita fosse guarita, ma piuttosto incoraggiarlo e ricambiarlo.»

’, E rendimi di nuovo un uomo orgoglioso e felice, Grace. Ha detto così?’

«Intendeva farmi così beato e onorato nel tuo amore», fu la risposta di sua moglie mentre lui la teneva tra le braccia.

«Ascoltami, mia cara!» disse.—«No. Ascoltami così!»—e mentre parlava, riposò dolcemente la testa che lei aveva sollevato di nuovo sulla sua spalla. «So perché non ho mai sentito questo passaggio della lettera fino ad ora. So perché nessun segno di esso si è mai manifestato in alcuna parola o sguardo tuo in quel periodo. So perché Grace, sebbene una così vera amica per me, era difficile da convincere a diventare mia moglie. E sapendolo, mia dolce! So il valore inestimabile del cuore che stringo tra le mie braccia e ringrazio DIO per questa ricca possessione!»

Lei piangeva, ma non di dolore, mentre lui la stringeva al cuore. Dopo un breve istante, guardò giù verso il bambino, che sedeva ai loro piedi giocando con un piccolo cesto di fiori, e le chiese di guardare quanto fosse dorato e rosso il sole.

«Alfred», disse Grace, alzando rapidamente la testa a queste parole «il sole sta tramontando. Non hai dimenticato ciò che devo sapere prima che tramonti».

«Devi conoscere la verità sulla storia di Marion, il mio amore», rispose lui.

«Tutta la verità», disse con voce supplichevole, «niente più velato per me. Era questa la promessa. Non è così?»

«Era», rispose.

«Prima che il sole tramontasse nel giorno del compleanno di Marion. E lo vedi anche tu, Alfred? Sta scomparendo in fretta».

Le mise un braccio in vita e, guardandola negli occhi, replicò:

«Quella verità non è riservata a me per tanto tempo da poterla rivelare, cara Grace. Dovrà uscire dalle labbra di altri».

«Da altre labbra!» ripetè debolmente.

«Sì. Conosco il tuo cuore costante, so quanto sei coraggioso, so che per te una parola di preparazione è sufficiente. Hai detto, veramente, che l’ora è giunta. Lo è. Dimmi che hai la forza presente di sopportare una prova - una sorpresa - uno shock: e il messaggero sta aspettando alla porta».

“Quale messaggero?” disse lei. “E quali notizie porta?”

«Sono impegnato», le rispose mantenendo lo sguardo fermo, «a non dire altro. Credete di capirmi?»

«Ho paura di pensare», disse lei.

C’era quell’emozione sul suo volto, nonostante il suo sguardo fermo, che la spaventava. Ancora una volta si nascose il viso sulla sua spalla, tremando e lo pregò di fermarsi, un momento.

«Coraggio, mia moglie! Quando avrai la fermezza di ricevere il messaggero, il messaggero ti aspetta alla porta. Il sole sta tramontando nel giorno della nascita di Marion. Coraggio, coraggio, Grace!»

She raised her head, and, looking at him, told him she was ready. As she stood, and looked upon him going away, her face was so like Marion’s as it had been in her later days at home, that it was wonderful to see. He took the child with him. She called her back—she bore the lost girl’s name—and pressed her to her bosom. The little creature, being released again, sped after him, and Grace was left alone.

She knew not what she dreaded, or what hoped; but remained there, motionless, looking at the porch by which they had disappeared.

Ah! what was that, emerging from its shadow; standing on its threshold! That figure, with its white garments rustling in the evening air; its head laid down upon her father’s breast, and pressed against it to his loving heart! O God! was it a vision that came bursting from the old man’s arms, and with a cry, and with a waving of its hands, and with a wild precipitation of itself upon her in its boundless love, sank down in her embrace!

‘Oh, Marion, Marion! Oh, my sister! Oh, my heart’s dear love! Oh, joy and happiness unutterable, so to meet again!’

It was no dream, no phantom conjured up by hope and fear, but Marion, sweet Marion! So beautiful, so happy, so unalloyed by care and trial, so elevated and exalted in her loveliness, that as the setting sun shone brightly on her upturned face, she might have been a spirit visiting the earth upon some healing mission.

Clinging to her sister, who had dropped upon a seat and bent down over her—and smiling through her tears—and kneeling, close before her, with both arms twining round her, and never turning for an instant from her face—and with the glory of the setting sun upon her brow, and with the soft tranquillity of evening gathering around them—Marion at length broke silence; her voice, so calm, low, clear, and pleasant, well-tuned to the time.

‘When this was my dear home, Grace, as it will be now again—’

‘Stay, my sweet love! A moment! O Marion, to hear you speak again.’

She could not bear the voice she loved so well, at first.

‘When this was my dear home, Grace, as it will be now again, I loved him from my soul. I loved him most devotedly. I would have died for him, though I was so young. I never slighted his affection in my secret breast for one brief instant. It was far beyond all price to me. Although it is so long ago, and past, and gone, and everything is wholly changed, I could not bear to think that you, who love so well, should think I did not truly love him once. I never loved him better, Grace, than when he left this very scene upon this very day. I never loved him better, dear one, than I did that night when I left here.’

Her sister, bending over her, could look into her face, and hold her fast.

‘But he had gained, unconsciously,’ said Marion, with a gentle smile, ‘another heart, before I knew that I had one to give him. That heart—yours, my sister!—was so yielded up, in all its other tenderness, to me; was so devoted, and so noble; that it plucked its love away, and kept its secret from all eyes but mine—Ah! what other eyes were quickened by such tenderness and gratitude!—and was content to sacrifice itself to me. But, I knew something of its depths. I knew the struggle it had made. I knew its high, inestimable worth to him, and his appreciation of it, let him love me as he would. I knew the debt I owed it. I had its great example every day before me. What you had done for me, I knew that I could do, Grace, if I would, for you. I never laid my head down on my pillow, but I prayed with tears to do it. I never laid my head down on my pillow, but I thought of Alfred’s own words on the day of his departure, and how truly he had said (for I knew that, knowing you) that there were victories gained every day, in struggling hearts, to which these fields of battle were nothing. Thinking more and more upon the great endurance cheerfully sustained, and never known or cared for, that there must be, every day and hour, in that great strife of which he spoke, my trial seemed to grow light and easy. And He who knows our hearts, my dearest, at this moment, and who knows there is no drop of bitterness or grief—of anything but unmixed happiness—in mine, enabled me to make the resolution that I never would be Alfred’s wife. That he should be my brother, and your husband, if the course I took could bring that happy end to pass; but that I never would (Grace, I then loved him dearly, dearly!) be his wife!’

‘O Marion! O Marion!’

‘I had tried to seem indifferent to him;’ and she pressed her sister’s face against her own; ‘but that was hard, and you were always his true advocate. I had tried to tell you of my resolution, but you would never hear me; you would never understand me. The time was drawing near for his return. I felt that I must act, before the daily intercourse between us was renewed. I knew that one great pang, undergone at that time, would save a lengthened agony to all of us. I knew that if I went away then, that end must follow which has followed, and which has made us both so happy, Grace! I wrote to good Aunt Martha, for a refuge in her house: I did not then tell her all, but something of my story, and she freely promised it. While I was contesting that step with myself, and with my love of you, and home, Mr. Warden, brought here by an accident, became, for some time, our companion.’

‘I have sometimes feared of late years, that this might have been,’ exclaimed her sister; and her countenance was ashy-pale. ‘You never loved him—and you married him in your self-sacrifice to me!’

‘He was then,’ said Marion, drawing her sister closer to her, ‘on the eve of going secretly away for a long time. He wrote to me, after leaving here; told me what his condition and prospects really were; and offered me his hand. He told me he had seen I was not happy in the prospect of Alfred’s return. I believe he thought my heart had no part in that contract; perhaps thought I might have loved him once, and did not then; perhaps thought that when I tried to seem indifferent, I tried to hide indifference—I cannot tell. But I wished that you should feel me wholly lost to Alfred—hopeless to him—dead. Do you understand me, love?’

Lei alzò la testa e, guardandolo, gli disse che era pronta. Mentre stava in piedi e lo osservava allontanarsi, il suo volto assomigliava così tanto a quello di Marion com’era stato negli ultimi giorni a casa, che era straordinario da vedere. Lui prese con sé la bambina. Lei la richiamò - portava il nome della ragazza perduta - e la strinse al seno. La piccola creatura, una volta rilasciata di nuovo, corse dietro a lui, e Grace rimase sola.

Non sapeva cosa temesse o cosa sperasse; ma rimase lì immobile a fissare il portico da cui erano scomparsi.

Ah! che cos’era quello, emergendo dalla sua ombra; fermo sulla soglia! Quella figura, con i suoi vestiti bianchi frusciare nell’aria della sera; la testa posata sul petto di suo padre e premuta contro il suo cuore amorevole! O Dio! era una visione che veniva fuori dalle braccia del vecchio, e con un grido, e con un gesto delle mani, e con una selvaggia precipitazione su di lei nel suo infinito amore, si accasciò tra le sue braccia!

«Oh, Marion, Marion! Oh, mia sorella! Oh, mio caro amore! Oh, gioia e felicità ineffabili, ritrovarci così!»

Non era un sogno, non era un fantasma evocato dalla speranza e dalla paura, ma Marion, dolce Marion! Così bella, così felice, così immune da preoccupazioni e difficoltà, così elevata ed esaltata nella sua bellezza, che mentre il sole al tramonto brillava vivamente sul suo volto rivolto verso l’alto, avrebbe potuto essere uno spirito in visita sulla terra per una missione di guarigione.

Aggrappandosi alla sorella, che si era lasciata cadere su una sedia e si era chinata sopra di lei — sorridendo tra le lacrime — inginocchiata davanti a lei, con entrambe le braccia avvolte intorno a lei, senza mai distogliere lo sguardo dal suo viso — e con la gloria del sole al tramonto sul suo capo, e con la dolce tranquillità della sera che li circondava — Marion alla fine ruppe il silenzio; la sua voce, così calma, bassa, chiara e piacevole, era ben accordata al tempo.

«Quando questo era la mia cara casa, Grace, come lo sarà di nuovo adesso —»

«Resta, mio dolce amore! Un momento! O Marion, sentirti parlare di nuovo.»

Non poteva sopportare la voce che amava così tanto, all’inizio.

«Quando questa era la mia cara casa, Grace, come lo sarà di nuovo ora, l’ho amato con tutta la mia anima. L’ho amato con devozione. Sarei morta per lui, anche se ero così giovane. Non ho mai trascurato il suo affetto nel mio cuore segreto neppure per un breve istante. Era per me di gran lunga al di là di ogni prezzo. Anche se è passato tanto tempo, e tutto è finito e cambiato completamente, non potrei sopportare che tu, che ami così bene, pensassi che io non l’abbia veramente amato una volta. Non l’ho mai amato meglio, Grace, di quando ha lasciato questa stessa scena in questo stesso giorno. Non l’ho mai amato meglio, mia cara, di quanto lo feci quella notte in cui partii da qui».

Sua sorella, chinandosi su di lei, poteva guardarla in faccia e tenerla stretta.

«Ma lui aveva guadagnato inconsciamente», disse Marion con un sorriso gentile, «un altro cuore prima che io sapessi di averne uno da dargli. Quel cuore—il tuo, mia sorella!—si era così abbandonato, in tutta la sua tenerezza, a me; era stato così devoto e nobile; che si è strappato il suo amore via, e ha mantenuto il segreto da tutti gli occhi tranne i miei—Ah! quali altri occhi erano risvegliati da tale tenerezza e gratitudine!—e si è contentato di sacrificarsi per me. Ma io conoscevo qualcosa delle sue profondità. Conoscevo la lotta che aveva fatto. Conoscevo il suo alto, inestimabile valore per lui, e la sua stima per esso, lasciando che lui amasse me come voleva. Conoscevo il debito che gli dovevo. Avevo il suo grande esempio ogni giorno davanti a me. Quello che tu avevi fatto per me, sapevo di poterlo fare, Grace, se lo avessi voluto, per te. Non posai mai la testa sul mio cuscino senza pregare con lacrime di farlo. Non posai mai la testa sul mio cuscino senza pensare alle parole stesse di Alfred il giorno della sua partenza, e a come aveva detto veramente (perché lo sapevo, conoscendoti) che ogni giorno venivano ottenute vittorie in cuori combattuti, per le quali questi campi di battaglia non erano nulla. Pensando sempre più all’immensa resistenza sostenuta con allegria e mai riconosciuta o apprezzata, che doveva esserci ogni giorno e ogni ora in quella grande lotta di cui parlava, la mia prova sembrò diventare leggera e facile. E Colui che conosce i nostri cuori, mio caro, in questo momento, e sapeva che non c’era una goccia di amarezza o dolore—di nulla se non felicità pura—nel mio, mi permise di prendere la risoluzione di non essere mai la moglie di Alfred. Che lui fosse il mio fratello, e tuo marito, se la strada che intraprendevo poteva portare a quel lieto fine; ma che io non sarei mai stata (Grace, allora lo amavo teneramente, teneramente!) sua moglie!»

‘O Marion! O Marion!’

«Avevo cercato di sembrare indifferente verso di lui;» e lei premette il volto della sorella contro il proprio; «ma era difficile, e tu eri sempre la sua vera sostenitrice. Avevo tentato di dirti qual era la mia decisione, ma non volevi mai ascoltarmi; non mi avresti mai capita. Il tempo del suo ritorno si stava avvicinando. Sentivo che dovevo agire prima che il nostro rapporto quotidiano riprendesse. Sapevo che un grande dolore, sopportato in quel momento, ci avrebbe risparmiato a tutti una prolungata agonia. Sapevo che se fossi partita allora, sarebbe seguito quell’esito che è seguito e che ha reso felici entrambe, Grace! Scrissi alla buona zia Martha per trovare rifugio nella sua casa: non le raccontai tutto, ma qualcosa della mia storia, e lei me lo promise senza esitazione. Mentre ero in lotta con me stessa su quel passo, e con il mio amore per te e la casa, il signor Warden, portato qui da un caso, divenne, per qualche tempo, nostro compagno.»

«Negli ultimi anni ho talvolta temuto che fosse così», esclamò la sorella, e il suo volto era pallido come cenere. «Non l’hai mai amato, e lo hai sposato nel tuo sacrificio per me!»

«Era allora», disse Marion, avvicinando a sé la sorella, «sulla soglia di partire in segreto per un lungo periodo. Mi scrisse dopo essere andato via; mi raccontò com’erano veramente le sue condizioni e prospettive; e mi offrì la sua mano. Mi disse che aveva capito che non ero felice all’idea del ritorno di Alfred. Credo pensasse che il mio cuore non avesse parte in quell’accordo; forse pensava che potessi averlo amato una volta, ma non più; forse pensava che quando cercavo di sembrare indifferente, cercassi di nascondere l’indifferenza. Non lo so. Ma volevo che tu mi sentissi del tutto perduta per Alfred, senza speranza per lui, morta. Mi capisci, amore?»

Her sister looked into her face, attentively. She seemed in doubt.

‘I saw Mr. Warden, and confided in his honour; charged him with my secret, on the eve of his and my departure. He kept it. Do you understand me, dear?’

Grace looked confusedly upon her. She scarcely seemed to hear.

‘My love, my sister!’ said Marion, ‘recall your thoughts a moment; listen to me. Do not look so strangely on me. There are countries, dearest, where those who would abjure a misplaced passion, or would strive, against some cherished feeling of their hearts and conquer it, retire into a hopeless solitude, and close the world against themselves and worldly loves and hopes for ever. When women do so, they assume that name which is so dear to you and me, and call each other Sisters. But, there may be sisters, Grace, who, in the broad world out of doors, and underneath its free sky, and in its crowded places, and among its busy life, and trying to assist and cheer it and to do some good,—learn the same lesson; and who, with hearts still fresh and young, and open to all happiness and means of happiness, can say the battle is long past, the victory long won. And such a one am I! You understand me now?’

Still she looked fixedly upon her, and made no reply.

‘Oh Grace, dear Grace,’ said Marion, clinging yet more tenderly and fondly to that breast from which she had been so long exiled, ‘if you were not a happy wife and mother—if I had no little namesake here—if Alfred, my kind brother, were not your own fond husband—from whence could I derive the ecstasy I feel to-night! But, as I left here, so I have returned. My heart has known no other love, my hand has never been bestowed apart from it. I am still your maiden sister, unmarried, unbetrothed: your own loving old Marion, in whose affection you exist alone and have no partner, Grace!’

She understood her now. Her face relaxed: sobs came to her relief; and falling on her neck, she wept and wept, and fondled her as if she were a child again.

When they were more composed, they found that the Doctor, and his sister good Aunt Martha, were standing near at hand, with Alfred.

‘This is a weary day for me,’ said good Aunt Martha, smiling through her tears, as she embraced her nieces; ‘for I lose my dear companion in making you all happy; and what can you give me, in return for my Marion?’

‘A converted brother,’ said the Doctor.

‘That’s something, to be sure,’ retorted Aunt Martha, ‘in such a farce as—’

‘No, pray don’t,’ said the doctor penitently.

‘Well, I won’t,’ replied Aunt Martha. ‘But, I consider myself ill used. I don’t know what’s to become of me without my Marion, after we have lived together half-a-dozen years.’

‘You must come and live here, I suppose,’ replied the Doctor. ‘We shan’t quarrel now, Martha.’

‘Or you must get married, Aunt,’ said Alfred.

‘Indeed,’ returned the old lady, ‘I think it might be a good speculation if I were to set my cap at Michael Warden, who, I hear, is come home much the better for his absence in all respects. But as I knew him when he was a boy, and I was not a very young woman then, perhaps he mightn’t respond. So I’ll make up my mind to go and live with Marion, when she marries, and until then (it will not be very long, I dare say) to live alone. What do you say, Brother?’

‘I’ve a great mind to say it’s a ridiculous world altogether, and there’s nothing serious in it,’ observed the poor old Doctor.

‘You might take twenty affidavits of it if you chose, Anthony,’ said his sister; ‘but nobody would believe you with such eyes as those.’

‘It’s a world full of hearts,’ said the Doctor, hugging his youngest daughter, and bending across her to hug Grace—for he couldn’t separate the sisters; ‘and a serious world, with all its folly—even with mine, which was enough to have swamped the whole globe; and it is a world on which the sun never rises, but it looks upon a thousand bloodless battles that are some set-off against the miseries and wickedness of Battle-Fields; and it is a world we need be careful how we libel, Heaven forgive us, for it is a world of sacred mysteries, and its Creator only knows what lies beneath the surface of His lightest image!’

---

You would not be the better pleased with my rude pen, if it dissected and laid open to your view the transports of this family, long severed and now reunited. Therefore, I will not follow the poor Doctor through his humbled recollection of the sorrow he had had, when Marion was lost to him; nor, will I tell how serious he had found that world to be, in which some love, deep-anchored, is the portion of all human creatures; nor, how such a trifle as the absence of one little unit in the great absurd account, had stricken him to the ground. Nor, how, in compassion for his distress, his sister had, long ago, revealed the truth to him by slow degrees, and brought him to the knowledge of the heart of his self-banished daughter, and to that daughter’s side.

Nor, how Alfred Heathfield had been told the truth, too, in the course of that then current year; and Marion had seen him, and had promised him, as her brother, that on her birth-day, in the evening, Grace should know it from her lips at last.

‘I beg your pardon, Doctor,’ said Mr. Snitchey, looking into the orchard, ‘but have I liberty to come in?’

Without waiting for permission, he came straight to Marion, and kissed her hand, quite joyfully.

‘If Mr. Craggs had been alive, my dear Miss Marion,’ said Mr. Snitchey, ‘he would have had great interest in this occasion. It might have suggested to him, Mr. Alfred, that our life is not too easy perhaps: that, taken altogether, it will bear any little smoothing we can give it; but Mr. Craggs was a man who could endure to be convinced, sir. He was always open to conviction. If he were open to conviction, now, I—this is weakness. Mrs. Snitchey, my dear,’—at his summons that lady appeared from behind the door, ‘you are among old friends.’

Sua sorella la guardò attentamente in faccia. Sembrava in dubbio.

«Ho visto il signor Warden e mi sono affidato al suo onore; gli ho confidato il mio segreto la vigilia della sua partenza e della mia. L’ha mantenuto. Mi capisci, cara?»

Grace la guardò confusa. Sembrava a malapena ascoltasse.

«La mia amore, la mia sorella!» disse Marion «richiama per un momento i tuoi pensieri; ascoltami. Non guardarmi in quel modo strano. Ci sono paesi, tesoro, dove coloro che vorrebbero abiurare una passione fuori posto o si sforzerebbero di vincere contro qualche caro sentimento del loro cuore e di conquistarlo, si ritirano in un’solitudine senza speranza, e chiudono il mondo contro se stessi e contro gli amori e le speranze mondane per sempre. Quando le donne fanno così, assumono quel nome che è tanto caro a te e a me, e si chiamano tra loro Sorelle. Ma, ci possono essere sorelle, Grace, che, nel vasto mondo all’aperto, e sotto il suo cielo libero, e nei suoi luoghi affollati, e tra la sua vita frenetica, e cercando di aiutare e incoraggiare e fare del bene,—imparano la stessa lezione; e che, con cuori ancora freschi e giovani, e aperti a tutta la felicità e ai mezzi per essere felici, possono dire che la battaglia è finita da tempo, la vittoria già conquistata. E tale sono io! Mi capisci ora?»

Eppure continuava a fissarla senza rispondere.

«Oh, Grace, cara Grace», disse Marion, stringendosi ancora più teneramente e affettuosamente a quel seno da cui era stata così a lungo esiliata, «se tu non fossi una felice moglie e madre—se qui non ci fosse la mia piccola omonima—se Alfred, mio gentile fratello, non fosse tuo marito devoto—da dove potrei trarre l’estasi che provo questa sera! Ma, come sono partita da qui, così sono tornata. Il mio cuore non ha conosciuto altro amore, la mia mano non è mai stata data in sposa separatamente da esso. Sono ancora tua sorella nubile, non sposata, non fidanzata: la tua cara vecchia Marion, nel cui affetto tu esisti sola e non hai partner, Grace!»

Ora la capiva. Il suo volto si rilassò: i singhiozzi le portarono sollievo; e gettandosi al suo collo, pianse e pianse, accarezzandola come se fosse di nuovo una bambina.

Quando si furono un po’ calmate, videro che il dottore e sua sorella, la buona zia Marta, erano lì vicino con Alfredo.

«Questo è un giorno stancante per me», disse la buona zia Marta sorridendo tra le lacrime, mentre abbracciava le nipoti; «perché perdo la mia cara compagna nel rendervi tutte felici; e cosa potete darmi in cambio della mia Marion?»

«Un fratello convertito», disse il Dottore.

“Questo è qualcosa, di sicuro,” ribatté la zia Martha, “in una farsa come—”

«No, vi prego di non farlo», disse il dottore pentito.

«Beh, non lo farò», rispose la zia Marta. «Ma mi sento trattata male. Non so cosa ne sarà di me senza la mia Marion, dopo che abbiamo vissuto insieme per sei anni».

«Dovete venire a vivere qui, immagino», rispose il dottore. «Non litigheremo più, Marta».

«O dovete sposarvi, zia», disse Alfredo.

«In effetti», rispose la vecchia signora, «penso che potrebbe essere un buon affare se mi mettessi a fare la corte a Michael Warden, che, ho sentito dire, è tornato a casa molto migliorato in tutti i sensi per il suo soggiorno all’estero. Ma dato che lo conoscevo quando era un ragazzo e io non ero una donna molto giovane allora, forse lui potrebbe non rispondere alle mie avances. Quindi mi deciderò ad andare a vivere con Marion quando si sposerà, e fino ad allora (non sarà per molto tempo, ne sono sicura) vivrò da sola. Cosa ne pensi, Fratello?»

«Sono quasi tentato di dire che è un mondo ridicolo per intero e non c’è nulla di serio», osservò il povero vecchio dottore.

«Potresti anche procurarti venti dichiarazioni giurate al riguardo se lo volessi, Anthony», disse sua sorella, «ma nessuno ti crederebbe con degli occhi come quelli.»

«È un mondo pieno di cuori», disse il Dottore abbracciando la figlia più giovane e piegandosi su di lei per abbracciare Grace — perché non poteva separare le sorelle; «e un mondo serio, con tutta la sua follia — anche con quella mia che sarebbe bastata a sommergere l’intero globo; ed è un mondo sul quale il sole non sorge mai, ma contempla mille battaglie senza sangue che sono una compensazione per le miserie e le malvagità dei Campi di Battaglia; ed è un mondo su cui dobbiamo stare attenti a come lo calunniamo, ci perdoni il Cielo, perché è un mondo di sacri misteri, e solo il suo Creatore sa cosa si nasconde sotto la superficie della sua immagine più leggera!»

---

Non sareste più soddisfatti della mia rozza penna se essa sezionasse e mettesse a nudo alla vostra vista i trasporti di questa famiglia, da tempo divisa e ora riunita. Pertanto, non seguirò il povero Dottore attraverso il suo umile ricordo del dolore che aveva provato quando Marion gli era stata sottratta; né vi racconterò quanto seriamente avesse scoperto quel mondo in cui un amore, profondamente radicato, è la parte di tutte le creature umane; né come una sciocchezza come l’assenza di una piccola unità nel grande conto assurdo lo avesse abbattuto. Né vi dirò come, per compassione della sua angoscia, sua sorella gli avesse rivelato la verità a poco a poco, portandolo alla conoscenza del cuore di sua figlia autoesiliata e al fianco di quella figlia.

Né come fosse stato detto anche a Alfred Heathfield la verità, nel corso di quell’anno; e Marion lo aveva visto e gli aveva promesso, in quanto suo fratello, che il giorno del suo compleanno, la sera, Grace l’avrebbe saputa dalle sue labbra finalmente.

«Chiedo scusa, dottore», disse il signor Snitchey guardando nell’orto, «ma posso entrare?»

Senza aspettare il permesso, si avvicinò subito a Marion e le baciò la mano con grande gioia.

«Se il signor Craggs fosse stato vivo, mia cara Miss Marion», disse il signor Snitchey, «avrebbe avuto grande interesse per questa occasione. Avrebbe potuto suggerirgli, signor Alfredo, che la nostra vita non è forse troppo facile: che, presa nel suo insieme, sopporterebbe qualsiasi piccolo liscio che possiamo darle; ma il signor Craggs era un uomo che poteva sopportare di essere convinto, signore. Era sempre aperto alla convinzione. Se fosse stato aperto alla convinzione, ora, io—questo è debolezza. Signora Snitchey, mia cara», —alla sua chiamata quella signora apparve da dietro la porta, «siete tra vecchi amici».

Mrs. Snitchey having delivered her congratulations, took her husband aside.

‘One moment, Mr. Snitchey,’ said that lady. ‘It is not in my nature to rake up the ashes of the departed.’

‘No, my dear,’ returned her husband.

‘Mr. Craggs is—’

‘Yes, my dear, he is deceased,’ said Snitchey.

‘But I ask you if you recollect,’ pursued his wife, ‘that evening of the ball? I only ask you that. If you do; and if your memory has not entirely failed you, Mr. Snitchey; and if you are not absolutely in your dotage; I ask you to connect this time with that—to remember how I begged and prayed you, on my knees—’

‘Upon your knees, my dear?’ said Mr. Snitchey.

‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Snitchey, confidently, ‘and you know it—to beware of that man—to observe his eye—and now to tell me whether I was right, and whether at that moment he knew secrets which he didn’t choose to tell.’

‘Mrs. Snitchey,’ returned her husband, in her ear, ‘Madam. Did you ever observe anything in my eye?’

‘No,’ said Mrs. Snitchey, sharply. ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’

‘Because, Madam, that night,’ he continued, twitching her by the sleeve, ‘it happens that we both knew secrets which we didn’t choose to tell, and both knew just the same professionally. And so the less you say about such things the better, Mrs. Snitchey; and take this as a warning to have wiser and more charitable eyes another time. Miss Marion, I brought a friend of yours along with me. Here! Mistress!’

Poor Clemency, with her apron to her eyes, came slowly in, escorted by her husband; the latter doleful with the presentiment, that if she abandoned herself to grief, the Nutmeg-Grater was done for.

‘Now, Mistress,’ said the lawyer, checking Marion as she ran towards her, and interposing himself between them, ‘what’s the matter with you?’

‘The matter!’ cried poor Clemency.—When, looking up in wonder, and in indignant remonstrance, and in the added emotion of a great roar from Mr. Britain, and seeing that sweet face so well remembered close before her, she stared, sobbed, laughed, cried, screamed, embraced her, held her fast, released her, fell on Mr. Snitchey and embraced him (much to Mrs. Snitchey’s indignation), fell on the Doctor and embraced him, fell on Mr. Britain and embraced him, and concluded by embracing herself, throwing her apron over her head, and going into hysterics behind it.

A stranger had come into the orchard, after Mr. Snitchey, and had remained apart, near the gate, without being observed by any of the group; for they had little spare attention to bestow, and that had been monopolised by the ecstasies of Clemency. He did not appear to wish to be observed, but stood alone, with downcast eyes; and there was an air of dejection about him (though he was a gentleman of a gallant appearance) which the general happiness rendered more remarkable.

None but the quick eyes of Aunt Martha, however, remarked him at all; but, almost as soon as she espied him, she was in conversation with him. Presently, going to where Marion stood with Grace and her little namesake, she whispered something in Marion’s ear, at which she started, and appeared surprised; but soon recovering from her confusion, she timidly approached the stranger, in Aunt Martha’s company, and engaged in conversation with him too.

‘Mr. Britain,’ said the lawyer, putting his hand in his pocket, and bringing out a legal-looking document, while this was going on, ‘I congratulate you. You are now the whole and sole proprietor of that freehold tenement, at present occupied and held by yourself as a licensed tavern, or house of public entertainment, and commonly called or known by the sign of the Nutmeg-Grater. Your wife lost one house, through my client Mr. Michael Warden; and now gains another. I shall have the pleasure of canvassing you for the county, one of these fine mornings.’

‘Would it make any difference in the vote if the sign was altered, sir?’ asked Britain.

‘Not in the least,’ replied the lawyer.

‘Then,’ said Mr. Britain, handing him back the conveyance, ‘just clap in the words, “and Thimble,” will you be so good; and I’ll have the two mottoes painted up in the parlour instead of my wife’s portrait.’

‘And let me,’ said a voice behind them; it was the stranger’s—Michael Warden’s; ‘let me claim the benefit of those inscriptions. Mr. Heathfield and Dr. Jeddler, I might have deeply wronged you both. That I did not, is no virtue of my own. I will not say that I am six years wiser than I was, or better. But I have known, at any rate, that term of self-reproach. I can urge no reason why you should deal gently with me. I abused the hospitality of this house; and learnt by my own demerits, with a shame I never have forgotten, yet with some profit too, I would fain hope, from one,’ he glanced at Marion, ‘to whom I made my humble supplication for forgiveness, when I knew her merit and my deep unworthiness. In a few days I shall quit this place for ever. I entreat your pardon. Do as you would be done by! Forget and Forgive!’

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TIME—from whom I had the latter portion of this story, and with whom I have the pleasure of a personal acquaintance of some five-and-thirty years’ duration—informed me, leaning easily upon his scythe, that Michael Warden never went away again, and never sold his house, but opened it afresh, maintained a golden means of hospitality, and had a wife, the pride and honour of that countryside, whose name was Marion. But, as I have observed that Time confuses facts occasionally, I hardly know what weight to give to his authority.

La signora Snitchey, dopo aver espresso le sue congratulazioni, prese in disparte il marito.

«Un momento, signor Snitchey», disse quella signora. «Non è nella mia natura rimuovere le ceneri dei defunti».

«No, mia cara», rispose il marito.

‘Il signor Craggs è-’

«Sì, mia cara, è deceduto», disse Snitchey.

«Ma le chiedo se ricorda», proseguì sua moglie, «quella sera del ballo? Le chiedo solo questo. Se lo ricorda; e se la sua memoria non l’ha completamente tradita, signor Snitchey; e se lei non è assolutamente senile; le chiedo di collegare questo momento a quello—di ricordare come io l’abbia pregata in ginocchio—»

«In ginocchio, mia cara?» disse il signor Snitchey.

«Sì», disse la signora Snitchey con sicurezza, «e lo sai: stare in guardia da quell’uomo, osservare il suo sguardo e ora dirmi se avevo ragione e se in quel momento lui conosceva segreti che non voleva rivelare.»

«Signora Snitchey», le sussurrò il marito all’orecchio, «signora mia, avete mai notato qualcosa negli occhi di un vostro coniuge?»

‘No’, disse bruscamente la signora Snitchey, ‘non si illuda’.

«Perché, signora, quella notte», continuò lui, tirandola per la manica, «è capitato che entrambi conoscessimo dei segreti che non avevamo scelto di rivelare e li conoscevamo proprio allo stesso modo in quanto professionisti. E quindi meno si parla di certe cose, meglio è, signora Snitchey; e prenda questo come un avvertimento per avere occhi più saggi e più caritatevoli la prossima volta. Signorina Marion, ho portato con me un amico suo. Ecco! Signora!»

La povera Clemency, con il grembiule sugli occhi, entrò lentamente scortata dal marito; quest’ultimo era cupo per la premonizione che se lei si fosse abbandonata al dolore, il Grattugia Noce Moscata sarebbe stato spacciato.

«Ora, signora», disse l’avvocato, trattenendo Marion mentre correva verso di lei e mettendosi tra loro due, «cosa c’è che non va in lei?»

«La questione!» esclamò la povera Clemency.—Quando, alzando lo sguardo con meraviglia, e in indignata protesta, e nell’emozione aggiunta di un grande ruggito da parte del signor Britain, e vedendo quel dolce volto così bene ricordato vicino a lei, fissò lo sguardo, singhiozzò, rise, pianse, urlò, la abbracciò, la tenne stretta, la lasciò andare, cadde sul signor Snitchey e lo abbracciò (molto in indignazione della signora Snitchey), cadde sul Dottore e lo abbracciò, cadde sul signor Britain e lo abbracciò, e concluse abbracciando se stessa, gettandosi il grembiule sulla testa, e andando in isterica dietro ad esso.

Un estraneo era entrato nell’orto dopo il signor Snitchey e si era tenuto in disparte, vicino al cancello, senza essere notato da nessuno del gruppo; perché avevano poca attenzione da dedicare a cose diverse e quella era stata monopolizzata dagli estasi di Clemency. Non sembrava desiderasse farsi notare, ma stava solo, con gli occhi bassi; e c’era in lui un’aria di prostrazione (sebbene fosse un gentiluomo dall’aspetto gallante) che la felicità generale rendeva più evidente.

Tuttavia, solo gli occhi acuti della zia Marta lo notarono; ma quasi subito dopo averlo visto, si mise a parlare con lui. Poco dopo, avvicinandosi dove Marion stava con Grace e la sua piccola omonima, le sussurrò qualcosa all’orecchio che la fece sobbalzare, e apparve sorpresa; ma riprendendosi presto dalla confusione, si avvicinò timidamente allo sconosciuto, in compagnia della zia Marta, e anche lei si impegnò nella conversazione con lui.

«Signor Britain», disse l’avvocato, mettendo la mano in tasca e tirando fuori un documento dall’aria legale mentre tutto ciò accadeva, «la congratulo. Ora è il proprietario esclusivo di quel fondo libero da vincoli, attualmente occupato e gestito da lei come taverna autorizzata o casa pubblica di intrattenimento, comunemente chiamata o conosciuta col nome del Segatino. Sua moglie ha perso una casa per colpa del mio cliente, il signor Michael Warden; e ora ne guadagna un’altra. Avrò il piacere di candidarla per la contea, una di queste belle mattine».

«Farebbe qualche differenza nel voto se il cartello venisse modificato, signore?» chiese Britain.

«Niente affatto», rispose l’avvocato.

«Allora», disse il signor Britain restituendogli l’atto di proprietà, «aggiunga semplicemente le parole “e Thimble”, per favore; e farò dipingere i due motti nel salotto al posto del ritratto di mia moglie.»

«E permettetemi», disse una voce alle loro spalle; era quella dello sconosciuto, Michael Warden: «permettetemi di rivendicare il beneficio di quelle iscrizioni. Signor Heathfield e dottor Jeddler, potrei avervi profondamente offeso entrambi. Che ciò non sia accaduto non è merito mio. Non dirò che sono più saggio o migliore di sei anni fa. Ma ho conosciuto, almeno, quel periodo di auto-rimprovero. Non posso addurre alcuna ragione per cui dobbiate trattarmi con gentilezza. Ho abusato dell’ospitalità di questa casa; e ho imparato dai miei errori, con una vergogna che non ho mai dimenticato, ma anche con qualche profitto, vorrei sperare, da una», lanciò un’occhiata a Marion, «a cui ho fatto la mia umile supplica per il perdono, quando ho riconosciuto il suo merito e la mia profonda indegnità. Tra pochi giorni lascerò questo luogo per sempre. Vi prego di perdonarmi. Fate agli altri quello che vorreste fosse fatto a voi! Dimenticate e Perdonate!»

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Il Tempo — da cui ho avuto la parte finale di questa storia e con il quale ho l’onore di una personale conoscenza durata ormai trentacinque anni — mi ha informato, appoggiandosi comodamente alla sua falce, che Michael Warden non se ne andò mai più via e non vendette mai la sua casa, ma la riaprì, mantenne un’ospitalità equilibrata e si prese una moglie, il orgoglio e l’onore di quelle campagne, che si chiamava Marion. Ma, poiché ho notato che a volte il Tempo confonde i fatti, non so bene quale peso dare alla sua autorità.