The Chimes

Transcribed from Charles Scribner’s Sons “Works of Charles Dickens” edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

THE CHIMES A Goblin Story

OF SOME BELLS THAT RANG AN OLD YEAR OUT AND A NEW YEAR IN

CHAPTER I—First Quarter.

There are not many people—and as it is desirable that a story-teller and a story-reader should establish a mutual understanding as soon as possible, I beg it to be noticed that I confine this observation neither to young people nor to little people, but extend it to all conditions of people: little and big, young and old: yet growing up, or already growing down again—there are not, I say, many people who would care to sleep in a church. I don’t mean at sermon-time in warm weather (when the thing has actually been done, once or twice), but in the night, and alone. A great multitude of persons will be violently astonished, I know, by this position, in the broad bold Day. But it applies to Night. It must be argued by night, and I will undertake to maintain it successfully on any gusty winter’s night appointed for the purpose, with any one opponent chosen from the rest, who will meet me singly in an old churchyard, before an old church-door; and will previously empower me to lock him in, if needful to his satisfaction, until morning.

For the night-wind has a dismal trick of wandering round and round a building of that sort, and moaning as it goes; and of trying, with its unseen hand, the windows and the doors; and seeking out some crevices by which to enter. And when it has got in; as one not finding what it seeks, whatever that may be, it wails and howls to issue forth again: and not content with stalking through the aisles, and gliding round and round the pillars, and tempting the deep organ, soars up to the roof, and strives to rend the rafters: then flings itself despairingly upon the stones below, and passes, muttering, into the vaults. Anon, it comes up stealthily, and creeps along the walls, seeming to read, in whispers, the Inscriptions sacred to the Dead. At some of these, it breaks out shrilly, as with laughter; and at others, moans and cries as if it were lamenting. It has a ghostly sound too, lingering within the altar; where it seems to chaunt, in its wild way, of Wrong and Murder done, and false Gods worshipped, in defiance of the Tables of the Law, which look so fair and smooth, but are so flawed and broken. Ugh! Heaven preserve us, sitting snugly round the fire! It has an awful voice, that wind at Midnight, singing in a church!

But, high up in the steeple! There the foul blast roars and whistles! High up in the steeple, where it is free to come and go through many an airy arch and loophole, and to twist and twine itself about the giddy stair, and twirl the groaning weathercock, and make the very tower shake and shiver! High up in the steeple, where the belfry is, and iron rails are ragged with rust, and sheets of lead and copper, shrivelled by the changing weather, crackle and heave beneath the unaccustomed tread; and birds stuff shabby nests into corners of old oaken joists and beams; and dust grows old and grey; and speckled spiders, indolent and fat with long security, swing idly to and fro in the vibration of the bells, and never loose their hold upon their thread-spun castles in the air, or climb up sailor-like in quick alarm, or drop upon the ground and ply a score of nimble legs to save one life! High up in the steeple of an old church, far above the light and murmur of the town and far below the flying clouds that shadow it, is the wild and dreary place at night: and high up in the steeple of an old church, dwelt the Chimes I tell of.

They were old Chimes, trust me. Centuries ago, these Bells had been baptized by bishops: so many centuries ago, that the register of their baptism was lost long, long before the memory of man, and no one knew their names. They had had their Godfathers and Godmothers, these Bells (for my own part, by the way, I would rather incur the responsibility of being Godfather to a Bell than a Boy), and had their silver mugs no doubt, besides. But Time had mowed down their sponsors, and Henry the Eighth had melted down their mugs; and they now hung, nameless and mugless, in the church-tower.

Not speechless, though. Far from it. They had clear, loud, lusty, sounding voices, had these Bells; and far and wide they might be heard upon the wind. Much too sturdy Chimes were they, to be dependent on the pleasure of the wind, moreover; for, fighting gallantly against it when it took an adverse whim, they would pour their cheerful notes into a listening ear right royally; and bent on being heard on stormy nights, by some poor mother watching a sick child, or some lone wife whose husband was at sea, they had been sometimes known to beat a blustering Nor’ Wester; aye, ‘all to fits,’ as Toby Veck said;—for though they chose to call him Trotty Veck, his name was Toby, and nobody could make it anything else either (except Tobias) without a special act of parliament; he having been as lawfully christened in his day as the Bells had been in theirs, though with not quite so much of solemnity or public rejoicing.

For my part, I confess myself of Toby Veck’s belief, for I am sure he had opportunities enough of forming a correct one. And whatever Toby Veck said, I say. And I take my stand by Toby Veck, although he did stand all day long (and weary work it was) just outside the church-door. In fact he was a ticket-porter, Toby Veck, and waited there for jobs.

And a breezy, goose-skinned, blue-nosed, red-eyed, stony-toed, tooth-chattering place it was, to wait in, in the winter-time, as Toby Veck well knew. The wind came tearing round the corner—especially the east wind—as if it had sallied forth, express, from the confines of the earth, to have a blow at Toby. And oftentimes it seemed to come upon him sooner than it had expected, for bouncing round the corner, and passing Toby, it would suddenly wheel round again, as if it cried ‘Why, here he is!’ Incontinently his little white apron would be caught up over his head like a naughty boy’s garments, and his feeble little cane would be seen to wrestle and struggle unavailingly in his hand, and his legs would undergo tremendous agitation, and Toby himself all aslant, and facing now in this direction, now in that, would be so banged and buffeted, and touzled, and worried, and hustled, and lifted off his feet, as to render it a state of things but one degree removed from a positive miracle, that he wasn’t carried up bodily into the air as a colony of frogs or snails or other very portable creatures sometimes are, and rained down again, to the great astonishment of the natives, on some strange corner of the world where ticket-porters are unknown.

But, windy weather, in spite of its using him so roughly, was, after all, a sort of holiday for Toby. That’s the fact. He didn’t seem to wait so long for a sixpence in the wind, as at other times; the having to fight with that boisterous element took off his attention, and quite freshened him up, when he was getting hungry and low-spirited. A hard frost too, or a fall of snow, was an Event; and it seemed to do him good, somehow or other—it would have been hard to say in what respect though, Toby! So wind and frost and snow, and perhaps a good stiff storm of hail, were Toby Veck’s red-letter days.

Wet weather was the worst; the cold, damp, clammy wet, that wrapped him up like a moist great-coat—the only kind of great-coat Toby owned, or could have added to his comfort by dispensing with. Wet days, when the rain came slowly, thickly, obstinately down; when the street’s throat, like his own, was choked with mist; when smoking umbrellas passed and re-passed, spinning round and round like so many teetotums, as they knocked against each other on the crowded footway, throwing off a little whirlpool of uncomfortable sprinklings; when gutters brawled and waterspouts were full and noisy; when the wet from the projecting stones and ledges of the church fell drip, drip, drip, on Toby, making the wisp of straw on which he stood mere mud in no time; those were the days that tried him. Then, indeed, you might see Toby looking anxiously out from his shelter in an angle of the church wall—such a meagre shelter that in summer time it never cast a shadow thicker than a good-sized walking stick upon the sunny pavement—with a disconsolate and lengthened face. But coming out, a minute afterwards, to warm himself by exercise, and trotting up and down some dozen times, he would brighten even then, and go back more brightly to his niche.

They called him Trotty from his pace, which meant speed if it didn’t make it. He could have walked faster perhaps; most likely; but rob him of his trot, and Toby would have taken to his bed and died. It bespattered him with mud in dirty weather; it cost him a world of trouble; he could have walked with infinitely greater ease; but that was one reason for his clinging to it so tenaciously. A weak, small, spare old man, he was a very Hercules, this Toby, in his good intentions. He loved to earn his money. He delighted to believe—Toby was very poor, and couldn’t well afford to part with a delight—that he was worth his salt. With a shilling or an eighteenpenny message or small parcel in hand, his courage always high, rose higher. As he trotted on, he would call out to fast Postmen ahead of him, to get out of the way; devoutly believing that in the natural course of things he must inevitably overtake and run them down; and he had perfect faith—not often tested—in his being able to carry anything that man could lift.

Thus, even when he came out of his nook to warm himself on a wet day, Toby trotted. Making, with his leaky shoes, a crooked line of slushy footprints in the mire; and blowing on his chilly hands and rubbing them against each other, poorly defended from the searching cold by threadbare mufflers of grey worsted, with a private apartment only for the thumb, and a common room or tap for the rest of the fingers; Toby, with his knees bent and his cane beneath his arm, still trotted. Falling out into the road to look up at the belfry when the Chimes resounded, Toby trotted still.

He made this last excursion several times a day, for they were company to him; and when he heard their voices, he had an interest in glancing at their lodging-place, and thinking how they were moved, and what hammers beat upon them. Perhaps he was the more curious about these Bells, because there were points of resemblance between themselves and him. They hung there, in all weathers, with the wind and rain driving in upon them; facing only the outsides of all those houses; never getting any nearer to the blazing fires that gleamed and shone upon the windows, or came puffing out of the chimney tops; and incapable of participation in any of the good things that were constantly being handed through the street doors and the area railings, to prodigious cooks. Faces came and went at many windows: sometimes pretty faces, youthful faces, pleasant faces: sometimes the reverse: but Toby knew no more (though he often speculated on these trifles, standing idle in the streets) whence they came, or where they went, or whether, when the lips moved, one kind word was said of him in all the year, than did the Chimes themselves.

Toby was not a casuist—that he knew of, at least—and I don’t mean to say that when he began to take to the Bells, and to knit up his first rough acquaintance with them into something of a closer and more delicate woof, he passed through these considerations one by one, or held any formal review or great field-day in his thoughts. But what I mean to say, and do say is, that as the functions of Toby’s body, his digestive organs for example, did of their own cunning, and by a great many operations of which he was altogether ignorant, and the knowledge of which would have astonished him very much, arrive at a certain end; so his mental faculties, without his privity or concurrence, set all these wheels and springs in motion, with a thousand others, when they worked to bring about his liking for the Bells.

And though I had said his love, I would not have recalled the word, though it would scarcely have expressed his complicated feeling. For, being but a simple man, he invested them with a strange and solemn character. They were so mysterious, often heard and never seen; so high up, so far off, so full of such a deep strong melody, that he regarded them with a species of awe; and sometimes when he looked up at the dark arched windows in the tower, he half expected to be beckoned to by something which was not a Bell, and yet was what he had heard so often sounding in the Chimes. For all this, Toby scouted with indignation a certain flying rumour that the Chimes were haunted, as implying the possibility of their being connected with any Evil thing. In short, they were very often in his ears, and very often in his thoughts, but always in his good opinion; and he very often got such a crick in his neck by staring with his mouth wide open, at the steeple where they hung, that he was fain to take an extra trot or two, afterwards, to cure it.

The very thing he was in the act of doing one cold day, when the last drowsy sound of Twelve o’clock, just struck, was humming like a melodious monster of a Bee, and not by any means a busy bee, all through the steeple!

‘Dinner-time, eh!’ said Toby, trotting up and down before the church. ‘Ah!’

Toby’s nose was very red, and his eyelids were very red, and he winked very much, and his shoulders were very near his ears, and his legs were very stiff, and altogether he was evidently a long way upon the frosty side of cool.

‘Dinner-time, eh!’ repeated Toby, using his right-hand muffler like an infantine boxing-glove, and punishing his chest for being cold. ‘Ah-h-h-h!’

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

‘There’s nothing,’ said Toby, breaking forth afresh—but here he stopped short in his trot, and with a face of great interest and some alarm, felt his nose carefully all the way up. It was but a little way (not being much of a nose) and he had soon finished.

‘I thought it was gone,’ said Toby, trotting off again. ‘It’s all right, however. I am sure I couldn’t blame it if it was to go. It has a precious hard service of it in the bitter weather, and precious little to look forward to; for I don’t take snuff myself. It’s a good deal tried, poor creetur, at the best of times; for when it does get hold of a pleasant whiff or so (which an’t too often) it’s generally from somebody else’s dinner, a-coming home from the baker’s.’

The reflection reminded him of that other reflection, which he had left unfinished.

‘There’s nothing,’ said Toby, ‘more regular in its coming round than dinner-time, and nothing less regular in its coming round than dinner. That’s the great difference between ’em. It’s took me a long time to find it out. I wonder whether it would be worth any gentleman’s while, now, to buy that obserwation for the Papers; or the Parliament!’

Toby was only joking, for he gravely shook his head in self-depreciation.

‘Why! Lord!’ said Toby. ‘The Papers is full of obserwations as it is; and so’s the Parliament. Here’s last week’s paper, now;’ taking a very dirty one from his pocket, and holding it from him at arm’s length; ‘full of obserwations! Full of obserwations! I like to know the news as well as any man,’ said Toby, slowly; folding it a little smaller, and putting it in his pocket again: ‘but it almost goes against the grain with me to read a paper now. It frightens me almost. I don’t know what we poor people are coming to. Lord send we may be coming to something better in the New Year nigh upon us!’

‘Why, father, father!’ said a pleasant voice, hard by.

But Toby, not hearing it, continued to trot backwards and forwards: musing as he went, and talking to himself.

‘It seems as if we can’t go right, or do right, or be righted,’ said Toby. ‘I hadn’t much schooling, myself, when I was young; and I can’t make out whether we have any business on the face of the earth, or not. Sometimes I think we must have—a little; and sometimes I think we must be intruding. I get so puzzled sometimes that I am not even able to make up my mind whether there is any good at all in us, or whether we are born bad. We seem to be dreadful things; we seem to give a deal of trouble; we are always being complained of and guarded against. One way or other, we fill the papers. Talk of a New Year!’ said Toby, mournfully. ‘I can bear up as well as another man at most times; better than a good many, for I am as strong as a lion, and all men an’t; but supposing it should really be that we have no right to a New Year—supposing we really are intruding—’

‘Why, father, father!’ said the pleasant voice again.

Toby heard it this time; started; stopped; and shortening his sight, which had been directed a long way off as seeking the enlightenment in the very heart of the approaching year, found himself face to face with his own child, and looking close into her eyes.

Bright eyes they were. Eyes that would bear a world of looking in, before their depth was fathomed. Dark eyes, that reflected back the eyes which searched them; not flashingly, or at the owner’s will, but with a clear, calm, honest, patient radiance, claiming kindred with that light which Heaven called into being. Eyes that were beautiful and true, and beaming with Hope. With Hope so young and fresh; with Hope so buoyant, vigorous, and bright, despite the twenty years of work and poverty on which they had looked; that they became a voice to Trotty Veck, and said: ‘I think we have some business here—a little!’

Trotty kissed the lips belonging to the eyes, and squeezed the blooming face between his hands.

‘Why, Pet,’ said Trotty. ‘What’s to do? I didn’t expect you to-day, Meg.’

‘Neither did I expect to come, father,’ cried the girl, nodding her head and smiling as she spoke. ‘But here I am! And not alone; not alone!’

‘Why you don’t mean to say,’ observed Trotty, looking curiously at a covered basket which she carried in her hand, ‘that you—’

‘Smell it, father dear,’ said Meg. ‘Only smell it!’

Trotty was going to lift up the cover at once, in a great hurry, when she gaily interposed her hand.

‘No, no, no,’ said Meg, with the glee of a child. ‘Lengthen it out a little. Let me just lift up the corner; just the lit-tle ti-ny cor-ner, you know,’ said Meg, suiting the action to the word with the utmost gentleness, and speaking very softly, as if she were afraid of being overheard by something inside the basket; ‘there. Now. What’s that?’

Toby took the shortest possible sniff at the edge of the basket, and cried out in a rapture:

‘Why, it’s hot!’

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

‘Ha, ha, ha!’ roared Toby, with a sort of kick. ‘It’s scalding hot!’

‘But what is it, father?’ said Meg. ‘Come. You haven’t guessed what it is. And you must guess what it is. I can’t think of taking it out, till you guess what it is. Don’t be in such a hurry! Wait a minute! A little bit more of the cover. Now guess!’

Meg was in a perfect fright lest he should guess right too soon; shrinking away, as she held the basket towards him; curling up her pretty shoulders; stopping her ear with her hand, as if by so doing she could keep the right word out of Toby’s lips; and laughing softly the whole time.

Meanwhile Toby, putting a hand on each knee, bent down his nose to the basket, and took a long inspiration at the lid; the grin upon his withered face expanding in the process, as if he were inhaling laughing gas.

‘Ah! It’s very nice,’ said Toby. ‘It an’t—I suppose it an’t Polonies?’

‘No, no, no!’ cried Meg, delighted. ‘Nothing like Polonies!’

‘No,’ said Toby, after another sniff. ‘It’s—it’s mellower than Polonies. It’s very nice. It improves every moment. It’s too decided for Trotters. An’t it?’

Meg was in an ecstasy. He could not have gone wider of the mark than Trotters—except Polonies.

‘Liver?’ said Toby, communing with himself. ‘No. There’s a mildness about it that don’t answer to liver. Pettitoes? No. It an’t faint enough for pettitoes. It wants the stringiness of Cocks’ heads. And I know it an’t sausages. I’ll tell you what it is. It’s chitterlings!’

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

‘Why, what am I a-thinking of!’ said Toby, suddenly recovering a position as near the perpendicular as it was possible for him to assume. ‘I shall forget my own name next. It’s tripe!’

Tripe it was; and Meg, in high joy, protested he should say, in half a minute more, it was the best tripe ever stewed.

‘And so,’ said Meg, busying herself exultingly with the basket, ‘I’ll lay the cloth at once, father; for I have brought the tripe in a basin, and tied the basin up in a pocket-handkerchief; and if I like to be proud for once, and spread that for a cloth, and call it a cloth, there’s no law to prevent me; is there, father?’

‘Not that I know of, my dear,’ said Toby. ‘But they’re always a-bringing up some new law or other.’

‘And according to what I was reading you in the paper the other day, father; what the Judge said, you know; we poor people are supposed to know them all. Ha ha! What a mistake! My goodness me, how clever they think us!’

‘Yes, my dear,’ cried Trotty; ‘and they’d be very fond of any one of us that did know ’em all. He’d grow fat upon the work he’d get, that man, and be popular with the gentlefolks in his neighbourhood. Very much so!’

‘He’d eat his dinner with an appetite, whoever he was, if it smelt like this,’ said Meg, cheerfully. ‘Make haste, for there’s a hot potato besides, and half a pint of fresh-drawn beer in a bottle. Where will you dine, father? On the Post, or on the Steps? Dear, dear, how grand we are. Two places to choose from!’

‘The steps to-day, my Pet,’ said Trotty. ‘Steps in dry weather. Post in wet. There’s a greater conveniency in the steps at all times, because of the sitting down; but they’re rheumatic in the damp.’

‘Then here,’ said Meg, clapping her hands, after a moment’s bustle; ‘here it is, all ready! And beautiful it looks! Come, father. Come!’

Since his discovery of the contents of the basket, Trotty had been standing looking at her—and had been speaking too—in an abstracted manner, which showed that though she was the object of his thoughts and eyes, to the exclusion even of tripe, he neither saw nor thought about her as she was at that moment, but had before him some imaginary rough sketch or drama of her future life. Roused, now, by her cheerful summons, he shook off a melancholy shake of the head which was just coming upon him, and trotted to her side. As he was stooping to sit down, the Chimes rang.

‘Amen!’ said Trotty, pulling off his hat and looking up towards them.

‘Amen to the Bells, father?’ cried Meg.

‘They broke in like a grace, my dear,’ said Trotty, taking his seat. ‘They’d say a good one, I am sure, if they could. Many’s the kind thing they say to me.’

‘The Bells do, father!’ laughed Meg, as she set the basin, and a knife and fork, before him. ‘Well!’

‘Seem to, my Pet,’ said Trotty, falling to with great vigour. ‘And where’s the difference? If I hear ’em, what does it matter whether they speak it or not? Why bless you, my dear,’ said Toby, pointing at the tower with his fork, and becoming more animated under the influence of dinner, ‘how often have I heard them bells say, “Toby Veck, Toby Veck, keep a good heart, Toby! Toby Veck, Toby Veck, keep a good heart, Toby!” A million times? More!’

‘Well, I never!’ cried Meg.

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

‘When things is very bad,’ said Trotty; ‘very bad indeed, I mean; almost at the worst; then it’s “Toby Veck, Toby Veck, job coming soon, Toby! Toby Veck, Toby Veck, job coming soon, Toby!” That way.’

‘And it comes—at last, father,’ said Meg, with a touch of sadness in her pleasant voice.

‘Always,’ answered the unconscious Toby. ‘Never fails.’

While this discourse was holding, Trotty made no pause in his attack upon the savoury meat before him, but cut and ate, and cut and drank, and cut and chewed, and dodged about, from tripe to hot potato, and from hot potato back again to tripe, with an unctuous and unflagging relish. But happening now to look all round the street—in case anybody should be beckoning from any door or window, for a porter—his eyes, in coming back again, encountered Meg: sitting opposite to him, with her arms folded and only busy in watching his progress with a smile of happiness.

‘Why, Lord forgive me!’ said Trotty, dropping his knife and fork. ‘My dove! Meg! why didn’t you tell me what a beast I was?’

‘Father?’

‘Sitting here,’ said Trotty, in penitent explanation, ‘cramming, and stuffing, and gorging myself; and you before me there, never so much as breaking your precious fast, nor wanting to, when—’

‘But I have broken it, father,’ interposed his daughter, laughing, ‘all to bits. I have had my dinner.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Trotty. ‘Two dinners in one day! It an’t possible! You might as well tell me that two New Year’s Days will come together, or that I have had a gold head all my life, and never changed it.’

‘I have had my dinner, father, for all that,’ said Meg, coming nearer to him. ‘And if you’ll go on with yours, I’ll tell you how and where; and how your dinner came to be brought; and—and something else besides.’

Toby still appeared incredulous; but she looked into his face with her clear eyes, and laying her hand upon his shoulder, motioned him to go on while the meat was hot. So Trotty took up his knife and fork again, and went to work. But much more slowly than before, and shaking his head, as if he were not at all pleased with himself.

‘I had my dinner, father,’ said Meg, after a little hesitation, ‘with—with Richard. His dinner-time was early; and as he brought his dinner with him when he came to see me, we—we had it together, father.’

Trotty took a little beer, and smacked his lips. Then he said, ‘Oh!’—because she waited.

‘And Richard says, father—’ Meg resumed. Then stopped.

‘What does Richard say, Meg?’ asked Toby.

‘Richard says, father—’ Another stoppage.

‘Richard’s a long time saying it,’ said Toby.

‘He says then, father,’ Meg continued, lifting up her eyes at last, and speaking in a tremble, but quite plainly; ‘another year is nearly gone, and where is the use of waiting on from year to year, when it is so unlikely we shall ever be better off than we are now? He says we are poor now, father, and we shall be poor then, but we are young now, and years will make us old before we know it. He says that if we wait: people in our condition: until we see our way quite clearly, the way will be a narrow one indeed—the common way—the Grave, father.’

A bolder man than Trotty Veck must needs have drawn upon his boldness largely, to deny it. Trotty held his peace.

‘And how hard, father, to grow old, and die, and think we might have cheered and helped each other! How hard in all our lives to love each other; and to grieve, apart, to see each other working, changing, growing old and grey. Even if I got the better of it, and forgot him (which I never could), oh father dear, how hard to have a heart so full as mine is now, and live to have it slowly drained out every drop, without the recollection of one happy moment of a woman’s life, to stay behind and comfort me, and make me better!’

Trotty sat quite still. Meg dried her eyes, and said more gaily: that is to say, with here a laugh, and there a sob, and here a laugh and sob together:

‘So Richard says, father; as his work was yesterday made certain for some time to come, and as I love him, and have loved him full three years—ah! longer than that, if he knew it!—will I marry him on New Year’s Day; the best and happiest day, he says, in the whole year, and one that is almost sure to bring good fortune with it. It’s a short notice, father—isn’t it?—but I haven’t my fortune to be settled, or my wedding dresses to be made, like the great ladies, father, have I? And he said so much, and said it in his way; so strong and earnest, and all the time so kind and gentle; that I said I’d come and talk to you, father. And as they paid the money for that work of mine this morning (unexpectedly, I am sure!) and as you have fared very poorly for a whole week, and as I couldn’t help wishing there should be something to make this day a sort of holiday to you as well as a dear and happy day to me, father, I made a little treat and brought it to surprise you.’

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

It was the voice of this same Richard, who had come upon them unobserved, and stood before the father and daughter; looking down upon them with a face as glowing as the iron on which his stout sledge-hammer daily rung. A handsome, well-made, powerful youngster he was; with eyes that sparkled like the red-hot droppings from a furnace fire; black hair that curled about his swarthy temples rarely; and a smile—a smile that bore out Meg’s eulogium on his style of conversation.

‘See how he leaves it cooling on the step!’ said Richard. ‘Meg don’t know what he likes. Not she!’

Trotty, all action and enthusiasm, immediately reached up his hand to Richard, and was going to address him in great hurry, when the house-door opened without any warning, and a footman very nearly put his foot into the tripe.

‘Out of the vays here, will you! You must always go and be a-settin on our steps, must you! You can’t go and give a turn to none of the neighbours never, can’t you! Will you clear the road, or won’t you?’

Strictly speaking, the last question was irrelevant, as they had already done it.

‘What’s the matter, what’s the matter!’ said the gentleman for whom the door was opened; coming out of the house at that kind of light-heavy pace—that peculiar compromise between a walk and a jog-trot—with which a gentleman upon the smooth down-hill of life, wearing creaking boots, a watch-chain, and clean linen, may come out of his house: not only without any abatement of his dignity, but with an expression of having important and wealthy engagements elsewhere. ‘What’s the matter! What’s the matter!’

‘You’re always a-being begged, and prayed, upon your bended knees you are,’ said the footman with great emphasis to Trotty Veck, ‘to let our door-steps be. Why don’t you let ’em be? CAN’T you let ’em be?’

‘There! That’ll do, that’ll do!’ said the gentleman. ‘Halloa there! Porter!’ beckoning with his head to Trotty Veck. ‘Come here. What’s that? Your dinner?’

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

‘Don’t leave it there,’ exclaimed the gentleman. ‘Bring it here, bring it here. So! This is your dinner, is it?’

‘Yes, sir,’ repeated Trotty, looking with a fixed eye and a watery mouth, at the piece of tripe he had reserved for a last delicious tit-bit; which the gentleman was now turning over and over on the end of the fork.

Two other gentlemen had come out with him. One was a low-spirited gentleman of middle age, of a meagre habit, and a disconsolate face; who kept his hands continually in the pockets of his scanty pepper-and-salt trousers, very large and dog’s-eared from that custom; and was not particularly well brushed or washed. The other, a full-sized, sleek, well-conditioned gentleman, in a blue coat with bright buttons, and a white cravat. This gentleman had a very red face, as if an undue proportion of the blood in his body were squeezed up into his head; which perhaps accounted for his having also the appearance of being rather cold about the heart.

He who had Toby’s meat upon the fork, called to the first one by the name of Filer; and they both drew near together. Mr. Filer being exceedingly short-sighted, was obliged to go so close to the remnant of Toby’s dinner before he could make out what it was, that Toby’s heart leaped up into his mouth. But Mr. Filer didn’t eat it.

‘This is a description of animal food, Alderman,’ said Filer, making little punches in it with a pencil-case, ‘commonly known to the labouring population of this country, by the name of tripe.’

The Alderman laughed, and winked; for he was a merry fellow, Alderman Cute. Oh, and a sly fellow too! A knowing fellow. Up to everything. Not to be imposed upon. Deep in the people’s hearts! He knew them, Cute did. I believe you!

‘But who eats tripe?’ said Mr. Filer, looking round. ‘Tripe is without an exception the least economical, and the most wasteful article of consumption that the markets of this country can by possibility produce. The loss upon a pound of tripe has been found to be, in the boiling, seven-eights of a fifth more than the loss upon a pound of any other animal substance whatever. Tripe is more expensive, properly understood, than the hothouse pine-apple. Taking into account the number of animals slaughtered yearly within the bills of mortality alone; and forming a low estimate of the quantity of tripe which the carcases of those animals, reasonably well butchered, would yield; I find that the waste on that amount of tripe, if boiled, would victual a garrison of five hundred men for five months of thirty-one days each, and a February over. The Waste, the Waste!’

Trotty stood aghast, and his legs shook under him. He seemed to have starved a garrison of five hundred men with his own hand.

‘Who eats tripe?’ said Mr. Filer, warmly. ‘Who eats tripe?’

Trotty made a miserable bow.

‘You do, do you?’ said Mr. Filer. ‘Then I’ll tell you something. You snatch your tripe, my friend, out of the mouths of widows and orphans.’

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

‘Divide the amount of tripe before-mentioned, Alderman,’ said Mr. Filer, ‘by the estimated number of existing widows and orphans, and the result will be one pennyweight of tripe to each. Not a grain is left for that man. Consequently, he’s a robber.’

Trotty was so shocked, that it gave him no concern to see the Alderman finish the tripe himself. It was a relief to get rid of it, anyhow.

‘And what do you say?’ asked the Alderman, jocosely, of the red-faced gentleman in the blue coat. ‘You have heard friend Filer. What do you say?’

‘What’s it possible to say?’ returned the gentleman. ‘What is to be said? Who can take any interest in a fellow like this,’ meaning Trotty; ‘in such degenerate times as these? Look at him. What an object! The good old times, the grand old times, the great old times! Those were the times for a bold peasantry, and all that sort of thing. Those were the times for every sort of thing, in fact. There’s nothing now-a-days. Ah!’ sighed the red-faced gentleman. ‘The good old times, the good old times!’

The gentleman didn’t specify what particular times he alluded to; nor did he say whether he objected to the present times, from a disinterested consciousness that they had done nothing very remarkable in producing himself.

‘The good old times, the good old times,’ repeated the gentleman. ‘What times they were! They were the only times. It’s of no use talking about any other times, or discussing what the people are in these times. You don’t call these, times, do you? I don’t. Look into Strutt’s Costumes, and see what a Porter used to be, in any of the good old English reigns.’

‘He hadn’t, in his very best circumstances, a shirt to his back, or a stocking to his foot; and there was scarcely a vegetable in all England for him to put into his mouth,’ said Mr. Filer. ‘I can prove it, by tables.’

But still the red-faced gentleman extolled the good old times, the grand old times, the great old times. No matter what anybody else said, he still went turning round and round in one set form of words concerning them; as a poor squirrel turns and turns in its revolving cage; touching the mechanism, and trick of which, it has probably quite as distinct perceptions, as ever this red-faced gentleman had of his deceased Millennium.

It is possible that poor Trotty’s faith in these very vague Old Times was not entirely destroyed, for he felt vague enough at that moment. One thing, however, was plain to him, in the midst of his distress; to wit, that however these gentlemen might differ in details, his misgivings of that morning, and of many other mornings, were well founded. ‘No, no. We can’t go right or do right,’ thought Trotty in despair. ‘There is no good in us. We are born bad!’

But Trotty had a father’s heart within him; which had somehow got into his breast in spite of this decree; and he could not bear that Meg, in the blush of her brief joy, should have her fortune read by these wise gentlemen. ‘God help her,’ thought poor Trotty. ‘She will know it soon enough.’

He anxiously signed, therefore, to the young smith, to take her away. But he was so busy, talking to her softly at a little distance, that he only became conscious of this desire, simultaneously with Alderman Cute. Now, the Alderman had not yet had his say, but he was a philosopher, too—practical, though! Oh, very practical—and, as he had no idea of losing any portion of his audience, he cried ‘Stop!’

‘Now, you know,’ said the Alderman, addressing his two friends, with a self-complacent smile upon his face which was habitual to him, ‘I am a plain man, and a practical man; and I go to work in a plain practical way. That’s my way. There is not the least mystery or difficulty in dealing with this sort of people if you only understand ’em, and can talk to ’em in their own manner. Now, you Porter! Don’t you ever tell me, or anybody else, my friend, that you haven’t always enough to eat, and of the best; because I know better. I have tasted your tripe, you know, and you can’t “chaff” me. You understand what “chaff” means, eh? That’s the right word, isn’t it? Ha, ha, ha! Lord bless you,’ said the Alderman, turning to his friends again, ‘it’s the easiest thing on earth to deal with this sort of people, if you understand ’em.’

Famous man for the common people, Alderman Cute! Never out of temper with them! Easy, affable, joking, knowing gentleman!

‘You see, my friend,’ pursued the Alderman, ‘there’s a great deal of nonsense talked about Want—“hard up,” you know; that’s the phrase, isn’t it? ha! ha! ha!—and I intend to Put it Down. There’s a certain amount of cant in vogue about Starvation, and I mean to Put it Down. That’s all! Lord bless you,’ said the Alderman, turning to his friends again, ‘you may Put Down anything among this sort of people, if you only know the way to set about it.’

Trotty took Meg’s hand and drew it through his arm. He didn’t seem to know what he was doing though.

‘Your daughter, eh?’ said the Alderman, chucking her familiarly under the chin.

Always affable with the working classes, Alderman Cute! Knew what pleased them! Not a bit of pride!

‘Where’s her mother?’ asked that worthy gentleman.

‘Dead,’ said Toby. ‘Her mother got up linen; and was called to Heaven when She was born.’

‘Not to get up linen there, I suppose,’ remarked the Alderman pleasantly.

Toby might or might not have been able to separate his wife in Heaven from her old pursuits. But query: If Mrs. Alderman Cute had gone to Heaven, would Mr. Alderman Cute have pictured her as holding any state or station there?

‘And you’re making love to her, are you?’ said Cute to the young smith.

‘Yes,’ returned Richard quickly, for he was nettled by the question. ‘And we are going to be married on New Year’s Day.’

‘What do you mean!’ cried Filer sharply. ‘Married!’

‘Why, yes, we’re thinking of it, Master,’ said Richard. ‘We’re rather in a hurry, you see, in case it should be Put Down first.’

‘Ah!’ cried Filer, with a groan. ‘Put that down indeed, Alderman, and you’ll do something. Married! Married!! The ignorance of the first principles of political economy on the part of these people; their improvidence; their wickedness; is, by Heavens! enough to—Now look at that couple, will you!’

Well? They were worth looking at. And marriage seemed as reasonable and fair a deed as they need have in contemplation.

‘A man may live to be as old as Methuselah,’ said Mr. Filer, ‘and may labour all his life for the benefit of such people as those; and may heap up facts on figures, facts on figures, facts on figures, mountains high and dry; and he can no more hope to persuade ’em that they have no right or business to be married, than he can hope to persuade ’em that they have no earthly right or business to be born. And that we know they haven’t. We reduced it to a mathematical certainty long ago!’

Alderman Cute was mightily diverted, and laid his right forefinger on the side of his nose, as much as to say to both his friends, ‘Observe me, will you! Keep your eye on the practical man!’—and called Meg to him.

‘Come here, my girl!’ said Alderman Cute.

The young blood of her lover had been mounting, wrathfully, within the last few minutes; and he was indisposed to let her come. But, setting a constraint upon himself, he came forward with a stride as Meg approached, and stood beside her. Trotty kept her hand within his arm still, but looked from face to face as wildly as a sleeper in a dream.

‘Now, I’m going to give you a word or two of good advice, my girl,’ said the Alderman, in his nice easy way. ‘It’s my place to give advice, you know, because I’m a Justice. You know I’m a Justice, don’t you?’

Meg timidly said, ‘Yes.’ But everybody knew Alderman Cute was a Justice! Oh dear, so active a Justice always! Who such a mote of brightness in the public eye, as Cute!

‘You are going to be married, you say,’ pursued the Alderman. ‘Very unbecoming and indelicate in one of your sex! But never mind that. After you are married, you’ll quarrel with your husband and come to be a distressed wife. You may think not; but you will, because I tell you so. Now, I give you fair warning, that I have made up my mind to Put distressed wives Down. So, don’t be brought before me. You’ll have children—boys. Those boys will grow up bad, of course, and run wild in the streets, without shoes and stockings. Mind, my young friend! I’ll convict ’em summarily, every one, for I am determined to Put boys without shoes and stockings, Down. Perhaps your husband will die young (most likely) and leave you with a baby. Then you’ll be turned out of doors, and wander up and down the streets. Now, don’t wander near me, my dear, for I am resolved, to Put all wandering mothers Down. All young mothers, of all sorts and kinds, it’s my determination to Put Down. Don’t think to plead illness as an excuse with me; or babies as an excuse with me; for all sick persons and young children (I hope you know the church-service, but I’m afraid not) I am determined to Put Down. And if you attempt, desperately, and ungratefully, and impiously, and fraudulently attempt, to drown yourself, or hang yourself, I’ll have no pity for you, for I have made up my mind to Put all suicide Down! If there is one thing,’ said the Alderman, with his self-satisfied smile, ‘on which I can be said to have made up my mind more than on another, it is to Put suicide Down. So don’t try it on. That’s the phrase, isn’t it? Ha, ha! now we understand each other.’

Toby knew not whether to be agonised or glad, to see that Meg had turned a deadly white, and dropped her lover’s hand.

‘And as for you, you dull dog,’ said the Alderman, turning with even increased cheerfulness and urbanity to the young smith, ‘what are you thinking of being married for? What do you want to be married for, you silly fellow? If I was a fine, young, strapping chap like you, I should be ashamed of being milksop enough to pin myself to a woman’s apron-strings! Why, she’ll be an old woman before you’re a middle-aged man! And a pretty figure you’ll cut then, with a draggle-tailed wife and a crowd of squalling children crying after you wherever you go!’

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

‘There! Go along with you,’ said the Alderman, ‘and repent. Don’t make such a fool of yourself as to get married on New Year’s Day. You’ll think very differently of it, long before next New Year’s Day: a trim young fellow like you, with all the girls looking after you. There! Go along with you!’

They went along. Not arm in arm, or hand in hand, or interchanging bright glances; but, she in tears; he, gloomy and down-looking. Were these the hearts that had so lately made old Toby’s leap up from its faintness? No, no. The Alderman (a blessing on his head!) had Put them Down.

‘As you happen to be here,’ said the Alderman to Toby, ‘you shall carry a letter for me. Can you be quick? You’re an old man.’

Toby, who had been looking after Meg, quite stupidly, made shift to murmur out that he was very quick, and very strong.

‘How old are you?’ inquired the Alderman.

‘I’m over sixty, sir,’ said Toby.

‘O! This man’s a great deal past the average age, you know,’ cried Mr. Filer breaking in as if his patience would bear some trying, but this really was carrying matters a little too far.

‘I feel I’m intruding, sir,’ said Toby. ‘I—I misdoubted it this morning. Oh dear me!’

The Alderman cut him short by giving him the letter from his pocket. Toby would have got a shilling too; but Mr. Filer clearly showing that in that case he would rob a certain given number of persons of ninepence-halfpenny a-piece, he only got sixpence; and thought himself very well off to get that.

Then the Alderman gave an arm to each of his friends, and walked off in high feather; but, he immediately came hurrying back alone, as if he had forgotten something.

‘Porter!’ said the Alderman.

‘Sir!’ said Toby.

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

‘Even her good looks are stolen from somebody or other, I suppose,’ thought Toby, looking at the sixpence in his hand, and thinking of the tripe. ‘She’s been and robbed five hundred ladies of a bloom a-piece, I shouldn’t wonder. It’s very dreadful!’

‘She’s much too handsome, my man,’ repeated the Alderman. ‘The chances are, that she’ll come to no good, I clearly see. Observe what I say. Take care of her!’ With which, he hurried off again.

‘Wrong every way. Wrong every way!’ said Trotty, clasping his hands. ‘Born bad. No business here!’

The Chimes came clashing in upon him as he said the words. Full, loud, and sounding—but with no encouragement. No, not a drop.

‘The tune’s changed,’ cried the old man, as he listened. ‘There’s not a word of all that fancy in it. Why should there be? I have no business with the New Year nor with the old one neither. Let me die!’

Still the Bells, pealing forth their changes, made the very air spin. Put ’em down, Put ’em down! Good old Times, Good old Times! Facts and Figures, Facts and Figures! Put ’em down, Put ’em down! If they said anything they said this, until the brain of Toby reeled.

He pressed his bewildered head between his hands, as if to keep it from splitting asunder. A well-timed action, as it happened; for finding the letter in one of them, and being by that means reminded of his charge, he fell, mechanically, into his usual trot, and trotted off.

CHAPTER II—The Second Quarter.

The letter Toby had received from Alderman Cute, was addressed to a great man in the great district of the town. The greatest district of the town. It must have been the greatest district of the town, because it was commonly called ‘the world’ by its inhabitants. The letter positively seemed heavier in Toby’s hand, than another letter. Not because the Alderman had sealed it with a very large coat of arms and no end of wax, but because of the weighty name on the superscription, and the ponderous amount of gold and silver with which it was associated.

‘How different from us!’ thought Toby, in all simplicity and earnestness, as he looked at the direction. ‘Divide the lively turtles in the bills of mortality, by the number of gentlefolks able to buy ’em; and whose share does he take but his own! As to snatching tripe from anybody’s mouth—he’d scorn it!’

With the involuntary homage due to such an exalted character, Toby interposed a corner of his apron between the letter and his fingers.

‘His children,’ said Trotty, and a mist rose before his eyes; ‘his daughters—Gentlemen may win their hearts and marry them; they may be happy wives and mothers; they may be handsome like my darling M-e-’.

He couldn’t finish the name. The final letter swelled in his throat, to the size of the whole alphabet.

‘Never mind,’ thought Trotty. ‘I know what I mean. That’s more than enough for me.’ And with this consolatory rumination, trotted on.

It was a hard frost, that day. The air was bracing, crisp, and clear. The wintry sun, though powerless for warmth, looked brightly down upon the ice it was too weak to melt, and set a radiant glory there. At other times, Trotty might have learned a poor man’s lesson from the wintry sun; but, he was past that, now.

The Year was Old, that day. The patient Year had lived through the reproaches and misuses of its slanderers, and faithfully performed its work. Spring, summer, autumn, winter. It had laboured through the destined round, and now laid down its weary head to die. Shut out from hope, high impulse, active happiness, itself, but active messenger of many joys to others, it made appeal in its decline to have its toiling days and patient hours remembered, and to die in peace. Trotty might have read a poor man’s allegory in the fading year; but he was past that, now.

And only he? Or has the like appeal been ever made, by seventy years at once upon an English labourer’s head, and made in vain!

The streets were full of motion, and the shops were decked out gaily. The New Year, like an Infant Heir to the whole world, was waited for, with welcomes, presents, and rejoicings. There were books and toys for the New Year, glittering trinkets for the New Year, dresses for the New Year, schemes of fortune for the New Year; new inventions to beguile it. Its life was parcelled out in almanacks and pocket-books; the coming of its moons, and stars, and tides, was known beforehand to the moment; all the workings of its seasons in their days and nights, were calculated with as much precision as Mr. Filer could work sums in men and women.

The New Year, the New Year. Everywhere the New Year! The Old Year was already looked upon as dead; and its effects were selling cheap, like some drowned mariner’s aboardship. Its patterns were Last Year’s, and going at a sacrifice, before its breath was gone. Its treasures were mere dirt, beside the riches of its unborn successor!

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

‘Put ’em down, Put ’em down! Facts and Figures, Facts and Figures! Good old Times, Good old Times! Put ’em down, Put ’em down!’—his trot went to that measure, and would fit itself to nothing else.

But, even that one, melancholy as it was, brought him, in due time, to the end of his journey. To the mansion of Sir Joseph Bowley, Member of Parliament.

The door was opened by a Porter. Such a Porter! Not of Toby’s order. Quite another thing. His place was the ticket though; not Toby’s.

This Porter underwent some hard panting before he could speak; having breathed himself by coming incautiously out of his chair, without first taking time to think about it and compose his mind. When he had found his voice—which it took him a long time to do, for it was a long way off, and hidden under a load of meat—he said in a fat whisper,

‘Who’s it from?’

Toby told him.

‘You’re to take it in, yourself,’ said the Porter, pointing to a room at the end of a long passage, opening from the hall. ‘Everything goes straight in, on this day of the year. You’re not a bit too soon; for the carriage is at the door now, and they have only come to town for a couple of hours, a’ purpose.’

Toby wiped his feet (which were quite dry already) with great care, and took the way pointed out to him; observing as he went that it was an awfully grand house, but hushed and covered up, as if the family were in the country. Knocking at the room-door, he was told to enter from within; and doing so found himself in a spacious library, where, at a table strewn with files and papers, were a stately lady in a bonnet; and a not very stately gentleman in black who wrote from her dictation; while another, and an older, and a much statelier gentleman, whose hat and cane were on the table, walked up and down, with one hand in his breast, and looked complacently from time to time at his own picture—a full length; a very full length—hanging over the fireplace.

‘What is this?’ said the last-named gentleman. ‘Mr. Fish, will you have the goodness to attend?’

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

‘From Alderman Cute, Sir Joseph.’

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

Toby replied in the negative.

‘You have no bill or demand upon me—my name is Bowley, Sir Joseph Bowley—of any kind from anybody, have you?’ said Sir Joseph. ‘If you have, present it. There is a cheque-book by the side of Mr. Fish. I allow nothing to be carried into the New Year. Every description of account is settled in this house at the close of the old one. So that if death was to—to—’

‘To cut,’ suggested Mr. Fish.

‘To sever, sir,’ returned Sir Joseph, with great asperity, ‘the cord of existence—my affairs would be found, I hope, in a state of preparation.’

‘My dear Sir Joseph!’ said the lady, who was greatly younger than the gentleman. ‘How shocking!’

‘My lady Bowley,’ returned Sir Joseph, floundering now and then, as in the great depth of his observations, ‘at this season of the year we should think of—of—ourselves. We should look into our—our accounts. We should feel that every return of so eventful a period in human transactions, involves a matter of deep moment between a man and his—and his banker.’

Sir Joseph delivered these words as if he felt the full morality of what he was saying; and desired that even Trotty should have an opportunity of being improved by such discourse. Possibly he had this end before him in still forbearing to break the seal of the letter, and in telling Trotty to wait where he was, a minute.

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

‘Mr. Fish has said that, I believe,’ returned his lady, glancing at the letter. ‘But, upon my word, Sir Joseph, I don’t think I can let it go after all. It is so very dear.’

‘What is dear?’ inquired Sir Joseph.

‘That Charity, my love. They only allow two votes for a subscription of five pounds. Really monstrous!’

‘My lady Bowley,’ returned Sir Joseph, ‘you surprise me. Is the luxury of feeling in proportion to the number of votes; or is it, to a rightly constituted mind, in proportion to the number of applicants, and the wholesome state of mind to which their canvassing reduces them? Is there no excitement of the purest kind in having two votes to dispose of among fifty people?’

‘Not to me, I acknowledge,’ replied the lady. ‘It bores one. Besides, one can’t oblige one’s acquaintance. But you are the Poor Man’s Friend, you know, Sir Joseph. You think otherwise.’

‘I am the Poor Man’s Friend,’ observed Sir Joseph, glancing at the poor man present. ‘As such I may be taunted. As such I have been taunted. But I ask no other title.’

‘Bless him for a noble gentleman!’ thought Trotty.

‘I don’t agree with Cute here, for instance,’ said Sir Joseph, holding out the letter. ‘I don’t agree with the Filer party. I don’t agree with any party. My friend the Poor Man, has no business with anything of that sort, and nothing of that sort has any business with him. My friend the Poor Man, in my district, is my business. No man or body of men has any right to interfere between my friend and me. That is the ground I take. I assume a—a paternal character towards my friend. I say, “My good fellow, I will treat you paternally.”’

Toby listened with great gravity, and began to feel more comfortable.

‘Your only business, my good fellow,’ pursued Sir Joseph, looking abstractedly at Toby; ‘your only business in life is with me. You needn’t trouble yourself to think about anything. I will think for you; I know what is good for you; I am your perpetual parent. Such is the dispensation of an all-wise Providence! Now, the design of your creation is—not that you should swill, and guzzle, and associate your enjoyments, brutally, with food; Toby thought remorsefully of the tripe; ‘but that you should feel the Dignity of Labour. Go forth erect into the cheerful morning air, and—and stop there. Live hard and temperately, be respectful, exercise your self-denial, bring up your family on next to nothing, pay your rent as regularly as the clock strikes, be punctual in your dealings (I set you a good example; you will find Mr. Fish, my confidential secretary, with a cash-box before him at all times); and you may trust to me to be your Friend and Father.’

‘Nice children, indeed, Sir Joseph!’ said the lady, with a shudder. ‘Rheumatisms, and fevers, and crooked legs, and asthmas, and all kinds of horrors!’

‘My lady,’ returned Sir Joseph, with solemnity, ‘not the less am I the Poor Man’s Friend and Father. Not the less shall he receive encouragement at my hands. Every quarter-day he will be put in communication with Mr. Fish. Every New Year’s Day, myself and friends will drink his health. Once every year, myself and friends will address him with the deepest feeling. Once in his life, he may even perhaps receive; in public, in the presence of the gentry; a Trifle from a Friend. And when, upheld no more by these stimulants, and the Dignity of Labour, he sinks into his comfortable grave, then, my lady’—here Sir Joseph blew his nose—‘I will be a Friend and a Father—on the same terms—to his children.’

Toby was greatly moved.

‘O! You have a thankful family, Sir Joseph!’ cried his wife.

‘My lady,’ said Sir Joseph, quite majestically, ‘Ingratitude is known to be the sin of that class. I expect no other return.’

‘Ah! Born bad!’ thought Toby. ‘Nothing melts us.’

‘What man can do, I do,’ pursued Sir Joseph. ‘I do my duty as the Poor Man’s Friend and Father; and I endeavour to educate his mind, by inculcating on all occasions the one great moral lesson which that class requires. That is, entire Dependence on myself. They have no business whatever with—with themselves. If wicked and designing persons tell them otherwise, and they become impatient and discontented, and are guilty of insubordinate conduct and black-hearted ingratitude; which is undoubtedly the case; I am their Friend and Father still. It is so Ordained. It is in the nature of things.’

With that great sentiment, he opened the Alderman’s letter; and read it.

‘Very polite and attentive, I am sure!’ exclaimed Sir Joseph. ‘My lady, the Alderman is so obliging as to remind me that he has had “the distinguished honour”—he is very good—of meeting me at the house of our mutual friend Deedles, the banker; and he does me the favour to inquire whether it will be agreeable to me to have Will Fern put down.’

‘Most agreeable!’ replied my Lady Bowley. ‘The worst man among them! He has been committing a robbery, I hope?’

‘Why no,’ said Sir Joseph’, referring to the letter. ‘Not quite. Very near. Not quite. He came up to London, it seems, to look for employment (trying to better himself—that’s his story), and being found at night asleep in a shed, was taken into custody, and carried next morning before the Alderman. The Alderman observes (very properly) that he is determined to put this sort of thing down; and that if it will be agreeable to me to have Will Fern put down, he will be happy to begin with him.’

‘Let him be made an example of, by all means,’ returned the lady. ‘Last winter, when I introduced pinking and eyelet-holing among the men and boys in the village, as a nice evening employment, and had the lines,

O let us love our occupations, Bless the squire and his relations, Live upon our daily rations, And always know our proper stations,

set to music on the new system, for them to sing the while; this very Fern—I see him now—touched that hat of his, and said, “I humbly ask your pardon, my lady, but an’t I something different from a great girl?” I expected it, of course; who can expect anything but insolence and ingratitude from that class of people! That is not to the purpose, however. Sir Joseph! Make an example of him!’

‘Hem!’ coughed Sir Joseph. ‘Mr. Fish, if you’ll have the goodness to attend—’

Mr. Fish immediately seized his pen, and wrote from Sir Joseph’s dictation.

‘Private. My dear Sir. I am very much indebted to you for your courtesy in the matter of the man William Fern, of whom, I regret to add, I can say nothing favourable. I have uniformly considered myself in the light of his Friend and Father, but have been repaid (a common case, I grieve to say) with ingratitude, and constant opposition to my plans. He is a turbulent and rebellious spirit. His character will not bear investigation. Nothing will persuade him to be happy when he might. Under these circumstances, it appears to me, I own, that when he comes before you again (as you informed me he promised to do to-morrow, pending your inquiries, and I think he may be so far relied upon), his committal for some short term as a Vagabond, would be a service to society, and would be a salutary example in a country where—for the sake of those who are, through good and evil report, the Friends and Fathers of the Poor, as well as with a view to that, generally speaking, misguided class themselves—examples are greatly needed. And I am,’ and so forth.

‘It appears,’ remarked Sir Joseph when he had signed this letter, and Mr. Fish was sealing it, ‘as if this were Ordained: really. At the close of the year, I wind up my account and strike my balance, even with William Fern!’

Trotty, who had long ago relapsed, and was very low-spirited, stepped forward with a rueful face to take the letter.

‘With my compliments and thanks,’ said Sir Joseph. ‘Stop!’

‘Stop!’ echoed Mr. Fish.

‘You have heard, perhaps,’ said Sir Joseph, oracularly, ‘certain remarks into which I have been led respecting the solemn period of time at which we have arrived, and the duty imposed upon us of settling our affairs, and being prepared. You have observed that I don’t shelter myself behind my superior standing in society, but that Mr. Fish—that gentleman—has a cheque-book at his elbow, and is in fact here, to enable me to turn over a perfectly new leaf, and enter on the epoch before us with a clean account. Now, my friend, can you lay your hand upon your heart, and say, that you also have made preparations for a New Year?’

‘I am afraid, sir,’ stammered Trotty, looking meekly at him, ‘that I am a—a—little behind-hand with the world.’

‘Behind-hand with the world!’ repeated Sir Joseph Bowley, in a tone of terrible distinctness.

‘I am afraid, sir,’ faltered Trotty, ‘that there’s a matter of ten or twelve shillings owing to Mrs. Chickenstalker.’

‘To Mrs. Chickenstalker!’ repeated Sir Joseph, in the same tone as before.

‘A shop, sir,’ exclaimed Toby, ‘in the general line. Also a—a little money on account of rent. A very little, sir. It oughtn’t to be owing, I know, but we have been hard put to it, indeed!’

Sir Joseph looked at his lady, and at Mr. Fish, and at Trotty, one after another, twice all round. He then made a despondent gesture with both hands at once, as if he gave the thing up altogether.

‘How a man, even among this improvident and impracticable race; an old man; a man grown grey; can look a New Year in the face, with his affairs in this condition; how he can lie down on his bed at night, and get up again in the morning, and—There!’ he said, turning his back on Trotty. ‘Take the letter. Take the letter!’

‘I heartily wish it was otherwise, sir,’ said Trotty, anxious to excuse himself. ‘We have been tried very hard.’

Sir Joseph still repeating ‘Take the letter, take the letter!’ and Mr. Fish not only saying the same thing, but giving additional force to the request by motioning the bearer to the door, he had nothing for it but to make his bow and leave the house. And in the street, poor Trotty pulled his worn old hat down on his head, to hide the grief he felt at getting no hold on the New Year, anywhere.

He didn’t even lift his hat to look up at the Bell tower when he came to the old church on his return. He halted there a moment, from habit: and knew that it was growing dark, and that the steeple rose above him, indistinct and faint, in the murky air. He knew, too, that the Chimes would ring immediately; and that they sounded to his fancy, at such a time, like voices in the clouds. But he only made the more haste to deliver the Alderman’s letter, and get out of the way before they began; for he dreaded to hear them tagging ‘Friends and Fathers, Friends and Fathers,’ to the burden they had rung out last.

Toby discharged himself of his commission, therefore, with all possible speed, and set off trotting homeward. But what with his pace, which was at best an awkward one in the street; and what with his hat, which didn’t improve it; he trotted against somebody in less than no time, and was sent staggering out into the road.

‘I beg your pardon, I’m sure!’ said Trotty, pulling up his hat in great confusion, and between the hat and the torn lining, fixing his head into a kind of bee-hive. ‘I hope I haven’t hurt you.’

As to hurting anybody, Toby was not such an absolute Samson, but that he was much more likely to be hurt himself: and indeed, he had flown out into the road, like a shuttlecock. He had such an opinion of his own strength, however, that he was in real concern for the other party: and said again,

‘I hope I haven’t hurt you?’

The man against whom he had run; a sun-browned, sinewy, country-looking man, with grizzled hair, and a rough chin; stared at him for a moment, as if he suspected him to be in jest. But, satisfied of his good faith, he answered:

‘No, friend. You have not hurt me.’

‘Nor the child, I hope?’ said Trotty.

‘Nor the child,’ returned the man. ‘I thank you kindly.’

As he said so, he glanced at a little girl he carried in his arms, asleep: and shading her face with the long end of the poor handkerchief he wore about his throat, went slowly on.

The tone in which he said ‘I thank you kindly,’ penetrated Trotty’s heart. He was so jaded and foot-sore, and so soiled with travel, and looked about him so forlorn and strange, that it was a comfort to him to be able to thank any one: no matter for how little. Toby stood gazing after him as he plodded wearily away, with the child’s arm clinging round his neck.

At the figure in the worn shoes—now the very shade and ghost of shoes—rough leather leggings, common frock, and broad slouched hat, Trotty stood gazing, blind to the whole street. And at the child’s arm, clinging round its neck.

Before he merged into the darkness the traveller stopped; and looking round, and seeing Trotty standing there yet, seemed undecided whether to return or go on. After doing first the one and then the other, he came back, and Trotty went half-way to meet him.

‘You can tell me, perhaps,’ said the man with a faint smile, ‘and if you can I am sure you will, and I’d rather ask you than another—where Alderman Cute lives.’

‘Close at hand,’ replied Toby. ‘I’ll show you his house with pleasure.’

‘I was to have gone to him elsewhere to-morrow,’ said the man, accompanying Toby, ‘but I’m uneasy under suspicion, and want to clear myself, and to be free to go and seek my bread—I don’t know where. So, maybe he’ll forgive my going to his house to-night.’

‘It’s impossible,’ cried Toby with a start, ‘that your name’s Fern!’

‘Eh!’ cried the other, turning on him in astonishment.

‘Fern! Will Fern!’ said Trotty.

‘That’s my name,’ replied the other.

‘Why then,’ said Trotty, seizing him by the arm, and looking cautiously round, ‘for Heaven’s sake don’t go to him! Don’t go to him! He’ll put you down as sure as ever you were born. Here! come up this alley, and I’ll tell you what I mean. Don’t go to him.’

His new acquaintance looked as if he thought him mad; but he bore him company nevertheless. When they were shrouded from observation, Trotty told him what he knew, and what character he had received, and all about it.

The subject of his history listened to it with a calmness that surprised him. He did not contradict or interrupt it, once. He nodded his head now and then—more in corroboration of an old and worn-out story, it appeared, than in refutation of it; and once or twice threw back his hat, and passed his freckled hand over a brow, where every furrow he had ploughed seemed to have set its image in little. But he did no more.

‘It’s true enough in the main,’ he said, ‘master, I could sift grain from husk here and there, but let it be as ’tis. What odds? I have gone against his plans; to my misfortun’. I can’t help it; I should do the like to-morrow. As to character, them gentlefolks will search and search, and pry and pry, and have it as free from spot or speck in us, afore they’ll help us to a dry good word!—Well! I hope they don’t lose good opinion as easy as we do, or their lives is strict indeed, and hardly worth the keeping. For myself, master, I never took with that hand’—holding it before him—‘what wasn’t my own; and never held it back from work, however hard, or poorly paid. Whoever can deny it, let him chop it off! But when work won’t maintain me like a human creetur; when my living is so bad, that I am Hungry, out of doors and in; when I see a whole working life begin that way, go on that way, and end that way, without a chance or change; then I say to the gentlefolks “Keep away from me! Let my cottage be. My doors is dark enough without your darkening of ’em more. Don’t look for me to come up into the Park to help the show when there’s a Birthday, or a fine Speechmaking, or what not. Act your Plays and Games without me, and be welcome to ’em, and enjoy ’em. We’ve nowt to do with one another. I’m best let alone!”’

Seeing that the child in his arms had opened her eyes, and was looking about her in wonder, he checked himself to say a word or two of foolish prattle in her ear, and stand her on the ground beside him. Then slowly winding one of her long tresses round and round his rough forefinger like a ring, while she hung about his dusty leg, he said to Trotty:

‘I’m not a cross-grained man by natu’, I believe; and easy satisfied, I’m sure. I bear no ill-will against none of ’em. I only want to live like one of the Almighty’s creeturs. I can’t—I don’t—and so there’s a pit dug between me, and them that can and do. There’s others like me. You might tell ’em off by hundreds and by thousands, sooner than by ones.’

Trotty knew he spoke the Truth in this, and shook his head to signify as much.

‘I’ve got a bad name this way,’ said Fern; ‘and I’m not likely, I’m afeared, to get a better. ’Tan’t lawful to be out of sorts, and I AM out of sorts, though God knows I’d sooner bear a cheerful spirit if I could. Well! I don’t know as this Alderman could hurt me much by sending me to jail; but without a friend to speak a word for me, he might do it; and you see—!’ pointing downward with his finger, at the child.

‘She has a beautiful face,’ said Trotty.

‘Why yes!’ replied the other in a low voice, as he gently turned it up with both his hands towards his own, and looked upon it steadfastly. ‘I’ve thought so, many times. I’ve thought so, when my hearth was very cold, and cupboard very bare. I thought so t’other night, when we were taken like two thieves. But they—they shouldn’t try the little face too often, should they, Lilian? That’s hardly fair upon a man!’

He sunk his voice so low, and gazed upon her with an air so stern and strange, that Toby, to divert the current of his thoughts, inquired if his wife were living.

‘I never had one,’ he returned, shaking his head. ‘She’s my brother’s child: a orphan. Nine year old, though you’d hardly think it; but she’s tired and worn out now. They’d have taken care on her, the Union—eight-and-twenty mile away from where we live—between four walls (as they took care of my old father when he couldn’t work no more, though he didn’t trouble ’em long); but I took her instead, and she’s lived with me ever since. Her mother had a friend once, in London here. We are trying to find her, and to find work too; but it’s a large place. Never mind. More room for us to walk about in, Lilly!’

Meeting the child’s eyes with a smile which melted Toby more than tears, he shook him by the hand.

‘I don’t so much as know your name,’ he said, ‘but I’ve opened my heart free to you, for I’m thankful to you; with good reason. I’ll take your advice, and keep clear of this—’

‘Justice,’ suggested Toby.

‘Ah!’ he said. ‘If that’s the name they give him. This Justice. And to-morrow will try whether there’s better fortun’ to be met with, somewheres near London. Good night. A Happy New Year!’

‘Stay!’ cried Trotty, catching at his hand, as he relaxed his grip. ‘Stay! The New Year never can be happy to me, if we part like this. The New Year never can be happy to me, if I see the child and you go wandering away, you don’t know where, without a shelter for your heads. Come home with me! I’m a poor man, living in a poor place; but I can give you lodging for one night and never miss it. Come home with me! Here! I’ll take her!’ cried Trotty, lifting up the child. ‘A pretty one! I’d carry twenty times her weight, and never know I’d got it. Tell me if I go too quick for you. I’m very fast. I always was!’ Trotty said this, taking about six of his trotting paces to one stride of his fatigued companion; and with his thin legs quivering again, beneath the load he bore.

‘Why, she’s as light,’ said Trotty, trotting in his speech as well as in his gait; for he couldn’t bear to be thanked, and dreaded a moment’s pause; ‘as light as a feather. Lighter than a Peacock’s feather—a great deal lighter. Here we are and here we go! Round this first turning to the right, Uncle Will, and past the pump, and sharp off up the passage to the left, right opposite the public-house. Here we are and here we go! Cross over, Uncle Will, and mind the kidney pieman at the corner! Here we are and here we go! Down the Mews here, Uncle Will, and stop at the black door, with “T. Veck, Ticket Porter,” wrote upon a board; and here we are and here we go, and here we are indeed, my precious. Meg, surprising you!’

With which words Trotty, in a breathless state, set the child down before his daughter in the middle of the floor. The little visitor looked once at Meg; and doubting nothing in that face, but trusting everything she saw there; ran into her arms.

‘Here we are and here we go!’ cried Trotty, running round the room, and choking audibly. ‘Here, Uncle Will, here’s a fire you know! Why don’t you come to the fire? Oh here we are and here we go! Meg, my precious darling, where’s the kettle? Here it is and here it goes, and it’ll bile in no time!’

Trotty really had picked up the kettle somewhere or other in the course of his wild career and now put it on the fire: while Meg, seating the child in a warm corner, knelt down on the ground before her, and pulled off her shoes, and dried her wet feet on a cloth. Ay, and she laughed at Trotty too—so pleasantly, so cheerfully, that Trotty could have blessed her where she kneeled; for he had seen that, when they entered, she was sitting by the fire in tears.

‘Why, father!’ said Meg. ‘You’re crazy to-night, I think. I don’t know what the Bells would say to that. Poor little feet. How cold they are!’

‘Oh, they’re warmer now!’ exclaimed the child. ‘They’re quite warm now!’

‘No, no, no,’ said Meg. ‘We haven’t rubbed ’em half enough. We’re so busy. So busy! And when they’re done, we’ll brush out the damp hair; and when that’s done, we’ll bring some colour to the poor pale face with fresh water; and when that’s done, we’ll be so gay, and brisk, and happy—!’

The child, in a burst of sobbing, clasped her round the neck; caressed her fair cheek with its hand; and said, ‘Oh Meg! oh dear Meg!’

Toby’s blessing could have done no more. Who could do more!

‘Why, father!’ cried Meg, after a pause.

‘Here I am and here I go, my dear!’ said Trotty.

‘Good Gracious me!’ cried Meg. ‘He’s crazy! He’s put the dear child’s bonnet on the kettle, and hung the lid behind the door!’

‘I didn’t go for to do it, my love,’ said Trotty, hastily repairing this mistake. ‘Meg, my dear?’

Meg looked towards him and saw that he had elaborately stationed himself behind the chair of their male visitor, where with many mysterious gestures he was holding up the sixpence he had earned.

‘I see, my dear,’ said Trotty, ‘as I was coming in, half an ounce of tea lying somewhere on the stairs; and I’m pretty sure there was a bit of bacon too. As I don’t remember where it was exactly, I’ll go myself and try to find ’em.’

With this inscrutable artifice, Toby withdrew to purchase the viands he had spoken of, for ready money, at Mrs. Chickenstalker’s; and presently came back, pretending he had not been able to find them, at first, in the dark.

‘But here they are at last,’ said Trotty, setting out the tea-things, ‘all correct! I was pretty sure it was tea, and a rasher. So it is. Meg, my pet, if you’ll just make the tea, while your unworthy father toasts the bacon, we shall be ready, immediate. It’s a curious circumstance,’ said Trotty, proceeding in his cookery, with the assistance of the toasting-fork, ‘curious, but well known to my friends, that I never care, myself, for rashers, nor for tea. I like to see other people enjoy ’em,’ said Trotty, speaking very loud, to impress the fact upon his guest, ‘but to me, as food, they’re disagreeable.’

Yet Trotty sniffed the savour of the hissing bacon—ah!—as if he liked it; and when he poured the boiling water in the tea-pot, looked lovingly down into the depths of that snug cauldron, and suffered the fragrant steam to curl about his nose, and wreathe his head and face in a thick cloud. However, for all this, he neither ate nor drank, except at the very beginning, a mere morsel for form’s sake, which he appeared to eat with infinite relish, but declared was perfectly uninteresting to him.

No. Trotty’s occupation was, to see Will Fern and Lilian eat and drink; and so was Meg’s. And never did spectators at a city dinner or court banquet find such high delight in seeing others feast: although it were a monarch or a pope: as those two did, in looking on that night. Meg smiled at Trotty, Trotty laughed at Meg. Meg shook her head, and made belief to clap her hands, applauding Trotty; Trotty conveyed, in dumb-show, unintelligible narratives of how and when and where he had found their visitors, to Meg; and they were happy. Very happy.

‘Although,’ thought Trotty, sorrowfully, as he watched Meg’s face; ‘that match is broken off, I see!’

‘Now, I’ll tell you what,’ said Trotty after tea. ‘The little one, she sleeps with Meg, I know.’

‘With good Meg!’ cried the child, caressing her. ‘With Meg.’

‘That’s right,’ said Trotty. ‘And I shouldn’t wonder if she kiss Meg’s father, won’t she? I’m Meg’s father.’

Mightily delighted Trotty was, when the child went timidly towards him, and having kissed him, fell back upon Meg again.

‘She’s as sensible as Solomon,’ said Trotty. ‘Here we come and here we—no, we don’t—I don’t mean that—I—what was I saying, Meg, my precious?’

Meg looked towards their guest, who leaned upon her chair, and with his face turned from her, fondled the child’s head, half hidden in her lap.

‘To be sure,’ said Toby. ‘To be sure! I don’t know what I’m rambling on about, to-night. My wits are wool-gathering, I think. Will Fern, you come along with me. You’re tired to death, and broken down for want of rest. You come along with me.’ The man still played with the child’s curls, still leaned upon Meg’s chair, still turned away his face. He didn’t speak, but in his rough coarse fingers, clenching and expanding in the fair hair of the child, there was an eloquence that said enough.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Trotty, answering unconsciously what he saw expressed in his daughter’s face. ‘Take her with you, Meg. Get her to bed. There! Now, Will, I’ll show you where you lie. It’s not much of a place: only a loft; but, having a loft, I always say, is one of the great conveniences of living in a mews; and till this coach-house and stable gets a better let, we live here cheap. There’s plenty of sweet hay up there, belonging to a neighbour; and it’s as clean as hands, and Meg, can make it. Cheer up! Don’t give way. A new heart for a New Year, always!’

The hand released from the child’s hair, had fallen, trembling, into Trotty’s hand. So Trotty, talking without intermission, led him out as tenderly and easily as if he had been a child himself. Returning before Meg, he listened for an instant at the door of her little chamber; an adjoining room. The child was murmuring a simple Prayer before lying down to sleep; and when she had remembered Meg’s name, ‘Dearly, Dearly’—so her words ran—Trotty heard her stop and ask for his.

It was some short time before the foolish little old fellow could compose himself to mend the fire, and draw his chair to the warm hearth. But, when he had done so, and had trimmed the light, he took his newspaper from his pocket, and began to read. Carelessly at first, and skimming up and down the columns; but with an earnest and a sad attention, very soon.

For this same dreaded paper re-directed Trotty’s thoughts into the channel they had taken all that day, and which the day’s events had so marked out and shaped. His interest in the two wanderers had set him on another course of thinking, and a happier one, for the time; but being alone again, and reading of the crimes and violences of the people, he relapsed into his former train.

In this mood, he came to an account (and it was not the first he had ever read) of a woman who had laid her desperate hands not only on her own life but on that of her young child. A crime so terrible, and so revolting to his soul, dilated with the love of Meg, that he let the journal drop, and fell back in his chair, appalled!

‘Unnatural and cruel!’ Toby cried. ‘Unnatural and cruel! None but people who were bad at heart, born bad, who had no business on the earth, could do such deeds. It’s too true, all I’ve heard to-day; too just, too full of proof. We’re Bad!’

The Chimes took up the words so suddenly—burst out so loud, and clear, and sonorous—that the Bells seemed to strike him in his chair.

And what was that, they said?

‘Toby Veck, Toby Veck, waiting for you Toby! Toby Veck, Toby Veck, waiting for you Toby! Come and see us, come and see us, Drag him to us, drag him to us, Haunt and hunt him, haunt and hunt him, Break his slumbers, break his slumbers! Toby Veck Toby Veck, door open wide Toby, Toby Veck Toby Veck, door open wide Toby—’ then fiercely back to their impetuous strain again, and ringing in the very bricks and plaster on the walls.

Toby listened. Fancy, fancy! His remorse for having run away from them that afternoon! No, no. Nothing of the kind. Again, again, and yet a dozen times again. ‘Haunt and hunt him, haunt and hunt him, Drag him to us, drag him to us!’ Deafening the whole town!

‘Meg,’ said Trotty softly: tapping at her door. ‘Do you hear anything?’

‘I hear the Bells, father. Surely they’re very loud to-night.’

‘Is she asleep?’ said Toby, making an excuse for peeping in.

‘So peacefully and happily! I can’t leave her yet though, father. Look how she holds my hand!’

‘Meg,’ whispered Trotty. ‘Listen to the Bells!’

She listened, with her face towards him all the time. But it underwent no change. She didn’t understand them.

Trotty withdrew, resumed his seat by the fire, and once more listened by himself. He remained here a little time.

It was impossible to bear it; their energy was dreadful.

‘If the tower-door is really open,’ said Toby, hastily laying aside his apron, but never thinking of his hat, ‘what’s to hinder me from going up into the steeple and satisfying myself? If it’s shut, I don’t want any other satisfaction. That’s enough.’

He was pretty certain as he slipped out quietly into the street that he should find it shut and locked, for he knew the door well, and had so rarely seen it open, that he couldn’t reckon above three times in all. It was a low arched portal, outside the church, in a dark nook behind a column; and had such great iron hinges, and such a monstrous lock, that there was more hinge and lock than door.

But what was his astonishment when, coming bare-headed to the church; and putting his hand into this dark nook, with a certain misgiving that it might be unexpectedly seized, and a shivering propensity to draw it back again; he found that the door, which opened outwards, actually stood ajar!

He thought, on the first surprise, of going back; or of getting a light, or a companion, but his courage aided him immediately, and he determined to ascend alone.

‘What have I to fear?’ said Trotty. ‘It’s a church! Besides, the ringers may be there, and have forgotten to shut the door.’ So he went in, feeling his way as he went, like a blind man; for it was very dark. And very quiet, for the Chimes were silent.

The dust from the street had blown into the recess; and lying there, heaped up, made it so soft and velvet-like to the foot, that there was something startling, even in that. The narrow stair was so close to the door, too, that he stumbled at the very first; and shutting the door upon himself, by striking it with his foot, and causing it to rebound back heavily, he couldn’t open it again.

This was another reason, however, for going on. Trotty groped his way, and went on. Up, up, up, and round, and round; and up, up, up; higher, higher, higher up!

It was a disagreeable staircase for that groping work; so low and narrow, that his groping hand was always touching something; and it often felt so like a man or ghostly figure standing up erect and making room for him to pass without discovery, that he would rub the smooth wall upward searching for its face, and downward searching for its feet, while a chill tingling crept all over him. Twice or thrice, a door or niche broke the monotonous surface; and then it seemed a gap as wide as the whole church; and he felt on the brink of an abyss, and going to tumble headlong down, until he found the wall again.

Still up, up, up; and round and round; and up, up, up; higher, higher, higher up!

At length, the dull and stifling atmosphere began to freshen: presently to feel quite windy: presently it blew so strong, that he could hardly keep his legs. But, he got to an arched window in the tower, breast high, and holding tight, looked down upon the house-tops, on the smoking chimneys, on the blur and blotch of lights (towards the place where Meg was wondering where he was and calling to him perhaps), all kneaded up together in a leaven of mist and darkness.

This was the belfry, where the ringers came. He had caught hold of one of the frayed ropes which hung down through apertures in the oaken roof. At first he started, thinking it was hair; then trembled at the very thought of waking the deep Bell. The Bells themselves were higher. Higher, Trotty, in his fascination, or in working out the spell upon him, groped his way. By ladders now, and toilsomely, for it was steep, and not too certain holding for the feet.

Up, up, up; and climb and clamber; up, up, up; higher, higher, higher up!

Until, ascending through the floor, and pausing with his head just raised above its beams, he came among the Bells. It was barely possible to make out their great shapes in the gloom; but there they were. Shadowy, and dark, and dumb.

A heavy sense of dread and loneliness fell instantly upon him, as he climbed into this airy nest of stone and metal. His head went round and round. He listened, and then raised a wild ‘Holloa!’ Holloa! was mournfully protracted by the echoes.

Giddy, confused, and out of breath, and frightened, Toby looked about him vacantly, and sunk down in a swoon.

CHAPTER III—Third Quarter.

Black are the brooding clouds and troubled the deep waters, when the Sea of Thought, first heaving from a calm, gives up its Dead. Monsters uncouth and wild, arise in premature, imperfect resurrection; the several parts and shapes of different things are joined and mixed by chance; and when, and how, and by what wonderful degrees, each separates from each, and every sense and object of the mind resumes its usual form and lives again, no man—though every man is every day the casket of this type of the Great Mystery—can tell.

So, when and how the darkness of the night-black steeple changed to shining light; when and how the solitary tower was peopled with a myriad figures; when and how the whispered ‘Haunt and hunt him,’ breathing monotonously through his sleep or swoon, became a voice exclaiming in the waking ears of Trotty, ‘Break his slumbers;’ when and how he ceased to have a sluggish and confused idea that such things were, companioning a host of others that were not; there are no dates or means to tell. But, awake and standing on his feet upon the boards where he had lately lain, he saw this Goblin Sight.

He saw the tower, whither his charmed footsteps had brought him, swarming with dwarf phantoms, spirits, elfin creatures of the Bells. He saw them leaping, flying, dropping, pouring from the Bells without a pause. He saw them, round him on the ground; above him, in the air; clambering from him, by the ropes below; looking down upon him, from the massive iron-girded beams; peeping in upon him, through the chinks and loopholes in the walls; spreading away and away from him in enlarging circles, as the water ripples give way to a huge stone that suddenly comes plashing in among them. He saw them, of all aspects and all shapes. He saw them ugly, handsome, crippled, exquisitely formed. He saw them young, he saw them old, he saw them kind, he saw them cruel, he saw them merry, he saw them grim; he saw them dance, and heard them sing; he saw them tear their hair, and heard them howl. He saw the air thick with them. He saw them come and go, incessantly. He saw them riding downward, soaring upward, sailing off afar, perching near at hand, all restless and all violently active. Stone, and brick, and slate, and tile, became transparent to him as to them. He saw them in the houses, busy at the sleepers’ beds. He saw them soothing people in their dreams; he saw them beating them with knotted whips; he saw them yelling in their ears; he saw them playing softest music on their pillows; he saw them cheering some with the songs of birds and the perfume of flowers; he saw them flashing awful faces on the troubled rest of others, from enchanted mirrors which they carried in their hands.

He saw these creatures, not only among sleeping men but waking also, active in pursuits irreconcilable with one another, and possessing or assuming natures the most opposite. He saw one buckling on innumerable wings to increase his speed; another loading himself with chains and weights, to retard his. He saw some putting the hands of clocks forward, some putting the hands of clocks backward, some endeavouring to stop the clock entirely. He saw them representing, here a marriage ceremony, there a funeral; in this chamber an election, in that a ball he saw, everywhere, restless and untiring motion.

Bewildered by the host of shifting and extraordinary figures, as well as by the uproar of the Bells, which all this while were ringing, Trotty clung to a wooden pillar for support, and turned his white face here and there, in mute and stunned astonishment.

As he gazed, the Chimes stopped. Instantaneous change! The whole swarm fainted! their forms collapsed, their speed deserted them; they sought to fly, but in the act of falling died and melted into air. No fresh supply succeeded them. One straggler leaped down pretty briskly from the surface of the Great Bell, and alighted on his feet, but he was dead and gone before he could turn round. Some few of the late company who had gambolled in the tower, remained there, spinning over and over a little longer; but these became at every turn more faint, and few, and feeble, and soon went the way of the rest. The last of all was one small hunchback, who had got into an echoing corner, where he twirled and twirled, and floated by himself a long time; showing such perseverance, that at last he dwindled to a leg and even to a foot, before he finally retired; but he vanished in the end, and then the tower was silent.

Then and not before, did Trotty see in every Bell a bearded figure of the bulk and stature of the Bell—incomprehensibly, a figure and the Bell itself. Gigantic, grave, and darkly watchful of him, as he stood rooted to the ground.

Mysterious and awful figures! Resting on nothing; poised in the night air of the tower, with their draped and hooded heads merged in the dim roof; motionless and shadowy. Shadowy and dark, although he saw them by some light belonging to themselves—none else was there—each with its muffled hand upon its goblin mouth.

He could not plunge down wildly through the opening in the floor; for all power of motion had deserted him. Otherwise he would have done so—aye, would have thrown himself, headforemost, from the steeple-top, rather than have seen them watching him with eyes that would have waked and watched although the pupils had been taken out.

Again, again, the dread and terror of the lonely place, and of the wild and fearful night that reigned there, touched him like a spectral hand. His distance from all help; the long, dark, winding, ghost-beleaguered way that lay between him and the earth on which men lived; his being high, high, high, up there, where it had made him dizzy to see the birds fly in the day; cut off from all good people, who at such an hour were safe at home and sleeping in their beds; all this struck coldly through him, not as a reflection but a bodily sensation. Meantime his eyes and thoughts and fears, were fixed upon the watchful figures; which, rendered unlike any figures of this world by the deep gloom and shade enwrapping and enfolding them, as well as by their looks and forms and supernatural hovering above the floor, were nevertheless as plainly to be seen as were the stalwart oaken frames, cross-pieces, bars and beams, set up there to support the Bells. These hemmed them, in a very forest of hewn timber; from the entanglements, intricacies, and depths of which, as from among the boughs of a dead wood blighted for their phantom use, they kept their darksome and unwinking watch.

A blast of air—how cold and shrill!—came moaning through the tower. As it died away, the Great Bell, or the Goblin of the Great Bell, spoke.

‘What visitor is this!’ it said. The voice was low and deep, and Trotty fancied that it sounded in the other figures as well.

‘I thought my name was called by the Chimes!’ said Trotty, raising his hands in an attitude of supplication. ‘I hardly know why I am here, or how I came. I have listened to the Chimes these many years. They have cheered me often.’

‘And you have thanked them?’ said the Bell.

‘A thousand times!’ cried Trotty.

‘How?’

‘I am a poor man,’ faltered Trotty, ‘and could only thank them in words.’

‘And always so?’ inquired the Goblin of the Bell. ‘Have you never done us wrong in words?’

‘No!’ cried Trotty eagerly.

‘Never done us foul, and false, and wicked wrong, in words?’ pursued the Goblin of the Bell.

Trotty was about to answer, ‘Never!’ But he stopped, and was confused.

‘The voice of Time,’ said the Phantom, ‘cries to man, Advance! Time is for his advancement and improvement; for his greater worth, his greater happiness, his better life; his progress onward to that goal within its knowledge and its view, and set there, in the period when Time and He began. Ages of darkness, wickedness, and violence, have come and gone—millions uncountable, have suffered, lived, and died—to point the way before him. Who seeks to turn him back, or stay him on his course, arrests a mighty engine which will strike the meddler dead; and be the fiercer and the wilder, ever, for its momentary check!’

‘I never did so to my knowledge, sir,’ said Trotty. ‘It was quite by accident if I did. I wouldn’t go to do it, I’m sure.’

‘Who puts into the mouth of Time, or of its servants,’ said the Goblin of the Bell, ‘a cry of lamentation for days which have had their trial and their failure, and have left deep traces of it which the blind may see—a cry that only serves the present time, by showing men how much it needs their help when any ears can listen to regrets for such a past—who does this, does a wrong. And you have done that wrong, to us, the Chimes.’

Trotty’s first excess of fear was gone. But he had felt tenderly and gratefully towards the Bells, as you have seen; and when he heard himself arraigned as one who had offended them so weightily, his heart was touched with penitence and grief.

‘If you knew,’ said Trotty, clasping his hands earnestly—‘or perhaps you do know—if you know how often you have kept me company; how often you have cheered me up when I’ve been low; how you were quite the plaything of my little daughter Meg (almost the only one she ever had) when first her mother died, and she and me were left alone; you won’t bear malice for a hasty word!’

‘Who hears in us, the Chimes, one note bespeaking disregard, or stern regard, of any hope, or joy, or pain, or sorrow, of the many-sorrowed throng; who hears us make response to any creed that gauges human passions and affections, as it gauges the amount of miserable food on which humanity may pine and wither; does us wrong. That wrong you have done us!’ said the Bell.

‘I have!’ said Trotty. ‘Oh forgive me!’

‘Who hears us echo the dull vermin of the earth: the Putters Down of crushed and broken natures, formed to be raised up higher than such maggots of the time can crawl or can conceive,’ pursued the Goblin of the Bell; ‘who does so, does us wrong. And you have done us wrong!’

‘Not meaning it,’ said Trotty. ‘In my ignorance. Not meaning it!’

‘Lastly, and most of all,’ pursued the Bell. ‘Who turns his back upon the fallen and disfigured of his kind; abandons them as vile; and does not trace and track with pitying eyes the unfenced precipice by which they fell from good—grasping in their fall some tufts and shreds of that lost soil, and clinging to them still when bruised and dying in the gulf below; does wrong to Heaven and man, to time and to eternity. And you have done that wrong!’

‘Spare me!’ cried Trotty, falling on his knees; ‘for Mercy’s sake!’

‘Listen!’ said the Shadow.

‘Listen!’ cried the other Shadows.

‘Listen!’ said a clear and childlike voice, which Trotty thought he recognised as having heard before.

The organ sounded faintly in the church below. Swelling by degrees, the melody ascended to the roof, and filled the choir and nave. Expanding more and more, it rose up, up; up, up; higher, higher, higher up; awakening agitated hearts within the burly piles of oak: the hollow bells, the iron-bound doors, the stairs of solid stone; until the tower walls were insufficient to contain it, and it soared into the sky.

No wonder that an old man’s breast could not contain a sound so vast and mighty. It broke from that weak prison in a rush of tears; and Trotty put his hands before his face.

‘Listen!’ said the Shadow.

‘Listen!’ said the other Shadows.

‘Listen!’ said the child’s voice.

A solemn strain of blended voices, rose into the tower.

It was a very low and mournful strain—a Dirge—and as he listened, Trotty heard his child among the singers.

‘She is dead!’ exclaimed the old man. ‘Meg is dead! Her Spirit calls to me. I hear it!’

‘The Spirit of your child bewails the dead, and mingles with the dead—dead hopes, dead fancies, dead imaginings of youth,’ returned the Bell, ‘but she is living. Learn from her life, a living truth. Learn from the creature dearest to your heart, how bad the bad are born. See every bud and leaf plucked one by one from off the fairest stem, and know how bare and wretched it may be. Follow her! To desperation!’

Each of the shadowy figures stretched its right arm forth, and pointed downward.

‘The Spirit of the Chimes is your companion,’ said the figure.

‘Go! It stands behind you!’

Trotty turned, and saw—the child! The child Will Fern had carried in the street; the child whom Meg had watched, but now, asleep!

‘I carried her myself, to-night,’ said Trotty. ‘In these arms!’

‘Show him what he calls himself,’ said the dark figures, one and all.

The tower opened at his feet. He looked down, and beheld his own form, lying at the bottom, on the outside: crushed and motionless.

‘No more a living man!’ cried Trotty. ‘Dead!’

‘Dead!’ said the figures all together.

‘Gracious Heaven! And the New Year—’

‘Past,’ said the figures.

‘What!’ he cried, shuddering. ‘I missed my way, and coming on the outside of this tower in the dark, fell down—a year ago?’

‘Nine years ago!’ replied the figures.

As they gave the answer, they recalled their outstretched hands; and where their figures had been, there the Bells were.

And they rung; their time being come again. And once again, vast multitudes of phantoms sprung into existence; once again, were incoherently engaged, as they had been before; once again, faded on the stopping of the Chimes; and dwindled into nothing.

‘What are these?’ he asked his guide. ‘If I am not mad, what are these?’

‘Spirits of the Bells. Their sound upon the air,’ returned the child. ‘They take such shapes and occupations as the hopes and thoughts of mortals, and the recollections they have stored up, give them.’

‘And you,’ said Trotty wildly. ‘What are you?’

‘Hush, hush!’ returned the child. ‘Look here!’

In a poor, mean room; working at the same kind of embroidery which he had often, often seen before her; Meg, his own dear daughter, was presented to his view. He made no effort to imprint his kisses on her face; he did not strive to clasp her to his loving heart; he knew that such endearments were, for him, no more. But, he held his trembling breath, and brushed away the blinding tears, that he might look upon her; that he might only see her.

Ah! Changed. Changed. The light of the clear eye, how dimmed. The bloom, how faded from the cheek. Beautiful she was, as she had ever been, but Hope, Hope, Hope, oh where was the fresh Hope that had spoken to him like a voice!

She looked up from her work, at a companion. Following her eyes, the old man started back.

In the woman grown, he recognised her at a glance. In the long silken hair, he saw the self-same curls; around the lips, the child’s expression lingering still. See! In the eyes, now turned inquiringly on Meg, there shone the very look that scanned those features when he brought her home!

Then what was this, beside him!

Looking with awe into its face, he saw a something reigning there: a lofty something, undefined and indistinct, which made it hardly more than a remembrance of that child—as yonder figure might be—yet it was the same: the same: and wore the dress.

Hark. They were speaking!

‘Meg,’ said Lilian, hesitating. ‘How often you raise your head from your work to look at me!’

‘Are my looks so altered, that they frighten you?’ asked Meg.

‘Nay, dear! But you smile at that, yourself! Why not smile, when you look at me, Meg?’

‘I do so. Do I not?’ she answered: smiling on her.

‘Now you do,’ said Lilian, ‘but not usually. When you think I’m busy, and don’t see you, you look so anxious and so doubtful, that I hardly like to raise my eyes. There is little cause for smiling in this hard and toilsome life, but you were once so cheerful.’

‘Am I not now!’ cried Meg, speaking in a tone of strange alarm, and rising to embrace her. ‘Do I make our weary life more weary to you, Lilian!’

‘You have been the only thing that made it life,’ said Lilian, fervently kissing her; ‘sometimes the only thing that made me care to live so, Meg. Such work, such work! So many hours, so many days, so many long, long nights of hopeless, cheerless, never-ending work—not to heap up riches, not to live grandly or gaily, not to live upon enough, however coarse; but to earn bare bread; to scrape together just enough to toil upon, and want upon, and keep alive in us the consciousness of our hard fate! Oh Meg, Meg!’ she raised her voice and twined her arms about her as she spoke, like one in pain. ‘How can the cruel world go round, and bear to look upon such lives!’

‘Lilly!’ said Meg, soothing her, and putting back her hair from her wet face. ‘Why, Lilly! You! So pretty and so young!’

‘Oh Meg!’ she interrupted, holding her at arm’s-length, and looking in her face imploringly. ‘The worst of all, the worst of all! Strike me old, Meg! Wither me, and shrivel me, and free me from the dreadful thoughts that tempt me in my youth!’

Trotty turned to look upon his guide. But the Spirit of the child had taken flight. Was gone.

Neither did he himself remain in the same place; for, Sir Joseph Bowley, Friend and Father of the Poor, held a great festivity at Bowley Hall, in honour of the natal day of Lady Bowley. And as Lady Bowley had been born on New Year’s Day (which the local newspapers considered an especial pointing of the finger of Providence to number One, as Lady Bowley’s destined figure in Creation), it was on a New Year’s Day that this festivity took place.

Bowley Hall was full of visitors. The red-faced gentleman was there, Mr. Filer was there, the great Alderman Cute was there—Alderman Cute had a sympathetic feeling with great people, and had considerably improved his acquaintance with Sir Joseph Bowley on the strength of his attentive letter: indeed had become quite a friend of the family since then—and many guests were there. Trotty’s ghost was there, wandering about, poor phantom, drearily; and looking for its guide.

There was to be a great dinner in the Great Hall. At which Sir Joseph Bowley, in his celebrated character of Friend and Father of the Poor, was to make his great speech. Certain plum-puddings were to be eaten by his Friends and Children in another Hall first; and, at a given signal, Friends and Children flocking in among their Friends and Fathers, were to form a family assemblage, with not one manly eye therein unmoistened by emotion.

But, there was more than this to happen. Even more than this. Sir Joseph Bowley, Baronet and Member of Parliament, was to play a match at skittles—real skittles—with his tenants!

‘Which quite reminds me,’ said Alderman Cute, ‘of the days of old King Hal, stout King Hal, bluff King Hal. Ah! Fine character!’

‘Very,’ said Mr. Filer, dryly. ‘For marrying women and murdering ’em. Considerably more than the average number of wives by the bye.’

‘You’ll marry the beautiful ladies, and not murder ’em, eh?’ said Alderman Cute to the heir of Bowley, aged twelve. ‘Sweet boy! We shall have this little gentleman in Parliament now,’ said the Alderman, holding him by the shoulders, and looking as reflective as he could, ‘before we know where we are. We shall hear of his successes at the poll; his speeches in the House; his overtures from Governments; his brilliant achievements of all kinds; ah! we shall make our little orations about him in the Common Council, I’ll be bound; before we have time to look about us!’

‘Oh, the difference of shoes and stockings!’ Trotty thought. But his heart yearned towards the child, for the love of those same shoeless and stockingless boys, predestined (by the Alderman) to turn out bad, who might have been the children of poor Meg.

‘Richard,’ moaned Trotty, roaming among the company, to and fro; ‘where is he? I can’t find Richard! Where is Richard?’ Not likely to be there, if still alive! But Trotty’s grief and solitude confused him; and he still went wandering among the gallant company, looking for his guide, and saying, ‘Where is Richard? Show me Richard!’

He was wandering thus, when he encountered Mr. Fish, the confidential Secretary: in great agitation.

‘Bless my heart and soul!’ cried Mr. Fish. ‘Where’s Alderman Cute? Has anybody seen the Alderman?’

Seen the Alderman? Oh dear! Who could ever help seeing the Alderman? He was so considerate, so affable, he bore so much in mind the natural desires of folks to see him, that if he had a fault, it was the being constantly On View. And wherever the great people were, there, to be sure, attracted by the kindred sympathy between great souls, was Cute.

Several voices cried that he was in the circle round Sir Joseph. Mr. Fish made way there; found him; and took him secretly into a window near at hand. Trotty joined them. Not of his own accord. He felt that his steps were led in that direction.

‘My dear Alderman Cute,’ said Mr. Fish. ‘A little more this way. The most dreadful circumstance has occurred. I have this moment received the intelligence. I think it will be best not to acquaint Sir Joseph with it till the day is over. You understand Sir Joseph, and will give me your opinion. The most frightful and deplorable event!’

‘Fish!’ returned the Alderman. ‘Fish! My good fellow, what is the matter? Nothing revolutionary, I hope! No—no attempted interference with the magistrates?’

‘Deedles, the banker,’ gasped the Secretary. ‘Deedles Brothers—who was to have been here to-day—high in office in the Goldsmiths’ Company—’

‘Not stopped!’ exclaimed the Alderman, ‘It can’t be!’

‘Shot himself.’

‘Good God!’

‘Put a double-barrelled pistol to his mouth, in his own counting house,’ said Mr. Fish, ‘and blew his brains out. No motive. Princely circumstances!’

‘Circumstances!’ exclaimed the Alderman. ‘A man of noble fortune. One of the most respectable of men. Suicide, Mr. Fish! By his own hand!’

‘This very morning,’ returned Mr. Fish.

‘Oh the brain, the brain!’ exclaimed the pious Alderman, lifting up his hands. ‘Oh the nerves, the nerves; the mysteries of this machine called Man! Oh the little that unhinges it: poor creatures that we are! Perhaps a dinner, Mr. Fish. Perhaps the conduct of his son, who, I have heard, ran very wild, and was in the habit of drawing bills upon him without the least authority! A most respectable man. One of the most respectable men I ever knew! A lamentable instance, Mr. Fish. A public calamity! I shall make a point of wearing the deepest mourning. A most respectable man! But there is One above. We must submit, Mr. Fish. We must submit!’

What, Alderman! No word of Putting Down? Remember, Justice, your high moral boast and pride. Come, Alderman! Balance those scales. Throw me into this, the empty one, no dinner, and Nature’s founts in some poor woman, dried by starving misery and rendered obdurate to claims for which her offspring has authority in holy mother Eve. Weigh me the two, you Daniel, going to judgment, when your day shall come! Weigh them, in the eyes of suffering thousands, audience (not unmindful) of the grim farce you play. Or supposing that you strayed from your five wits—it’s not so far to go, but that it might be—and laid hands upon that throat of yours, warning your fellows (if you have a fellow) how they croak their comfortable wickedness to raving heads and stricken hearts. What then?

The words rose up in Trotty’s breast, as if they had been spoken by some other voice within him. Alderman Cute pledged himself to Mr. Fish that he would assist him in breaking the melancholy catastrophe to Sir Joseph when the day was over. Then, before they parted, wringing Mr. Fish’s hand in bitterness of soul, he said, ‘The most respectable of men!’ And added that he hardly knew (not even he), why such afflictions were allowed on earth.

‘It’s almost enough to make one think, if one didn’t know better,’ said Alderman Cute, ‘that at times some motion of a capsizing nature was going on in things, which affected the general economy of the social fabric. Deedles Brothers!’

The skittle-playing came off with immense success. Sir Joseph knocked the pins about quite skilfully; Master Bowley took an innings at a shorter distance also; and everybody said that now, when a Baronet and the Son of a Baronet played at skittles, the country was coming round again, as fast as it could come.

At its proper time, the Banquet was served up. Trotty involuntarily repaired to the Hall with the rest, for he felt himself conducted thither by some stronger impulse than his own free will. The sight was gay in the extreme; the ladies were very handsome; the visitors delighted, cheerful, and good-tempered. When the lower doors were opened, and the people flocked in, in their rustic dresses, the beauty of the spectacle was at its height; but Trotty only murmured more and more, ‘Where is Richard! He should help and comfort her! I can’t see Richard!’

There had been some speeches made; and Lady Bowley’s health had been proposed; and Sir Joseph Bowley had returned thanks, and had made his great speech, showing by various pieces of evidence that he was the born Friend and Father, and so forth; and had given as a Toast, his Friends and Children, and the Dignity of Labour; when a slight disturbance at the bottom of the Hall attracted Toby’s notice. After some confusion, noise, and opposition, one man broke through the rest, and stood forward by himself.

Not Richard. No. But one whom he had thought of, and had looked for, many times. In a scantier supply of light, he might have doubted the identity of that worn man, so old, and grey, and bent; but with a blaze of lamps upon his gnarled and knotted head, he knew Will Fern as soon as he stepped forth.

‘What is this!’ exclaimed Sir Joseph, rising. ‘Who gave this man admittance? This is a criminal from prison! Mr. Fish, sir, will you have the goodness—’

‘A minute!’ said Will Fern. ‘A minute! My Lady, you was born on this day along with a New Year. Get me a minute’s leave to speak.’

She made some intercession for him. Sir Joseph took his seat again, with native dignity.

The ragged visitor—for he was miserably dressed—looked round upon the company, and made his homage to them with a humble bow.

‘Gentlefolks!’ he said. ‘You’ve drunk the Labourer. Look at me!’

‘Just come from jail,’ said Mr. Fish.

‘Just come from jail,’ said Will. ‘And neither for the first time, nor the second, nor the third, nor yet the fourth.’

Mr. Filer was heard to remark testily, that four times was over the average; and he ought to be ashamed of himself.

‘Gentlefolks!’ repeated Will Fern. ‘Look at me! You see I’m at the worst. Beyond all hurt or harm; beyond your help; for the time when your kind words or kind actions could have done me good,’—he struck his hand upon his breast, and shook his head, ‘is gone, with the scent of last year’s beans or clover on the air. Let me say a word for these,’ pointing to the labouring people in the Hall; ‘and when you’re met together, hear the real Truth spoke out for once.’

‘There’s not a man here,’ said the host, ‘who would have him for a spokesman.’

‘Like enough, Sir Joseph. I believe it. Not the less true, perhaps, is what I say. Perhaps that’s a proof on it. Gentlefolks, I’ve lived many a year in this place. You may see the cottage from the sunk fence over yonder. I’ve seen the ladies draw it in their books, a hundred times. It looks well in a picter, I’ve heerd say; but there an’t weather in picters, and maybe ’tis fitter for that, than for a place to live in. Well! I lived there. How hard—how bitter hard, I lived there, I won’t say. Any day in the year, and every day, you can judge for your own selves.’

He spoke as he had spoken on the night when Trotty found him in the street. His voice was deeper and more husky, and had a trembling in it now and then; but he never raised it passionately, and seldom lifted it above the firm stern level of the homely facts he stated.

‘’Tis harder than you think for, gentlefolks, to grow up decent, commonly decent, in such a place. That I growed up a man and not a brute, says something for me—as I was then. As I am now, there’s nothing can be said for me or done for me. I’m past it.’

‘I am glad this man has entered,’ observed Sir Joseph, looking round serenely. ‘Don’t disturb him. It appears to be Ordained. He is an example: a living example. I hope and trust, and confidently expect, that it will not be lost upon my Friends here.’

‘I dragged on,’ said Fern, after a moment’s silence, ‘somehow. Neither me nor any other man knows how; but so heavy, that I couldn’t put a cheerful face upon it, or make believe that I was anything but what I was. Now, gentlemen—you gentlemen that sits at Sessions—when you see a man with discontent writ on his face, you says to one another, “He’s suspicious. I has my doubts,” says you, “about Will Fern. Watch that fellow!” I don’t say, gentlemen, it ain’t quite nat’ral, but I say ’tis so; and from that hour, whatever Will Fern does, or lets alone—all one—it goes against him.’

Alderman Cute stuck his thumbs in his waistcoat-pockets, and leaning back in his chair, and smiling, winked at a neighbouring chandelier. As much as to say, ‘Of course! I told you so. The common cry! Lord bless you, we are up to all this sort of thing—myself and human nature.’

‘Now, gentlemen,’ said Will Fern, holding out his hands, and flushing for an instant in his haggard face, ‘see how your laws are made to trap and hunt us when we’re brought to this. I tries to live elsewhere. And I’m a vagabond. To jail with him! I comes back here. I goes a-nutting in your woods, and breaks—who don’t?—a limber branch or two. To jail with him! One of your keepers sees me in the broad day, near my own patch of garden, with a gun. To jail with him! I has a nat’ral angry word with that man, when I’m free again. To jail with him! I cuts a stick. To jail with him! I eats a rotten apple or a turnip. To jail with him! It’s twenty mile away; and coming back I begs a trifle on the road. To jail with him! At last, the constable, the keeper—anybody—finds me anywhere, a-doing anything. To jail with him, for he’s a vagrant, and a jail-bird known; and jail’s the only home he’s got.’

The Alderman nodded sagaciously, as who should say, ‘A very good home too!’

‘Do I say this to serve MY cause!’ cried Fern. ‘Who can give me back my liberty, who can give me back my good name, who can give me back my innocent niece? Not all the Lords and Ladies in wide England. But, gentlemen, gentlemen, dealing with other men like me, begin at the right end. Give us, in mercy, better homes when we’re a-lying in our cradles; give us better food when we’re a-working for our lives; give us kinder laws to bring us back when we’re a-going wrong; and don’t set jail, jail, jail, afore us, everywhere we turn. There an’t a condescension you can show the Labourer then, that he won’t take, as ready and as grateful as a man can be; for, he has a patient, peaceful, willing heart. But you must put his rightful spirit in him first; for, whether he’s a wreck and ruin such as me, or is like one of them that stand here now, his spirit is divided from you at this time. Bring it back, gentlefolks, bring it back! Bring it back, afore the day comes when even his Bible changes in his altered mind, and the words seem to him to read, as they have sometimes read in my own eyes—in jail: “Whither thou goest, I can Not go; where thou lodgest, I do Not lodge; thy people are Not my people; Nor thy God my God!”’

A sudden stir and agitation took place in Hall. Trotty thought at first, that several had risen to eject the man; and hence this change in its appearance. But, another moment showed him that the room and all the company had vanished from his sight, and that his daughter was again before him, seated at her work. But in a poorer, meaner garret than before; and with no Lilian by her side.

The frame at which she had worked, was put away upon a shelf and covered up. The chair in which she had sat, was turned against the wall. A history was written in these little things, and in Meg’s grief-worn face. Oh! who could fail to read it!

Meg strained her eyes upon her work until it was too dark to see the threads; and when the night closed in, she lighted her feeble candle and worked on. Still her old father was invisible about her; looking down upon her; loving her—how dearly loving her!—and talking to her in a tender voice about the old times, and the Bells. Though he knew, poor Trotty, though he knew she could not hear him.

A great part of the evening had worn away, when a knock came at her door. She opened it. A man was on the threshold. A slouching, moody, drunken sloven, wasted by intemperance and vice, and with his matted hair and unshorn beard in wild disorder; but, with some traces on him, too, of having been a man of good proportion and good features in his youth.

He stopped until he had her leave to enter; and she, retiring a pace or two from the open door, silently and sorrowfully looked upon him. Trotty had his wish. He saw Richard.

‘May I come in, Margaret?’

‘Yes! Come in. Come in!’

It was well that Trotty knew him before he spoke; for with any doubt remaining on his mind, the harsh discordant voice would have persuaded him that it was not Richard but some other man.

There were but two chairs in the room. She gave him hers, and stood at some short distance from him, waiting to hear what he had to say.

He sat, however, staring vacantly at the floor; with a lustreless and stupid smile. A spectacle of such deep degradation, of such abject hopelessness, of such a miserable downfall, that she put her hands before her face and turned away, lest he should see how much it moved her.

Roused by the rustling of her dress, or some such trifling sound, he lifted his head, and began to speak as if there had been no pause since he entered.

‘Still at work, Margaret? You work late.’

‘I generally do.’

‘And early?’

‘And early.’

‘So she said. She said you never tired; or never owned that you tired. Not all the time you lived together. Not even when you fainted, between work and fasting. But I told you that, the last time I came.’

‘You did,’ she answered. ‘And I implored you to tell me nothing more; and you made me a solemn promise, Richard, that you never would.’

‘A solemn promise,’ he repeated, with a drivelling laugh and vacant stare. ‘A solemn promise. To be sure. A solemn promise!’ Awakening, as it were, after a time; in the same manner as before; he said with sudden animation:

‘How can I help it, Margaret? What am I to do? She has been to me again!’

‘Again!’ cried Meg, clasping her hands. ‘O, does she think of me so often! Has she been again!’

‘Twenty times again,’ said Richard. ‘Margaret, she haunts me. She comes behind me in the street, and thrusts it in my hand. I hear her foot upon the ashes when I’m at my work (ha, ha! that an’t often), and before I can turn my head, her voice is in my ear, saying, “Richard, don’t look round. For Heaven’s love, give her this!” She brings it where I live: she sends it in letters; she taps at the window and lays it on the sill. What can I do? Look at it!’

He held out in his hand a little purse, and chinked the money it enclosed.

‘Hide it,’ said Meg. ‘Hide it! When she comes again, tell her, Richard, that I love her in my soul. That I never lie down to sleep, but I bless her, and pray for her. That, in my solitary work, I never cease to have her in my thoughts. That she is with me, night and day. That if I died to-morrow, I would remember her with my last breath. But, that I cannot look upon it!’

He slowly recalled his hand, and crushing the purse together, said with a kind of drowsy thoughtfulness:

‘I told her so. I told her so, as plain as words could speak. I’ve taken this gift back and left it at her door, a dozen times since then. But when she came at last, and stood before me, face to face, what could I do?’

‘You saw her!’ exclaimed Meg. ‘You saw her! O, Lilian, my sweet girl! O, Lilian, Lilian!’

‘I saw her,’ he went on to say, not answering, but engaged in the same slow pursuit of his own thoughts. ‘There she stood: trembling! “How does she look, Richard? Does she ever speak of me? Is she thinner? My old place at the table: what’s in my old place? And the frame she taught me our old work on—has she burnt it, Richard!” There she was. I heard her say it.’

Meg checked her sobs, and with the tears streaming from her eyes, bent over him to listen. Not to lose a breath.

With his arms resting on his knees; and stooping forward in his chair, as if what he said were written on the ground in some half legible character, which it was his occupation to decipher and connect; he went on.

‘“Richard, I have fallen very low; and you may guess how much I have suffered in having this sent back, when I can bear to bring it in my hand to you. But you loved her once, even in my memory, dearly. Others stepped in between you; fears, and jealousies, and doubts, and vanities, estranged you from her; but you did love her, even in my memory!” I suppose I did,’ he said, interrupting himself for a moment. ‘I did! That’s neither here nor there—“O Richard, if you ever did; if you have any memory for what is gone and lost, take it to her once more. Once more! Tell her how I laid my head upon your shoulder, where her own head might have lain, and was so humble to you, Richard. Tell her that you looked into my face, and saw the beauty which she used to praise, all gone: all gone: and in its place, a poor, wan, hollow cheek, that she would weep to see. Tell her everything, and take it back, and she will not refuse again. She will not have the heart!”’

So he sat musing, and repeating the last words, until he woke again, and rose.

‘You won’t take it, Margaret?’

She shook her head, and motioned an entreaty to him to leave her.

‘Good night, Margaret.’

‘Good night!’

He turned to look upon her; struck by her sorrow, and perhaps by the pity for himself which trembled in her voice. It was a quick and rapid action; and for the moment some flash of his old bearing kindled in his form. In the next he went as he had come. Nor did this glimmer of a quenched fire seem to light him to a quicker sense of his debasement.

In any mood, in any grief, in any torture of the mind or body, Meg’s work must be done. She sat down to her task, and plied it. Night, midnight. Still she worked.

She had a meagre fire, the night being very cold; and rose at intervals to mend it. The Chimes rang half-past twelve while she was thus engaged; and when they ceased she heard a gentle knocking at the door. Before she could so much as wonder who was there, at that unusual hour, it opened.

O Youth and Beauty, happy as ye should be, look at this. O Youth and Beauty, blest and blessing all within your reach, and working out the ends of your Beneficent Creator, look at this!

She saw the entering figure; screamed its name; cried ‘Lilian!’

It was swift, and fell upon its knees before her: clinging to her dress.

‘Up, dear! Up! Lilian! My own dearest!’

‘Never more, Meg; never more! Here! Here! Close to you, holding to you, feeling your dear breath upon my face!’

‘Sweet Lilian! Darling Lilian! Child of my heart—no mother’s love can be more tender—lay your head upon my breast!’

‘Never more, Meg. Never more! When I first looked into your face, you knelt before me. On my knees before you, let me die. Let it be here!’

‘You have come back. My Treasure! We will live together, work together, hope together, die together!’

‘Ah! Kiss my lips, Meg; fold your arms about me; press me to your bosom; look kindly on me; but don’t raise me. Let it be here. Let me see the last of your dear face upon my knees!’

O Youth and Beauty, happy as ye should be, look at this! O Youth and Beauty, working out the ends of your Beneficent Creator, look at this!

‘Forgive me, Meg! So dear, so dear! Forgive me! I know you do, I see you do, but say so, Meg!’

She said so, with her lips on Lilian’s cheek. And with her arms twined round—she knew it now—a broken heart.

‘His blessing on you, dearest love. Kiss me once more! He suffered her to sit beside His feet, and dry them with her hair. O Meg, what Mercy and Compassion!’

As she died, the Spirit of the child returning, innocent and radiant, touched the old man with its hand, and beckoned him away.

CHAPTER IV—Fourth Quarter.

Some new remembrance of the ghostly figures in the Bells; some faint impression of the ringing of the Chimes; some giddy consciousness of having seen the swarm of phantoms reproduced and reproduced until the recollection of them lost itself in the confusion of their numbers; some hurried knowledge, how conveyed to him he knew not, that more years had passed; and Trotty, with the Spirit of the child attending him, stood looking on at mortal company.

Fat company, rosy-cheeked company, comfortable company. They were but two, but they were red enough for ten. They sat before a bright fire, with a small low table between them; and unless the fragrance of hot tea and muffins lingered longer in that room than in most others, the table had seen service very lately. But all the cups and saucers being clean, and in their proper places in the corner-cupboard; and the brass toasting-fork hanging in its usual nook and spreading its four idle fingers out as if it wanted to be measured for a glove; there remained no other visible tokens of the meal just finished, than such as purred and washed their whiskers in the person of the basking cat, and glistened in the gracious, not to say the greasy, faces of her patrons.

This cosy couple (married, evidently) had made a fair division of the fire between them, and sat looking at the glowing sparks that dropped into the grate; now nodding off into a doze; now waking up again when some hot fragment, larger than the rest, came rattling down, as if the fire were coming with it.

It was in no danger of sudden extinction, however; for it gleamed not only in the little room, and on the panes of window-glass in the door, and on the curtain half drawn across them, but in the little shop beyond. A little shop, quite crammed and choked with the abundance of its stock; a perfectly voracious little shop, with a maw as accommodating and full as any shark’s. Cheese, butter, firewood, soap, pickles, matches, bacon, table-beer, peg-tops, sweetmeats, boys’ kites, bird-seed, cold ham, birch brooms, hearth-stones, salt, vinegar, blacking, red-herrings, stationery, lard, mushroom-ketchup, staylaces, loaves of bread, shuttlecocks, eggs, and slate pencil; everything was fish that came to the net of this greedy little shop, and all articles were in its net. How many other kinds of petty merchandise were there, it would be difficult to say; but balls of packthread, ropes of onions, pounds of candles, cabbage-nets, and brushes, hung in bunches from the ceiling, like extraordinary fruit; while various odd canisters emitting aromatic smells, established the veracity of the inscription over the outer door, which informed the public that the keeper of this little shop was a licensed dealer in tea, coffee, tobacco, pepper, and snuff.

Glancing at such of these articles as were visible in the shining of the blaze, and the less cheerful radiance of two smoky lamps which burnt but dimly in the shop itself, as though its plethora sat heavy on their lungs; and glancing, then, at one of the two faces by the parlour-fire; Trotty had small difficulty in recognising in the stout old lady, Mrs. Chickenstalker: always inclined to corpulency, even in the days when he had known her as established in the general line, and having a small balance against him in her books.

The features of her companion were less easy to him. The great broad chin, with creases in it large enough to hide a finger in; the astonished eyes, that seemed to expostulate with themselves for sinking deeper and deeper into the yielding fat of the soft face; the nose afflicted with that disordered action of its functions which is generally termed The Snuffles; the short thick throat and labouring chest, with other beauties of the like description; though calculated to impress the memory, Trotty could at first allot to nobody he had ever known: and yet he had some recollection of them too. At length, in Mrs. Chickenstalker’s partner in the general line, and in the crooked and eccentric line of life, he recognised the former porter of Sir Joseph Bowley; an apoplectic innocent, who had connected himself in Trotty’s mind with Mrs. Chickenstalker years ago, by giving him admission to the mansion where he had confessed his obligations to that lady, and drawn on his unlucky head such grave reproach.

Trotty had little interest in a change like this, after the changes he had seen; but association is very strong sometimes; and he looked involuntarily behind the parlour-door, where the accounts of credit customers were usually kept in chalk. There was no record of his name. Some names were there, but they were strange to him, and infinitely fewer than of old; from which he argued that the porter was an advocate of ready-money transactions, and on coming into the business had looked pretty sharp after the Chickenstalker defaulters.

So desolate was Trotty, and so mournful for the youth and promise of his blighted child, that it was a sorrow to him, even to have no place in Mrs. Chickenstalker’s ledger.

‘What sort of a night is it, Anne?’ inquired the former porter of Sir Joseph Bowley, stretching out his legs before the fire, and rubbing as much of them as his short arms could reach; with an air that added, ‘Here I am if it’s bad, and I don’t want to go out if it’s good.’

‘Blowing and sleeting hard,’ returned his wife; ‘and threatening snow. Dark. And very cold.’

‘I’m glad to think we had muffins,’ said the former porter, in the tone of one who had set his conscience at rest. ‘It’s a sort of night that’s meant for muffins. Likewise crumpets. Also Sally Lunns.’

The former porter mentioned each successive kind of eatable, as if he were musingly summing up his good actions. After which he rubbed his fat legs as before, and jerking them at the knees to get the fire upon the yet unroasted parts, laughed as if somebody had tickled him.

‘You’re in spirits, Tugby, my dear,’ observed his wife.

The firm was Tugby, late Chickenstalker.

‘No,’ said Tugby. ‘No. Not particular. I’m a little elewated. The muffins came so pat!’

With that he chuckled until he was black in the face; and had so much ado to become any other colour, that his fat legs took the strangest excursions into the air. Nor were they reduced to anything like decorum until Mrs. Tugby had thumped him violently on the back, and shaken him as if he were a great bottle.

‘Good gracious, goodness, lord-a-mercy bless and save the man!’ cried Mrs. Tugby, in great terror. ‘What’s he doing?’

Mr. Tugby wiped his eyes, and faintly repeated that he found himself a little elewated.

‘Then don’t be so again, that’s a dear good soul,’ said Mrs. Tugby, ‘if you don’t want to frighten me to death, with your struggling and fighting!’

Mr. Tugby said he wouldn’t; but, his whole existence was a fight, in which, if any judgment might be founded on the constantly-increasing shortness of his breath, and the deepening purple of his face, he was always getting the worst of it.

‘So it’s blowing, and sleeting, and threatening snow; and it’s dark, and very cold, is it, my dear?’ said Mr. Tugby, looking at the fire, and reverting to the cream and marrow of his temporary elevation.

‘Hard weather indeed,’ returned his wife, shaking her head.

‘Aye, aye! Years,’ said Mr. Tugby, ‘are like Christians in that respect. Some of ’em die hard; some of ’em die easy. This one hasn’t many days to run, and is making a fight for it. I like him all the better. There’s a customer, my love!’

Attentive to the rattling door, Mrs. Tugby had already risen.

‘Now then!’ said that lady, passing out into the little shop. ‘What’s wanted? Oh! I beg your pardon, sir, I’m sure. I didn’t think it was you.’

She made this apology to a gentleman in black, who, with his wristbands tucked up, and his hat cocked loungingly on one side, and his hands in his pockets, sat down astride on the table-beer barrel, and nodded in return.

‘This is a bad business up-stairs, Mrs. Tugby,’ said the gentleman. ‘The man can’t live.’

‘Not the back-attic can’t!’ cried Tugby, coming out into the shop to join the conference.

‘The back-attic, Mr. Tugby,’ said the gentleman, ‘is coming down-stairs fast, and will be below the basement very soon.’

Looking by turns at Tugby and his wife, he sounded the barrel with his knuckles for the depth of beer, and having found it, played a tune upon the empty part.

‘The back-attic, Mr. Tugby,’ said the gentleman: Tugby having stood in silent consternation for some time: ‘is Going.’

‘Then,’ said Tugby, turning to his wife, ‘he must Go, you know, before he’s Gone.’

‘I don’t think you can move him,’ said the gentleman, shaking his head. ‘I wouldn’t take the responsibility of saying it could be done, myself. You had better leave him where he is. He can’t live long.’

‘It’s the only subject,’ said Tugby, bringing the butter-scale down upon the counter with a crash, by weighing his fist on it, ‘that we’ve ever had a word upon; she and me; and look what it comes to! He’s going to die here, after all. Going to die upon the premises. Going to die in our house!’

‘And where should he have died, Tugby?’ cried his wife.

‘In the workhouse,’ he returned. ‘What are workhouses made for?’

‘Not for that,’ said Mrs. Tugby, with great energy. ‘Not for that! Neither did I marry you for that. Don’t think it, Tugby. I won’t have it. I won’t allow it. I’d be separated first, and never see your face again. When my widow’s name stood over that door, as it did for many years: this house being known as Mrs. Chickenstalker’s far and wide, and never known but to its honest credit and its good report: when my widow’s name stood over that door, Tugby, I knew him as a handsome, steady, manly, independent youth; I knew her as the sweetest-looking, sweetest-tempered girl, eyes ever saw; I knew her father (poor old creetur, he fell down from the steeple walking in his sleep, and killed himself), for the simplest, hardest-working, childest-hearted man, that ever drew the breath of life; and when I turn them out of house and home, may angels turn me out of Heaven. As they would! And serve me right!’

Her old face, which had been a plump and dimpled one before the changes which had come to pass, seemed to shine out of her as she said these words; and when she dried her eyes, and shook her head and her handkerchief at Tugby, with an expression of firmness which it was quite clear was not to be easily resisted, Trotty said, ‘Bless her! Bless her!’

Then he listened, with a panting heart, for what should follow. Knowing nothing yet, but that they spoke of Meg.

If Tugby had been a little elevated in the parlour, he more than balanced that account by being not a little depressed in the shop, where he now stood staring at his wife, without attempting a reply; secretly conveying, however—either in a fit of abstraction or as a precautionary measure—all the money from the till into his own pockets, as he looked at her.

The gentleman upon the table-beer cask, who appeared to be some authorised medical attendant upon the poor, was far too well accustomed, evidently, to little differences of opinion between man and wife, to interpose any remark in this instance. He sat softly whistling, and turning little drops of beer out of the tap upon the ground, until there was a perfect calm: when he raised his head, and said to Mrs. Tugby, late Chickenstalker:

‘There’s something interesting about the woman, even now. How did she come to marry him?’

‘Why that,’ said Mrs. Tugby, taking a seat near him, ‘is not the least cruel part of her story, sir. You see they kept company, she and Richard, many years ago. When they were a young and beautiful couple, everything was settled, and they were to have been married on a New Year’s Day. But, somehow, Richard got it into his head, through what the gentlemen told him, that he might do better, and that he’d soon repent it, and that she wasn’t good enough for him, and that a young man of spirit had no business to be married. And the gentlemen frightened her, and made her melancholy, and timid of his deserting her, and of her children coming to the gallows, and of its being wicked to be man and wife, and a good deal more of it. And in short, they lingered and lingered, and their trust in one another was broken, and so at last was the match. But the fault was his. She would have married him, sir, joyfully. I’ve seen her heart swell many times afterwards, when he passed her in a proud and careless way; and never did a woman grieve more truly for a man, than she for Richard when he first went wrong.’

‘Oh! he went wrong, did he?’ said the gentleman, pulling out the vent-peg of the table-beer, and trying to peep down into the barrel through the hole.

‘Well, sir, I don’t know that he rightly understood himself, you see. I think his mind was troubled by their having broke with one another; and that but for being ashamed before the gentlemen, and perhaps for being uncertain too, how she might take it, he’d have gone through any suffering or trial to have had Meg’s promise and Meg’s hand again. That’s my belief. He never said so; more’s the pity! He took to drinking, idling, bad companions: all the fine resources that were to be so much better for him than the Home he might have had. He lost his looks, his character, his health, his strength, his friends, his work: everything!’

‘He didn’t lose everything, Mrs. Tugby,’ returned the gentleman, ‘because he gained a wife; and I want to know how he gained her.’

‘I’m coming to it, sir, in a moment. This went on for years and years; he sinking lower and lower; she enduring, poor thing, miseries enough to wear her life away. At last, he was so cast down, and cast out, that no one would employ or notice him; and doors were shut upon him, go where he would. Applying from place to place, and door to door; and coming for the hundredth time to one gentleman who had often and often tried him (he was a good workman to the very end); that gentleman, who knew his history, said, “I believe you are incorrigible; there is only one person in the world who has a chance of reclaiming you; ask me to trust you no more, until she tries to do it.” Something like that, in his anger and vexation.’

‘Ah!’ said the gentleman. ‘Well?’

‘Well, sir, he went to her, and kneeled to her; said it was so; said it ever had been so; and made a prayer to her to save him.’

‘And she?—Don’t distress yourself, Mrs. Tugby.’

‘She came to me that night to ask me about living here. “What he was once to me,” she said, “is buried in a grave, side by side with what I was to him. But I have thought of this; and I will make the trial. In the hope of saving him; for the love of the light-hearted girl (you remember her) who was to have been married on a New Year’s Day; and for the love of her Richard.” And she said he had come to her from Lilian, and Lilian had trusted to him, and she never could forget that. So they were married; and when they came home here, and I saw them, I hoped that such prophecies as parted them when they were young, may not often fulfil themselves as they did in this case, or I wouldn’t be the makers of them for a Mine of Gold.’

The gentleman got off the cask, and stretched himself, observing:

‘I suppose he used her ill, as soon as they were married?’

‘I don’t think he ever did that,’ said Mrs. Tugby, shaking her head, and wiping her eyes. ‘He went on better for a short time; but, his habits were too old and strong to be got rid of; he soon fell back a little; and was falling fast back, when his illness came so strong upon him. I think he has always felt for her. I am sure he has. I have seen him, in his crying fits and tremblings, try to kiss her hand; and I have heard him call her “Meg,” and say it was her nineteenth birthday. There he has been lying, now, these weeks and months. Between him and her baby, she has not been able to do her old work; and by not being able to be regular, she has lost it, even if she could have done it. How they have lived, I hardly know!’

‘I know,’ muttered Mr. Tugby; looking at the till, and round the shop, and at his wife; and rolling his head with immense intelligence. ‘Like Fighting Cocks!’

He was interrupted by a cry—a sound of lamentation—from the upper story of the house. The gentleman moved hurriedly to the door.

‘My friend,’ he said, looking back, ‘you needn’t discuss whether he shall be removed or not. He has spared you that trouble, I believe.’

Saying so, he ran up-stairs, followed by Mrs. Tugby; while Mr. Tugby panted and grumbled after them at leisure: being rendered more than commonly short-winded by the weight of the till, in which there had been an inconvenient quantity of copper. Trotty, with the child beside him, floated up the staircase like mere air.

‘Follow her! Follow her! Follow her!’ He heard the ghostly voices in the Bells repeat their words as he ascended. ‘Learn it, from the creature dearest to your heart!’

It was over. It was over. And this was she, her father’s pride and joy! This haggard, wretched woman, weeping by the bed, if it deserved that name, and pressing to her breast, and hanging down her head upon, an infant. Who can tell how spare, how sickly, and how poor an infant! Who can tell how dear!

‘Thank God!’ cried Trotty, holding up his folded hands. ‘O, God be thanked! She loves her child!’

The gentleman, not otherwise hard-hearted or indifferent to such scenes, than that he saw them every day, and knew that they were figures of no moment in the Filer sums—mere scratches in the working of these calculations—laid his hand upon the heart that beat no more, and listened for the breath, and said, ‘His pain is over. It’s better as it is!’ Mrs. Tugby tried to comfort her with kindness. Mr. Tugby tried philosophy.

‘Come, come!’ he said, with his hands in his pockets, ‘you mustn’t give way, you know. That won’t do. You must fight up. What would have become of me if I had given way when I was porter, and we had as many as six runaway carriage-doubles at our door in one night! But, I fell back upon my strength of mind, and didn’t open it!’

Again Trotty heard the voices saying, ‘Follow her!’ He turned towards his guide, and saw it rising from him, passing through the air. ‘Follow her!’ it said. And vanished.

He hovered round her; sat down at her feet; looked up into her face for one trace of her old self; listened for one note of her old pleasant voice. He flitted round the child: so wan, so prematurely old, so dreadful in its gravity, so plaintive in its feeble, mournful, miserable wail. He almost worshipped it. He clung to it as her only safeguard; as the last unbroken link that bound her to endurance. He set his father’s hope and trust on the frail baby; watched her every look upon it as she held it in her arms; and cried a thousand times, ‘She loves it! God be thanked, she loves it!’

He saw the woman tend her in the night; return to her when her grudging husband was asleep, and all was still; encourage her, shed tears with her, set nourishment before her. He saw the day come, and the night again; the day, the night; the time go by; the house of death relieved of death; the room left to herself and to the child; he heard it moan and cry; he saw it harass her, and tire her out, and when she slumbered in exhaustion, drag her back to consciousness, and hold her with its little hands upon the rack; but she was constant to it, gentle with it, patient with it. Patient! Was its loving mother in her inmost heart and soul, and had its Being knitted up with hers as when she carried it unborn.

All this time, she was in want: languishing away, in dire and pining want. With the baby in her arms, she wandered here and there, in quest of occupation; and with its thin face lying in her lap, and looking up in hers, did any work for any wretched sum; a day and night of labour for as many farthings as there were figures on the dial. If she had quarrelled with it; if she had neglected it; if she had looked upon it with a moment’s hate; if, in the frenzy of an instant, she had struck it! No. His comfort was, She loved it always.

She told no one of her extremity, and wandered abroad in the day lest she should be questioned by her only friend: for any help she received from her hands, occasioned fresh disputes between the good woman and her husband; and it was new bitterness to be the daily cause of strife and discord, where she owed so much.

She loved it still. She loved it more and more. But a change fell on the aspect of her love. One night.

She was singing faintly to it in its sleep, and walking to and fro to hush it, when her door was softly opened, and a man looked in.

‘For the last time,’ he said.

‘William Fern!’

‘For the last time.’

He listened like a man pursued: and spoke in whispers.

‘Margaret, my race is nearly run. I couldn’t finish it, without a parting word with you. Without one grateful word.’

‘What have you done?’ she asked: regarding him with terror.

He looked at her, but gave no answer.

After a short silence, he made a gesture with his hand, as if he set her question by; as if he brushed it aside; and said:

‘It’s long ago, Margaret, now: but that night is as fresh in my memory as ever ’twas. We little thought, then,’ he added, looking round, ‘that we should ever meet like this. Your child, Margaret? Let me have it in my arms. Let me hold your child.’

He put his hat upon the floor, and took it. And he trembled as he took it, from head to foot.

‘Is it a girl?’

‘Yes.’

He put his hand before its little face.

‘See how weak I’m grown, Margaret, when I want the courage to look at it! Let her be, a moment. I won’t hurt her. It’s long ago, but—What’s her name?’

‘Margaret,’ she answered, quickly.

‘I’m glad of that,’ he said. ‘I’m glad of that!’ He seemed to breathe more freely; and after pausing for an instant, took away his hand, and looked upon the infant’s face. But covered it again, immediately.

‘Margaret!’ he said; and gave her back the child. ‘It’s Lilian’s.’

‘Lilian’s!’

‘I held the same face in my arms when Lilian’s mother died and left her.’

‘When Lilian’s mother died and left her!’ she repeated, wildly.

‘How shrill you speak! Why do you fix your eyes upon me so? Margaret!’

She sunk down in a chair, and pressed the infant to her breast, and wept over it. Sometimes, she released it from her embrace, to look anxiously in its face: then strained it to her bosom again. At those times, when she gazed upon it, then it was that something fierce and terrible began to mingle with her love. Then it was that her old father quailed.

‘Follow her!’ was sounded through the house. ‘Learn it, from the creature dearest to your heart!’

‘Margaret,’ said Fern, bending over her, and kissing her upon the brow: ‘I thank you for the last time. Good night. Good bye! Put your hand in mine, and tell me you’ll forget me from this hour, and try to think the end of me was here.’

‘What have you done?’ she asked again.

‘There’ll be a Fire to-night,’ he said, removing from her. ‘There’ll be Fires this winter-time, to light the dark nights, East, West, North, and South. When you see the distant sky red, they’ll be blazing. When you see the distant sky red, think of me no more; or, if you do, remember what a Hell was lighted up inside of me, and think you see its flames reflected in the clouds. Good night. Good bye!’ She called to him; but he was gone. She sat down stupefied, until her infant roused her to a sense of hunger, cold, and darkness. She paced the room with it the livelong night, hushing it and soothing it. She said at intervals, ‘Like Lilian, when her mother died and left her!’ Why was her step so quick, her eye so wild, her love so fierce and terrible, whenever she repeated those words?

‘But, it is Love,’ said Trotty. ‘It is Love. She’ll never cease to love it. My poor Meg!’

She dressed the child next morning with unusual care—ah, vain expenditure of care upon such squalid robes!—and once more tried to find some means of life. It was the last day of the Old Year. She tried till night, and never broke her fast. She tried in vain.

She mingled with an abject crowd, who tarried in the snow, until it pleased some officer appointed to dispense the public charity (the lawful charity; not that once preached upon a Mount), to call them in, and question them, and say to this one, ‘Go to such a place,’ to that one, ‘Come next week;’ to make a football of another wretch, and pass him here and there, from hand to hand, from house to house, until he wearied and lay down to die; or started up and robbed, and so became a higher sort of criminal, whose claims allowed of no delay. Here, too, she failed.

She loved her child, and wished to have it lying on her breast. And that was quite enough.

It was night: a bleak, dark, cutting night: when, pressing the child close to her for warmth, she arrived outside the house she called her home. She was so faint and giddy, that she saw no one standing in the doorway until she was close upon it, and about to enter. Then, she recognised the master of the house, who had so disposed himself—with his person it was not difficult—as to fill up the whole entry.

‘O!’ he said softly. ‘You have come back?’

She looked at the child, and shook her head.

‘Don’t you think you have lived here long enough without paying any rent? Don’t you think that, without any money, you’ve been a pretty constant customer at this shop, now?’ said Mr. Tugby.

She repeated the same mute appeal.

‘Suppose you try and deal somewhere else,’ he said. ‘And suppose you provide yourself with another lodging. Come! Don’t you think you could manage it?’

She said in a low voice, that it was very late. To-morrow.

‘Now I see what you want,’ said Tugby; ‘and what you mean. You know there are two parties in this house about you, and you delight in setting ’em by the ears. I don’t want any quarrels; I’m speaking softly to avoid a quarrel; but if you don’t go away, I’ll speak out loud, and you shall cause words high enough to please you. But you shan’t come in. That I am determined.’

She put her hair back with her hand, and looked in a sudden manner at the sky, and the dark lowering distance.

‘This is the last night of an Old Year, and I won’t carry ill-blood and quarrellings and disturbances into a New One, to please you nor anybody else,’ said Tugby, who was quite a retail Friend and Father. ‘I wonder you an’t ashamed of yourself, to carry such practices into a New Year. If you haven’t any business in the world, but to be always giving way, and always making disturbances between man and wife, you’d be better out of it. Go along with you.’

‘Follow her! To desperation!’

Again the old man heard the voices. Looking up, he saw the figures hovering in the air, and pointing where she went, down the dark street.

‘She loves it!’ he exclaimed, in agonised entreaty for her. ‘Chimes! she loves it still!’

‘Follow her!’ The shadow swept upon the track she had taken, like a cloud.

He joined in the pursuit; he kept close to her; he looked into her face. He saw the same fierce and terrible expression mingling with her love, and kindling in her eyes. He heard her say, ‘Like Lilian! To be changed like Lilian!’ and her speed redoubled.

O, for something to awaken her! For any sight, or sound, or scent, to call up tender recollections in a brain on fire! For any gentle image of the Past, to rise before her!

‘I was her father! I was her father!’ cried the old man, stretching out his hands to the dark shadows flying on above. ‘Have mercy on her, and on me! Where does she go? Turn her back! I was her father!’

But they only pointed to her, as she hurried on; and said, ‘To desperation! Learn it from the creature dearest to your heart!’ A hundred voices echoed it. The air was made of breath expended in those words. He seemed to take them in, at every gasp he drew. They were everywhere, and not to be escaped. And still she hurried on; the same light in her eyes, the same words in her mouth, ‘Like Lilian! To be changed like Lilian!’ All at once she stopped.

‘Now, turn her back!’ exclaimed the old man, tearing his white hair. ‘My child! Meg! Turn her back! Great Father, turn her back!’

In her own scanty shawl, she wrapped the baby warm. With her fevered hands, she smoothed its limbs, composed its face, arranged its mean attire. In her wasted arms she folded it, as though she never would resign it more. And with her dry lips, kissed it in a final pang, and last long agony of Love.

Putting its tiny hand up to her neck, and holding it there, within her dress, next to her distracted heart, she set its sleeping face against her: closely, steadily, against her: and sped onward to the River.

To the rolling River, swift and dim, where Winter Night sat brooding like the last dark thoughts of many who had sought a refuge there before her. Where scattered lights upon the banks gleamed sullen, red, and dull, as torches that were burning there, to show the way to Death. Where no abode of living people cast its shadow, on the deep, impenetrable, melancholy shade.

To the River! To that portal of Eternity, her desperate footsteps tended with the swiftness of its rapid waters running to the sea. He tried to touch her as she passed him, going down to its dark level: but, the wild distempered form, the fierce and terrible love, the desperation that had left all human check or hold behind, swept by him like the wind.

He followed her. She paused a moment on the brink, before the dreadful plunge. He fell down on his knees, and in a shriek addressed the figures in the Bells now hovering above them.

‘I have learnt it!’ cried the old man. ‘From the creature dearest to my heart! O, save her, save her!’

He could wind his fingers in her dress; could hold it! As the words escaped his lips, he felt his sense of touch return, and knew that he detained her.

The figures looked down steadfastly upon him.

‘I have learnt it!’ cried the old man. ‘O, have mercy on me in this hour, if, in my love for her, so young and good, I slandered Nature in the breasts of mothers rendered desperate! Pity my presumption, wickedness, and ignorance, and save her.’ He felt his hold relaxing. They were silent still.

‘Have mercy on her!’ he exclaimed, ‘as one in whom this dreadful crime has sprung from Love perverted; from the strongest, deepest Love we fallen creatures know! Think what her misery must have been, when such seed bears such fruit! Heaven meant her to be good. There is no loving mother on the earth who might not come to this, if such a life had gone before. O, have mercy on my child, who, even at this pass, means mercy to her own, and dies herself, and perils her immortal soul, to save it!’

She was in his arms. He held her now. His strength was like a giant’s.

‘I see the Spirit of the Chimes among you!’ cried the old man, singling out the child, and speaking in some inspiration, which their looks conveyed to him. ‘I know that our inheritance is held in store for us by Time. I know there is a sea of Time to rise one day, before which all who wrong us or oppress us will be swept away like leaves. I see it, on the flow! I know that we must trust and hope, and neither doubt ourselves, nor doubt the good in one another. I have learnt it from the creature dearest to my heart. I clasp her in my arms again. O Spirits, merciful and good, I take your lesson to my breast along with her! O Spirits, merciful and good, I am grateful!’

He might have said more; but, the Bells, the old familiar Bells, his own dear, constant, steady friends, the Chimes, began to ring the joy-peals for a New Year: so lustily, so merrily, so happily, so gaily, that he leapt upon his feet, and broke the spell that bound him.

---

‘And whatever you do, father,’ said Meg, ‘don’t eat tripe again, without asking some doctor whether it’s likely to agree with you; for how you have been going on, Good gracious!’

She was working with her needle, at the little table by the fire; dressing her simple gown with ribbons for her wedding. So quietly happy, so blooming and youthful, so full of beautiful promise, that he uttered a great cry as if it were an Angel in his house; then flew to clasp her in his arms.

But, he caught his feet in the newspaper, which had fallen on the hearth; and somebody came rushing in between them.

‘No!’ cried the voice of this same somebody; a generous and jolly voice it was! ‘Not even you. Not even you. The first kiss of Meg in the New Year is mine. Mine! I have been waiting outside the house, this hour, to hear the Bells and claim it. Meg, my precious prize, a happy year! A life of happy years, my darling wife!’

And Richard smothered her with kisses.

You never in all your life saw anything like Trotty after this. I don’t care where you have lived or what you have seen; you never in all your life saw anything at all approaching him! He sat down in his chair and beat his knees and cried; he sat down in his chair and beat his knees and laughed; he sat down in his chair and beat his knees and laughed and cried together; he got out of his chair and hugged Meg; he got out of his chair and hugged Richard; he got out of his chair and hugged them both at once; he kept running up to Meg, and squeezing her fresh face between his hands and kissing it, going from her backwards not to lose sight of it, and running up again like a figure in a magic lantern; and whatever he did, he was constantly sitting himself down in his chair, and never stopping in it for one single moment; being—that’s the truth—beside himself with joy.

‘And to-morrow’s your wedding-day, my pet!’ cried Trotty. ‘Your real, happy wedding-day!’

‘To-day!’ cried Richard, shaking hands with him. ‘To-day. The Chimes are ringing in the New Year. Hear them!’

They WERE ringing! Bless their sturdy hearts, they WERE ringing! Great Bells as they were; melodious, deep-mouthed, noble Bells; cast in no common metal; made by no common founder; when had they ever chimed like that, before!

‘But, to-day, my pet,’ said Trotty. ‘You and Richard had some words to-day.’

‘Because he’s such a bad fellow, father,’ said Meg. ‘An’t you, Richard? Such a headstrong, violent man! He’d have made no more of speaking his mind to that great Alderman, and putting him down I don’t know where, than he would of—’

‘—Kissing Meg,’ suggested Richard. Doing it too!

‘No. Not a bit more,’ said Meg. ‘But I wouldn’t let him, father. Where would have been the use!’

‘Richard my boy!’ cried Trotty. ‘You was turned up Trumps originally; and Trumps you must be, till you die! But, you were crying by the fire to-night, my pet, when I came home! Why did you cry by the fire?’

‘I was thinking of the years we’ve passed together, father. Only that. And thinking that you might miss me, and be lonely.’

Trotty was backing off to that extraordinary chair again, when the child, who had been awakened by the noise, came running in half-dressed.

‘Why, here she is!’ cried Trotty, catching her up. ‘Here’s little Lilian! Ha ha ha! Here we are and here we go! O here we are and here we go again! And here we are and here we go! and Uncle Will too!’ Stopping in his trot to greet him heartily. ‘O, Uncle Will, the vision that I’ve had to-night, through lodging you! O, Uncle Will, the obligations that you’ve laid me under, by your coming, my good friend!’

Before Will Fern could make the least reply, a band of music burst into the room, attended by a lot of neighbours, screaming ‘A Happy New Year, Meg!’ ‘A Happy Wedding!’ ‘Many of ’em!’ and other fragmentary good wishes of that sort. The Drum (who was a private friend of Trotty’s) then stepped forward, and said:

‘Trotty Veck, my boy! It’s got about, that your daughter is going to be married to-morrow. There an’t a soul that knows you that don’t wish you well, or that knows her and don’t wish her well. Or that knows you both, and don’t wish you both all the happiness the New Year can bring. And here we are, to play it in and dance it in, accordingly.’

Which was received with a general shout. The Drum was rather drunk, by-the-bye; but, never mind.

‘What a happiness it is, I’m sure,’ said Trotty, ‘to be so esteemed! How kind and neighbourly you are! It’s all along of my dear daughter. She deserves it!’

They were ready for a dance in half a second (Meg and Richard at the top); and the Drum was on the very brink of feathering away with all his power; when a combination of prodigious sounds was heard outside, and a good-humoured comely woman of some fifty years of age, or thereabouts, came running in, attended by a man bearing a stone pitcher of terrific size, and closely followed by the marrow-bones and cleavers, and the bells; not the Bells, but a portable collection on a frame.

Trotty said, ‘It’s Mrs. Chickenstalker!’ And sat down and beat his knees again.

‘Married, and not tell me, Meg!’ cried the good woman. ‘Never! I couldn’t rest on the last night of the Old Year without coming to wish you joy. I couldn’t have done it, Meg. Not if I had been bed-ridden. So here I am; and as it’s New Year’s Eve, and the Eve of your wedding too, my dear, I had a little flip made, and brought it with me.’

Mrs. Chickenstalker’s notion of a little flip did honour to her character. The pitcher steamed and smoked and reeked like a volcano; and the man who had carried it, was faint.

‘Mrs. Tugby!’ said Trotty, who had been going round and round her, in an ecstasy.—‘I should say, Chickenstalker—Bless your heart and soul! A Happy New Year, and many of ’em! Mrs. Tugby,’ said Trotty when he had saluted her;—‘I should say, Chickenstalker—This is William Fern and Lilian.’

The worthy dame, to his surprise, turned very pale and very red.

‘Not Lilian Fern whose mother died in Dorsetshire!’ said she.

Her uncle answered ‘Yes,’ and meeting hastily, they exchanged some hurried words together; of which the upshot was, that Mrs. Chickenstalker shook him by both hands; saluted Trotty on his cheek again of her own free will; and took the child to her capacious breast.

‘Will Fern!’ said Trotty, pulling on his right-hand muffler. ‘Not the friend you was hoping to find?’

‘Ay!’ returned Will, putting a hand on each of Trotty’s shoulders. ‘And like to prove a’most as good a friend, if that can be, as one I found.’

‘O!’ said Trotty. ‘Please to play up there. Will you have the goodness!’

To the music of the band, and, the bells, the marrow-bones and cleavers, all at once; and while the Chimes were yet in lusty operation out of doors; Trotty, making Meg and Richard, second couple, led off Mrs. Chickenstalker down the dance, and danced it in a step unknown before or since; founded on his own peculiar trot.

Had Trotty dreamed? Or, are his joys and sorrows, and the actors in them, but a dream; himself a dream; the teller of this tale a dreamer, waking but now? If it be so, O listener, dear to him in all his visions, try to bear in mind the stern realities from which these shadows come; and in your sphere—none is too wide, and none too limited for such an end—endeavour to correct, improve, and soften them. So may the New Year be a happy one to you, happy to many more whose happiness depends on you! So may each year be happier than the last, and not the meanest of our brethren or sisterhood debarred their rightful share, in what our Great Creator formed them to enjoy.

CHAPTER I—First Quarter.

There are not many people—and as it is desirable that a story-teller and a story-reader should establish a mutual understanding as soon as possible, I beg it to be noticed that I confine this observation neither to young people nor to little people, but extend it to all conditions of people: little and big, young and old: yet growing up, or already growing down again—there are not, I say, many people who would care to sleep in a church. I don’t mean at sermon-time in warm weather (when the thing has actually been done, once or twice), but in the night, and alone. A great multitude of persons will be violently astonished, I know, by this position, in the broad bold Day. But it applies to Night. It must be argued by night, and I will undertake to maintain it successfully on any gusty winter’s night appointed for the purpose, with any one opponent chosen from the rest, who will meet me singly in an old churchyard, before an old church-door; and will previously empower me to lock him in, if needful to his satisfaction, until morning.

For the night-wind has a dismal trick of wandering round and round a building of that sort, and moaning as it goes; and of trying, with its unseen hand, the windows and the doors; and seeking out some crevices by which to enter. And when it has got in; as one not finding what it seeks, whatever that may be, it wails and howls to issue forth again: and not content with stalking through the aisles, and gliding round and round the pillars, and tempting the deep organ, soars up to the roof, and strives to rend the rafters: then flings itself despairingly upon the stones below, and passes, muttering, into the vaults. Anon, it comes up stealthily, and creeps along the walls, seeming to read, in whispers, the Inscriptions sacred to the Dead. At some of these, it breaks out shrilly, as with laughter; and at others, moans and cries as if it were lamenting. It has a ghostly sound too, lingering within the altar; where it seems to chaunt, in its wild way, of Wrong and Murder done, and false Gods worshipped, in defiance of the Tables of the Law, which look so fair and smooth, but are so flawed and broken. Ugh! Heaven preserve us, sitting snugly round the fire! It has an awful voice, that wind at Midnight, singing in a church!

But, high up in the steeple! There the foul blast roars and whistles! High up in the steeple, where it is free to come and go through many an airy arch and loophole, and to twist and twine itself about the giddy stair, and twirl the groaning weathercock, and make the very tower shake and shiver! High up in the steeple, where the belfry is, and iron rails are ragged with rust, and sheets of lead and copper, shrivelled by the changing weather, crackle and heave beneath the unaccustomed tread; and birds stuff shabby nests into corners of old oaken joists and beams; and dust grows old and grey; and speckled spiders, indolent and fat with long security, swing idly to and fro in the vibration of the bells, and never loose their hold upon their thread-spun castles in the air, or climb up sailor-like in quick alarm, or drop upon the ground and ply a score of nimble legs to save one life! High up in the steeple of an old church, far above the light and murmur of the town and far below the flying clouds that shadow it, is the wild and dreary place at night: and high up in the steeple of an old church, dwelt the Chimes I tell of.

They were old Chimes, trust me. Centuries ago, these Bells had been baptized by bishops: so many centuries ago, that the register of their baptism was lost long, long before the memory of man, and no one knew their names. They had had their Godfathers and Godmothers, these Bells (for my own part, by the way, I would rather incur the responsibility of being Godfather to a Bell than a Boy), and had their silver mugs no doubt, besides. But Time had mowed down their sponsors, and Henry the Eighth had melted down their mugs; and they now hung, nameless and mugless, in the church-tower.

Not speechless, though. Far from it. They had clear, loud, lusty, sounding voices, had these Bells; and far and wide they might be heard upon the wind. Much too sturdy Chimes were they, to be dependent on the pleasure of the wind, moreover; for, fighting gallantly against it when it took an adverse whim, they would pour their cheerful notes into a listening ear right royally; and bent on being heard on stormy nights, by some poor mother watching a sick child, or some lone wife whose husband was at sea, they had been sometimes known to beat a blustering Nor’ Wester; aye, ‘all to fits,’ as Toby Veck said;—for though they chose to call him Trotty Veck, his name was Toby, and nobody could make it anything else either (except Tobias) without a special act of parliament; he having been as lawfully christened in his day as the Bells had been in theirs, though with not quite so much of solemnity or public rejoicing.

For my part, I confess myself of Toby Veck’s belief, for I am sure he had opportunities enough of forming a correct one. And whatever Toby Veck said, I say. And I take my stand by Toby Veck, although he did stand all day long (and weary work it was) just outside the church-door. In fact he was a ticket-porter, Toby Veck, and waited there for jobs.

And a breezy, goose-skinned, blue-nosed, red-eyed, stony-toed, tooth-chattering place it was, to wait in, in the winter-time, as Toby Veck well knew. The wind came tearing round the corner—especially the east wind—as if it had sallied forth, express, from the confines of the earth, to have a blow at Toby. And oftentimes it seemed to come upon him sooner than it had expected, for bouncing round the corner, and passing Toby, it would suddenly wheel round again, as if it cried ‘Why, here he is!’ Incontinently his little white apron would be caught up over his head like a naughty boy’s garments, and his feeble little cane would be seen to wrestle and struggle unavailingly in his hand, and his legs would undergo tremendous agitation, and Toby himself all aslant, and facing now in this direction, now in that, would be so banged and buffeted, and touzled, and worried, and hustled, and lifted off his feet, as to render it a state of things but one degree removed from a positive miracle, that he wasn’t carried up bodily into the air as a colony of frogs or snails or other very portable creatures sometimes are, and rained down again, to the great astonishment of the natives, on some strange corner of the world where ticket-porters are unknown.

CAPITOLO I - Primo trimestre.

Non sono molte le persone — e poiché è auspicabile che chi racconta una storia e chi la ascolta instaurino un reciproco intendimento il più presto possibile, vi prego di notare che non limito questa osservazione né ai giovani né ai piccoli, ma la estendo a tutte le condizioni umane: piccoli e grandi, giovani e vecchi, in crescita o già in declino — non sono molte, dico, le persone che vorrebbero dormire in una chiesa. Non intendo durante un sermone in una calda giornata (quando è successo davvero, una volta o due), ma di notte, e da soli. Molte persone saranno violentemente stupite, lo so, da questa affermazione, alla luce del giorno. Ma si applica alla notte. Deve essere argomentata di notte, e mi impegno a difenderla con successo in qualsiasi ventosa invernale notte fissata allo scopo, contro un avversario scelto tra gli altri che si presenterà da solo in un vecchio cimitero, davanti alla porta di una vecchia chiesa; e mi autorizzerà preventivamente a chiuderlo dentro, se necessario per la sua soddisfazione, fino al mattino.

Perché il vento notturno ha la triste abitudine di girare e rigirare intorno a un edificio del genere, lamentandosi mentre passa; e cerca con la sua mano invisibile le finestre e le porte; e cerca qualche fessura per entrare. E quando è entrato, come se non trovasse ciò che cerca, qualunque cosa sia, geme e ulula per uscire di nuovo: e non contento di aggirarsi tra le navate, scivolare intorno ai pilastri e tentare l’organo profondo, si innalza fino alla volta e cerca di strappare le travi; poi si getta disperatamente sulle pietre sottostanti e passa, borbottando, nelle volte. Poco dopo, risale furtivamente e striscia lungo i muri, sembrando leggere a bassa voce le iscrizioni sacre ai Morti. Di fronte ad alcune di queste, scoppia in un acuto riso; e davanti ad altre geme e piange come se stesse lamentandosi. Ha anche un suono spettrale che indugia intorno all’altare; dove sembra cantare, a suo modo selvaggio, del Torto e dell’Assassinio commessi, e di falsi Dei adorati, in sfida alle Tavole della Legge, che appaiono così belle e lisce, ma sono così imperfette e rotte. Ugh! Che il Cielo ci preservi, seduti accanto al fuoco! Ha una voce terribile, quel vento a mezzanotte, che canta in chiesa!

Ma in alto nel campanile! Lì il vento impetuoso ruggisce e sibila! In alto nel campanile, dove è libero di entrare ed uscire attraverso molti archi aperti e feritoie, e di torcersi e avvolgersi intorno alla scala vertiginosa, e far girare il gallo del vento che geme, e far tremare e vacillare la stessa torre! In alto nel campanile, dove c’è la cella delle campane e le sbarre di ferro sono consumate dalla ruggine, e fogli di piombo e rame, raggrinziti dal variare del tempo, scricchiolano e si sollevano sotto il passo non abituale; e gli uccelli infilano nidi malandati nei cantoni delle vecchie travi e travetti di quercia; e la polvere invecchia e diventa grigia; e ragni maculati, indolenti e grassi per una lunga sicurezza, oscillano oziosamente avanti e indietro nella vibrazione delle campane, e non lasciano mai la presa sui loro castelli di fili d’aria, o salgono come marinai in rapida allerta, o cadono a terra e mettono in moto una dozzina di gambe agili per salvare una vita! In alto nel campanile di una vecchia chiesa, lontano dalla luce e dal mormorio della città e molto al di sotto delle nuvole che volano e la oscurano, è il luogo selvaggio e desolato alla notte: ed in alto nel campanile di una vecchia chiesa, abitavano le Campane di cui vi parlo.

Erano vecchi Canti, credetemi. Secoli addietro, queste campane erano state battezzate da vescovi: tanti secoli fa che il registro del loro battesimo era andato perduto molto tempo prima della memoria degli uomini e nessuno conosceva i loro nomi. Avevano avuto i loro padrini e madrine, queste campane (per quanto mi riguarda, tra l’altro, preferirei assumere la responsabilità di essere il padrino di una campana piuttosto che di un bambino) e senza alcun dubbio avevano anche le loro tazze d’argento. Ma il Tempo aveva falciato i loro padrini, e Enrico VIII aveva fuso le loro tazze; ed ora pendevano, senza nome né tazza, nella torre della chiesa.

Non erano però muti. Lungi da esso. Avevano voci chiare, forti, sonore e vigorose, queste campane; e potevano essere udite lontano e largo sul vento. Erano inoltre canti troppo robusti per dipendere dal piacere del vento; infatti, combattendo coraggiosamente contro di esso quando prendeva una fantasia avversa, riversavano le loro allegre note nell’orecchio di chi ascoltava in modo regale; e decise a farsi sentire nelle notti tempestose, da qualche povera madre che vegliava su un bambino malato, o da qualche moglie solitaria il cui marito era in mare, era stato talvolta noto che battevano un impetuoso vento del nord-ovest; sì, “tutto per i fatti loro”, come disse Toby Veck;—perché sebbene avessero scelto di chiamarlo Trotty Veck, il suo nome era Toby, e nessuno poteva cambiarlo in altro (tranne Tobias) senza un atto speciale del parlamento; avendo lui ricevuto un battesimo legittimo nel suo giorno come le campane avevano avuto nel loro, sebbene non con altrettanta solennità o pubblica gioia.

Per quanto mi riguarda, confesso di essere dello stesso avviso di Toby Veck, perché sono certo che ha avuto abbastanza occasioni per formarsi un giudizio corretto. E tutto ciò che diceva Toby Veck lo dico anch’io. E mi schiero dalla parte di Toby Veck, anche se lui stava in piedi tutto il giorno (e non era certo una passeggiata) proprio fuori dalla porta della chiesa. Era infatti un facchino, Toby Veck, e aspettava lì per trovare lavoro.

E un luogo ventoso, con la pelle d’oca, il naso blu, gli occhi rossi, i piedi gelati, i denti che battevano, era quello in cui aspettava Toby Veck nel tempo di inverno, come lui sapeva bene. Il vento arrivava a raffiche dall’angolo—soprattutto il vento di levante—come se fosse partito in tutta fretta dai confini della terra per dare una sberla a Toby. E spesso sembrava che lo colpisse prima del previsto, perché dopo aver fatto un balzo dall’angolo e superato Toby, si girava di scatto come se dicesse: ‘Ecco qui!’ Girandosi all’improvviso, il suo piccolo grembiule bianco gli veniva tirato sopra la testa come i vestiti di un bambino dispettoso, e il suo debole bastoncino si vedeva lottare e dibattersi invano nella sua mano, e le sue gambe subivano una tremenda agitazione, e Toby stesso era tutto storto, ora rivolto in questa direzione, ora in quella, veniva così percosso e spintonato, arruffato, tormentato, afferrato e sollevato da terra da rendere miracoloso il fatto che non fosse portato via nell’aria come una colonia di rane o lumache o altre creature molto leggere a volte lo sono, e poi fatto ricadere giù, con grande stupore degli abitanti, in qualche angolo remoto del mondo dove i facchini delle stazioni siano sconosciuti.

But, windy weather, in spite of its using him so roughly, was, after all, a sort of holiday for Toby. That’s the fact. He didn’t seem to wait so long for a sixpence in the wind, as at other times; the having to fight with that boisterous element took off his attention, and quite freshened him up, when he was getting hungry and low-spirited. A hard frost too, or a fall of snow, was an Event; and it seemed to do him good, somehow or other—it would have been hard to say in what respect though, Toby! So wind and frost and snow, and perhaps a good stiff storm of hail, were Toby Veck’s red-letter days.

Wet weather was the worst; the cold, damp, clammy wet, that wrapped him up like a moist great-coat—the only kind of great-coat Toby owned, or could have added to his comfort by dispensing with. Wet days, when the rain came slowly, thickly, obstinately down; when the street’s throat, like his own, was choked with mist; when smoking umbrellas passed and re-passed, spinning round and round like so many teetotums, as they knocked against each other on the crowded footway, throwing off a little whirlpool of uncomfortable sprinklings; when gutters brawled and waterspouts were full and noisy; when the wet from the projecting stones and ledges of the church fell drip, drip, drip, on Toby, making the wisp of straw on which he stood mere mud in no time; those were the days that tried him. Then, indeed, you might see Toby looking anxiously out from his shelter in an angle of the church wall—such a meagre shelter that in summer time it never cast a shadow thicker than a good-sized walking stick upon the sunny pavement—with a disconsolate and lengthened face. But coming out, a minute afterwards, to warm himself by exercise, and trotting up and down some dozen times, he would brighten even then, and go back more brightly to his niche.

They called him Trotty from his pace, which meant speed if it didn’t make it. He could have walked faster perhaps; most likely; but rob him of his trot, and Toby would have taken to his bed and died. It bespattered him with mud in dirty weather; it cost him a world of trouble; he could have walked with infinitely greater ease; but that was one reason for his clinging to it so tenaciously. A weak, small, spare old man, he was a very Hercules, this Toby, in his good intentions. He loved to earn his money. He delighted to believe—Toby was very poor, and couldn’t well afford to part with a delight—that he was worth his salt. With a shilling or an eighteenpenny message or small parcel in hand, his courage always high, rose higher. As he trotted on, he would call out to fast Postmen ahead of him, to get out of the way; devoutly believing that in the natural course of things he must inevitably overtake and run them down; and he had perfect faith—not often tested—in his being able to carry anything that man could lift.

Thus, even when he came out of his nook to warm himself on a wet day, Toby trotted. Making, with his leaky shoes, a crooked line of slushy footprints in the mire; and blowing on his chilly hands and rubbing them against each other, poorly defended from the searching cold by threadbare mufflers of grey worsted, with a private apartment only for the thumb, and a common room or tap for the rest of the fingers; Toby, with his knees bent and his cane beneath his arm, still trotted. Falling out into the road to look up at the belfry when the Chimes resounded, Toby trotted still.

He made this last excursion several times a day, for they were company to him; and when he heard their voices, he had an interest in glancing at their lodging-place, and thinking how they were moved, and what hammers beat upon them. Perhaps he was the more curious about these Bells, because there were points of resemblance between themselves and him. They hung there, in all weathers, with the wind and rain driving in upon them; facing only the outsides of all those houses; never getting any nearer to the blazing fires that gleamed and shone upon the windows, or came puffing out of the chimney tops; and incapable of participation in any of the good things that were constantly being handed through the street doors and the area railings, to prodigious cooks. Faces came and went at many windows: sometimes pretty faces, youthful faces, pleasant faces: sometimes the reverse: but Toby knew no more (though he often speculated on these trifles, standing idle in the streets) whence they came, or where they went, or whether, when the lips moved, one kind word was said of him in all the year, than did the Chimes themselves.

Toby was not a casuist—that he knew of, at least—and I don’t mean to say that when he began to take to the Bells, and to knit up his first rough acquaintance with them into something of a closer and more delicate woof, he passed through these considerations one by one, or held any formal review or great field-day in his thoughts. But what I mean to say, and do say is, that as the functions of Toby’s body, his digestive organs for example, did of their own cunning, and by a great many operations of which he was altogether ignorant, and the knowledge of which would have astonished him very much, arrive at a certain end; so his mental faculties, without his privity or concurrence, set all these wheels and springs in motion, with a thousand others, when they worked to bring about his liking for the Bells.

And though I had said his love, I would not have recalled the word, though it would scarcely have expressed his complicated feeling. For, being but a simple man, he invested them with a strange and solemn character. They were so mysterious, often heard and never seen; so high up, so far off, so full of such a deep strong melody, that he regarded them with a species of awe; and sometimes when he looked up at the dark arched windows in the tower, he half expected to be beckoned to by something which was not a Bell, and yet was what he had heard so often sounding in the Chimes. For all this, Toby scouted with indignation a certain flying rumour that the Chimes were haunted, as implying the possibility of their being connected with any Evil thing. In short, they were very often in his ears, and very often in his thoughts, but always in his good opinion; and he very often got such a crick in his neck by staring with his mouth wide open, at the steeple where they hung, that he was fain to take an extra trot or two, afterwards, to cure it.

Ma il tempo ventoso, nonostante lo trattasse così duramente, era in fondo una specie di vacanza per Toby. È un fatto. Non sembrava aspettare tanto a lungo per uno scellino nel vento, come in altri momenti; dover lottare con quell’elemento burrascoso distoglieva la sua attenzione e lo rinfrescava completamente, quando stava diventando affamato e di cattivo umore. Anche un forte gelido o una caduta di neve era un Avvenimento; e sembrava fargli bene, in qualche modo - anche se sarebbe stato difficile dire in che rispetto, Toby! Così il vento e il gelido e la neve, e forse una buona forte tempesta di grandine, erano i giorni importanti per Toby Veck.

Il tempo umido era il peggio; quel freddo, bagnato e appiccicoso che lo avvolgeva come un cappotto fradicio — l’unica specie di cappotto che Toby possedeva o che avrebbe potuto aggiungere al suo comfort rinunciandovi. Giorni umidi, quando la pioggia cadeva lentamente, fitta e ostinata; quando la gola della strada, come la sua, era ostruita dalla nebbia; quando gli ombrelli fumanti passavano e ripassavano, girando e rigirando come tante trottole, mentre si scontravano sul marciapiede affollato, proiettando una piccola voragine di spruzzi fastidiosi; quando i canali berciavano e le grondaie erano piene e rumorose; quando l’acqua che cadeva dalle pietre sporgenti e dagli appigli della chiesa gocciolava, gocciolava, gocciolava su Toby, trasformando in un attimo il ciuffo di paglia su cui stava in semplice fango; quei giorni lo mettevano alla prova. Allora, davvero, si poteva vedere Toby che sbirciava ansiosamente dal suo riparo in un angolo del muro della chiesa — un riparo così misero che in estate non proiettava mai una ombra più spessa di un buon bastone da passeggio sul marciapiede soleggiato — con un’aria sconsolata e allungata. Ma uscendo, un minuto dopo, per riscaldarsi con l’esercizio, e trotterellando su e giù una dozzina di volte, si illuminava anche allora, e tornava più luminoso alla sua nicchia.

Lo chiamavano Trotty per il suo passo, che significava velocità se non lo rendeva tale. Forse avrebbe potuto camminare più in fretta; molto probabilmente; ma privarlo del suo trotto e Toby si sarebbe messo a letto e sarebbe morto. Lo sporcava di fango con il tempo sporco; gli costava un mondo di guai; avrebbe potuto camminare con infinitamente maggiore facilità; ma quella era una ragione per cui vi si aggrappava così tenacemente. Un vecchio debole, piccolo e magro, questo Toby era un vero Ercole nelle sue buone intenzioni. Amava guadagnarsi da vivere. Era felice di credere — Toby era molto povero e non poteva bene rinunciare a una delizia — che valesse il suo sale. Con uno scellino o un messaggio da diciotto pence o un piccolo pacchetto in mano, il suo coraggio sempre alto, saliva ancora più in alto. Mentre trotterellava, chiamava i postini veloci davanti a lui per farsi largo; credendo devotamente che nel corso naturale delle cose avrebbe inevitabilmente raggiunto e superato loro; ed aveva una perfetta fede — non spesso messa alla prova — di essere in grado di trasportare qualsiasi cosa un uomo potesse sollevare.

Così, anche quando usciva dal suo angolo per riscaldarsi in una giornata umida, Toby trotterellava. Con le sue scarpe che lasciavano entrare l’acqua, faceva una linea storta di impronte fangose nel pantano; e soffiava sulle mani gelide strofinandole l’una contro l’altra, malamente protette dal freddo pungente da scialli grigi di lana consumati, con un alloggio privato solo per il pollice, e una stanza comune o un locale pubblico per le altre dita; Toby, con le ginocchia piegate e il bastone sotto il braccio, continuava a trotterellare. Anche quando usciva sulla strada per guardare in su verso la torre campanaria quando risuonavano i rintocchi, Toby continuava a trotterellare.

Faceva questa ultima passeggiata diverse volte al giorno, perché gli facevano compagnia; e quando sentiva le loro voci, era interessato a dare un’occhiata al loro rifugio, pensando come venivano mossi e quali martelli battevano su di essi. Forse era più curioso riguardo a queste campane perché c’erano punti di somiglianza tra lui e loro. Erano appese lì in tutte le stagioni, con il vento e la pioggia che li colpivano; guardando solo gli esterni di tutte quelle case; senza mai avvicinarsi ai fuochi ardenti che brillavano sulle finestre o uscivano sbuffando dai comignoli; e incapaci di partecipare a qualunque delle buone cose che venivano costantemente passate attraverso le porte della strada e i cancelli del cortile, per enormi cuochi. I volti apparivano e scomparivano in molte finestre: a volte erano volti graziosi, giovani, piacevoli; altre volte il contrario: ma Toby non sapeva più (anche se spesso rifletteva su queste piccolezze, stando fermo nelle strade) da dove venissero o dove andassero, o se, quando le labbra si muovevano, una parola gentile fosse stata detta di lui in tutto l’anno, più di quanto non sapessero gli stessi Cembali.

Toby non era un casuista — almeno per quanto ne sapesse lui — e non voglio dire che quando cominciò ad affezionarsi alle campane e a trasformare la sua prima rozza conoscenza di esse in qualcosa di più stretto e delicato, passasse in rassegna queste considerazioni una per una o facesse un esame formale o una grande parata delle sue idee. Ma ciò che voglio dire, e dico, è che così come le funzioni del corpo di Toby, i suoi organi digestivi ad esempio, arrivavano a uno scopo grazie alla loro abilità innata e attraverso molte operazioni delle quali lui era completamente ignaro e la cui conoscenza lo avrebbe molto sorpreso; così le sue facoltà mentali, senza il suo consenso o partecipazione, mettevano in moto tutte queste ruote e molle, insieme a mille altre, quando lavoravano per far nascere in lui l’affetto per le campane.

E anche se avevo detto il suo amore, non avrei ritrattato la parola, anche perché difficilmente avrebbe espresso il suo sentimento complesso. Perché, essendo un uomo semplice, le investiva di uno strano e solenne carattere. Erano così misteriose, spesso udite e mai viste; così in alto, così lontane, così piene di una melodia profonda e forte, che le guardava con un certo timore; e a volte quando alzava lo sguardo alle finestre arcuate nel buio della torre, si aspettava quasi di essere chiamato da qualcosa che non era una campana, eppure era ciò che aveva sentito così spesso risuonare nelle campane. Nonostante tutto questo, Toby respingeva con indignazione un certo pettegolezzo in giro secondo cui le campane erano infestate, perché implicava la possibilità di essere collegate a qualcosa di malefico. Insomma, erano molto spesso nelle sue orecchie, e molto spesso nei suoi pensieri, ma sempre nella sua buona opinione; e spesso gli veniva un tale indolenzimento al collo per aver fissato con la bocca spalancata il campanile dove pendevano, che era costretto a fare una o due trotte in più, dopo, per guarire.

The very thing he was in the act of doing one cold day, when the last drowsy sound of Twelve o’clock, just struck, was humming like a melodious monster of a Bee, and not by any means a busy bee, all through the steeple!

‘Dinner-time, eh!’ said Toby, trotting up and down before the church. ‘Ah!’

Toby’s nose was very red, and his eyelids were very red, and he winked very much, and his shoulders were very near his ears, and his legs were very stiff, and altogether he was evidently a long way upon the frosty side of cool.

‘Dinner-time, eh!’ repeated Toby, using his right-hand muffler like an infantine boxing-glove, and punishing his chest for being cold. ‘Ah-h-h-h!’

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

‘There’s nothing,’ said Toby, breaking forth afresh—but here he stopped short in his trot, and with a face of great interest and some alarm, felt his nose carefully all the way up. It was but a little way (not being much of a nose) and he had soon finished.

‘I thought it was gone,’ said Toby, trotting off again. ‘It’s all right, however. I am sure I couldn’t blame it if it was to go. It has a precious hard service of it in the bitter weather, and precious little to look forward to; for I don’t take snuff myself. It’s a good deal tried, poor creetur, at the best of times; for when it does get hold of a pleasant whiff or so (which an’t too often) it’s generally from somebody else’s dinner, a-coming home from the baker’s.’

The reflection reminded him of that other reflection, which he had left unfinished.

‘There’s nothing,’ said Toby, ‘more regular in its coming round than dinner-time, and nothing less regular in its coming round than dinner. That’s the great difference between ’em. It’s took me a long time to find it out. I wonder whether it would be worth any gentleman’s while, now, to buy that obserwation for the Papers; or the Parliament!’

Toby was only joking, for he gravely shook his head in self-depreciation.

‘Why! Lord!’ said Toby. ‘The Papers is full of obserwations as it is; and so’s the Parliament. Here’s last week’s paper, now;’ taking a very dirty one from his pocket, and holding it from him at arm’s length; ‘full of obserwations! Full of obserwations! I like to know the news as well as any man,’ said Toby, slowly; folding it a little smaller, and putting it in his pocket again: ‘but it almost goes against the grain with me to read a paper now. It frightens me almost. I don’t know what we poor people are coming to. Lord send we may be coming to something better in the New Year nigh upon us!’

‘Why, father, father!’ said a pleasant voice, hard by.

But Toby, not hearing it, continued to trot backwards and forwards: musing as he went, and talking to himself.

‘It seems as if we can’t go right, or do right, or be righted,’ said Toby. ‘I hadn’t much schooling, myself, when I was young; and I can’t make out whether we have any business on the face of the earth, or not. Sometimes I think we must have—a little; and sometimes I think we must be intruding. I get so puzzled sometimes that I am not even able to make up my mind whether there is any good at all in us, or whether we are born bad. We seem to be dreadful things; we seem to give a deal of trouble; we are always being complained of and guarded against. One way or other, we fill the papers. Talk of a New Year!’ said Toby, mournfully. ‘I can bear up as well as another man at most times; better than a good many, for I am as strong as a lion, and all men an’t; but supposing it should really be that we have no right to a New Year—supposing we really are intruding—’

‘Why, father, father!’ said the pleasant voice again.

Toby heard it this time; started; stopped; and shortening his sight, which had been directed a long way off as seeking the enlightenment in the very heart of the approaching year, found himself face to face with his own child, and looking close into her eyes.

Bright eyes they were. Eyes that would bear a world of looking in, before their depth was fathomed. Dark eyes, that reflected back the eyes which searched them; not flashingly, or at the owner’s will, but with a clear, calm, honest, patient radiance, claiming kindred with that light which Heaven called into being. Eyes that were beautiful and true, and beaming with Hope. With Hope so young and fresh; with Hope so buoyant, vigorous, and bright, despite the twenty years of work and poverty on which they had looked; that they became a voice to Trotty Veck, and said: ‘I think we have some business here—a little!’

Trotty kissed the lips belonging to the eyes, and squeezed the blooming face between his hands.

‘Why, Pet,’ said Trotty. ‘What’s to do? I didn’t expect you to-day, Meg.’

‘Neither did I expect to come, father,’ cried the girl, nodding her head and smiling as she spoke. ‘But here I am! And not alone; not alone!’

‘Why you don’t mean to say,’ observed Trotty, looking curiously at a covered basket which she carried in her hand, ‘that you—’

‘Smell it, father dear,’ said Meg. ‘Only smell it!’

Trotty was going to lift up the cover at once, in a great hurry, when she gaily interposed her hand.

‘No, no, no,’ said Meg, with the glee of a child. ‘Lengthen it out a little. Let me just lift up the corner; just the lit-tle ti-ny cor-ner, you know,’ said Meg, suiting the action to the word with the utmost gentleness, and speaking very softly, as if she were afraid of being overheard by something inside the basket; ‘there. Now. What’s that?’

Toby took the shortest possible sniff at the edge of the basket, and cried out in a rapture:

‘Why, it’s hot!’

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

‘Ha, ha, ha!’ roared Toby, with a sort of kick. ‘It’s scalding hot!’

‘But what is it, father?’ said Meg. ‘Come. You haven’t guessed what it is. And you must guess what it is. I can’t think of taking it out, till you guess what it is. Don’t be in such a hurry! Wait a minute! A little bit more of the cover. Now guess!’

Era proprio quello che stava facendo un giorno freddo, quando l’ultimo suono sonnolento delle Dodici o’clock, appena battuto, ronzava come una melodiosa mostro di ape, e per nulla un’ape indaffarata, attraverso tutta la torre campanaria!

«È l’ora di cena, eh!» disse Toby, camminando su e giù davanti alla chiesa. «Ah!»

Il naso di Toby era molto rosso e le palpebre erano molto rosse e faceva molti ammiccamenti e le spalle gli arrivavano quasi alle orecchie e le gambe erano rigide, e nel complesso era evidente che si trovava ben oltre il lato gelido della frescura.

«È l’ora di cena, eh!» ripeté Toby, usando il fazzoletto della mano destra come un guanto da boxe infantile e colpendosi il petto per essersi raffreddato. «Ah-h-h-h!»

Dopo di che, per un minuto o due, proseguì al trotto in silenzio.

«Non c’è nulla», disse Toby, ricominciando da capo — ma qui si fermò di colpo nella sua corsa e con un’espressione molto interessata e un po’ allarmata tastò attentamente tutto il naso fino in su. Era una strada breve (non essendo un gran naso) e presto ebbe finito.

«Pensavo che se ne fosse andato», disse Toby, riprendendo la sua corsa. «Tuttavia va bene così. Sono sicuro di non poterlo biasimare se dovesse andarsene. Ha un servizio davvero duro con questo brutto tempo e ben poco a cui guardare avanti; perché io stesso non prendo tabacco da fiuto. È messo alla prova, povera creatura, anche nei momenti migliori; perché quando riesce ad afferrare una piacevole boccata o giù di lì (il che non accade troppo spesso) è generalmente dal pranzo di qualcun altro, mentre viene portato a casa dalla panetteria.»

Il riflesso gli ricordò quell’altro riflesso che aveva lasciato in sospeso.

«Non c’è niente», disse Toby, «più regolare nel tornare del momento di cena e nulla più irregolare nel tornare della cena. Questa è la grande differenza tra i due. Mi ci è voluto un lungo periodo per scoprirlo. Mi domando se sarebbe utile a qualche signore, ora, comprare quell’osservazione per i giornali; o il Parlamento!»

Toby stava solo scherzando, perché scuoteva solennemente la testa per svalutare se stesso.

«Perbacco! Signore!» disse Toby. «I giornali sono già pieni di osservazioni, e così è anche il Parlamento. Ecco il giornale della scorsa settimana, ora;» tirando fuori dalla tasca un foglio molto sporco e tenendolo lontano da sé a braccio teso; «pieno di osservazioni! Pieno di osservazioni! A me piace sapere le notizie tanto quanto a chiunque altro,» disse Toby lentamente; ripiegandolo un po’ più piccolo e rimettendoselo in tasca: «ma quasi mi costa fatica leggere un giornale ora. Mi spaventa quasi. Non so dove stiamo andando a finire noi povera gente. Dio voglia che siamo diretti verso qualcosa di meglio nel nuovo anno che sta per arrivare!»

«Ma perché, padre, padre!» disse una voce piacevole, vicino.

Ma Toby, che non l’aveva sentito, continuò a camminare avanti e indietro, riflettendo mentre procedeva e parlando tra sé e sé.

«Sembra che non possiamo fare nulla di giusto, o essere messi a posto», disse Toby. «Io stesso non ho avuto molta istruzione quando ero giovane; e non riesco a capire se abbiamo qualcosa da fare sulla faccia della terra, o no. A volte penso che dobbiamo avere—un po’; e a volte penso che dobbiamo essere di intralcio. A volte mi confondo così tanto che non sono nemmeno in grado di decidere se c’è del bene in noi, o se siamo nati malvagi. Sembra che siamo cose terribili; sembra che causiamo molti problemi; ci lamentano sempre e ci tengono d’occhio. In un modo o nell’altro, riempiamo i giornali. Parlate di un Nuovo Anno!», disse Toby, con tristezza. «Posso sopportare come bene come un altro uomo nella maggior parte dei casi; meglio di molti, perché sono forte come un leone, e non tutti gli uomini lo sono; ma supponendo che sia davvero così che non abbiamo diritto a un Nuovo Anno—supponendo che siamo veramente di intralcio—»

«Ma perché, padre, padre!» disse di nuovo la voce piacevole.

Toby lo sentì questa volta; trasalì; si fermò; e accorciando la vista, che era stata diretta lontano come se cercasse l’illuminazione nel cuore stesso dell’anno che stava arrivando, si trovò faccia a faccia con il proprio figlio, e guardandolo negli occhi.

Eran begli occhi lucenti. Occhi che avrebbero sopportato un mondo di sguardi prima che la loro profondità fosse esplorata. Occhi scuri, che riflettevano gli occhi che li scrutavano; non in modo accecante o per volontà del proprietario, ma con una chiara, calma, onesta e paziente luminosità, rivendicando parentela con quella luce che il Cielo aveva chiamato all’esistenza. Occhi belli e veri, che brillavano di Speranza. Di Speranza così giovane e fresca; di Speranza così vivace, vigorosa e luminosa, nonostante i vent’anni di lavoro e povertà che avevano visto; che divennero una voce per Trotty Veck, e dissero: «Penso che abbiamo da fare qui - un pochino!»

Trotty baciò le labbra che appartenevano agli occhi e strinse il viso fiorito tra le sue mani.

“Perché, tesoro,” disse Trotty. “Cosa c’è da fare? Non ti aspettavo oggi, Meg.”

«Nemmeno io mi aspettavo di venire, padre», esclamò la ragazza, annuendo e sorridendo mentre parlava. «Ma eccomi qui! E non sono sola; no, non sono sola!»

«Non vorrete dire», osservò Trotty guardando con curiosità un cesto coperto che lei portava in mano, «che voi, »

“Annusalo, caro papà,” disse Meg. “Solo annusalo!”

Trotty stava per sollevare subito il coperchio, con grande fretta, quando lei glielo impedì allegramente mettendo la mano davanti.

«No, no, no», disse Meg con la gioia di un bambino. «Allungalo un po’. Lascia che sollevi solo l’angolo; solo il piccolissimo angolino, sai?» disse Meg, adattando l’azione alle parole con la massima delicatezza e parlando molto piano, come se avesse paura di essere ascoltata da qualcosa dentro il cesto. «Ecco fatto. Ora. Cos’è questo?»

Toby diede il più breve dei sorsi al bordo del cesto e esclamò rapito:

‘È caldo!’

‘È rovente!’ gridò Meg. ‘Ah, ah, ah! È bollente!’

‘Ah, ah, ah!’ tuonò Toby con una specie di calcio. ‘È bollente!’

«Ma cos’è, papà?» disse Meg. «Su. Non hai indovinato cosa sia. E devi indovinare cosa sia. Non riesco a pensare di tirarlo fuori finché non avrai indovinato cosa sia. Non avere tanta fretta! Aspetta un minuto! Ancora un po’ del coperchio. Ora indovina!»

Meg was in a perfect fright lest he should guess right too soon; shrinking away, as she held the basket towards him; curling up her pretty shoulders; stopping her ear with her hand, as if by so doing she could keep the right word out of Toby’s lips; and laughing softly the whole time.

Meanwhile Toby, putting a hand on each knee, bent down his nose to the basket, and took a long inspiration at the lid; the grin upon his withered face expanding in the process, as if he were inhaling laughing gas.

‘Ah! It’s very nice,’ said Toby. ‘It an’t—I suppose it an’t Polonies?’

‘No, no, no!’ cried Meg, delighted. ‘Nothing like Polonies!’

‘No,’ said Toby, after another sniff. ‘It’s—it’s mellower than Polonies. It’s very nice. It improves every moment. It’s too decided for Trotters. An’t it?’

Meg was in an ecstasy. He could not have gone wider of the mark than Trotters—except Polonies.

‘Liver?’ said Toby, communing with himself. ‘No. There’s a mildness about it that don’t answer to liver. Pettitoes? No. It an’t faint enough for pettitoes. It wants the stringiness of Cocks’ heads. And I know it an’t sausages. I’ll tell you what it is. It’s chitterlings!’

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

‘Why, what am I a-thinking of!’ said Toby, suddenly recovering a position as near the perpendicular as it was possible for him to assume. ‘I shall forget my own name next. It’s tripe!’

Tripe it was; and Meg, in high joy, protested he should say, in half a minute more, it was the best tripe ever stewed.

‘And so,’ said Meg, busying herself exultingly with the basket, ‘I’ll lay the cloth at once, father; for I have brought the tripe in a basin, and tied the basin up in a pocket-handkerchief; and if I like to be proud for once, and spread that for a cloth, and call it a cloth, there’s no law to prevent me; is there, father?’

‘Not that I know of, my dear,’ said Toby. ‘But they’re always a-bringing up some new law or other.’

‘And according to what I was reading you in the paper the other day, father; what the Judge said, you know; we poor people are supposed to know them all. Ha ha! What a mistake! My goodness me, how clever they think us!’

‘Yes, my dear,’ cried Trotty; ‘and they’d be very fond of any one of us that did know ’em all. He’d grow fat upon the work he’d get, that man, and be popular with the gentlefolks in his neighbourhood. Very much so!’

‘He’d eat his dinner with an appetite, whoever he was, if it smelt like this,’ said Meg, cheerfully. ‘Make haste, for there’s a hot potato besides, and half a pint of fresh-drawn beer in a bottle. Where will you dine, father? On the Post, or on the Steps? Dear, dear, how grand we are. Two places to choose from!’

‘The steps to-day, my Pet,’ said Trotty. ‘Steps in dry weather. Post in wet. There’s a greater conveniency in the steps at all times, because of the sitting down; but they’re rheumatic in the damp.’

‘Then here,’ said Meg, clapping her hands, after a moment’s bustle; ‘here it is, all ready! And beautiful it looks! Come, father. Come!’

Since his discovery of the contents of the basket, Trotty had been standing looking at her—and had been speaking too—in an abstracted manner, which showed that though she was the object of his thoughts and eyes, to the exclusion even of tripe, he neither saw nor thought about her as she was at that moment, but had before him some imaginary rough sketch or drama of her future life. Roused, now, by her cheerful summons, he shook off a melancholy shake of the head which was just coming upon him, and trotted to her side. As he was stooping to sit down, the Chimes rang.

‘Amen!’ said Trotty, pulling off his hat and looking up towards them.

‘Amen to the Bells, father?’ cried Meg.

‘They broke in like a grace, my dear,’ said Trotty, taking his seat. ‘They’d say a good one, I am sure, if they could. Many’s the kind thing they say to me.’

‘The Bells do, father!’ laughed Meg, as she set the basin, and a knife and fork, before him. ‘Well!’

‘Seem to, my Pet,’ said Trotty, falling to with great vigour. ‘And where’s the difference? If I hear ’em, what does it matter whether they speak it or not? Why bless you, my dear,’ said Toby, pointing at the tower with his fork, and becoming more animated under the influence of dinner, ‘how often have I heard them bells say, “Toby Veck, Toby Veck, keep a good heart, Toby! Toby Veck, Toby Veck, keep a good heart, Toby!” A million times? More!’

‘Well, I never!’ cried Meg.

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

‘When things is very bad,’ said Trotty; ‘very bad indeed, I mean; almost at the worst; then it’s “Toby Veck, Toby Veck, job coming soon, Toby! Toby Veck, Toby Veck, job coming soon, Toby!” That way.’

‘And it comes—at last, father,’ said Meg, with a touch of sadness in her pleasant voice.

‘Always,’ answered the unconscious Toby. ‘Never fails.’

While this discourse was holding, Trotty made no pause in his attack upon the savoury meat before him, but cut and ate, and cut and drank, and cut and chewed, and dodged about, from tripe to hot potato, and from hot potato back again to tripe, with an unctuous and unflagging relish. But happening now to look all round the street—in case anybody should be beckoning from any door or window, for a porter—his eyes, in coming back again, encountered Meg: sitting opposite to him, with her arms folded and only busy in watching his progress with a smile of happiness.

‘Why, Lord forgive me!’ said Trotty, dropping his knife and fork. ‘My dove! Meg! why didn’t you tell me what a beast I was?’

‘Father?’

‘Sitting here,’ said Trotty, in penitent explanation, ‘cramming, and stuffing, and gorging myself; and you before me there, never so much as breaking your precious fast, nor wanting to, when—’

‘But I have broken it, father,’ interposed his daughter, laughing, ‘all to bits. I have had my dinner.’

Meg era in preda a una paura perfetta che lui indovinasse troppo presto; si ritraeva mentre gli porgeva il cesto, raccogliendo le sue graziose spalle, tappandosi un orecchio con la mano come se così facendo potesse impedire alla parola giusta di uscire dalle labbra di Toby; e ridacchiava sommessamente per tutto il tempo.

Nel frattempo Toby, appoggiando una mano su ogni ginocchio, si chinò sul cesto e inspirò a lungo dal coperchio; la smorfia sulla sua faccia raggrinzita si allargava nel processo, come se stesse inalando gas esilarante.

“Ah! È molto bello,” disse Toby, “non sono, suppongo che non siano polacche?”

‘No, no, no!’ esclamò Meg, entusiasta. ‘Niente di paragonabile ai salami polacchi!’

«No», disse Toby dopo un altro sorso. «È—è più mite dei poloni. È molto buono. Migliora di momento in momento. È troppo deciso per Trotters. Non è vero?»

Meg era in estasi. Non avrebbe potuto sbagliare di più del signor Trotter — se non fosse stato per il signor Polonius.

«Fegato?» disse Toby, parlando tra sé e sé. «No. Ha una dolcezza che non corrisponde al fegato. Piedini di maiale? No. Non è abbastanza delicato per i piedini di maiale. Manca della fibrosità delle teste di gallo. E so che non sono salsicce. Vi dico io cos’è. È trippa!»

‘No, non è così!’ gridò Meg, esplodendo di gioia. ‘No, non è così!’

«Ma di che cosa sto pensando!» disse Toby, riprendendo improvvisamente una posizione il più possibile verticale. «Dimenticherò anche il mio nome tra poco. È trippa!»

Era trippa; e Meg, piena di gioia, protestò che tra mezzo minuto avrebbe detto che era la migliore trippa mai bollita.

«E così», disse Meg, occupandosi con entusiasmo del cesto, «apparecchierò subito la tavola, papà; perché ho portato le trippa in una ciotola e l’ho avvolta in un fazzoletto da tasca; e se voglio essere orgogliosa per una volta, stendere quel fazzoletto come tovaglia e chiamarlo così, non ci sono leggi che me lo vietino, vero papà?»

«Non ne so nulla, mia cara», disse Toby «ma continuano sempre ad approvare nuove leggi».

«E secondo quello che mi stava leggendo l’altro giorno sul giornale, padre; sapete, quello che ha detto il giudice; si suppone che noi poveri li conoscano tutti. Ha ha! Che errore! Ma perbacco, come ci credono intelligenti!»

«Sì, mia cara», esclamò Trotty; «e sarebbero molto affezionati a chiunque di noi che le conoscesse tutte. Quell’uomo ingrasserebbe per il lavoro che avrebbe e sarebbe popolare tra la gente del suo quartiere. Molto!»

«Mangerà il suo pranzo con appetito, chiunque sia, se profuma così», disse Meg allegra. «Fatti presto, perché c’è anche una patata calda e mezzo litro di birra appena versata in bottiglia. Dove mangerai, papà? Al Post o sulle Scale? Caro mio, che grandezza! Possiamo scegliere tra due posti!»

«I gradini oggi, mia cara», disse Trotty. «Gradini quando fa bel tempo. Posta quando piove. I gradini sono più comodi in ogni stagione perché ci si può sedere, ma fanno venire la reumatismi se c’è umidità».

«Ecco qua», disse Meg, battendo le mani dopo un attimo di trambusto, «tutto pronto! E che aspetto meraviglioso ha! Vieni, papà. Vieni!»

Da quando aveva scoperto il contenuto del cesto, Trotty era rimasto in piedi a guardarla e anche a parlarle, ma con un’aria distratta che dimostrava come lei fosse oggetto dei suoi pensieri e dello sguardo, escludendo persino le budella di bue, senza però vederla né pensarla com’era in quel momento, ma avesse davanti a sé qualche immaginario abbozzo o dramma della sua futura vita. Ora, risvegliato dal suo allegro richiamo, scacciò un gesto malinconico che stava per compiere e trotterellò al suo fianco. Mentre si chinava per sedersi, suonarono le Campane.

«Amen!» disse Trotty, togliendosi il cappello e guardando verso di loro.

«Amen alle campane, padre?» gridò Meg.

«Sono entrati come una preghiera, mia cara», disse Trotty sedendosi, «e se potessero direbbero sicuramente qualcosa di gentile. Mi hanno detto tante cose amichevoli».

«Le campane sì, papà!» rise Meg mentre gli metteva davanti la ciotola e un coltello e una forchetta. «Beh!»

«Sembra di sì, mia cara», disse Trotty, mettendosi all’opera con grande vigore. «E qual è la differenza? Se li sento io, che importa se lo dicono o no? Ma pensa un po’, tesoro mio», disse Toby, indicando il campanile col suo forchettone e diventando più vivace sotto l’influenza del pranzo, «quante volte ho sentito quelle campane dire: “Toby Veck, Toby Veck, coraggio, Toby! Toby Veck, Toby Veck, coraggio, Toby!” Un milione di volte? Di più!»

«Beh, non ci credo!» esclamò Meg.

Eppure l’aveva fatto, più e più volte. Perché era un tema costante di Toby.

«Quando le cose vanno molto male», disse Trotty, «molto male davvero, voglio dire; quasi al peggio; allora è “Toby Veck, Toby Veck, lavoro in arrivo presto, Toby! Toby Veck, Toby Veck, lavoro in arrivo presto, Toby!” In questo modo.»

«E arriva — finalmente, papà», disse Meg con una nota di tristezza nella sua voce piacevole.

“Sempre,” rispose l’ignaro Toby. “Non fallisce mai.”

Mentre questo discorso proseguiva, Trotty non si fermò nel suo attacco alla prelibata carne davanti a lui, ma tagliava e mangiava, tagliava e beveva, tagliava e masticava, e passava da una cosa all’altra, dal trippa alla patata calda, e dalla patata calda di nuovo al trippa, con un gusto untuoso e instancabile. Ma succedendo ora a guardarsi intorno per la strada - nel caso che qualcuno stesse facendo cenno da qualche porta o finestra, cercando un facchino - i suoi occhi, tornando indietro, incontrarono Meg: seduta di fronte a lui, con le braccia incrociate e impegnata solo a osservare il suo progresso con un sorriso di felicità.

«Perbacco, Signore, perdonatemi!» esclamò Trotty lasciando cadere coltello e forchetta. «Mia colomba! Meg! perché non mi hai detto che ero un mostro?»

‘Padre?’

«Seduto qui», disse Trotty, spiegando pentito, «mangiucchiando e ingozzandomi; e tu davanti a me che non hai mai fatto colazione, né lo desiderato, quando, »

«Ma l’ho rotta io, papà», intervenne la figlia ridendo, «tutta in pezzi. Ho già fatto colazione».

‘Nonsense,’ said Trotty. ‘Two dinners in one day! It an’t possible! You might as well tell me that two New Year’s Days will come together, or that I have had a gold head all my life, and never changed it.’

‘I have had my dinner, father, for all that,’ said Meg, coming nearer to him. ‘And if you’ll go on with yours, I’ll tell you how and where; and how your dinner came to be brought; and—and something else besides.’

Toby still appeared incredulous; but she looked into his face with her clear eyes, and laying her hand upon his shoulder, motioned him to go on while the meat was hot. So Trotty took up his knife and fork again, and went to work. But much more slowly than before, and shaking his head, as if he were not at all pleased with himself.

‘I had my dinner, father,’ said Meg, after a little hesitation, ‘with—with Richard. His dinner-time was early; and as he brought his dinner with him when he came to see me, we—we had it together, father.’

Trotty took a little beer, and smacked his lips. Then he said, ‘Oh!’—because she waited.

‘And Richard says, father—’ Meg resumed. Then stopped.

‘What does Richard say, Meg?’ asked Toby.

‘Richard says, father—’ Another stoppage.

‘Richard’s a long time saying it,’ said Toby.

‘He says then, father,’ Meg continued, lifting up her eyes at last, and speaking in a tremble, but quite plainly; ‘another year is nearly gone, and where is the use of waiting on from year to year, when it is so unlikely we shall ever be better off than we are now? He says we are poor now, father, and we shall be poor then, but we are young now, and years will make us old before we know it. He says that if we wait: people in our condition: until we see our way quite clearly, the way will be a narrow one indeed—the common way—the Grave, father.’

A bolder man than Trotty Veck must needs have drawn upon his boldness largely, to deny it. Trotty held his peace.

‘And how hard, father, to grow old, and die, and think we might have cheered and helped each other! How hard in all our lives to love each other; and to grieve, apart, to see each other working, changing, growing old and grey. Even if I got the better of it, and forgot him (which I never could), oh father dear, how hard to have a heart so full as mine is now, and live to have it slowly drained out every drop, without the recollection of one happy moment of a woman’s life, to stay behind and comfort me, and make me better!’

Trotty sat quite still. Meg dried her eyes, and said more gaily: that is to say, with here a laugh, and there a sob, and here a laugh and sob together:

‘So Richard says, father; as his work was yesterday made certain for some time to come, and as I love him, and have loved him full three years—ah! longer than that, if he knew it!—will I marry him on New Year’s Day; the best and happiest day, he says, in the whole year, and one that is almost sure to bring good fortune with it. It’s a short notice, father—isn’t it?—but I haven’t my fortune to be settled, or my wedding dresses to be made, like the great ladies, father, have I? And he said so much, and said it in his way; so strong and earnest, and all the time so kind and gentle; that I said I’d come and talk to you, father. And as they paid the money for that work of mine this morning (unexpectedly, I am sure!) and as you have fared very poorly for a whole week, and as I couldn’t help wishing there should be something to make this day a sort of holiday to you as well as a dear and happy day to me, father, I made a little treat and brought it to surprise you.’

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

It was the voice of this same Richard, who had come upon them unobserved, and stood before the father and daughter; looking down upon them with a face as glowing as the iron on which his stout sledge-hammer daily rung. A handsome, well-made, powerful youngster he was; with eyes that sparkled like the red-hot droppings from a furnace fire; black hair that curled about his swarthy temples rarely; and a smile—a smile that bore out Meg’s eulogium on his style of conversation.

‘See how he leaves it cooling on the step!’ said Richard. ‘Meg don’t know what he likes. Not she!’

Trotty, all action and enthusiasm, immediately reached up his hand to Richard, and was going to address him in great hurry, when the house-door opened without any warning, and a footman very nearly put his foot into the tripe.

‘Out of the vays here, will you! You must always go and be a-settin on our steps, must you! You can’t go and give a turn to none of the neighbours never, can’t you! Will you clear the road, or won’t you?’

Strictly speaking, the last question was irrelevant, as they had already done it.

‘What’s the matter, what’s the matter!’ said the gentleman for whom the door was opened; coming out of the house at that kind of light-heavy pace—that peculiar compromise between a walk and a jog-trot—with which a gentleman upon the smooth down-hill of life, wearing creaking boots, a watch-chain, and clean linen, may come out of his house: not only without any abatement of his dignity, but with an expression of having important and wealthy engagements elsewhere. ‘What’s the matter! What’s the matter!’

‘You’re always a-being begged, and prayed, upon your bended knees you are,’ said the footman with great emphasis to Trotty Veck, ‘to let our door-steps be. Why don’t you let ’em be? CAN’T you let ’em be?’

‘There! That’ll do, that’ll do!’ said the gentleman. ‘Halloa there! Porter!’ beckoning with his head to Trotty Veck. ‘Come here. What’s that? Your dinner?’

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

‘Don’t leave it there,’ exclaimed the gentleman. ‘Bring it here, bring it here. So! This is your dinner, is it?’

«Nonsense», disse Trotty. «Due cene in un giorno! Non è possibile! Potreste anche benissimo dirmi che due Capodanni verranno insieme o che ho avuto una testa d’oro per tutta la vita e non l’ho mai cambiata».

«Ho già mangiato la mia cena, papà», disse Meg avvicinandosi a lui. «E se continui con la tua, ti dirò come e dove l’ho fatta; e come è stata portata qui; e—e qualcos’altro ancora.»

Toby sembrava ancora incredulo; ma lei lo guardò negli occhi con i suoi occhi limpidi e posandogli la mano sulla spalla gli fece cenno di continuare finché la carne era calda. Così Trotty riprese coltello e forchetta e si rimise al lavoro. Ma molto più lentamente che prima, scuotendo il capo come se non fosse affatto contento di sé.

«Ho già cenato, papà», disse Meg dopo un attimo di esitazione, «con—con Richard. La sua ora di cena era presto; e dato che ha portato la cena con sé quando è venuto a trovarmi, noi—l’abbiamo fatta insieme, papà.»

Trotty bevve un po’ di birra e si leccò le labbra. Poi disse: «Oh!» perché lei aspettava.

«E Richard dice, padre —» riprese Meg. Poi si fermò.

«Cosa dice Richard, Meg?» chiese Toby.

«Dice Richard, padre, » Un’altra pausa.

«Richard ci ha messo un bel po’ di tempo per dirlo», disse Toby.

«Dice allora», continuò Meg alzando finalmente gli occhi e parlando con voce tremante ma abbastanza chiara, «che un altro anno sta per finire, e a che serve aspettare di anno in anno quando è così improbabile che mai saremo meglio di ora? Dice che siamo poveri adesso, padre, e lo saremo anche allora, ma siamo giovani adesso, e gli anni ci faranno invecchiare prima che ce ne accorgiamo. Dice che se aspettiamo: persone nelle nostre condizioni: finché non vedremo la strada davanti a noi del tutto chiara, quella sarà una via molto stretta — la via comune — il cimitero, padre».

Un uomo più coraggioso di Trotty Veck avrebbe dovuto attingere ampiamente alla sua audacia per negarlo. Trotty rimase in silenzio.

«E come è difficile, padre, invecchiare e morire pensando che avremmo potuto consolarci e aiutarci l’un l’altro! Come è difficile per tutta la vita amarsi a vicenda; e soffrire, separati, nel vedere l’altro lavorare, cambiare, invecchiare e diventare grigio. Anche se avessi avuto il sopravvento e lo avessi dimenticato (cosa che non ho mai potuto fare), oh caro padre, come è difficile avere un cuore così pieno come il mio ora, e vivere per vederlo svuotarsi lentamente goccia a goccia, senza il ricordo di un solo momento felice della vita di una donna, che rimanga indietro a consolarmi e rendermi migliore!»

Trotty rimase seduto immobile. Meg si asciugò gli occhi e disse più allegramente: cioè, con una risata qua, un singhiozzo là, e talvolta una risata e un singhiozzo insieme:

«Così dice Richard, padre; poiché ieri il suo lavoro è stato assicurato per qualche tempo a venire, e poiché io lo amo, e l’ho amato per tre anni interi—ah! più di così, se lui lo sapesse!—lo sposerò il giorno di Capodanno; il migliore e più felice giorno, dice lui, dell’intero anno, e uno che quasi sicuramente porta con sé buona fortuna. È un preavviso breve, padre—non è così?—ma io non ho una dote da sistemare, né abiti da sposa da fare, come fanno le grandi dame, vero, padre? E lui ha detto tanto, e lo ha detto a modo suo; così forte e appassionato, e tutto il tempo così gentile e dolce; che gli ho detto che sarei venuta a parlare con te, padre. E poiché questa mattina hanno pagato i soldi per quel lavoro mio (inaspettatamente, ne sono sicura!) e poiché tu sei vissuto molto male per un’intera settimana, e poiché non potevo fare a meno di desiderare che ci fosse qualcosa per rendere questa giornata una specie di festa per te così bene come un giorno caro e felice per me, padre, ho preparato un piccolo trattamento e l’ho portato qui per farti una sorpresa.»

«E guardate come la lascia raffreddare sul gradino!» disse un’altra voce.

Era la voce dello stesso Richard, che si era avvicinato senza essere notato e ora stava davanti al padre e alla figlia, guardandoli dall’alto con un volto acceso quanto il ferro su cui quotidianamente risuonava il suo robusto martello. Era un giovane bello, ben fatto e vigoroso; con occhi che brillavano come le scintille incandescenti di una fornace accesa; capelli neri che raramente gli ricadevano in riccioli sui suoi tempie olivastri, e un sorriso—un sorriso che confermava l’elogio di Meg sul suo stile di conversazione.

«Vedete come lo lascia raffreddare sul gradino!» disse Richard. «Meg non sa cosa gli piace. Non lei!»

Trotty, tutto azione ed entusiasmo, allungò subito la mano verso Richard e stava per rivolgersi a lui in tutta fretta quando la porta della casa si aprì senza preavviso e un valletto rischiò di calpestare le trippa.

«Via da questo marciapiede, fuori dai piedi! Devi sempre venire e sederti sui nostri gradini, vero? Non puoi mai fare un giro dal vicinato, eh? Vuoi liberare la strada o no?»

A rigor di logica, l’ultima domanda era irrilevante, dato che lo avevano già fatto.

«Che succede, che succede!» disse il signore per cui era stata aperta la porta; uscendo dalla casa con quel genere di passo leggermente pesante — quella peculiare via di mezzo tra una camminata e un trotto — con cui un signore nella dolce discesa della vita, indossando stivali che scricchiolano, una catena dell’orologio e biancheria pulita, può uscire dalla sua casa: non solo senza alcuna diminuzione della propria dignità, ma con un’espressione di avere impegni importanti e redditizi altrove. «Che succede! Che succede!»

«Vi supplicano sempre, e pregano, in ginocchio vi stanno», disse il valletto con grande enfasi a Trotty Veck, «di lasciar stare i nostri gradini. Perché non li lasciate stare? NON potete lasciarli stare?»

«Ecco fatto! Va bene così, va bene così!» disse il signore. «Ehi là! Portiere!», facendo cenno con la testa a Trotty Veck. «Vieni qui. Cosa è questo? Il tuo pranzo?»

«Sì, signore», disse Trotty, lasciandolo dietro di sé in un angolo.

«Non lasciatelo lì», esclamò il signore. «Portatemi qui questo, portatemi qui questo. Ecco! Quindi questa è la vostra cena?»

‘Yes, sir,’ repeated Trotty, looking with a fixed eye and a watery mouth, at the piece of tripe he had reserved for a last delicious tit-bit; which the gentleman was now turning over and over on the end of the fork.

Two other gentlemen had come out with him. One was a low-spirited gentleman of middle age, of a meagre habit, and a disconsolate face; who kept his hands continually in the pockets of his scanty pepper-and-salt trousers, very large and dog’s-eared from that custom; and was not particularly well brushed or washed. The other, a full-sized, sleek, well-conditioned gentleman, in a blue coat with bright buttons, and a white cravat. This gentleman had a very red face, as if an undue proportion of the blood in his body were squeezed up into his head; which perhaps accounted for his having also the appearance of being rather cold about the heart.

He who had Toby’s meat upon the fork, called to the first one by the name of Filer; and they both drew near together. Mr. Filer being exceedingly short-sighted, was obliged to go so close to the remnant of Toby’s dinner before he could make out what it was, that Toby’s heart leaped up into his mouth. But Mr. Filer didn’t eat it.

‘This is a description of animal food, Alderman,’ said Filer, making little punches in it with a pencil-case, ‘commonly known to the labouring population of this country, by the name of tripe.’

The Alderman laughed, and winked; for he was a merry fellow, Alderman Cute. Oh, and a sly fellow too! A knowing fellow. Up to everything. Not to be imposed upon. Deep in the people’s hearts! He knew them, Cute did. I believe you!

‘But who eats tripe?’ said Mr. Filer, looking round. ‘Tripe is without an exception the least economical, and the most wasteful article of consumption that the markets of this country can by possibility produce. The loss upon a pound of tripe has been found to be, in the boiling, seven-eights of a fifth more than the loss upon a pound of any other animal substance whatever. Tripe is more expensive, properly understood, than the hothouse pine-apple. Taking into account the number of animals slaughtered yearly within the bills of mortality alone; and forming a low estimate of the quantity of tripe which the carcases of those animals, reasonably well butchered, would yield; I find that the waste on that amount of tripe, if boiled, would victual a garrison of five hundred men for five months of thirty-one days each, and a February over. The Waste, the Waste!’

Trotty stood aghast, and his legs shook under him. He seemed to have starved a garrison of five hundred men with his own hand.

‘Who eats tripe?’ said Mr. Filer, warmly. ‘Who eats tripe?’

Trotty made a miserable bow.

‘You do, do you?’ said Mr. Filer. ‘Then I’ll tell you something. You snatch your tripe, my friend, out of the mouths of widows and orphans.’

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

‘Divide the amount of tripe before-mentioned, Alderman,’ said Mr. Filer, ‘by the estimated number of existing widows and orphans, and the result will be one pennyweight of tripe to each. Not a grain is left for that man. Consequently, he’s a robber.’

Trotty was so shocked, that it gave him no concern to see the Alderman finish the tripe himself. It was a relief to get rid of it, anyhow.

‘And what do you say?’ asked the Alderman, jocosely, of the red-faced gentleman in the blue coat. ‘You have heard friend Filer. What do you say?’

‘What’s it possible to say?’ returned the gentleman. ‘What is to be said? Who can take any interest in a fellow like this,’ meaning Trotty; ‘in such degenerate times as these? Look at him. What an object! The good old times, the grand old times, the great old times! Those were the times for a bold peasantry, and all that sort of thing. Those were the times for every sort of thing, in fact. There’s nothing now-a-days. Ah!’ sighed the red-faced gentleman. ‘The good old times, the good old times!’

The gentleman didn’t specify what particular times he alluded to; nor did he say whether he objected to the present times, from a disinterested consciousness that they had done nothing very remarkable in producing himself.

‘The good old times, the good old times,’ repeated the gentleman. ‘What times they were! They were the only times. It’s of no use talking about any other times, or discussing what the people are in these times. You don’t call these, times, do you? I don’t. Look into Strutt’s Costumes, and see what a Porter used to be, in any of the good old English reigns.’

‘He hadn’t, in his very best circumstances, a shirt to his back, or a stocking to his foot; and there was scarcely a vegetable in all England for him to put into his mouth,’ said Mr. Filer. ‘I can prove it, by tables.’

But still the red-faced gentleman extolled the good old times, the grand old times, the great old times. No matter what anybody else said, he still went turning round and round in one set form of words concerning them; as a poor squirrel turns and turns in its revolving cage; touching the mechanism, and trick of which, it has probably quite as distinct perceptions, as ever this red-faced gentleman had of his deceased Millennium.

It is possible that poor Trotty’s faith in these very vague Old Times was not entirely destroyed, for he felt vague enough at that moment. One thing, however, was plain to him, in the midst of his distress; to wit, that however these gentlemen might differ in details, his misgivings of that morning, and of many other mornings, were well founded. ‘No, no. We can’t go right or do right,’ thought Trotty in despair. ‘There is no good in us. We are born bad!’

But Trotty had a father’s heart within him; which had somehow got into his breast in spite of this decree; and he could not bear that Meg, in the blush of her brief joy, should have her fortune read by these wise gentlemen. ‘God help her,’ thought poor Trotty. ‘She will know it soon enough.’

«Sì, signore», ripeté Trotty, fissando con occhi sbarrati e bocca imbrattata d’acqua il pezzo di trippa che aveva messo da parte per gustarlo come ultimo delizioso boccone; mentre il gentiluomo lo rigirava più volte sulla punta della forchetta.

Erano usciti con lui altri due signori. Uno era un uomo di mezza età, dall’umore depresso e dall’aspetto smunto, con una faccia disperata; teneva le mani costantemente nelle tasche dei suoi pantaloni pepe e sale piuttosto scarsi, molto larghi e sdruciti per quella abitudine; e non era particolarmente ben pettinato o lavato. L’altro, un signore di statura imponente, liscio e in ottima forma, indossava una giacca blu con bottoni lucidi e un cravattino bianco. Questo signore aveva il viso molto rosso, come se una quantità spropositata del sangue nel suo corpo fosse stata spinta verso la testa; forse questo spiega perché sembrava anche un po’ freddo intorno al cuore.

Colui che aveva la carne di Toby sulla forchetta chiamò il primo con il nome di Filer; e si avvicinarono entrambi. Il signor Filer, essendo estremamente miope, fu costretto ad avvicinarsi così tanto al resto della cena di Toby prima di riuscire a capire cosa fosse che il cuore di Toby gli balzò in gola. Ma il signor Filer non lo mangiò.

«Questa è una descrizione di cibo per animali, Egregio Sindaco», disse Filer, facendo piccoli buchi con un portamine, «comunemente noto alla popolazione lavoratrice di questo paese col nome di trippa.»

Il consigliere rise e strizzò l’occhio; perché era un tipo allegra, il consigliere Cute. Oh, ed anche un tipo furbo! Un tipo che sapeva le cose. Capace di tutto. Impossibile prenderlo in giro. Profondamente nel cuore del popolo! Lui li conosceva, Cute. Ci credo!

«Ma chi mangia il trippa?» disse il signor Filer, guardandosi intorno. «Il trippa è senza eccezione l’articolo di consumo meno economico e più sperperato che i mercati di questo paese possano produrre. La perdita su un chilo di trippa si è rivelata, nella cottura, di sette ottavi di un quinto superiore alla perdita su un chilo di qualsiasi altra sostanza animale. Il trippa è più costoso, se ben considerato, della ananas da serra. Tenendo conto del numero di animali macellati annualmente entro i confini delle mortalità soli; e facendo una stima bassa della quantità di trippa che le carcasse di quegli animali, ragionevolmente bene macellati, produrrebbero; risulta che lo spreco su quella quantità di trippa, se bollita, sfamerebbe una guarnigione di cinquecento uomini per cinque mesi di trentuno giorni ciascuno, più un febbraio. Lo Spreco, lo Spreco!»

Trotty rimase atterrito e le gambe gli tremavano sotto il corpo. Gli sembrava di aver fatto morire di fame con le proprie mani una guarnigione di cinquecento uomini.

“Chi mangia le budella?” disse il signor Filer con calore. “Chi mangia le budella?”

Trotty fece un misero inchino.

«Lo fate davvero?» disse il signor Filer. «Allora vi dirò una cosa: voi strappate le vostre budella di bue dalla bocca delle vedove e degli orfani, mio caro amico».

«Spero di no, signore», disse Trotty con voce flebile. «Preferirei morire di fame!»

«Dividete la quantità di trippa sopra menzionata, signor sindaco», disse il signor Filer, «per il numero stimato delle vedove e degli orfani esistenti, ed ecco che ne risulta un grammo di trippa per ciascuno. Non rimane nemmeno un granello per quell’uomo. Di conseguenza è un ladro».

Trotty era così sconvolto che non gli importava nulla di vedere il consigliere mangiarsi lui stesso la trippa. Era un sollievo liberarsene in qualche modo.

«E lei che ne dice?» chiese il consigliere comunale, scherzoso, al signore dal viso rosso con l’abito blu. «Ha sentito l’amico Filer. Lei che ne dice?»

«Che cosa è possibile dire?» rispose il signore. «Cosa c’è da dire? Chi può interessarsi di un tipo come questo», intendendo Trotty; «in tempi così degenerati come questi? Guardatelo. Che spettacolo! I buoni vecchi tempi, i grandi vecchi tempi, i magnifici vecchi tempi! Quelli erano i tempi per una rustica ma coraggiosa popolazione contadina e tutto quanto. Quelli erano i tempi per ogni cosa, in effetti. Oggi non c’è più nulla. Ah!» sospirò il signore dal viso rosso «I buoni vecchi tempi, i buoni vecchi tempi!»

Il signore non specificò a quali tempi particolari si riferisse; né disse se obiettasse ai tempi attuali per una coscienza disinteressata che essi non avevano fatto nulla di molto notevole nel produrre lui stesso.

«I bei vecchi tempi, i bei vecchi tempi», ripeté il signore «che tempi erano! Erano gli unici veri tempi. Non serve parlare di altri tempi o discutere come sono le persone in questi tempi qui. Lei non li chiama “tempi”, vero? Io no. Guardi Strutt’s Costumes e veda che cosa era uno scaccino in qualsiasi dei buoni vecchi regni inglesi».

«Non aveva, nelle sue condizioni migliori, una camicia addosso o un calzino al piede; e non c’era quasi un vegetale in tutta l’Inghilterra che potesse mettere in bocca», disse il signor Filer. «Posso dimostrarlo con delle tabelle».

Ma il signore dal viso rosso continuava ad esaltare i buoni vecchi tempi, i grandi vecchi tempi, i magnifici vecchi tempi. Non importava cosa dicevano gli altri, lui continuava a girare e rigirare in un’unica forma di parole riguardo a loro; come uno scoiattolo poveretto che gira e rigira nella sua gabbia rotante; toccando il meccanismo, e l’inganno del quale, probabilmente ha percezioni altrettanto distinte di quante ne aveva mai avuto questo signore dal viso rosso del suo defunto Millennio.

È possibile che la fede del povero Trotty in quei tempi antichi così vaghi non fosse stata completamente distrutta, perché in quel momento si sentiva abbastanza confuso. Una cosa però gli era chiara, nel mezzo della sua angoscia: che per quanto questi signori potessero differire nei dettagli, i suoi timori di quella mattina e di molte altre mattine erano ben fondati. «No, no. Non possiamo fare nulla di giusto o di buono», pensò Trotty in disperazione. «Non c’è niente di buono in noi. Siamo nati malvagi!»

Ma Trotty aveva un cuore di padre dentro di sé; che era riuscito in qualche modo a entrare nel suo petto nonostante questo decreto; e non poteva sopportare che Meg, nel rossore della sua breve gioia, dovesse avere la sua sorte letta da questi saggi signori. «Dio l’aiuti», pensò il povero Trotty. «Lo saprà abbastanza presto».

He anxiously signed, therefore, to the young smith, to take her away. But he was so busy, talking to her softly at a little distance, that he only became conscious of this desire, simultaneously with Alderman Cute. Now, the Alderman had not yet had his say, but he was a philosopher, too—practical, though! Oh, very practical—and, as he had no idea of losing any portion of his audience, he cried ‘Stop!’

‘Now, you know,’ said the Alderman, addressing his two friends, with a self-complacent smile upon his face which was habitual to him, ‘I am a plain man, and a practical man; and I go to work in a plain practical way. That’s my way. There is not the least mystery or difficulty in dealing with this sort of people if you only understand ’em, and can talk to ’em in their own manner. Now, you Porter! Don’t you ever tell me, or anybody else, my friend, that you haven’t always enough to eat, and of the best; because I know better. I have tasted your tripe, you know, and you can’t “chaff” me. You understand what “chaff” means, eh? That’s the right word, isn’t it? Ha, ha, ha! Lord bless you,’ said the Alderman, turning to his friends again, ‘it’s the easiest thing on earth to deal with this sort of people, if you understand ’em.’

Famous man for the common people, Alderman Cute! Never out of temper with them! Easy, affable, joking, knowing gentleman!

‘You see, my friend,’ pursued the Alderman, ‘there’s a great deal of nonsense talked about Want—“hard up,” you know; that’s the phrase, isn’t it? ha! ha! ha!—and I intend to Put it Down. There’s a certain amount of cant in vogue about Starvation, and I mean to Put it Down. That’s all! Lord bless you,’ said the Alderman, turning to his friends again, ‘you may Put Down anything among this sort of people, if you only know the way to set about it.’

Trotty took Meg’s hand and drew it through his arm. He didn’t seem to know what he was doing though.

‘Your daughter, eh?’ said the Alderman, chucking her familiarly under the chin.

Always affable with the working classes, Alderman Cute! Knew what pleased them! Not a bit of pride!

‘Where’s her mother?’ asked that worthy gentleman.

‘Dead,’ said Toby. ‘Her mother got up linen; and was called to Heaven when She was born.’

‘Not to get up linen there, I suppose,’ remarked the Alderman pleasantly.

Toby might or might not have been able to separate his wife in Heaven from her old pursuits. But query: If Mrs. Alderman Cute had gone to Heaven, would Mr. Alderman Cute have pictured her as holding any state or station there?

‘And you’re making love to her, are you?’ said Cute to the young smith.

‘Yes,’ returned Richard quickly, for he was nettled by the question. ‘And we are going to be married on New Year’s Day.’

‘What do you mean!’ cried Filer sharply. ‘Married!’

‘Why, yes, we’re thinking of it, Master,’ said Richard. ‘We’re rather in a hurry, you see, in case it should be Put Down first.’

‘Ah!’ cried Filer, with a groan. ‘Put that down indeed, Alderman, and you’ll do something. Married! Married!! The ignorance of the first principles of political economy on the part of these people; their improvidence; their wickedness; is, by Heavens! enough to—Now look at that couple, will you!’

Well? They were worth looking at. And marriage seemed as reasonable and fair a deed as they need have in contemplation.

‘A man may live to be as old as Methuselah,’ said Mr. Filer, ‘and may labour all his life for the benefit of such people as those; and may heap up facts on figures, facts on figures, facts on figures, mountains high and dry; and he can no more hope to persuade ’em that they have no right or business to be married, than he can hope to persuade ’em that they have no earthly right or business to be born. And that we know they haven’t. We reduced it to a mathematical certainty long ago!’

Alderman Cute was mightily diverted, and laid his right forefinger on the side of his nose, as much as to say to both his friends, ‘Observe me, will you! Keep your eye on the practical man!’—and called Meg to him.

‘Come here, my girl!’ said Alderman Cute.

The young blood of her lover had been mounting, wrathfully, within the last few minutes; and he was indisposed to let her come. But, setting a constraint upon himself, he came forward with a stride as Meg approached, and stood beside her. Trotty kept her hand within his arm still, but looked from face to face as wildly as a sleeper in a dream.

‘Now, I’m going to give you a word or two of good advice, my girl,’ said the Alderman, in his nice easy way. ‘It’s my place to give advice, you know, because I’m a Justice. You know I’m a Justice, don’t you?’

Meg timidly said, ‘Yes.’ But everybody knew Alderman Cute was a Justice! Oh dear, so active a Justice always! Who such a mote of brightness in the public eye, as Cute!

‘You are going to be married, you say,’ pursued the Alderman. ‘Very unbecoming and indelicate in one of your sex! But never mind that. After you are married, you’ll quarrel with your husband and come to be a distressed wife. You may think not; but you will, because I tell you so. Now, I give you fair warning, that I have made up my mind to Put distressed wives Down. So, don’t be brought before me. You’ll have children—boys. Those boys will grow up bad, of course, and run wild in the streets, without shoes and stockings. Mind, my young friend! I’ll convict ’em summarily, every one, for I am determined to Put boys without shoes and stockings, Down. Perhaps your husband will die young (most likely) and leave you with a baby. Then you’ll be turned out of doors, and wander up and down the streets. Now, don’t wander near me, my dear, for I am resolved, to Put all wandering mothers Down. All young mothers, of all sorts and kinds, it’s my determination to Put Down. Don’t think to plead illness as an excuse with me; or babies as an excuse with me; for all sick persons and young children (I hope you know the church-service, but I’m afraid not) I am determined to Put Down. And if you attempt, desperately, and ungratefully, and impiously, and fraudulently attempt, to drown yourself, or hang yourself, I’ll have no pity for you, for I have made up my mind to Put all suicide Down! If there is one thing,’ said the Alderman, with his self-satisfied smile, ‘on which I can be said to have made up my mind more than on another, it is to Put suicide Down. So don’t try it on. That’s the phrase, isn’t it? Ha, ha! now we understand each other.’

Egli fece quindi un segno impaziente al giovane fabbro di portarla via. Ma questi era così occupato a parlarle dolcemente da lontano che si rese conto del suo desiderio solo nello stesso momento in cui lo fece anche Alderman Cute. Ora, l’Alderman non aveva ancora detto la sua, ma lui era un filosofo, anche lui! Oh, molto pratico - e, poiché non aveva alcuna intenzione di perdere una parte del suo pubblico, gridò: «Fermatevi!»

«Ora, sapete», disse l’Aldermano, rivolgendosi ai suoi due amici con un sorriso soddisfatto sul volto che gli era abituale, «sono un uomo semplice e pratico; e lavoro in modo semplice e pratico. Questa è la mia maniera. Non c’è il minimo mistero o difficoltà nel trattare con questo tipo di persone se solo le si capisce e si riesce a parlare con loro nel loro stesso stile. Ora, tu Porter! Non venirmi mai a dire né a me né ad altri che non hai sempre abbastanza da mangiare e del meglio; perché io so come vanno le cose. Ho assaggiato il tuo trippa, lo sai, e non puoi “prenderti gioco” di me. Capisci cosa significa “prendersi gioco”, eh? È la parola giusta, no? Ha, ha, ha! Signore ci benedica», disse l’Aldermano, rivolgendosi nuovamente ai suoi amici, «è la cosa più facile del mondo trattare con questo tipo di persone, se le si capisce.»

Uomo famoso tra la gente comune, consigliere Cute! Mai fuori dai gangheri con loro! Gentiluomo semplice, affabile, scherzoso e perspicace!

«Vedete, amico mio», continuò l’Aldermano, «si dice un sacco di sciocchezze sulla Miseria — “in difficoltà”, sapete; questa è la frase, no? ha! ha! ha!— e io intendo Smetterla. C’è una certa quantità di fraseologia in voga riguardo alla Fame, e voglio Smetterla. Questo è tutto! Il Signore vi benedica», disse l’Aldermano, rivolgendosi nuovamente ai suoi amici, «potete Smettere qualsiasi cosa tra questo tipo di persone, se solo sapete come affrontarle».

Trotty prese la mano di Meg e se la mise sotto il braccio. Non sembrava però sapere cosa stesse facendo.

«La sua figlia, eh?» disse l’Assessore, dandole una pacca amichevole sotto il mento.

Sempre affabile con le classi lavoratrici, l’Eccellentissimo Aldo Acuto! Sapeva cosa piaceva loro! Non un briciolo di orgoglio!

«Dov’è sua madre?» chiese quel degno gentiluomo.

“Morta,” disse Toby, “sua madre si alzò per stirare e fu chiamata in cielo quando lei nacque.”

«Non per lavare la biancheria laggiù, immagino», osservò l’Aldermanno in tono amichevole.

Toby forse sarebbe stato o non sarebbe stato in grado di separare sua moglie nel Cielo dalle sue vecchie occupazioni. Ma domanda: se la signora Alderman Cute fosse andata al Paradiso, il signor Alderman Cute l’avrebbe immaginata in possesso di qualche stato o posizione laggiù?

«E tu le stai facendo la corte, vero?» disse Cute al giovane fabbro.

«Sì», rispose in fretta Richard, perché la domanda lo aveva irritato, «e ci sposeremo il giorno di Capodanno».

‘Che intendete dire!’ esclamò Filer con asprezza. ‘Sposato!’

«Perché sì, ci stiamo pensando, padrone», disse Richard. «Siamo un po’ di fretta, vede, nel caso che prima venisse messo giù.»

«Ah!» esclamò Filer con un gemito. «Annoti questo davvero, signor sindaco, e farà qualcosa. Sposati! Sposati!! L’ignoranza dei primi principi di economia politica da parte di queste persone; la loro mancanza di previdenza; la loro malvagità; è, per Dio!, sufficiente a—Ora guardi quella coppia, vuole?»

Ebbene? Erano degni di essere guardati. E il matrimonio sembrava un atto tanto ragionevole e giusto quanto potevano desiderare.

«Un uomo può vivere fino all’età di Matusalemme», disse il signor Filer, «e può lavorare tutta la vita per il bene di gente come quella; e può accumulare fatti su cifre, fatti su cifre, fatti su cifre, montagne alte e secche; e non potrà mai più sperare di persuaderli che non hanno alcun diritto o motivo di sposarsi, di quanto possa sperare di persuaderli che non hanno alcun diritto terreno o motivo di nascere. E questo sappiamo che non l’hanno. Abbiamo ridotto tutto a una certezza matematica molto tempo fa!»

Il consigliere Cute fu grandemente divertito e appoggiò il dito indice destro sul lato del naso, come per dire ai suoi due amici: «Osservatemi bene! Tenete gli occhi addosso all’uomo pratico!» — e chiamò Meg a sé.

«Vieni qui, mia ragazza!» disse il consigliere Cute.

Il giovane sangue del suo amante era montato, irato, negli ultimi minuti; e non aveva voglia di lasciarla avvicinare. Ma imponendosi un freno si fece avanti con un passo deciso mentre Meg si accostava, e le stette accanto. Trotty continuò a tenerle la mano sotto il braccio suo, ma guardava da un volto all’altro come una persona che dorme in sogno.

«Ora, voglio darti un paio di buoni consigli, mia cara», disse il Consigliere in tono amichevole e disinvolto. «È mio dovere darti dei consigli, lo sai, perché sono un Giudice. Sai che sono un Giudice, vero?»

Meg disse timidamente: «Sì». Ma tutti sapevano che l’aldermano Cute era un giudice! Oh, poverina, sempre così attivo come giudice! Chi mai avrebbe potuto essere tanto luminoso agli occhi del pubblico quanto lo era Cute?

«State per sposarvi, dite», proseguì l’Alderman. «Molto poco decoroso e indecoroso in una donna della vostra età! Ma non importa. Dopo che vi sarete sposata, litigherete con vostro marito e finirete col diventare una moglie infelice. Potreste pensare di no; ma lo farete, perché ve lo dico io. Ora, vi avverto, ho deciso di Mettere Giù le mogli infelici. Quindi non venite davanti a me. Avrete dei bambini: maschi. Quei ragazzi cresceranno male, naturalmente, e correranno selvaggi per le strade, senza scarpe né calze. Attenzione, mia giovane amica! Li condannerò sommariamente, uno dopo l’altro, perché sono deciso a Mettere Giù i ragazzi senza scarpe né calze. Forse vostro marito morirà giovane (molto probabile) e vi lascerà con un bambino. Allora sarete cacciate di casa e vagherete su e giù per le strade. Ora, non vagate vicino a me, mia cara, perché sono risoluto a Mettere Giù tutte le madri che vagano. Tutte le giovani madri, di ogni tipo e genere, è la mia determinazione metterle Giù. Non pensate di scusarvi con la malattia o i bambini; perché tutte le persone ammalate e i giovani bambini (spero che conosciate il servizio religioso, ma temo di no) sono deciso a Metterli Giù. E se tentate, disperatamente, ingratemente, impiously, fraudolentemente, di annegarvi o impiccarvi, non avrò pietà per voi, perché ho deciso di Mettere Giù tutti i suicidi! Se c’è una cosa», disse l’Alderman con il suo sorriso soddisfatto, «di cui si può dire che mi sia fatto un’idea più di ogni altra, è quella di Mettere Giù i suicidi. Quindi non provatelo. Questa è la frase, no? Ah ah! ora ci intendiamo».

Toby knew not whether to be agonised or glad, to see that Meg had turned a deadly white, and dropped her lover’s hand.

‘And as for you, you dull dog,’ said the Alderman, turning with even increased cheerfulness and urbanity to the young smith, ‘what are you thinking of being married for? What do you want to be married for, you silly fellow? If I was a fine, young, strapping chap like you, I should be ashamed of being milksop enough to pin myself to a woman’s apron-strings! Why, she’ll be an old woman before you’re a middle-aged man! And a pretty figure you’ll cut then, with a draggle-tailed wife and a crowd of squalling children crying after you wherever you go!’

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

‘There! Go along with you,’ said the Alderman, ‘and repent. Don’t make such a fool of yourself as to get married on New Year’s Day. You’ll think very differently of it, long before next New Year’s Day: a trim young fellow like you, with all the girls looking after you. There! Go along with you!’

They went along. Not arm in arm, or hand in hand, or interchanging bright glances; but, she in tears; he, gloomy and down-looking. Were these the hearts that had so lately made old Toby’s leap up from its faintness? No, no. The Alderman (a blessing on his head!) had Put them Down.

‘As you happen to be here,’ said the Alderman to Toby, ‘you shall carry a letter for me. Can you be quick? You’re an old man.’

Toby, who had been looking after Meg, quite stupidly, made shift to murmur out that he was very quick, and very strong.

‘How old are you?’ inquired the Alderman.

‘I’m over sixty, sir,’ said Toby.

‘O! This man’s a great deal past the average age, you know,’ cried Mr. Filer breaking in as if his patience would bear some trying, but this really was carrying matters a little too far.

‘I feel I’m intruding, sir,’ said Toby. ‘I—I misdoubted it this morning. Oh dear me!’

The Alderman cut him short by giving him the letter from his pocket. Toby would have got a shilling too; but Mr. Filer clearly showing that in that case he would rob a certain given number of persons of ninepence-halfpenny a-piece, he only got sixpence; and thought himself very well off to get that.

Then the Alderman gave an arm to each of his friends, and walked off in high feather; but, he immediately came hurrying back alone, as if he had forgotten something.

‘Porter!’ said the Alderman.

‘Sir!’ said Toby.

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

‘Even her good looks are stolen from somebody or other, I suppose,’ thought Toby, looking at the sixpence in his hand, and thinking of the tripe. ‘She’s been and robbed five hundred ladies of a bloom a-piece, I shouldn’t wonder. It’s very dreadful!’

‘She’s much too handsome, my man,’ repeated the Alderman. ‘The chances are, that she’ll come to no good, I clearly see. Observe what I say. Take care of her!’ With which, he hurried off again.

‘Wrong every way. Wrong every way!’ said Trotty, clasping his hands. ‘Born bad. No business here!’

The Chimes came clashing in upon him as he said the words. Full, loud, and sounding—but with no encouragement. No, not a drop.

‘The tune’s changed,’ cried the old man, as he listened. ‘There’s not a word of all that fancy in it. Why should there be? I have no business with the New Year nor with the old one neither. Let me die!’

Still the Bells, pealing forth their changes, made the very air spin. Put ’em down, Put ’em down! Good old Times, Good old Times! Facts and Figures, Facts and Figures! Put ’em down, Put ’em down! If they said anything they said this, until the brain of Toby reeled.

He pressed his bewildered head between his hands, as if to keep it from splitting asunder. A well-timed action, as it happened; for finding the letter in one of them, and being by that means reminded of his charge, he fell, mechanically, into his usual trot, and trotted off.

Toby non sapeva se sentirsi angosciato o felice nel vedere che Meg era diventata pallida come un cadavere e aveva lasciato la mano del suo amante.

«E quanto a te, cane ottuso», disse l’Aldermano, rivolgendosi al giovane fabbro con un’ancora maggiore cordialità e urbanità, «a cosa pensi di sposarti? Perché vuoi sposarti, sciocco ragazzo? Se fossi un bel giovane robusto come te, mi vergognerei di essere così malsicuro da legarmi ai grembiali di una donna! Prima che tu sia un uomo di mezza età, lei sarà già vecchia! E bella figura farai allora, con una moglie strascicata e una folla di bambini urlanti che ti corrono dietro ovunque vada!»

Oh, sapeva come prendere in giro la gente comune, l’assessore Astuto!

«Ecco fatto! Andatevene», disse l’Aldermano, «e pentitevi. Non fate lo sciocco fino a sposarvi il giorno di Capodanno. Ne penserete ben diversamente molto prima del prossimo Capodanno: un giovane in gamba come voi, con tutte le ragazze che vi corrono dietro. Ecco fatto! Andatevene!»

Andarono avanti. Non a braccetto o mano nella mano, né scambiandosi sguardi luminosi; ma lei in lacrime; lui cupo e con lo sguardo basso. Erano questi i cuori che avevano fatto saltare su vecchio Toby dalla sua debolezza così poco tempo prima? No, no. L’Aldermano (una benedizione sulla sua testa!) li aveva messi a tacere.

«Poiché vi trovate qui», disse il consigliere a Toby, «porterete una lettera per conto mio. Potete essere veloce? Siete un vecchio».

Toby, che aveva badato a Meg in modo del tutto stupido, riuscì a mormorare che era molto veloce e molto forte.

«Quanti anni ha?» chiese il consigliere comunale.

«Ho più di sessant’anni, signore», disse Toby.

«Oh! Quest’uomo è molto più anziano della media, sapete», esclamò il signor Filer interrompendo come se la sua pazienza potesse sopportare qualche prova, ma questa era davvero una cosa che andava un po’ troppo oltre.

Mi sento un intruso, signore - disse Toby. - Mi ero già insospettito questa mattina. Oh, mio Dio!

Il consigliere lo interruppe porgendogli la lettera che aveva in tasca. Anche Toby avrebbe dovuto ricevere uno scellino, ma poiché il signor Filer dimostrò con chiarezza che in tal caso avrebbe derubato un certo numero di persone di nove pence e mezzo a testa, gli fu dato solo lo spiccio; e si considerò comunque ben avvantaggiato.

Poi l’Aldermanno diede un braccio a ciascuno dei suoi amici e se ne andò con la testa alta; ma subito tornò di corsa da solo, come se avesse dimenticato qualcosa.

«Portatore!» disse l’Assessore.

«Signore!» disse Toby.

‘Prenditi cura di tua figlia. È troppo bella.’

«Anche la sua bellezza è stata rubata da qualcuno, immagino», pensò Toby, guardando il sei pence che aveva in mano e pensando al trippa. «Ha derubato cinquecento signore di un po’ del loro splendore ciascuna, non ne sarei sorpreso. È davvero terribile!»

«È troppo bella, mio caro», ripeté il consigliere comunale «è chiaro che non combinerà nulla di buono. Fai attenzione a quello che dico. Prenditi cura di lei!» E con ciò si affrettò ad andarsene di nuovo.

«Tutto sbagliato! Tutto sbagliato!», disse Trotty stringendosi le mani. «Nato cattivo! Non ci sta qui!»

Mentre pronunciava queste parole le Campane gli giunsero all’orecchio con un fragoroso scampanio: piene, sonore e squillanti - ma senza alcuna speranza. No, neanche una goccia.

«La melodia è cambiata», gridò il vecchio mentre ascoltava, «non c’è più una parola di tutta quella fantasia. E perché dovrebbe esserci? Non ho nulla a che fare né con il nuovo anno né con quello vecchio. Lasciatemi morire!»

E ancora le campane, suonando i loro cambiamenti, facevano vibrare l’aria stessa. Scrivetele giù, scrivetele giù! Tempi buoni e vecchi, tempi buoni e vecchi! Fatti e cifre, fatti e cifre! Scrivetele giù, scrivetele giù! Se dicevano qualcosa era questo che dicevano, fino a far girare la testa di Toby.

Si premette la testa confusa tra le mani, come se volesse impedirle di spaccarsi. Un’azione ben temporizzata, in effetti; perché trovando la lettera in una delle sue tasche, e ricordandosi così del suo incarico, cadde meccanicamente nel suo solito trotto e se ne andò.

CHAPTER II—The Second Quarter.

The letter Toby had received from Alderman Cute, was addressed to a great man in the great district of the town. The greatest district of the town. It must have been the greatest district of the town, because it was commonly called ‘the world’ by its inhabitants. The letter positively seemed heavier in Toby’s hand, than another letter. Not because the Alderman had sealed it with a very large coat of arms and no end of wax, but because of the weighty name on the superscription, and the ponderous amount of gold and silver with which it was associated.

‘How different from us!’ thought Toby, in all simplicity and earnestness, as he looked at the direction. ‘Divide the lively turtles in the bills of mortality, by the number of gentlefolks able to buy ’em; and whose share does he take but his own! As to snatching tripe from anybody’s mouth—he’d scorn it!’

With the involuntary homage due to such an exalted character, Toby interposed a corner of his apron between the letter and his fingers.

‘His children,’ said Trotty, and a mist rose before his eyes; ‘his daughters—Gentlemen may win their hearts and marry them; they may be happy wives and mothers; they may be handsome like my darling M-e-’.

He couldn’t finish the name. The final letter swelled in his throat, to the size of the whole alphabet.

‘Never mind,’ thought Trotty. ‘I know what I mean. That’s more than enough for me.’ And with this consolatory rumination, trotted on.

It was a hard frost, that day. The air was bracing, crisp, and clear. The wintry sun, though powerless for warmth, looked brightly down upon the ice it was too weak to melt, and set a radiant glory there. At other times, Trotty might have learned a poor man’s lesson from the wintry sun; but, he was past that, now.

The Year was Old, that day. The patient Year had lived through the reproaches and misuses of its slanderers, and faithfully performed its work. Spring, summer, autumn, winter. It had laboured through the destined round, and now laid down its weary head to die. Shut out from hope, high impulse, active happiness, itself, but active messenger of many joys to others, it made appeal in its decline to have its toiling days and patient hours remembered, and to die in peace. Trotty might have read a poor man’s allegory in the fading year; but he was past that, now.

And only he? Or has the like appeal been ever made, by seventy years at once upon an English labourer’s head, and made in vain!

The streets were full of motion, and the shops were decked out gaily. The New Year, like an Infant Heir to the whole world, was waited for, with welcomes, presents, and rejoicings. There were books and toys for the New Year, glittering trinkets for the New Year, dresses for the New Year, schemes of fortune for the New Year; new inventions to beguile it. Its life was parcelled out in almanacks and pocket-books; the coming of its moons, and stars, and tides, was known beforehand to the moment; all the workings of its seasons in their days and nights, were calculated with as much precision as Mr. Filer could work sums in men and women.

The New Year, the New Year. Everywhere the New Year! The Old Year was already looked upon as dead; and its effects were selling cheap, like some drowned mariner’s aboardship. Its patterns were Last Year’s, and going at a sacrifice, before its breath was gone. Its treasures were mere dirt, beside the riches of its unborn successor!

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

‘Put ’em down, Put ’em down! Facts and Figures, Facts and Figures! Good old Times, Good old Times! Put ’em down, Put ’em down!’—his trot went to that measure, and would fit itself to nothing else.

But, even that one, melancholy as it was, brought him, in due time, to the end of his journey. To the mansion of Sir Joseph Bowley, Member of Parliament.

The door was opened by a Porter. Such a Porter! Not of Toby’s order. Quite another thing. His place was the ticket though; not Toby’s.

This Porter underwent some hard panting before he could speak; having breathed himself by coming incautiously out of his chair, without first taking time to think about it and compose his mind. When he had found his voice—which it took him a long time to do, for it was a long way off, and hidden under a load of meat—he said in a fat whisper,

‘Who’s it from?’

Toby told him.

‘You’re to take it in, yourself,’ said the Porter, pointing to a room at the end of a long passage, opening from the hall. ‘Everything goes straight in, on this day of the year. You’re not a bit too soon; for the carriage is at the door now, and they have only come to town for a couple of hours, a’ purpose.’

Toby wiped his feet (which were quite dry already) with great care, and took the way pointed out to him; observing as he went that it was an awfully grand house, but hushed and covered up, as if the family were in the country. Knocking at the room-door, he was told to enter from within; and doing so found himself in a spacious library, where, at a table strewn with files and papers, were a stately lady in a bonnet; and a not very stately gentleman in black who wrote from her dictation; while another, and an older, and a much statelier gentleman, whose hat and cane were on the table, walked up and down, with one hand in his breast, and looked complacently from time to time at his own picture—a full length; a very full length—hanging over the fireplace.

‘What is this?’ said the last-named gentleman. ‘Mr. Fish, will you have the goodness to attend?’

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

‘From Alderman Cute, Sir Joseph.’

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

CAPITOLO II - Il secondo trimestre.

La lettera che Toby aveva ricevuto da Alderman Cute era indirizzata a un grande uomo nel grande quartiere della città. Il più grande quartiere della città. Doveva essere il più grande quartiere della città, perché veniva comunemente chiamato “il mondo” dai suoi abitanti. La lettera sembrava positivamente più pesante nella mano di Toby rispetto a un’altra lettera. Non perché l’Aldermano l’avesse sigillata con uno stemma molto grande e una quantità infinita di cera, ma per il nome importante sulla busta e la considerevole quantità d’oro e argento con cui era associato.

«Com’è diverso da noi!» pensò Toby, con tutta semplicità e sincerità, mentre guardava l’indirizzo. «Dividi le tartarughe vivaci nelle bolle di mortalità, per il numero di gentiluomini in grado di comprarle; e quale parte prende se non la sua! Per quanto riguarda strappare il trippa dalla bocca di qualcuno, lui lo disprezzerebbe!»

Con l’omaggio involontario dovuto ad un carattere così elevato, Toby interpose un angolo del suo grembiule tra la lettera e le sue dita.

«I suoi figli», disse Trotty, e una nebbia si alzò davanti ai suoi occhi; «le sue figlie: i signori possono conquistare il loro cuore e sposarle; possono essere felici mogli e madri; possono essere belle come la mia adorata M-e-».

Non riuscì a finire il nome. L’ultima lettera gli si gonfiò in gola fino alle dimensioni di tutto l’alfabeto.

«Non importa», pensò Trotty. «So cosa voglio dire. È più che sufficiente per me». E con questa riflessione confortante, continuò a trotterellare.

Quel giorno c’era un forte gelido freddo. L’aria era vivificante, frizzante e limpida. Il sole invernale, pur non avendo la forza di scaldare, splendeva luminoso sul ghiaccio che era troppo debole per sciogliere, conferendogli un fulgore radioso. In altri momenti, Trotty avrebbe potuto trarre una lezione da uomo povero dal sole invernale; ma ora non ne era più capace.

Quell’anno era vecchio quel giorno. L’anno paziente aveva sopportato le accuse e gli abusi dei suoi calunniatori, ed aveva svolto fedelmente il suo compito. Primavera, estate, autunno, inverno. Aveva lavorato attraverso il ciclo destinato e ora si accingeva a morire, abbassando la sua testa stanca. Escluso dalla speranza, dall’impulso elevato, dalla felicità attiva, esso stesso era un messaggero attivo di molte gioie per gli altri e nel suo declino faceva appello affinché i suoi giorni di fatica e le sue ore pazienti fossero ricordati, e morisse in pace. Trotty avrebbe potuto leggere una allegoria da pover’uomo nell’anno che svaniva; ma ormai era troppo tardi per lui.

E solo lui? O non è mai stato fatto un appello simile, per settant’anni di fila sulla testa di un lavoratore inglese, e fatto invano!

Le strade erano piene di movimento e i negozi erano decorati allegramente. Il nuovo anno, come un Erede Infante per tutto il mondo, era atteso, con benvenuti, regali e festeggiamenti. C’erano libri e giocattoli per l’anno nuovo, cianfrusaglie scintillanti per l’anno nuovo, abiti per l’ anno nuovo, progetti di fortuna per l’anno nuovo; nuove invenzioni per ingannarlo. La sua vita era divisa in almanacchi e agende; l’arrivo delle sue stelle, delle sue lune e delle sue maree, era noto in anticipo fino al momento; tutti i cambiamenti delle sue stagioni nei loro giorni e nelle loro notti erano calcolati con la stessa precisione con cui il signor Filer poteva fare somme di uomini e donne.

Il nuovo anno, il nuovo anno. Ovunque il nuovo anno! L’anno vecchio era già considerato morto; e i suoi effetti erano venduti a poco prezzo, come quelli di qualche marinaio annegato a bordo della nave. I suoi modelli erano dell’anno scorso, e venivano ceduti in liquidazione prima che il suo respiro fosse esaurito. I suoi tesori non erano altro che sporcizia, accanto alle ricchezze del suo successore non ancora nato!

Secondo Trotty non aveva alcuna parte né nel nuovo anno né nell’anno vecchio.

«Metteteli giù, metteteli giù! Fatti e cifre, fatti e cifre! Buoni vecchi tempi, buoni vecchi tempi! Metteteli giù, metteteli giù!» — il suo trotto seguiva quel ritmo, e non si adattava a nulla altro.

Ma anche quella, per quanto fosse malinconica, lo portò, nel dovuto tempo, alla fine del suo viaggio. Alla dimora di Sir Joseph Bowley, membro del Parlamento.

La porta fu aperta da un facchino. Un tale facchino! Non del genere di Toby, tutt’altro. Il suo posto era il biglietto d’ingresso, però non quello di Toby.

Questo facchino subì un po’ di faticoso ansimare prima che potesse parlare; essendosi ripreso dal respiro uscendo imprudentemente dalla sua sedia senza prima prendersi il tempo per pensarci e comporre la mente. Quando aveva ritrovato la voce — cosa che gli ci volle un lungo tempo, perché era lontana, nascosta sotto una pila di carne — disse in un soffio grassoccio:

‘Chi lo ha mandato?’

Toby glielo disse.

«Dovete portarla voi dentro», disse il portiere indicando una stanza in fondo a un lungo corridoio che partiva dall’atrio. «Oggi tutto va messo direttamente all’interno. Non siete affatto troppo presto, perché la carrozza è già alla porta e sono venuti in città solo per un paio d’ore, appositamente».

Toby si asciugò i piedi (che erano già abbastanza asciutti) con grande cura e prese la strada che gli era stata indicata, notando mentre camminava che era una casa terribilmente grandiosa, ma silenziosa e coperta come se la famiglia fosse in campagna. Bussò alla porta della stanza e gli fu detto di entrare dall’interno; e facendo così si trovò in un’ampia biblioteca dove, a un tavolo disseminato di fascicoli e documenti, c’erano una signora imponente con un cappello; e un gentiluomo non molto imponente in abito scuro che scriveva dettandole; mentre un altro, più anziano e molto più imponente, il cui cappello e bastone erano sul tavolo, camminava su e giù con una mano sul petto e guardava compiaciuto di tempo in tempo la propria immagine - un ritratto a figura intera; un ritratto davvero a figura intera - appeso sopra il caminetto.

«Che cos’è questo?», disse l’ultimo dei signori nominati. «Signor Fish, vuole avere la bontà di prestare attenzione?»

Il signor Fish chiese scusa e, presa la lettera da Toby, la consegnò con grande rispetto.

«Da alderman Cute, sir Joseph».

«È tutto questo? Non hai altro, Porter?» chiese Sir Joseph.

Toby replied in the negative.

‘You have no bill or demand upon me—my name is Bowley, Sir Joseph Bowley—of any kind from anybody, have you?’ said Sir Joseph. ‘If you have, present it. There is a cheque-book by the side of Mr. Fish. I allow nothing to be carried into the New Year. Every description of account is settled in this house at the close of the old one. So that if death was to—to—’

‘To cut,’ suggested Mr. Fish.

‘To sever, sir,’ returned Sir Joseph, with great asperity, ‘the cord of existence—my affairs would be found, I hope, in a state of preparation.’

‘My dear Sir Joseph!’ said the lady, who was greatly younger than the gentleman. ‘How shocking!’

‘My lady Bowley,’ returned Sir Joseph, floundering now and then, as in the great depth of his observations, ‘at this season of the year we should think of—of—ourselves. We should look into our—our accounts. We should feel that every return of so eventful a period in human transactions, involves a matter of deep moment between a man and his—and his banker.’

Sir Joseph delivered these words as if he felt the full morality of what he was saying; and desired that even Trotty should have an opportunity of being improved by such discourse. Possibly he had this end before him in still forbearing to break the seal of the letter, and in telling Trotty to wait where he was, a minute.

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

‘Mr. Fish has said that, I believe,’ returned his lady, glancing at the letter. ‘But, upon my word, Sir Joseph, I don’t think I can let it go after all. It is so very dear.’

‘What is dear?’ inquired Sir Joseph.

‘That Charity, my love. They only allow two votes for a subscription of five pounds. Really monstrous!’

‘My lady Bowley,’ returned Sir Joseph, ‘you surprise me. Is the luxury of feeling in proportion to the number of votes; or is it, to a rightly constituted mind, in proportion to the number of applicants, and the wholesome state of mind to which their canvassing reduces them? Is there no excitement of the purest kind in having two votes to dispose of among fifty people?’

‘Not to me, I acknowledge,’ replied the lady. ‘It bores one. Besides, one can’t oblige one’s acquaintance. But you are the Poor Man’s Friend, you know, Sir Joseph. You think otherwise.’

‘I am the Poor Man’s Friend,’ observed Sir Joseph, glancing at the poor man present. ‘As such I may be taunted. As such I have been taunted. But I ask no other title.’

‘Bless him for a noble gentleman!’ thought Trotty.

‘I don’t agree with Cute here, for instance,’ said Sir Joseph, holding out the letter. ‘I don’t agree with the Filer party. I don’t agree with any party. My friend the Poor Man, has no business with anything of that sort, and nothing of that sort has any business with him. My friend the Poor Man, in my district, is my business. No man or body of men has any right to interfere between my friend and me. That is the ground I take. I assume a—a paternal character towards my friend. I say, “My good fellow, I will treat you paternally.”’

Toby listened with great gravity, and began to feel more comfortable.

‘Your only business, my good fellow,’ pursued Sir Joseph, looking abstractedly at Toby; ‘your only business in life is with me. You needn’t trouble yourself to think about anything. I will think for you; I know what is good for you; I am your perpetual parent. Such is the dispensation of an all-wise Providence! Now, the design of your creation is—not that you should swill, and guzzle, and associate your enjoyments, brutally, with food; Toby thought remorsefully of the tripe; ‘but that you should feel the Dignity of Labour. Go forth erect into the cheerful morning air, and—and stop there. Live hard and temperately, be respectful, exercise your self-denial, bring up your family on next to nothing, pay your rent as regularly as the clock strikes, be punctual in your dealings (I set you a good example; you will find Mr. Fish, my confidential secretary, with a cash-box before him at all times); and you may trust to me to be your Friend and Father.’

‘Nice children, indeed, Sir Joseph!’ said the lady, with a shudder. ‘Rheumatisms, and fevers, and crooked legs, and asthmas, and all kinds of horrors!’

‘My lady,’ returned Sir Joseph, with solemnity, ‘not the less am I the Poor Man’s Friend and Father. Not the less shall he receive encouragement at my hands. Every quarter-day he will be put in communication with Mr. Fish. Every New Year’s Day, myself and friends will drink his health. Once every year, myself and friends will address him with the deepest feeling. Once in his life, he may even perhaps receive; in public, in the presence of the gentry; a Trifle from a Friend. And when, upheld no more by these stimulants, and the Dignity of Labour, he sinks into his comfortable grave, then, my lady’—here Sir Joseph blew his nose—‘I will be a Friend and a Father—on the same terms—to his children.’

Toby was greatly moved.

‘O! You have a thankful family, Sir Joseph!’ cried his wife.

‘My lady,’ said Sir Joseph, quite majestically, ‘Ingratitude is known to be the sin of that class. I expect no other return.’

‘Ah! Born bad!’ thought Toby. ‘Nothing melts us.’

‘What man can do, I do,’ pursued Sir Joseph. ‘I do my duty as the Poor Man’s Friend and Father; and I endeavour to educate his mind, by inculcating on all occasions the one great moral lesson which that class requires. That is, entire Dependence on myself. They have no business whatever with—with themselves. If wicked and designing persons tell them otherwise, and they become impatient and discontented, and are guilty of insubordinate conduct and black-hearted ingratitude; which is undoubtedly the case; I am their Friend and Father still. It is so Ordained. It is in the nature of things.’

With that great sentiment, he opened the Alderman’s letter; and read it.

Toby rispose negativamente.

«Non avete alcun conto o richiesta nei miei confronti — mi chiamo Bowley, Sir Joseph Bowley — di qualsiasi tipo da parte di chiunque, vero?» disse Sir Joseph. «Se ne aveste una, presentatela. C’è un libretto degli assegni accanto a Mr. Fish. Non permetto che nulla venga portato nel Nuovo Anno. Ogni tipo di conto viene saldato in questa casa alla fine dell’anno vecchio. Così se la morte dovesse — dovesse —»

«Tagliare», suggerì il signor Fish.

«Per recidere, signore», rispose Sir Joseph con grande asprezza, «il filo dell’esistenza: i miei affari si troverebbero, lo spero, in uno stato di preparazione.»

«Mio caro signor Joseph!» disse la signora, che era molto più giovane del gentiluomo. «Che cosa orribile!»

«Signora Bowley», rispose Sir Joseph, inciampando di tanto in tanto come se fosse immerso nella profondità delle sue osservazioni, «in questa stagione dell’anno dovremmo pensare a— a— noi stessi. Dovremmo esaminare i nostri— conti. Dovremmo sentire che ogni ritorno di un periodo così ricco di eventi nelle transazioni umane comporta una questione di grande importanza tra un uomo e il suo— e il suo banchiere».

Sir Joseph pronunciò queste parole come se ne sentisse appieno la moralità; e desiderava che anche Trotty avesse l’opportunità di migliorarsi con un tale discorso. Forse aveva questo scopo in mente quando continuò a trattenersi dal rompere il sigillo della lettera, e disse a Trotty di aspettare dove si trovava per un minuto.

«Desiderava che il signor Fish dicesse, mia signora — osservò sir Joseph.

«Il signor Fish ha detto questo, credo», rispose la sua signora, lanciando un’occhiata alla lettera. «Ma, in coscienza, Sir Joseph, non penso di poterlo lasciar andare dopo tutto. È così carissimo».

«Cosa è caro?» chiese Sir Joseph.

«Quella carità, mio amore. Consentono solo due voti per un abbonamento di cinque sterline. Davvero mostruoso!»

«Lady Bowley», rispose Sir Joseph, «mi stupite. Il lusso di sentirsi importanti è proporzionato al numero dei voti; o lo è, per una mente ben costituita, al numero degli aspiranti e allo stato d’animo sano a cui le loro sollecitazioni li riducono? Non c’è forse un’eccitazione del più puro tipo nel dover distribuire due voti tra cinquanta persone?»

«Non a me, lo ammetto», rispose la signora. «È noioso. Inoltre non si può obbligare la propria conoscenza. Ma lei è l’Amico dei Poveri, lo sa, Sir Joseph. Lei pensa diversamente».

«Sono il protettore dei poveri», osservò Sir Joseph lanciando un’occhiata al povero presente. «Per questo posso essere deriso, e per questo sono stato deriso. Ma non chiedo altro titolo».

«Dio lo benedica per il suo nobile cuore!» pensò Trotty.

«Non sono d’accordo con Cute qui, per esempio», disse Sir Joseph, tendendo la lettera. «Non sono d’accordo col partito di Filer. Non sono d’accordo con nessun partito. Il mio amico l’Uomo Povero non ha nulla a che fare con queste cose e queste cose non hanno nulla a che fare con lui. Il mio amico l’Uomo Povero, nella mia zona, è affar mio. Nessuno o nessun gruppo di persone ha il diritto d’intromettersi tra me e il mio amico. Questa è la posizione che assumo. Mi attribuisco un carattere—paterno verso il mio amico. Dico: “Mio buon uomo, ti tratterò paternamente.”»

Toby ascoltò con grande gravità e cominciò a sentirsi più a suo agio.

«Il tuo unico dovere, mio buon uomo», proseguì Sir Joseph, guardando Toby con aria distratta; «il tuo unico dovere nella vita è nei miei confronti. Non devi preoccuparti di pensare a nulla. Io penserò per te; so cosa ti conviene; sono il tuo perpetuo genitore. Tale è la disposizione di una Provvidenza Provvidenza onnisciente! Ora, lo scopo della tua creazione non è — che tu debba ingozzarti e abbinare i tuoi piaceri in modo brutale al cibo; Toby pensò con rimorso alla trippa; «ma che tu possa sentire la Dignità del Lavoro. Esci eretto nell’aria fresca della mattina, e — fermati lì. Vivere frugalmente e temperatamente, essere rispettosi, esercitare il tuo auto-controllo, crescere la tua famiglia con quasi nulla, pagare l’affitto regolarmente come batte il orologio, essere puntuale nei tuoi affari (ti do un buon esempio; troverai il signor Fish, il mio segretario di fiducia, con una cassetta degli attrezzi davanti a sé in ogni momento); e puoi contare su di me per essere il tuo Amico e Padre.»

«Bambini graziosi davvero, signor Joseph!» disse la signora con un brivido. «Reumatismi e febbri e gambe storte e asma e tutti i tipi di orrori!»

«Signora», rispose Sir Joseph con solennità, «non per questo sono meno l’Amico e il Padre dei Poveri. Non per questo egli riceverà meno incoraggiamento da me. Ogni trimestre verrà messo in comunicazione con Mr. Fish. Ogni Capodanno io e i miei amici brinderemo alla sua salute. Una volta all’anno, io e i miei amici gli scriveremo con il più profondo sentimento. Forse una volta nella vita potrà anche ricevere; pubblicamente, in presenza dei gentiluomini; un qualcosa da un Amico. E quando, non sostenuto più da questi stimoli e dalla Dignità del Lavoro, egli cadrà nella sua comoda tomba, allora, signora» — qui Sir Joseph si soffiò il naso — «sarò un Amico e un Padre — alle stesse condizioni — per i suoi figli.»

Toby era molto commosso.

«Oh! Avete una famiglia riconoscente, Sir Joseph!» esclamò sua moglie.

«Signora», disse Sir Joseph in tono maestoso, «l’ingratitudine è nota per essere il peccato di quella classe. Non mi aspetto altro in cambio».

‘Ah! Nato cattivo!’ pensò Toby. ‘Niente ci scioglie.’

«Ciò che può fare un uomo, io lo faccio», proseguì Sir Joseph. «Faccio il mio dovere come Amico e Padre dei Poveri; e mi sforzo di educare la loro mente, inculcando in ogni occasione l’unica grande lezione morale che quella classe richiede. E cioè, la totale Dipendenza da me stesso. Non hanno nulla a che fare con—con se stessi. Se persone malvagie e intriganti gli dicono il contrario, ed essi diventano impazienti e insoddisfatti, e si rendono colpevoli di condotta insubordinata e di nera ingratitudine; il che è indubbiamente vero; io sono ancora loro Amico e Padre. Così è Ordinato. È nella natura delle cose».

Con tale grande sentimento aprì la lettera del consigliere e la lesse.

‘Very polite and attentive, I am sure!’ exclaimed Sir Joseph. ‘My lady, the Alderman is so obliging as to remind me that he has had “the distinguished honour”—he is very good—of meeting me at the house of our mutual friend Deedles, the banker; and he does me the favour to inquire whether it will be agreeable to me to have Will Fern put down.’

‘Most agreeable!’ replied my Lady Bowley. ‘The worst man among them! He has been committing a robbery, I hope?’

‘Why no,’ said Sir Joseph’, referring to the letter. ‘Not quite. Very near. Not quite. He came up to London, it seems, to look for employment (trying to better himself—that’s his story), and being found at night asleep in a shed, was taken into custody, and carried next morning before the Alderman. The Alderman observes (very properly) that he is determined to put this sort of thing down; and that if it will be agreeable to me to have Will Fern put down, he will be happy to begin with him.’

‘Let him be made an example of, by all means,’ returned the lady. ‘Last winter, when I introduced pinking and eyelet-holing among the men and boys in the village, as a nice evening employment, and had the lines,

O let us love our occupations, Bless the squire and his relations, Live upon our daily rations, And always know our proper stations,

set to music on the new system, for them to sing the while; this very Fern—I see him now—touched that hat of his, and said, “I humbly ask your pardon, my lady, but an’t I something different from a great girl?” I expected it, of course; who can expect anything but insolence and ingratitude from that class of people! That is not to the purpose, however. Sir Joseph! Make an example of him!’

‘Hem!’ coughed Sir Joseph. ‘Mr. Fish, if you’ll have the goodness to attend—’

Mr. Fish immediately seized his pen, and wrote from Sir Joseph’s dictation.

‘Private. My dear Sir. I am very much indebted to you for your courtesy in the matter of the man William Fern, of whom, I regret to add, I can say nothing favourable. I have uniformly considered myself in the light of his Friend and Father, but have been repaid (a common case, I grieve to say) with ingratitude, and constant opposition to my plans. He is a turbulent and rebellious spirit. His character will not bear investigation. Nothing will persuade him to be happy when he might. Under these circumstances, it appears to me, I own, that when he comes before you again (as you informed me he promised to do to-morrow, pending your inquiries, and I think he may be so far relied upon), his committal for some short term as a Vagabond, would be a service to society, and would be a salutary example in a country where—for the sake of those who are, through good and evil report, the Friends and Fathers of the Poor, as well as with a view to that, generally speaking, misguided class themselves—examples are greatly needed. And I am,’ and so forth.

‘It appears,’ remarked Sir Joseph when he had signed this letter, and Mr. Fish was sealing it, ‘as if this were Ordained: really. At the close of the year, I wind up my account and strike my balance, even with William Fern!’

Trotty, who had long ago relapsed, and was very low-spirited, stepped forward with a rueful face to take the letter.

‘With my compliments and thanks,’ said Sir Joseph. ‘Stop!’

‘Stop!’ echoed Mr. Fish.

‘You have heard, perhaps,’ said Sir Joseph, oracularly, ‘certain remarks into which I have been led respecting the solemn period of time at which we have arrived, and the duty imposed upon us of settling our affairs, and being prepared. You have observed that I don’t shelter myself behind my superior standing in society, but that Mr. Fish—that gentleman—has a cheque-book at his elbow, and is in fact here, to enable me to turn over a perfectly new leaf, and enter on the epoch before us with a clean account. Now, my friend, can you lay your hand upon your heart, and say, that you also have made preparations for a New Year?’

‘I am afraid, sir,’ stammered Trotty, looking meekly at him, ‘that I am a—a—little behind-hand with the world.’

‘Behind-hand with the world!’ repeated Sir Joseph Bowley, in a tone of terrible distinctness.

‘I am afraid, sir,’ faltered Trotty, ‘that there’s a matter of ten or twelve shillings owing to Mrs. Chickenstalker.’

‘To Mrs. Chickenstalker!’ repeated Sir Joseph, in the same tone as before.

‘A shop, sir,’ exclaimed Toby, ‘in the general line. Also a—a little money on account of rent. A very little, sir. It oughtn’t to be owing, I know, but we have been hard put to it, indeed!’

Sir Joseph looked at his lady, and at Mr. Fish, and at Trotty, one after another, twice all round. He then made a despondent gesture with both hands at once, as if he gave the thing up altogether.

‘How a man, even among this improvident and impracticable race; an old man; a man grown grey; can look a New Year in the face, with his affairs in this condition; how he can lie down on his bed at night, and get up again in the morning, and—There!’ he said, turning his back on Trotty. ‘Take the letter. Take the letter!’

‘I heartily wish it was otherwise, sir,’ said Trotty, anxious to excuse himself. ‘We have been tried very hard.’

Sir Joseph still repeating ‘Take the letter, take the letter!’ and Mr. Fish not only saying the same thing, but giving additional force to the request by motioning the bearer to the door, he had nothing for it but to make his bow and leave the house. And in the street, poor Trotty pulled his worn old hat down on his head, to hide the grief he felt at getting no hold on the New Year, anywhere.

He didn’t even lift his hat to look up at the Bell tower when he came to the old church on his return. He halted there a moment, from habit: and knew that it was growing dark, and that the steeple rose above him, indistinct and faint, in the murky air. He knew, too, that the Chimes would ring immediately; and that they sounded to his fancy, at such a time, like voices in the clouds. But he only made the more haste to deliver the Alderman’s letter, and get out of the way before they began; for he dreaded to hear them tagging ‘Friends and Fathers, Friends and Fathers,’ to the burden they had rung out last.

«Molto cortese e attento, ne sono sicuro!» esclamò Sir Joseph. «Signora, l’Elettore ha la gentilezza di ricordarmi che ha avuto “l’onore distinto” — è molto gentile — di incontrarmi a casa del nostro amico comune Deedles, il banchiere; e mi fa l’onore di chiedermi se mi piacerebbe far iscrivere Will Fern.»

«Molto piacevole!» rispose la mia signora Bowley. «Il peggior uomo tra loro! Ha commesso un furto, lo spero?»

«Per niente», disse Sir Joseph, riferendosi alla lettera. «Non proprio. Molto vicino. Non proprio. Sembra che sia venuto a Londra per cercare lavoro (cercando di migliorare la sua condizione — questa è la sua storia), e trovato una notte addormentato in un capanno, fu arrestato e portato il mattino dopo davanti all’Aldermanno. L’Aldermannò osserva (con molta ragione) che è deciso a mettere fine a questo genere di cose; e che se per me andrebbe bene far mettere alla porta Will Fern, sarà felice di cominciare da lui».

«Facciamone un esempio, per tutti i mezzi», rispose la signora. «L’inverno scorso, quando ho introdotto il punto rosa e gli occhielli tra gli uomini e i ragazzi del villaggio come un bel passatempo serale, e avevo le righe,

Oh, amiamo le nostre occupazioni, Benediciamo il signorotto e i suoi parenti, Viviamo delle nostre razioni giornaliere, E sappiamo sempre qual è la nostra posizione.

musicalizzato col nuovo sistema, da cantare mentre lavoravano; questo stesso Fern — lo vedo ancora — si toccò il cappello e disse: «Chiedo umilmente scusa, signora mia, ma non sono io qualcosa di diverso da una grande ragazza?» Me l’aspettavo, naturalmente; chi può aspettarsi altro che insolenza e ingratitudine da quella gente! Ma questo non è il punto. Sir Joseph! Faccia un esempio con lui!»

“Ahem!” tossì Sir Joseph. “Signor Fish, se vuole avere la gentilezza di prestare attenzione, ”

Il signor Fish afferrò immediatamente la penna e scrisse sotto dettatura di Sir Joseph.

«Privato. Mio caro signore. Sono molto in suo debito per la sua cortesia nella questione dell’uomo William Fern, di cui, mi duole aggiungere, non posso dire nulla di favorevole. Mi sono sempre considerato alla luce del suo Amico e Padre, ma sono stato ripagato (un caso comune, mi addolora dirlo) con ingratitudine e costante opposizione ai miei piani. È uno spirito turbolento e ribelle. Il suo carattere non reggerebbe un’indagine. Nulla lo persuaderà ad essere felice quando potrebbe esserlo. In queste circostanze, mi sembra, confesso, che quando si presenterà di nuovo davanti a voi (come mi avete informato ha promesso di fare domani, in attesa delle vostre indagini, e penso che ci si possa fidare fino a quel punto), il suo rinvio per un breve periodo come Vagabondo sarebbe un servizio alla società e costituirebbe un esempio salutare in un paese dove —per amore di coloro che sono, attraverso buona e cattiva reputazione, gli Amici e i Padri dei Poveri, così come anche con l’obiettivo, generalmente parlando, di quella classe per lo più fuorviata— gli esempi sono molto necessari. E io sono», eccetera.

«Sembra», osservò Sir Joseph dopo aver firmato la lettera mentre il signor Fish la stava sigillando, «che questo sia stato Deciso: davvero. Alla fine dell’anno chiudo i miei conti e faccio il totale, anche con William Fern!»

Trotty, che era ricaduto da tempo e si trovava in uno stato d’animo molto depresso, fece un passo avanti con aria afflitta per prendere la lettera.

‘Con i miei complimenti e ringraziamenti,’ disse Sir Joseph. ‘Fermati!’

«Fermatevi!» fece eco il signor Fish.

«Avete sentito, forse», disse Sir Joseph in tono oracolare, «certe osservazioni alle quali sono stato indotto riguardo al solenne periodo di tempo che abbiamo raggiunto e il dovere impostoci di mettere a posto le nostre faccende ed essere preparati. Avete notato che non mi nascondo dietro la mia posizione superiore nella società, ma che il signor Fish - quel gentiluomo - ha un libretto degli assegni a portata di mano e in effetti è qui per permettermi di voltare una pagina completamente nuova ed entrare nell’epoca davanti a noi con i conti in ordine. Ora, mio caro amico, potete mettere la mano sul cuore e dire che anche voi avete fatto dei preparativi per il nuovo anno?»

«Temo, signore», balbettò Trotty guardandolo con umiltà, «di essere un po’ in ritardo rispetto al mondo.»

«Indietro rispetto al mondo!», ripeté Sir Joseph Bowley con un tono di terribile chiarezza.

«Temo, signore», balbettò Trotty «che ci siano dieci o dodici scellini dovuti alla signora Chickenstalker».

«Alla signora Chickenstalker!», ripeté Sir Joseph con lo stesso tono di prima.

«Un negozio, signore», esclamò Toby, «di articoli di varietà. E anche un po’ di denaro per l’affitto. Poco, davvero poco, signore. Non dovremmo averlo in sospeso, lo so, ma siamo stati messi alla prova, davvero!»

Sir Joseph guardò la sua signora, e il signor Fish, e Trotty, uno dopo l’altro, due volte di seguito. Poi fece un gesto disperato con entrambe le mani contemporaneamente, come se avesse rinunciato del tutto alla cosa.

«Come un uomo, anche tra questa razza improvida e irrealizzabile; un vecchio; un uomo diventato grigio; possa guardare in faccia il nuovo anno con i suoi affari in queste condizioni; come possa coricarsi sul suo letto alla notte, e alzarsi di nuovo la mattina, e—Ecco!» disse, voltando le spalle a Trotty. «Prendi la lettera. Prendi la lettera!»

«Lo desidererei con tutto il cuore che fosse diversamente, signore», disse Trotty, ansioso di scusarsi. «Siamo stati messi alla prova duramente».

Sir Joseph continuava a ripetere: «Prendi la lettera, prendi la lettera!», e il signor Fish non solo diceva la stessa cosa, ma dava ulteriore forza alla richiesta facendo cenno al portatore di avvicinarsi alla porta; così non gli restò altro da fare che inchinarsi ed uscire dalla casa. E per strada il povero Trotty si tirò giù sulla fronte il suo vecchio cappello consunto, per nascondere la tristezza che provava nel non riuscire a trovare alcun appiglio sul nuovo anno, in nessun luogo.

Non si era neppure tolto il cappello per guardare in su verso la torre campanaria quando arrivò alla vecchia chiesa al suo ritorno. Si fermò lì un momento, per abitudine: e sapeva che stava facendo buio, e che la guglia sorgeva sopra di lui, indistinta e fioca, nell’aria torbida. Sapeva anche che i rintocchi sarebbero suonati immediatamente; e che gli sembravano, in un tale momento, come voci tra le nuvole. Ma si affrettò ancora di più a consegnare la lettera del consigliere cittadino e ad allontanarsi prima che cominciassero; perché temeva di sentirli ripetere “Amici e Padri, Amici e Padri”, sul ritornello che avevano suonato l’ultima volta.

Toby discharged himself of his commission, therefore, with all possible speed, and set off trotting homeward. But what with his pace, which was at best an awkward one in the street; and what with his hat, which didn’t improve it; he trotted against somebody in less than no time, and was sent staggering out into the road.

‘I beg your pardon, I’m sure!’ said Trotty, pulling up his hat in great confusion, and between the hat and the torn lining, fixing his head into a kind of bee-hive. ‘I hope I haven’t hurt you.’

As to hurting anybody, Toby was not such an absolute Samson, but that he was much more likely to be hurt himself: and indeed, he had flown out into the road, like a shuttlecock. He had such an opinion of his own strength, however, that he was in real concern for the other party: and said again,

‘I hope I haven’t hurt you?’

The man against whom he had run; a sun-browned, sinewy, country-looking man, with grizzled hair, and a rough chin; stared at him for a moment, as if he suspected him to be in jest. But, satisfied of his good faith, he answered:

‘No, friend. You have not hurt me.’

‘Nor the child, I hope?’ said Trotty.

‘Nor the child,’ returned the man. ‘I thank you kindly.’

As he said so, he glanced at a little girl he carried in his arms, asleep: and shading her face with the long end of the poor handkerchief he wore about his throat, went slowly on.

The tone in which he said ‘I thank you kindly,’ penetrated Trotty’s heart. He was so jaded and foot-sore, and so soiled with travel, and looked about him so forlorn and strange, that it was a comfort to him to be able to thank any one: no matter for how little. Toby stood gazing after him as he plodded wearily away, with the child’s arm clinging round his neck.

At the figure in the worn shoes—now the very shade and ghost of shoes—rough leather leggings, common frock, and broad slouched hat, Trotty stood gazing, blind to the whole street. And at the child’s arm, clinging round its neck.

Before he merged into the darkness the traveller stopped; and looking round, and seeing Trotty standing there yet, seemed undecided whether to return or go on. After doing first the one and then the other, he came back, and Trotty went half-way to meet him.

‘You can tell me, perhaps,’ said the man with a faint smile, ‘and if you can I am sure you will, and I’d rather ask you than another—where Alderman Cute lives.’

‘Close at hand,’ replied Toby. ‘I’ll show you his house with pleasure.’

‘I was to have gone to him elsewhere to-morrow,’ said the man, accompanying Toby, ‘but I’m uneasy under suspicion, and want to clear myself, and to be free to go and seek my bread—I don’t know where. So, maybe he’ll forgive my going to his house to-night.’

‘It’s impossible,’ cried Toby with a start, ‘that your name’s Fern!’

‘Eh!’ cried the other, turning on him in astonishment.

‘Fern! Will Fern!’ said Trotty.

‘That’s my name,’ replied the other.

‘Why then,’ said Trotty, seizing him by the arm, and looking cautiously round, ‘for Heaven’s sake don’t go to him! Don’t go to him! He’ll put you down as sure as ever you were born. Here! come up this alley, and I’ll tell you what I mean. Don’t go to him.’

His new acquaintance looked as if he thought him mad; but he bore him company nevertheless. When they were shrouded from observation, Trotty told him what he knew, and what character he had received, and all about it.

The subject of his history listened to it with a calmness that surprised him. He did not contradict or interrupt it, once. He nodded his head now and then—more in corroboration of an old and worn-out story, it appeared, than in refutation of it; and once or twice threw back his hat, and passed his freckled hand over a brow, where every furrow he had ploughed seemed to have set its image in little. But he did no more.

‘It’s true enough in the main,’ he said, ‘master, I could sift grain from husk here and there, but let it be as ’tis. What odds? I have gone against his plans; to my misfortun’. I can’t help it; I should do the like to-morrow. As to character, them gentlefolks will search and search, and pry and pry, and have it as free from spot or speck in us, afore they’ll help us to a dry good word!—Well! I hope they don’t lose good opinion as easy as we do, or their lives is strict indeed, and hardly worth the keeping. For myself, master, I never took with that hand’—holding it before him—‘what wasn’t my own; and never held it back from work, however hard, or poorly paid. Whoever can deny it, let him chop it off! But when work won’t maintain me like a human creetur; when my living is so bad, that I am Hungry, out of doors and in; when I see a whole working life begin that way, go on that way, and end that way, without a chance or change; then I say to the gentlefolks “Keep away from me! Let my cottage be. My doors is dark enough without your darkening of ’em more. Don’t look for me to come up into the Park to help the show when there’s a Birthday, or a fine Speechmaking, or what not. Act your Plays and Games without me, and be welcome to ’em, and enjoy ’em. We’ve nowt to do with one another. I’m best let alone!”’

Seeing that the child in his arms had opened her eyes, and was looking about her in wonder, he checked himself to say a word or two of foolish prattle in her ear, and stand her on the ground beside him. Then slowly winding one of her long tresses round and round his rough forefinger like a ring, while she hung about his dusty leg, he said to Trotty:

‘I’m not a cross-grained man by natu’, I believe; and easy satisfied, I’m sure. I bear no ill-will against none of ’em. I only want to live like one of the Almighty’s creeturs. I can’t—I don’t—and so there’s a pit dug between me, and them that can and do. There’s others like me. You might tell ’em off by hundreds and by thousands, sooner than by ones.’

Toby si liberò quindi della sua commissione con tutta la velocità possibile e partì al trotto verso casa. Ma tra il suo passo, che per quanto riguarda la strada era comunque goffo; e il suo cappello, che non lo migliorava certo; in meno di un attimo si trovò a scontrarsi con qualcuno e fu mandato barcollando sulla strada.

«Chiedo scusa!» disse Trotty, tirandosi su il cappello in gran confusione e infilando la testa tra il cappello e la fodera strappata, come se si fosse fatta una specie di arnia. «Spero di non averla ferita».

Per quanto riguarda il ferire qualcuno, Toby non era un Sansone così assoluto da non correre il rischio di farsi male lui stesso; e infatti, era volato fuori sulla strada, come una navetta. Tuttavia, aveva tale fiducia nella propria forza che si preoccupava davvero per l’altra parte: e disse ancora,

«Spero di non averla ferita?»

L’uomo contro cui era corso; un uomo abbronzato dal sole, vigoroso e dall’aspetto rustico, con i capelli grigiastri e il mento ruvido; lo fissò per un momento come se sospettasse che stesse scherzando. Ma, convinto della sua buona fede, rispose:

‘No, amico. Non mi hai fatto male.’

«Nemmeno il bambino, spero?» disse Trotty.

«Nemmeno il bambino», rispose l’uomo. «Le sono molto grato».

Mentre lo diceva, lanciò un’occhiata alla bambina che portava tra le braccia, addormentata; e coprendole il viso con l’estremità lunga del povero fazzoletto che aveva al collo, proseguì lentamente.

Il tono con cui disse «Vi ringrazio di cuore» penetrò il cuore di Trotty. Era così stanco e dolorante ai piedi, e così sporco per il viaggio, e guardava intorno a sé in modo così sperduto e strano, che fu un conforto per lui poter ringraziare qualcuno: non importa per quanto poco. Toby rimase lì a fissarlo mentre si allontanava stancamente, con il braccio del bambino attorno al collo.

Davanti alla figura con le scarpe consumate — ormai solo l’ombra e lo spettro di scarpe —, calzamaglia di pelle grezza, un abito comune e un largo cappello a tesa larga, Trotty rimase a fissare, senza vedere tutta la strada. E al braccio del bambino, che gli cingeva il collo.

Prima di confondersi nell’oscurità il viaggiatore si fermò; e guardandosi intorno, e vedendo che Trotty era ancora lì in piedi, sembrò indeciso se tornare indietro o proseguire. Dopo aver prima fatto una cosa e poi l’altra, tornò indietro, e Trotty gli andò incontro a metà strada.

«Forse potete dirmelo voi», disse l’uomo con un debole sorriso, «e se lo sapete sono sicuro che me lo direte, e preferisco chiedervelo a voi piuttosto che ad altri, dove abita Alderman Cute.»

«A due passi», rispose Toby. «Vi mostrerò con piacere la sua casa.»

«Avrei dovuto recarmi da lui altrove domani», disse l’uomo che accompagnava Toby, «ma mi sento a disagio sotto sospetto e voglio chiarire la mia posizione e essere libero di andare in cerca del mio pane — non so dove. Quindi, forse mi perdonerà se vado alla sua casa stasera».

‘È impossibile’, esclamò Toby con un sussulto, ‘che il tuo nome sia Fern!’

«Eh!» esclamò l’altro, voltandosi verso di lui stupito.

«Fern! Will Fern!», disse Trotty.

«Questo è il mio nome», rispose l’altro.

«Allora», disse Trotty afferrandolo per il braccio e guardandosi cautamente intorno, «per amor del cielo non andare da lui! Non andare da lui! Ti butterà giù sicuro come sei nato. Ecco! vieni su questo vicolo, e ti dirò cosa intendo. Non andare da lui.»

Il suo nuovo conoscente lo guardò come se pensasse che fosse pazzo; ma gli tenne comunque compagnia. Quando furono al riparo da occhi indiscreti, Trotty gli raccontò tutto ciò che sapeva e il carattere che aveva ricevuto, e tutti i dettagli.

L’oggetto della sua storia l’ascoltò con una calma che lo sorprese. Non la contraddisse né la interruppe, neppure una volta. Ogni tanto annuiva—più per corroborare un vecchio e logoro racconto, sembrava, che per confutarlo; e una o due volte si tirò indietro il cappello e passò la sua mano lentigginosa su una fronte dove ogni solco che aveva arato pareva aver lasciato la propria immagine in miniatura. Ma non fece altro.

«È vero in linea di massima», disse lui, «padrone, potrei separare il grano dal loglio qua e là, ma lasciamo le cose come stanno. Che importa? Ho contrastato i suoi piani; a mio sfavore. Non posso farci niente; farei lo stesso domani. Per quanto riguarda la reputazione, quei signori cercheranno e cercheranno, indagheranno e indagheranno, e vorranno che noi siamo immacolati, prima di concederci una buona parola!—Bene! spero che non perdano la buona opinione con la stessa facilità con cui la perdiamo noi, altrimenti le loro vite sarebbero davvero rigide e a malapena vale la pena di viverle. Per quanto mi riguarda, padrone, non ho mai preso con questa mano»—tenendola davanti a sé—«ciò che non era mio; e non l’ho mai tirata indietro dal lavoro, per quanto duro o mal pagato. Chiunque possa negarlo, lo faccia mozzare! Ma quando il lavoro non mi mantiene come un essere umano; quando la mia vita è così misera che ho fame, sia fuori che dentro casa; quando vedo una vita intera di lavoro iniziare in quel modo, continuare in quel modo e finire in quel modo, senza alcuna possibilità o cambiamento; allora dico ai signori “Tenetevi lontani da me! Lasciate stare la mia casetta. Le mie porte sono già abbastanza buie senza che le rendiate ancora più buie. Non aspettatevi che io venga nel Parco per contribuire allo spettacolo quando c’è un compleanno, o un grande discorso, o chissà cosa. Mettete in scena i vostri giochi e spettacoli senza di me, e siete i benvenuti, godetevi pure. Non abbiamo nulla a che fare l’uno con l’altro. È meglio lasciarmi solo!»»

Vedendo che la bambina tra le sue braccia aveva aperto gli occhi e si guardava intorno con meraviglia, si trattenne dal dirle qualche parola di sciocchezze all’orecchio, e la mise in piedi per terra accanto a sé. Poi lentamente avvolse una delle sue lunghe trecce attorno al suo ruvido dito indice come un anello, mentre lei gli si aggrappava alla polverosa gamba, e disse a Trotty:

«Non sono un uomo di croce difficile per natura», credo; e mi accontento facilmente, sono sicuro. Non porto rancore contro nessuno di loro. Voglio solo vivere come una delle creature del Signore. Non posso—non voglio—e così c’è un fosso scavato tra me e quelli che possono e fanno. Ci sono altri come me. Potreste contarli a centinaia e migliaia, prima che uno per uno».

Trotty knew he spoke the Truth in this, and shook his head to signify as much.

‘I’ve got a bad name this way,’ said Fern; ‘and I’m not likely, I’m afeared, to get a better. ’Tan’t lawful to be out of sorts, and I AM out of sorts, though God knows I’d sooner bear a cheerful spirit if I could. Well! I don’t know as this Alderman could hurt me much by sending me to jail; but without a friend to speak a word for me, he might do it; and you see—!’ pointing downward with his finger, at the child.

‘She has a beautiful face,’ said Trotty.

‘Why yes!’ replied the other in a low voice, as he gently turned it up with both his hands towards his own, and looked upon it steadfastly. ‘I’ve thought so, many times. I’ve thought so, when my hearth was very cold, and cupboard very bare. I thought so t’other night, when we were taken like two thieves. But they—they shouldn’t try the little face too often, should they, Lilian? That’s hardly fair upon a man!’

He sunk his voice so low, and gazed upon her with an air so stern and strange, that Toby, to divert the current of his thoughts, inquired if his wife were living.

‘I never had one,’ he returned, shaking his head. ‘She’s my brother’s child: a orphan. Nine year old, though you’d hardly think it; but she’s tired and worn out now. They’d have taken care on her, the Union—eight-and-twenty mile away from where we live—between four walls (as they took care of my old father when he couldn’t work no more, though he didn’t trouble ’em long); but I took her instead, and she’s lived with me ever since. Her mother had a friend once, in London here. We are trying to find her, and to find work too; but it’s a large place. Never mind. More room for us to walk about in, Lilly!’

Meeting the child’s eyes with a smile which melted Toby more than tears, he shook him by the hand.

‘I don’t so much as know your name,’ he said, ‘but I’ve opened my heart free to you, for I’m thankful to you; with good reason. I’ll take your advice, and keep clear of this—’

‘Justice,’ suggested Toby.

‘Ah!’ he said. ‘If that’s the name they give him. This Justice. And to-morrow will try whether there’s better fortun’ to be met with, somewheres near London. Good night. A Happy New Year!’

‘Stay!’ cried Trotty, catching at his hand, as he relaxed his grip. ‘Stay! The New Year never can be happy to me, if we part like this. The New Year never can be happy to me, if I see the child and you go wandering away, you don’t know where, without a shelter for your heads. Come home with me! I’m a poor man, living in a poor place; but I can give you lodging for one night and never miss it. Come home with me! Here! I’ll take her!’ cried Trotty, lifting up the child. ‘A pretty one! I’d carry twenty times her weight, and never know I’d got it. Tell me if I go too quick for you. I’m very fast. I always was!’ Trotty said this, taking about six of his trotting paces to one stride of his fatigued companion; and with his thin legs quivering again, beneath the load he bore.

‘Why, she’s as light,’ said Trotty, trotting in his speech as well as in his gait; for he couldn’t bear to be thanked, and dreaded a moment’s pause; ‘as light as a feather. Lighter than a Peacock’s feather—a great deal lighter. Here we are and here we go! Round this first turning to the right, Uncle Will, and past the pump, and sharp off up the passage to the left, right opposite the public-house. Here we are and here we go! Cross over, Uncle Will, and mind the kidney pieman at the corner! Here we are and here we go! Down the Mews here, Uncle Will, and stop at the black door, with “T. Veck, Ticket Porter,” wrote upon a board; and here we are and here we go, and here we are indeed, my precious. Meg, surprising you!’

With which words Trotty, in a breathless state, set the child down before his daughter in the middle of the floor. The little visitor looked once at Meg; and doubting nothing in that face, but trusting everything she saw there; ran into her arms.

‘Here we are and here we go!’ cried Trotty, running round the room, and choking audibly. ‘Here, Uncle Will, here’s a fire you know! Why don’t you come to the fire? Oh here we are and here we go! Meg, my precious darling, where’s the kettle? Here it is and here it goes, and it’ll bile in no time!’

Trotty really had picked up the kettle somewhere or other in the course of his wild career and now put it on the fire: while Meg, seating the child in a warm corner, knelt down on the ground before her, and pulled off her shoes, and dried her wet feet on a cloth. Ay, and she laughed at Trotty too—so pleasantly, so cheerfully, that Trotty could have blessed her where she kneeled; for he had seen that, when they entered, she was sitting by the fire in tears.

‘Why, father!’ said Meg. ‘You’re crazy to-night, I think. I don’t know what the Bells would say to that. Poor little feet. How cold they are!’

‘Oh, they’re warmer now!’ exclaimed the child. ‘They’re quite warm now!’

‘No, no, no,’ said Meg. ‘We haven’t rubbed ’em half enough. We’re so busy. So busy! And when they’re done, we’ll brush out the damp hair; and when that’s done, we’ll bring some colour to the poor pale face with fresh water; and when that’s done, we’ll be so gay, and brisk, and happy—!’

The child, in a burst of sobbing, clasped her round the neck; caressed her fair cheek with its hand; and said, ‘Oh Meg! oh dear Meg!’

Toby’s blessing could have done no more. Who could do more!

‘Why, father!’ cried Meg, after a pause.

‘Here I am and here I go, my dear!’ said Trotty.

‘Good Gracious me!’ cried Meg. ‘He’s crazy! He’s put the dear child’s bonnet on the kettle, and hung the lid behind the door!’

Trotty sapeva che stava dicendo la verità e scosse il capo per farlo intendere.

«Ho una brutta reputazione in questo senso», disse Fern; «e non credo che migliorerà. Non è lecito essere di cattivo umore e io lo sono, anche se Dio sa che preferirei avere uno spirito allegro, se potessi. Bene! Non so se questo consigliere comunale possa farmi molto male mandandomi in prigione; ma senza un amico che dica una parola per me, potrebbe farlo; e vedi—!» indicando con il dito verso il basso, verso il bambino.

«Ha un bel viso», disse Trotty.

«Perché sì!» rispose l’altro con voce bassa, mentre lo girava delicatamente verso di sé con entrambe le mani e lo guardava fisso. «L’ho pensato molte volte. L’ho pensato quando il mio focolare era molto freddo e la dispensa quasi vuota. Lo pensavo l’altra sera, quando ci hanno preso come due ladri. Ma loro — non dovrebbero mettere alla prova quel visino troppo spesso, vero, Lilian? Non è giusto nei confronti di un uomo!»

Abbassò la voce fino a renderla quasi impercettibile e la fissò con un’espressione così severa e strana che Toby, per distrarre il corso dei suoi pensieri, gli chiese se sua moglie fosse ancora viva.

«Non ne ho mai avuta una», rispose scuotendo la testa. «È il figlio di mio fratello: un orfano. Ha nove anni, anche se a malapena lo si direbbe; ma ora è stanca e sfinita. La Unione — che dista da qui ventotto miglia — si sarebbe presa cura di lei tra quattro mura (come fece con mio padre quando non poté più lavorare, anche se non gli fu di grande aiuto per molto); ma invece la presi io e da allora vive con me. Sua madre aveva un’amica a Londra. Stiamo cercando di trovarla, e anche di trovare lavoro; ma è una città enorme. Non importa. Più spazio per camminare, Lilly!»

Incontrando lo sguardo del bambino con un sorriso che commosse Toby più delle lacrime, gli strinse la mano.

«Non conosco nemmeno il tuo nome», disse, «ma ti ho aperto liberamente il mio cuore perché sono grato a te; e per buone ragioni. Seguirò i tuoi consigli ed eviterò questo, »

«Giustizia», suggerì Toby.

«Ah!» disse «Se questo è il nome che gli danno. Questa Giustizia. E domani vedremo se si può trovare una fortuna migliore, da qualche parte vicino a Londra. Buona notte. Un felice anno nuovo!»

«Resta!» gridò Trotty, afferrandogli la mano mentre lui allentava la presa. «Resta! Il nuovo anno non potrà mai essere felice per me se ci separiamo così. Il nuovo anno non potrà mai essere felice per me, se vedo il bambino e tu te ne vai in giro senza meta, senza un riparo per la tua testa. Vieni a casa con me! Sono un uomo povero che vive in un posto modesto; ma posso offrirti ospitalità per una notte e non mi accorgerò nemmeno della tua mancanza. Vieni a casa con me! Ecco! La prenderò io!» gridò Trotty, sollevando la bambina. «Che bellezza! Potrei portarne venti come lei e non accorgermi nemmeno del peso. Dimmi se vado troppo veloce per te. Io sono molto svelto. Lo sono sempre stato!» Trotty disse questo, facendo circa sei dei suoi passetti di trotto per ogni passo del suo compagno stanco; e con le sue gambe magre che tremavano sotto il peso che portava.

«Perché è leggera», disse Trotty, trotterellando nel parlare come pure che nel camminare; perché non poteva sopportare di essere ringraziato e temeva una pausa anche solo di un momento; «è leggera come una piuma. Più leggera della piuma di uno struzzo, molto più leggera. Ecco dove siamo ed ecco che andiamo! Girando a destra in questa prima svolta, zio Will, e passando accanto alla pompa, e poi subito su per il corridoio a sinistra, proprio di fronte all’osteria. Ecco dove siamo ed ecco che andiamo! Attraversa la strada, zio Will, e attento al venditore di reni arrostiti all’angolo! Ecco dove siamo ed ecco che andiamo! Scendi qui per il maneggio, zio Will, e fermati alla porta nera con scritto “T. Veck, fattorino” su una targa; ed ecco dove siamo ed ecco che andiamo, e davvero ecco dove siamo, mia preziosa. Meg, ti ho sorpreso!»

Con queste parole Trotty, senza fiato, mise giù il bambino davanti a sua figlia nel mezzo della stanza. La piccola visitatrice guardò una volta Meg e, non dubitando di nulla in quel volto ma fidandosi di tutto ciò che vedeva lì, corse tra le sue braccia.

«Eccoci qui e via al galoppo!» gridò Trotty girando in tondo per la stanza, soffocando visibilmente. «Ecco, zio Will, c’è il fuoco, lo sai! Perché non vieni a sederti vicino al fuoco? Oh, eccoci qui e via al galoppo! Meg, la mia preziosa tesoro, dov’è il bollitore? Eccolo qui ed eccolo in azione, e bolle in un attimo!»

Trotty aveva davvero recuperato il bollitore chissà dove nel corso della sua folle carriera e ora lo mise sul fuoco; mentre Meg, sistemata la bambina in un angolo caldo, si inginocchiò a terra davanti a lei e le tolse le scarpe, asciugandole i piedi bagnati con uno straccio. E sì, rise anche di Trotty—così piacevolmente, così allegramente, che Trotty avrebbe potuto benedirla mentre era inginocchiata; perché aveva visto che, quando entrarono, lei stava seduta accanto al fuoco in lacrime.

«Ma, padre!» disse Meg. «Stasera mi sembra che tu sia pazzo. Non so cosa direbbero le campane. Poveri piccoli piedini. Che freddo devono fare!»

«Oh, sono più calde ora!» esclamò il bambino. «Sono proprio calde ora!»

«No, no, no», disse Meg. «Non le abbiamo strofinate abbastanza. Siamo così impegnate. Così impegnate! E quando avremo finito, spazzeremo via i capelli umidi; e quando questo sarà fatto, porteremo un po’ di colore al povero viso pallido con acqua fresca; e quando questo sarà fatto, saremo così allegre, vivaci e felici—!»

La bambina, tra singhiozzi convulsi, le cinse il collo con le braccia; accarezzò la sua guancia candida con la mano e disse: «Oh Meg! Oh cara Meg!»

La benedizione di Toby non avrebbe potuto fare di più. Chi avrebbe potuto fare di più!

«Ma, padre!» esclamò Meg dopo una pausa.

«Eccomi qui e via vado, mia cara!» disse Trotty.

«Buon Dio!» esclamò Meg. «È pazzo! Ha messo il cappellino del caro bambino sulla teiera e ha appeso il coperchio dietro la porta!»

‘I didn’t go for to do it, my love,’ said Trotty, hastily repairing this mistake. ‘Meg, my dear?’

Meg looked towards him and saw that he had elaborately stationed himself behind the chair of their male visitor, where with many mysterious gestures he was holding up the sixpence he had earned.

‘I see, my dear,’ said Trotty, ‘as I was coming in, half an ounce of tea lying somewhere on the stairs; and I’m pretty sure there was a bit of bacon too. As I don’t remember where it was exactly, I’ll go myself and try to find ’em.’

With this inscrutable artifice, Toby withdrew to purchase the viands he had spoken of, for ready money, at Mrs. Chickenstalker’s; and presently came back, pretending he had not been able to find them, at first, in the dark.

‘But here they are at last,’ said Trotty, setting out the tea-things, ‘all correct! I was pretty sure it was tea, and a rasher. So it is. Meg, my pet, if you’ll just make the tea, while your unworthy father toasts the bacon, we shall be ready, immediate. It’s a curious circumstance,’ said Trotty, proceeding in his cookery, with the assistance of the toasting-fork, ‘curious, but well known to my friends, that I never care, myself, for rashers, nor for tea. I like to see other people enjoy ’em,’ said Trotty, speaking very loud, to impress the fact upon his guest, ‘but to me, as food, they’re disagreeable.’

Yet Trotty sniffed the savour of the hissing bacon—ah!—as if he liked it; and when he poured the boiling water in the tea-pot, looked lovingly down into the depths of that snug cauldron, and suffered the fragrant steam to curl about his nose, and wreathe his head and face in a thick cloud. However, for all this, he neither ate nor drank, except at the very beginning, a mere morsel for form’s sake, which he appeared to eat with infinite relish, but declared was perfectly uninteresting to him.

No. Trotty’s occupation was, to see Will Fern and Lilian eat and drink; and so was Meg’s. And never did spectators at a city dinner or court banquet find such high delight in seeing others feast: although it were a monarch or a pope: as those two did, in looking on that night. Meg smiled at Trotty, Trotty laughed at Meg. Meg shook her head, and made belief to clap her hands, applauding Trotty; Trotty conveyed, in dumb-show, unintelligible narratives of how and when and where he had found their visitors, to Meg; and they were happy. Very happy.

‘Although,’ thought Trotty, sorrowfully, as he watched Meg’s face; ‘that match is broken off, I see!’

‘Now, I’ll tell you what,’ said Trotty after tea. ‘The little one, she sleeps with Meg, I know.’

‘With good Meg!’ cried the child, caressing her. ‘With Meg.’

‘That’s right,’ said Trotty. ‘And I shouldn’t wonder if she kiss Meg’s father, won’t she? I’m Meg’s father.’

Mightily delighted Trotty was, when the child went timidly towards him, and having kissed him, fell back upon Meg again.

‘She’s as sensible as Solomon,’ said Trotty. ‘Here we come and here we—no, we don’t—I don’t mean that—I—what was I saying, Meg, my precious?’

Meg looked towards their guest, who leaned upon her chair, and with his face turned from her, fondled the child’s head, half hidden in her lap.

‘To be sure,’ said Toby. ‘To be sure! I don’t know what I’m rambling on about, to-night. My wits are wool-gathering, I think. Will Fern, you come along with me. You’re tired to death, and broken down for want of rest. You come along with me.’ The man still played with the child’s curls, still leaned upon Meg’s chair, still turned away his face. He didn’t speak, but in his rough coarse fingers, clenching and expanding in the fair hair of the child, there was an eloquence that said enough.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Trotty, answering unconsciously what he saw expressed in his daughter’s face. ‘Take her with you, Meg. Get her to bed. There! Now, Will, I’ll show you where you lie. It’s not much of a place: only a loft; but, having a loft, I always say, is one of the great conveniences of living in a mews; and till this coach-house and stable gets a better let, we live here cheap. There’s plenty of sweet hay up there, belonging to a neighbour; and it’s as clean as hands, and Meg, can make it. Cheer up! Don’t give way. A new heart for a New Year, always!’

The hand released from the child’s hair, had fallen, trembling, into Trotty’s hand. So Trotty, talking without intermission, led him out as tenderly and easily as if he had been a child himself. Returning before Meg, he listened for an instant at the door of her little chamber; an adjoining room. The child was murmuring a simple Prayer before lying down to sleep; and when she had remembered Meg’s name, ‘Dearly, Dearly’—so her words ran—Trotty heard her stop and ask for his.

It was some short time before the foolish little old fellow could compose himself to mend the fire, and draw his chair to the warm hearth. But, when he had done so, and had trimmed the light, he took his newspaper from his pocket, and began to read. Carelessly at first, and skimming up and down the columns; but with an earnest and a sad attention, very soon.

For this same dreaded paper re-directed Trotty’s thoughts into the channel they had taken all that day, and which the day’s events had so marked out and shaped. His interest in the two wanderers had set him on another course of thinking, and a happier one, for the time; but being alone again, and reading of the crimes and violences of the people, he relapsed into his former train.

In this mood, he came to an account (and it was not the first he had ever read) of a woman who had laid her desperate hands not only on her own life but on that of her young child. A crime so terrible, and so revolting to his soul, dilated with the love of Meg, that he let the journal drop, and fell back in his chair, appalled!

«Non l’ho fatto apposta, mia amore», disse Trotty, correggendo in fretta questo errore. «Meg, tesoro?»

Meg lo guardò e vide che si era collocato con grande cura dietro la sedia del loro ospite maschio, dove, facendo molti gesti misteriosi, stava mostrando il mezzo scellino guadagnato.

«Vedo, mia cara», disse Trotty, «che mentre entravo ho visto mezzo oncia di tè da qualche parte sulle scale; e sono quasi sicuro che c’era anche un pezzetto di bacon. Poiché non ricordo esattamente dove fosse, ci andrò io stesso a cercarli».

Con questo misterioso stratagemma, Toby si ritirò per acquistare i viveri di cui aveva parlato, con denaro contante, da Mrs. Chickenstalker; e poco dopo tornò indietro fingendo di non essere riuscito a trovarli subito al buio.

«Ma eccoli finalmente», disse Trotty, apparecchiando per il tè, «tutto a posto! Ero quasi sicuro che fosse tè e una fetta di pancetta. E così è. Meg, tesoro mio, se vuoi solo preparare il tè, mentre tuo padre indegno tosta la pancetta, saremo pronti immediatamente. È una circostanza curiosa», disse Trotty, procedendo nella sua cucina con l’aiuto della forchetta da arrostire, «curiosa, ma ben nota ai miei amici: io non mi sono mai interessato alle fette di pancetta né al tè. Mi piace vedere gli altri che li gustano», disse Trotty, parlando a voce molto alta per imprimere il fatto nell’ospite, «ma per me, come cibo, sono sgradevoli.»

Eppure Trotty annusò il profumo del bacon sibilante—ah!—come se gli piacesse; e quando versò l’acqua bollente nella teiera, guardò con affetto nelle profondità di quella accogliente pentola, e lasciò che il vapore fragrante si arricciolasse intorno al suo naso e avvolgesse la sua testa e il viso in una fitta nuvola. Tuttavia, nonostante tutto ciò, lui né mangiava né beveva, tranne all’inizio, un semplice boccone per pura formalità, che sembrò gustare con infinito piacere, ma dichiarò essere perfettamente privo di interesse per lui.

No. Il lavoro di Trotty era quello di vedere Will Fern e Lilian mangiare e bere; e lo stesso valeva per Meg. E mai spettatori a una cena in città o a un banchetto di corte trovarono tanto piacere nel vedere altri che si abbandonavano al festino: anche se fosse stato un monarca o un papa: quanto ne trovarono quei due, guardando quella sera. Meg sorrise a Trotty, Trotty rise con Meg. Meg scosse la testa e fece finta di applaudire Trotty; Trotty comunicò, in muto linguaggio, racconti incomprensibili su come, quando e dove aveva trovato i loro visitatori, a Meg; ed erano felici. Molto felici.

«Anche se», pensò Trotty con tristezza mentre osservava il volto di Meg, «vedo che quel fidanzamento è rotto!»

«Ora vi dico una cosa», disse Trotty dopo il tè. «La piccola dorme con Meg, lo so».

«Con la buona Meg!» esclamò il bambino, accarezzandola. «Con Meg.»

«Esatto», disse Trotty. «E non mi meraviglierei se baciasse il padre di Meg, vero? Io sono il padre di Meg».

Trotty fu immensamente felice quando il bambino si avvicinò timorosamente a lui e dopo averlo baciato tornò di nuovo da Meg.

«È saggia quanto Salomone», disse Trotty. «Ecco che veniamo e ecco che — no, non è così — non volevo dire questo — io — cosa stavo dicendo, Meg, la mia tesoro?»

Meg guardò verso l’ospite che si appoggiava alla sedia e con il viso rivolto altrove accarezzava la testa del bambino, mezza nascosta sulle sue ginocchia.

«Certo», disse Toby. «Certo! Non so di cosa stia blaterando stan otte. Penso che i miei pensieri vaghino. Will Fern, vieni con me. Sei sfinito, distrutto dalla mancanza di riposo. Vieni con me». L’uomo continuava a giocare coi riccioli del bambino, appoggiato ancora alla sedia di Meg, e distoglieva sempre il viso. Non parlò, ma nelle sue dure mani ruvide che stringevano e allentavano la presa sui capelli chiari del bambino c’era un eloquio che diceva abbastanza.

«Sì, sì», disse Trotty, rispondendo inconsciamente a ciò che vedeva espresso nel volto di sua figlia. «Portala con te, Meg. Mettila a letto. Ecco! Ora, Will, ti mostro dove dormirai. Non è un gran posto: solo una soffitta; ma avere una soffitta, dico sempre, è uno dei grandi vantaggi di vivere in una scuderia; e finché questa rimessa per carrozze e il maneggio non troveranno un affittuario migliore, qui viviamo a buon mercato. C’è abbondante fieno fresco lassù, di proprietà di un vicino; ed è pulito come le mani e Meg possono renderlo. Coraggio! Non cedete. Un cuore nuovo per il Nuovo Anno, sempre!»

La mano che aveva lasciato i capelli del bambino era caduta, tremante, nella mano di Trotty. Così Trotty, parlando senza interruzione, lo condusse fuori con la stessa tenerezza e facilità come se fosse stato un bambino lui stesso. Tornando da Meg, ascoltò per un istante alla porta della sua piccola camera; una stanza attigua. Il bambino stava mormorando una semplice Preghiera prima di coricarsi a dormire; e quando ebbe ricordato il nome di Meg, ‘Cara, Cara’—così andavano le sue parole—Trotty la sentì fermarsi e chiedere anche il suo.

Ci volle un po’ di tempo prima che il vecchietto sciocco riuscisse a riprendersi e ravvivare la fiamma, per poi tirare avanti la sedia verso il caldo focolare. Ma, quando ci fu riuscito, e aveva sistemato la luce, si mise in tasca il giornale e cominciò a leggere. All’inizio distrattamente, scorrendo su e giù per le colonne; ma ben presto con un’attenzione seria e triste.

Questo stesso temuto giornale riportò i pensieri di Trotty nel solco in cui erano caduti tutto il giorno e che gli eventi della giornata avevano così segnato e modellato. Il suo interesse per i due vagabondi lo aveva indirizzato su un altro corso di pensiero, più felice, per il momento; ma essendo rimasto solo di nuovo e leggendo dei crimini e delle violenze della gente, ricadde nel suo precedente ragionamento.

In questo stato d’animo, si imbatté nella storia (e non era la prima che avesse mai letto) di una donna che aveva posto le sue disperate mani non solo sulla propria vita ma anche su quella del suo giovane bambino. Un crimine così terribile e così ripugnante alla sua anima, dilatata dall’amore per Meg, che lasciò cadere il giornale e si abbandonò sulla sedia, atterrito!

‘Unnatural and cruel!’ Toby cried. ‘Unnatural and cruel! None but people who were bad at heart, born bad, who had no business on the earth, could do such deeds. It’s too true, all I’ve heard to-day; too just, too full of proof. We’re Bad!’

The Chimes took up the words so suddenly—burst out so loud, and clear, and sonorous—that the Bells seemed to strike him in his chair.

And what was that, they said?

‘Toby Veck, Toby Veck, waiting for you Toby! Toby Veck, Toby Veck, waiting for you Toby! Come and see us, come and see us, Drag him to us, drag him to us, Haunt and hunt him, haunt and hunt him, Break his slumbers, break his slumbers! Toby Veck Toby Veck, door open wide Toby, Toby Veck Toby Veck, door open wide Toby—’ then fiercely back to their impetuous strain again, and ringing in the very bricks and plaster on the walls.

Toby listened. Fancy, fancy! His remorse for having run away from them that afternoon! No, no. Nothing of the kind. Again, again, and yet a dozen times again. ‘Haunt and hunt him, haunt and hunt him, Drag him to us, drag him to us!’ Deafening the whole town!

‘Meg,’ said Trotty softly: tapping at her door. ‘Do you hear anything?’

‘I hear the Bells, father. Surely they’re very loud to-night.’

‘Is she asleep?’ said Toby, making an excuse for peeping in.

‘So peacefully and happily! I can’t leave her yet though, father. Look how she holds my hand!’

‘Meg,’ whispered Trotty. ‘Listen to the Bells!’

She listened, with her face towards him all the time. But it underwent no change. She didn’t understand them.

Trotty withdrew, resumed his seat by the fire, and once more listened by himself. He remained here a little time.

It was impossible to bear it; their energy was dreadful.

‘If the tower-door is really open,’ said Toby, hastily laying aside his apron, but never thinking of his hat, ‘what’s to hinder me from going up into the steeple and satisfying myself? If it’s shut, I don’t want any other satisfaction. That’s enough.’

He was pretty certain as he slipped out quietly into the street that he should find it shut and locked, for he knew the door well, and had so rarely seen it open, that he couldn’t reckon above three times in all. It was a low arched portal, outside the church, in a dark nook behind a column; and had such great iron hinges, and such a monstrous lock, that there was more hinge and lock than door.

But what was his astonishment when, coming bare-headed to the church; and putting his hand into this dark nook, with a certain misgiving that it might be unexpectedly seized, and a shivering propensity to draw it back again; he found that the door, which opened outwards, actually stood ajar!

He thought, on the first surprise, of going back; or of getting a light, or a companion, but his courage aided him immediately, and he determined to ascend alone.

‘What have I to fear?’ said Trotty. ‘It’s a church! Besides, the ringers may be there, and have forgotten to shut the door.’ So he went in, feeling his way as he went, like a blind man; for it was very dark. And very quiet, for the Chimes were silent.

The dust from the street had blown into the recess; and lying there, heaped up, made it so soft and velvet-like to the foot, that there was something startling, even in that. The narrow stair was so close to the door, too, that he stumbled at the very first; and shutting the door upon himself, by striking it with his foot, and causing it to rebound back heavily, he couldn’t open it again.

This was another reason, however, for going on. Trotty groped his way, and went on. Up, up, up, and round, and round; and up, up, up; higher, higher, higher up!

It was a disagreeable staircase for that groping work; so low and narrow, that his groping hand was always touching something; and it often felt so like a man or ghostly figure standing up erect and making room for him to pass without discovery, that he would rub the smooth wall upward searching for its face, and downward searching for its feet, while a chill tingling crept all over him. Twice or thrice, a door or niche broke the monotonous surface; and then it seemed a gap as wide as the whole church; and he felt on the brink of an abyss, and going to tumble headlong down, until he found the wall again.

Still up, up, up; and round and round; and up, up, up; higher, higher, higher up!

At length, the dull and stifling atmosphere began to freshen: presently to feel quite windy: presently it blew so strong, that he could hardly keep his legs. But, he got to an arched window in the tower, breast high, and holding tight, looked down upon the house-tops, on the smoking chimneys, on the blur and blotch of lights (towards the place where Meg was wondering where he was and calling to him perhaps), all kneaded up together in a leaven of mist and darkness.

This was the belfry, where the ringers came. He had caught hold of one of the frayed ropes which hung down through apertures in the oaken roof. At first he started, thinking it was hair; then trembled at the very thought of waking the deep Bell. The Bells themselves were higher. Higher, Trotty, in his fascination, or in working out the spell upon him, groped his way. By ladders now, and toilsomely, for it was steep, and not too certain holding for the feet.

Up, up, up; and climb and clamber; up, up, up; higher, higher, higher up!

Until, ascending through the floor, and pausing with his head just raised above its beams, he came among the Bells. It was barely possible to make out their great shapes in the gloom; but there they were. Shadowy, and dark, and dumb.

A heavy sense of dread and loneliness fell instantly upon him, as he climbed into this airy nest of stone and metal. His head went round and round. He listened, and then raised a wild ‘Holloa!’ Holloa! was mournfully protracted by the echoes.

Giddy, confused, and out of breath, and frightened, Toby looked about him vacantly, and sunk down in a swoon.

«Inumano e crudele!» gridò Toby «Inumano e crudele! Solo persone malvagie nel cuore, nate cattive, che non avrebbero dovuto esistere sulla terra, potevano compiere simili azioni. È troppo vero tutto ciò che ho sentito oggi; troppo giusto, troppo pieno di prove. Siamo Cattivi!»

Le Campane ripresero le parole così all’improvviso - scoppiarono così forti e chiare e sonore - che sembrò che le campane lo colpissero sulla sedia.

E che cos’era quello, chiesero?

«Toby Veck, Toby Veck, ti aspettiamo Toby! Toby Veck, Toby Veck, ti aspettiamo Toby! Vieni a trovarci, vieni a trovarci, Trascinalo da noi, trascinalo da noi, Perseguitalo e cacitalo, perseguitalo e cacitalo, Interrompi il suo sonno, interrompi il suo sonno! Toby Veck Toby Veck, la porta è spalancata Toby, Toby Veck Toby Veck, la porta è spalancata Toby—» poi ritornano con furore al loro canto impetuoso e riecheggiano nelle stesse mattoni e intonaco delle pareti.

Toby ascoltava. Che immaginazione, che immaginazione! Il suo rimorso per essere scappato da loro quel pomeriggio! No, no. Niente del genere. Ancora, ancora e poi una dozzina di volte ancora. «Perseguitatelo e cacciatelo, perseguitatelo e cacciatelo, trascinatelo da noi, trascinatelo da noi!» Rendendo sordo l’intero paese!

‘Meg’, disse dolcemente Trotty, bussando alla sua porta. ‘Senti qualcosa?’

«Sento le campane, padre. Sono sicuramente molto forti stasera».

«Dorme?», disse Toby, trovando una scusa per dare un’occhiata dentro.

«Così tranquillamente e felicemente! Tuttavia non posso ancora lasciarla, padre. Guardi come tiene la mia mano!»

«Meg», sussurrò Trotty, «ascolta le campane!»

Ascoltò con il viso rivolto verso di lui per tutto il tempo. Ma non subì alcun cambiamento. Non li capiva.

Trotty si ritirò, riprese posto accanto al fuoco e di nuovo rimase ad ascoltare da solo. Rimase lì per un po’ di tempo.

Era impossibile sopportarlo; la loro energia era terribile.

«Se la porta della torre è davvero aperta», disse Toby, togliendosi in fretta il grembiule senza però pensare al cappello, «che cosa mi impedisce di salire nel campanile e accertarmene da solo? Se è chiusa, non voglio nessun’altra soddisfazione. Questo basta».

Era abbastanza certo che l’avrebbe trovata chiusa e sbarrata quando uscì silenziosamente in strada, perché conosceva la porta bene e raramente l’aveva vista aperta, tanto che non poteva contarne più di tre volte. Era un basso portale ad arco, all’esterno della chiesa, in un angolo buio dietro una colonna; aveva dei grandi cardini di ferro e una serratura così mostruosa che c’erano più cardini e serratura che porta.

Ma quale fu il suo stupore quando, giunto in chiesa senza cappello e infilando la mano in quell’angolo oscuro con un certo timore di essere afferrato all’improvviso e una propensione tremante a ritrarla subito; scoprì che la porta, che si apriva verso l’esterno, era effettivamente socchiusa!

Pensò, nel primo momento di sorpresa, di tornare indietro o di procurarsi una luce o un compagno, ma il suo coraggio lo aiutò subito e decise di salire da solo.

«Che cosa ho da temere?» disse Trotty. «È una chiesa! Inoltre i suonatori di campane potrebbero essere lì e aver dimenticato di chiudere la porta». Così entrò, tastando il terreno mentre procedeva come un cieco; perché era molto buio. E molto silenzioso, perché le Campane erano mute.

La polvere della strada era stata spinta nel vano e giaceva lì, ammucchiata, rendendolo così morbido e vellutato al tatto che c’era qualcosa di sorprendente anche in questo. Anche la scala stretta si trovava così vicina alla porta che inciampò già al primo gradino; e chiudendo la porta su se stesso, colpendola con il piede e facendola rimbalzare indietro pesantemente, non riuscì più ad aprirla.

Ma questo era un altro motivo per continuare. Trotty si fece strada a tentoni e proseguì. Su, su, su, e intorno, intorno; e su, su, su; più in alto, sempre più in alto!

Era una scala sgradevole per quel lavoro di tastare al buio; così bassa e stretta che la sua mano brancolante stava sempre a toccare qualcosa; e spesso sembrava tanto simile a un uomo o figura fantasma in piedi eretta, che gli faceva posto senza farsi scoprire, che lui strofinava il muro liscio verso l’alto cercandone la faccia, e verso il basso cercandone i piedi, mentre un brivido gelido gli correva su tutto il corpo. Due o tre volte una porta o nicchia interrompevano quella superficie monotona; ed allora sembrava uno squarcio largo quanto tutta la chiesa; e lui si sentiva sull’orlo di un abisso, sul punto di cadere a capofitto giù, finché non trovava il muro di nuovo.

Sempre più in alto, sempre più in alto, ancora più in alto; e intorno e intorno; e ancora più in alto, più in alto, sempre più in alto!

Alla fine l’aria pesante e soffocante cominciò ad alleggerirsi: presto si fece ventoso, poi il vento soffiò così forte che faticava a stare in piedi. Ma raggiunse una finestra arcuata nella torre, alta fino al petto, e tenendosi stretto guardò giù sui tetti delle case, sulle ciminiere fumanti, sulla confusione di luci (verso il luogo dove Meg si chiedeva dove fosse e forse lo stava chiamando), tutto mescolato insieme in un impasto di nebbia e oscurità.

Questo era il campanile dove venivano i suonatori di campane. Egli aveva afferrato una delle corde consumate che pendevano attraverso aperture nel tetto di quercia. All’inizio ebbe un sussulto, pensando fossero capelli; poi tremò al solo pensiero di svegliare la profonda Campana. Le stesse Campane erano più in alto. Più in alto, Trotty, nella sua fascinazione o nel cercare di sciogliere l’incantesimo che lo aveva colpito, si fece strada a tentoni. Con scale ora, e con fatica, perché era ripido e non offriva una presa troppo sicura per i piedi.

Su, su, su; e arrampicarsi e scalare; su, su, su; più in alto, sempre più in alto, ancora più in alto!

Fino a quando, salendo attraverso il pavimento e fermandosi con la testa appena sollevata sopra le sue travi, si trovò tra le campane. Era appena possibile distinguere le loro grandi forme nell’oscurità; ma lì erano. Ombrose, scure e mute.

Un forte senso di angoscia e solitudine lo colpì immediatamente mentre saliva in questo nido arioso di pietra e metallo. La sua testa girava e rigirava. Ascoltò, poi lanciò un selvaggio “Ehi!”. L’eco prolungò malinconicamente l‘“Ehi!”.

Stordito, confuso e senza fiato, spaventato, Toby guardò intorno a sé con aria assente e svenne.

CHAPTER III—Third Quarter.

Black are the brooding clouds and troubled the deep waters, when the Sea of Thought, first heaving from a calm, gives up its Dead. Monsters uncouth and wild, arise in premature, imperfect resurrection; the several parts and shapes of different things are joined and mixed by chance; and when, and how, and by what wonderful degrees, each separates from each, and every sense and object of the mind resumes its usual form and lives again, no man—though every man is every day the casket of this type of the Great Mystery—can tell.

So, when and how the darkness of the night-black steeple changed to shining light; when and how the solitary tower was peopled with a myriad figures; when and how the whispered ‘Haunt and hunt him,’ breathing monotonously through his sleep or swoon, became a voice exclaiming in the waking ears of Trotty, ‘Break his slumbers;’ when and how he ceased to have a sluggish and confused idea that such things were, companioning a host of others that were not; there are no dates or means to tell. But, awake and standing on his feet upon the boards where he had lately lain, he saw this Goblin Sight.

He saw the tower, whither his charmed footsteps had brought him, swarming with dwarf phantoms, spirits, elfin creatures of the Bells. He saw them leaping, flying, dropping, pouring from the Bells without a pause. He saw them, round him on the ground; above him, in the air; clambering from him, by the ropes below; looking down upon him, from the massive iron-girded beams; peeping in upon him, through the chinks and loopholes in the walls; spreading away and away from him in enlarging circles, as the water ripples give way to a huge stone that suddenly comes plashing in among them. He saw them, of all aspects and all shapes. He saw them ugly, handsome, crippled, exquisitely formed. He saw them young, he saw them old, he saw them kind, he saw them cruel, he saw them merry, he saw them grim; he saw them dance, and heard them sing; he saw them tear their hair, and heard them howl. He saw the air thick with them. He saw them come and go, incessantly. He saw them riding downward, soaring upward, sailing off afar, perching near at hand, all restless and all violently active. Stone, and brick, and slate, and tile, became transparent to him as to them. He saw them in the houses, busy at the sleepers’ beds. He saw them soothing people in their dreams; he saw them beating them with knotted whips; he saw them yelling in their ears; he saw them playing softest music on their pillows; he saw them cheering some with the songs of birds and the perfume of flowers; he saw them flashing awful faces on the troubled rest of others, from enchanted mirrors which they carried in their hands.

He saw these creatures, not only among sleeping men but waking also, active in pursuits irreconcilable with one another, and possessing or assuming natures the most opposite. He saw one buckling on innumerable wings to increase his speed; another loading himself with chains and weights, to retard his. He saw some putting the hands of clocks forward, some putting the hands of clocks backward, some endeavouring to stop the clock entirely. He saw them representing, here a marriage ceremony, there a funeral; in this chamber an election, in that a ball he saw, everywhere, restless and untiring motion.

Bewildered by the host of shifting and extraordinary figures, as well as by the uproar of the Bells, which all this while were ringing, Trotty clung to a wooden pillar for support, and turned his white face here and there, in mute and stunned astonishment.

As he gazed, the Chimes stopped. Instantaneous change! The whole swarm fainted! their forms collapsed, their speed deserted them; they sought to fly, but in the act of falling died and melted into air. No fresh supply succeeded them. One straggler leaped down pretty briskly from the surface of the Great Bell, and alighted on his feet, but he was dead and gone before he could turn round. Some few of the late company who had gambolled in the tower, remained there, spinning over and over a little longer; but these became at every turn more faint, and few, and feeble, and soon went the way of the rest. The last of all was one small hunchback, who had got into an echoing corner, where he twirled and twirled, and floated by himself a long time; showing such perseverance, that at last he dwindled to a leg and even to a foot, before he finally retired; but he vanished in the end, and then the tower was silent.

Then and not before, did Trotty see in every Bell a bearded figure of the bulk and stature of the Bell—incomprehensibly, a figure and the Bell itself. Gigantic, grave, and darkly watchful of him, as he stood rooted to the ground.

Mysterious and awful figures! Resting on nothing; poised in the night air of the tower, with their draped and hooded heads merged in the dim roof; motionless and shadowy. Shadowy and dark, although he saw them by some light belonging to themselves—none else was there—each with its muffled hand upon its goblin mouth.

He could not plunge down wildly through the opening in the floor; for all power of motion had deserted him. Otherwise he would have done so—aye, would have thrown himself, headforemost, from the steeple-top, rather than have seen them watching him with eyes that would have waked and watched although the pupils had been taken out.

Again, again, the dread and terror of the lonely place, and of the wild and fearful night that reigned there, touched him like a spectral hand. His distance from all help; the long, dark, winding, ghost-beleaguered way that lay between him and the earth on which men lived; his being high, high, high, up there, where it had made him dizzy to see the birds fly in the day; cut off from all good people, who at such an hour were safe at home and sleeping in their beds; all this struck coldly through him, not as a reflection but a bodily sensation. Meantime his eyes and thoughts and fears, were fixed upon the watchful figures; which, rendered unlike any figures of this world by the deep gloom and shade enwrapping and enfolding them, as well as by their looks and forms and supernatural hovering above the floor, were nevertheless as plainly to be seen as were the stalwart oaken frames, cross-pieces, bars and beams, set up there to support the Bells. These hemmed them, in a very forest of hewn timber; from the entanglements, intricacies, and depths of which, as from among the boughs of a dead wood blighted for their phantom use, they kept their darksome and unwinking watch.

CAPITOLO III - Terzo trimestre.

Nere sono le nuvole che si addensano e agitate le acque profonde quando il Mare del Pensiero, prima increspato dalla calma, restituisce i suoi Morti. Mostri sgraziati e selvaggi emergono in una resurrezione prematura e imperfetta; le diverse parti e forme di cose differenti si uniscono e si mescolano per caso; e quando, come e con quali meravigliosi gradi ciascuna si separa dall’altra, e ogni senso e oggetto della mente riprende la sua forma abituale e torna a vivere, nessuno può dire - sebbene ogni uomo sia ogni giorno il scrigno di questo modello del Grande Mistero.

Così, quando e come l’oscurità del campanile nero come la notte si trasformò in una luce splendente; quando e come la torre solitaria fu popolata da miriadi di figure; quando e come il sussurro “Perseguitalo e cacialo”, che risuonava monotono attraverso il suo sonno o svenimento, divenne una voce che esclamava nelle orecchie destawake di Trotty: “Svegliatelo”; quando e come cessò di avere l’idea confusa e indistinta che tali cose fossero reali, accompagnate da un’infinità di altre che non lo erano; non ci sono date né mezzi per dirlo. Ma, sveglio e in piedi sulle tavole su cui era giaciuto poco prima, vide questa Visione dei Goblin.

Vide la torre verso cui i suoi incantati passi lo avevano condotto brulicare di fantasmi nani, spiriti e creature elfiche delle Campane. Li vide saltare, volare, cadere, sgorgare senza sosta dalle Campane. Vide che gli stavano intorno a terra; sopra di lui nell’aria; arrampicarsi verso di lui lungo le corde sotto; guardarlo dall’alto dai massicci travetti rinforzati con ferro; spiarlo attraverso fessure e feritoie nelle mura; diffondersi lontano, sempre più lontano in cerchi che si allargavano come le increspature dell’acqua che cedono il passo a una grossa pietra che improvvisamente cade tra di loro. Li vide di tutti i tipi e tutte le forme. Li vide brutti, belli, zoppi, perfettamente formati. Li vide giovani, li vide vecchi, li vide gentili, li vide crudeli, li vide allegri, li vide cupi; li vide danzare e li sentì cantare; li vide strapparsi i capelli e li sentì ululare. Vide l’aria densa di loro. Li vide andare e venire incessantemente. Li vide cavalcare verso il basso, librarsi in alto, veleggiare lontano, posarsi vicino, tutti irrequieti e violentemente attivi. Pietra, mattoni, ardesia e tegole divennero trasparenti per lui come lo erano per loro. Li vide dentro le case, intenti ai letti dei dormienti. Li vide placare i sogni delle persone; li vide picchiarle con fruste annodate; li vide urlare nelle orecchie; li vide suonare la musica più dolce sui cuscini; li vide rallegrare alcuni con le canzoni degli uccelli e il profumo dei fiori; li vide scagliare volti terribili sul riposo agitato di altri, da specchi incantati che portavano in mano.

Egli vide queste creature non solo tra gli uomini addormentati ma anche tra quelli svegli, attive in occupazioni inconciliabili tra loro e dotate o che assumevano natura opposta. Vide uno di essi munirsi di innumerevoli ali per aumentare la sua velocità; un altro caricarsi di catene e pesi, per rallentarsi. Vide alcuni far avanzare le lancette degli orologi, altri farle retrocedere, altri ancora cercare di fermare del tutto l’orologio. Li vide rappresentare qui una cerimonia di matrimonio, là un funerale; in questa stanza un’elezione, in quella un ballo. Vide ovunque movimento incessante e instancabile.

Sbalordito dall’orda di figure straordinarie e mutevoli, così come dal trambusto delle campane, che suonavano senza sosta, Trotty si aggrappò a un pilastro di legno per sorreggersi e girò il suo viso pallido da una parte all’altra, in muta e attonita meraviglia.

Mentre lo fissava, i rintocchi si fermarono. Cambiamento istantaneo! L’intero sciame svenne! Le loro forme crollarono, la velocità li abbandonò; cercarono di volare, ma nel momento in cui cadevano morivano e si dissolvevano nell’aria. Nessun nuovo arrivo li sostituì. Un ritardatario saltò giù piuttosto vivacemente dalla superficie della Grande Campana e atterrò sui piedi, ma era morto e sparito prima di potersi voltare. Alcuni pochi dei membri del gruppo che aveva danzato nella torre rimasero lì, girando su se stessi un po’ più a lungo; ma ad ogni giro diventavano sempre più deboli e pochi in numero, e presto seguirono la sorte degli altri. L’ultimo di tutti fu un piccolo gobbo che si era rifugiato in un angolo risonante, dove girava e girava, fluttuando da solo per un lungo periodo; dimostrò una tale perseveranza che alla fine si ridusse a una gamba e persino a un piede, prima di ritirarsi definitivamente; ma alla fine svanì anche lui, e allora la torre tornò silenziosa.

Fu allora e non prima che Trotty vide in ogni campana una figura barbuta della stessa mole e altezza della campana - incomprensibilmente, sia la figura che la campana stessa. Gigantesche, solenni e oscuramente vigili su di lui mentre rimaneva immobile a terra.

Figure misteriose e terribili! Appoggiate a nulla; sospese nell’aria notturna della torre, con le loro teste avvolte in drappi e cappucci fusi nel tetto scuro; immobili ed ombrose. Ombrose e oscure, sebbene egli le vedesse per mezzo di una luce che apparteneva a loro stesse - non ce n’era altra - ognuna con la mano avvolta sulla bocca grottesca.

Non poteva precipitarsi selvaggiamente attraverso l’apertura nel pavimento; perché ogni capacità di movimento lo aveva abbandonato. Altrimenti lo avrebbe fatto, sì, si sarebbe gettato a testa in giù dalla cima del campanile piuttosto che vederli osservarlo con occhi che avrebbero vegliato e guardato anche se le pupille fossero state rimosse.

Ancora, ancora, il terrore e lo spavento del luogo solitario e della selvaggia e paurosa notte che regnava lì, lo toccarono come una mano spettrale. La sua distanza da ogni aiuto; la lunga, oscura, tortuosa strada infestata dai fantasmi che si estendeva tra lui e il suolo dove vivevano gli uomini; il fatto di trovarsi in alto, altissimo, così in alto, lì, dove anche vedere i uccelli volare di giorno lo aveva reso vertiginoso; isolato da tutte le brave persone che a quell’ora erano al sicuro a casa e dormivano nei loro letti; tutto ciò lo colpì freddamente, non come un pensiero ma come una sensazione fisica. Nel frattempo i suoi occhi e i suoi pensieri e le sue paure erano fissi sulle figure allerta; che, rese diverse da qualsiasi figura di questo mondo dal profondo buio e dall’ombra che le avvolgevano e le inglobavano, così bene come dai loro sguardi e forme e dalla loro presenza soprannaturale che fluttuava al di sopra del pavimento, erano nondimeno altrettanto chiaramente visibili quanto le robuste strutture in quercia, i travi, le sbarre e i montanti, eretti lì per sorreggere le Campane. Questi li circondavano come una vera foresta di legname squadrato; dalle cui intricate complessità e profondità, così come tra i rami di un bosco morto avvizzito per il loro uso da fantasma, mantenevano la loro veglia oscura e senza palpebre.

A blast of air—how cold and shrill!—came moaning through the tower. As it died away, the Great Bell, or the Goblin of the Great Bell, spoke.

‘What visitor is this!’ it said. The voice was low and deep, and Trotty fancied that it sounded in the other figures as well.

‘I thought my name was called by the Chimes!’ said Trotty, raising his hands in an attitude of supplication. ‘I hardly know why I am here, or how I came. I have listened to the Chimes these many years. They have cheered me often.’

‘And you have thanked them?’ said the Bell.

‘A thousand times!’ cried Trotty.

‘How?’

‘I am a poor man,’ faltered Trotty, ‘and could only thank them in words.’

‘And always so?’ inquired the Goblin of the Bell. ‘Have you never done us wrong in words?’

‘No!’ cried Trotty eagerly.

‘Never done us foul, and false, and wicked wrong, in words?’ pursued the Goblin of the Bell.

Trotty was about to answer, ‘Never!’ But he stopped, and was confused.

‘The voice of Time,’ said the Phantom, ‘cries to man, Advance! Time is for his advancement and improvement; for his greater worth, his greater happiness, his better life; his progress onward to that goal within its knowledge and its view, and set there, in the period when Time and He began. Ages of darkness, wickedness, and violence, have come and gone—millions uncountable, have suffered, lived, and died—to point the way before him. Who seeks to turn him back, or stay him on his course, arrests a mighty engine which will strike the meddler dead; and be the fiercer and the wilder, ever, for its momentary check!’

‘I never did so to my knowledge, sir,’ said Trotty. ‘It was quite by accident if I did. I wouldn’t go to do it, I’m sure.’

‘Who puts into the mouth of Time, or of its servants,’ said the Goblin of the Bell, ‘a cry of lamentation for days which have had their trial and their failure, and have left deep traces of it which the blind may see—a cry that only serves the present time, by showing men how much it needs their help when any ears can listen to regrets for such a past—who does this, does a wrong. And you have done that wrong, to us, the Chimes.’

Trotty’s first excess of fear was gone. But he had felt tenderly and gratefully towards the Bells, as you have seen; and when he heard himself arraigned as one who had offended them so weightily, his heart was touched with penitence and grief.

‘If you knew,’ said Trotty, clasping his hands earnestly—‘or perhaps you do know—if you know how often you have kept me company; how often you have cheered me up when I’ve been low; how you were quite the plaything of my little daughter Meg (almost the only one she ever had) when first her mother died, and she and me were left alone; you won’t bear malice for a hasty word!’

‘Who hears in us, the Chimes, one note bespeaking disregard, or stern regard, of any hope, or joy, or pain, or sorrow, of the many-sorrowed throng; who hears us make response to any creed that gauges human passions and affections, as it gauges the amount of miserable food on which humanity may pine and wither; does us wrong. That wrong you have done us!’ said the Bell.

‘I have!’ said Trotty. ‘Oh forgive me!’

‘Who hears us echo the dull vermin of the earth: the Putters Down of crushed and broken natures, formed to be raised up higher than such maggots of the time can crawl or can conceive,’ pursued the Goblin of the Bell; ‘who does so, does us wrong. And you have done us wrong!’

‘Not meaning it,’ said Trotty. ‘In my ignorance. Not meaning it!’

‘Lastly, and most of all,’ pursued the Bell. ‘Who turns his back upon the fallen and disfigured of his kind; abandons them as vile; and does not trace and track with pitying eyes the unfenced precipice by which they fell from good—grasping in their fall some tufts and shreds of that lost soil, and clinging to them still when bruised and dying in the gulf below; does wrong to Heaven and man, to time and to eternity. And you have done that wrong!’

‘Spare me!’ cried Trotty, falling on his knees; ‘for Mercy’s sake!’

‘Listen!’ said the Shadow.

‘Listen!’ cried the other Shadows.

‘Listen!’ said a clear and childlike voice, which Trotty thought he recognised as having heard before.

The organ sounded faintly in the church below. Swelling by degrees, the melody ascended to the roof, and filled the choir and nave. Expanding more and more, it rose up, up; up, up; higher, higher, higher up; awakening agitated hearts within the burly piles of oak: the hollow bells, the iron-bound doors, the stairs of solid stone; until the tower walls were insufficient to contain it, and it soared into the sky.

No wonder that an old man’s breast could not contain a sound so vast and mighty. It broke from that weak prison in a rush of tears; and Trotty put his hands before his face.

‘Listen!’ said the Shadow.

‘Listen!’ said the other Shadows.

‘Listen!’ said the child’s voice.

A solemn strain of blended voices, rose into the tower.

It was a very low and mournful strain—a Dirge—and as he listened, Trotty heard his child among the singers.

‘She is dead!’ exclaimed the old man. ‘Meg is dead! Her Spirit calls to me. I hear it!’

‘The Spirit of your child bewails the dead, and mingles with the dead—dead hopes, dead fancies, dead imaginings of youth,’ returned the Bell, ‘but she is living. Learn from her life, a living truth. Learn from the creature dearest to your heart, how bad the bad are born. See every bud and leaf plucked one by one from off the fairest stem, and know how bare and wretched it may be. Follow her! To desperation!’

Each of the shadowy figures stretched its right arm forth, and pointed downward.

‘The Spirit of the Chimes is your companion,’ said the figure.

‘Go! It stands behind you!’

Trotty turned, and saw—the child! The child Will Fern had carried in the street; the child whom Meg had watched, but now, asleep!

Un soffio d’aria — quanto freddo e stridente! — venne gemendo attraverso la torre. Mentre si attenuava, la Grande Campana, o il Folletto della Grande Campana, parlò.

«Che visitatore è questo!» disse. La voce era bassa e profonda, e a Trotty parve che risuonasse anche nelle altre figure così.

«Pensavo che i Campanili avessero chiamato il mio nome!» disse Trotty, alzando le mani in atteggiamento supplichevole. «A malapena so perché mi trovo qui, o come ci sono arrivato. Ho ascoltato i Campanili per tanti anni. Mi hanno spesso rincuorato».

«E li hai ringraziati?» disse la Campana.

«Mille volte!» gridò Trotty.

“Come?”

“Sono un povero uomo,” balbettò Trotty, “e posso solo ringraziarli con le parole.”

«E sempre così?» chiese il Genio della Campana. «Non ci hai mai fatto torto con le parole?»

«No!» esclamò Trotty con entusiasmo.

«Non ci avete mai fatto torto, e inganno, e malvagità con le parole?» proseguì il Folletto della Campana.

Trotty stava per rispondere: «Mai!» Ma si fermò e fu confuso.

«La voce del Tempo,» disse lo Spettro, «grida all’uomo: Avanti! Il Tempo è per il suo progresso e miglioramento; per la sua maggiore dignità, la sua maggiore felicità, una vita migliore; il suo cammino verso quel traguardo che sta nel suo sapere e nella sua vista, e che fu posto lì, nell’epoca in cui Tempo e Lui ebbero inizio. Ere di tenebra, malvagità e violenza sono venute e se ne sono andate — milioni incalcolabili hanno sofferto, vissuto e morito — per indicare la via davanti a lui. Chi cerca di farlo retrocedere o di fermarlo nel suo cammino arresta una possente macchina che ucciderà l’importuno; e sarà sempre più feroce e selvaggia, ogni volta, per il momento in cui viene trattenuta!»

«Non l’ho mai fatto consciamente, signore», disse Trotty. «Se lo feci fu del tutto per caso. Non avrei mai voluto farlo, ne sono certo».

«Chi mette in bocca al Tempo, o ai suoi servi», disse il Goblin della Campana, «un grido di lamento per i giorni che hanno avuto la loro prova e il loro fallimento, e hanno lasciato tracce profonde di esso che anche i ciechi possono vedere— un grido che serve solo al tempo presente, mostrando agli uomini quanto ne abbiano bisogno quando orecchie qualsiasi possono ascoltare rimpianti per un passato del genere— chi fa questo, commette un torto. E tu hai fatto quel torto a noi, le Campane».

Il primo eccesso di paura di Trotty era passato. Ma aveva provato un sentimento tenero e grato verso le campane, come avete visto; e quando si sentì accusare di averle offese così gravemente, il suo cuore fu toccato dal pentimento e dal dolore.

«Se lo sapessi», disse Trotty, stringendosi le mani con fervore - «o forse lo sai già: se sai quante volte mi hai tenuto compagnia; quante volte mi hai tirato su quando ero giù di corda; come tu fossi il giocattolo preferito della mia piccola figlia Meg (quasi l’unico che abbia mai avuto) quando sua madre morì e noi due rimanemmo sole; non vorrai certo portare rancore per una parola detta in fretta!»

«Chiunque senta in noi, le Campane, una nota che esprima disprezzo o rigido giudizio per qualsiasi speranza, gioia, dolore o tristezza della moltitudine afflitta; chiunque ci senta rispondere a un credo che misuri le passioni e gli affetti umani come si misurano le quantità di cibo miserabile su cui l’umanità può languire e appassire, ci fa torto. Quel torto ce l’avete fatto!» disse la Campana.

«L’ho fatto!» disse Trotty «Oh, perdonatemi!»

«Chi ci sente ripetere l’eco dei noiosi vermi della terra: i Soppressori di nature schiacciate e rotte, create per essere sollevate più in alto di quanto tali larve del tempo possano strisciare o concepire», proseguì il Folletto della Campana; «chi lo fa ci offende. E voi ci avete offeso!»

“Non intendevo farlo”, disse Trotty, “per la mia ignoranza. Non intendevo farlo!”

«Infine e soprattutto», continuò la Campana. «Chi volge le spalle ai caduti e sfigurati della sua specie; li abbandona come vili; e non segue con occhi compassionevoli il precipizio senza baluardi da cui sono caduti dal bene - aggrappandosi nella loro caduta a ciuffi e brandelli di quel terreno perduto, e continuando ad attaccarvisi mentre sono feriti e morenti nell’abisso sottostante; fa torto al Cielo e all’uomo, al tempo e all’eternità. E tu hai fatto quel torto!»

«Risparmiami!», gridò Trotty cadendo in ginocchio: «Per amor di pietà!»

«Ascolta!» disse l’ombra.

«Ascolta!» gridarono le altre Ombre.

«Ascolta!», disse una voce chiara e infantile che Trotty gli parve di riconoscere come già udita in precedenza.

L’organo suonava flebilmente nella chiesa sottostante. Aumentando gradualmente, la melodia saliva fino alla volta e riempiva il coro e la navata. Espandendosi sempre più, essa saliva su, su; su, su; sempre più in alto, più in alto; risvegliando cuori agitati all’interno delle massicce pile di quercia: le cave campane, le porte rinforzate con il ferro, le scale di pietra solida; finché le pareti della torre non furono più sufficienti a contenerla e essa si innalzò verso il cielo.

Non c’è da meravigliarsi che il petto di un vecchio non potesse contenere un suono così vasto e possente. Esso si liberò da quella debole prigione in un’ondata di lacrime; e Trotty si coprì il viso con le mani.

«Ascolta!» disse l’ombra.

«Ascolta!» dissero le altre Ombre.

«Ascolta!» disse la voce del bambino.

Un grave motivo di voci intrecciate, salì nella torre.

Era un motivo molto basso e luttuoso — una Sequenza — e mentre ascoltava, Trotty sentì la sua figlia tra i cantanti.

‘È morta!’ esclamò il vecchio uomo. ‘Meg è morta! Il suo spirito mi chiama. Lo sento!’

«Lo Spirito del tuo bambino piange i morti e si mescola con i morti: speranze morte, fantasie morte, immaginazioni morte della giovinezza», rispose la Campana. «Ma lei è viva. Impara da lei una verità vivente. Impara dalla creatura più cara al tuo cuore come nascono i malvagi. Vedi ogni bocciolo e foglia strappati uno dopo l’altro dal fusto più bello, e saprai quanto può essere nudo e miserabile. Seguila! Fino alla disperazione!»

Ognuna di quelle figure ombrose tese il braccio destro e puntò in basso.

«Lo Spirito delle Campane è il tuo compagno», disse la figura.

‘Vai! Sta dietro di te!’

Trotty si voltò e vide, il bambino! Il bambino che Will Fern aveva portato in strada; il bambino che Meg aveva sorvegliato, ma ora addormentato!

‘I carried her myself, to-night,’ said Trotty. ‘In these arms!’

‘Show him what he calls himself,’ said the dark figures, one and all.

The tower opened at his feet. He looked down, and beheld his own form, lying at the bottom, on the outside: crushed and motionless.

‘No more a living man!’ cried Trotty. ‘Dead!’

‘Dead!’ said the figures all together.

‘Gracious Heaven! And the New Year—’

‘Past,’ said the figures.

‘What!’ he cried, shuddering. ‘I missed my way, and coming on the outside of this tower in the dark, fell down—a year ago?’

‘Nine years ago!’ replied the figures.

As they gave the answer, they recalled their outstretched hands; and where their figures had been, there the Bells were.

And they rung; their time being come again. And once again, vast multitudes of phantoms sprung into existence; once again, were incoherently engaged, as they had been before; once again, faded on the stopping of the Chimes; and dwindled into nothing.

‘What are these?’ he asked his guide. ‘If I am not mad, what are these?’

‘Spirits of the Bells. Their sound upon the air,’ returned the child. ‘They take such shapes and occupations as the hopes and thoughts of mortals, and the recollections they have stored up, give them.’

‘And you,’ said Trotty wildly. ‘What are you?’

‘Hush, hush!’ returned the child. ‘Look here!’

In a poor, mean room; working at the same kind of embroidery which he had often, often seen before her; Meg, his own dear daughter, was presented to his view. He made no effort to imprint his kisses on her face; he did not strive to clasp her to his loving heart; he knew that such endearments were, for him, no more. But, he held his trembling breath, and brushed away the blinding tears, that he might look upon her; that he might only see her.

Ah! Changed. Changed. The light of the clear eye, how dimmed. The bloom, how faded from the cheek. Beautiful she was, as she had ever been, but Hope, Hope, Hope, oh where was the fresh Hope that had spoken to him like a voice!

She looked up from her work, at a companion. Following her eyes, the old man started back.

In the woman grown, he recognised her at a glance. In the long silken hair, he saw the self-same curls; around the lips, the child’s expression lingering still. See! In the eyes, now turned inquiringly on Meg, there shone the very look that scanned those features when he brought her home!

Then what was this, beside him!

Looking with awe into its face, he saw a something reigning there: a lofty something, undefined and indistinct, which made it hardly more than a remembrance of that child—as yonder figure might be—yet it was the same: the same: and wore the dress.

Hark. They were speaking!

‘Meg,’ said Lilian, hesitating. ‘How often you raise your head from your work to look at me!’

‘Are my looks so altered, that they frighten you?’ asked Meg.

‘Nay, dear! But you smile at that, yourself! Why not smile, when you look at me, Meg?’

‘I do so. Do I not?’ she answered: smiling on her.

‘Now you do,’ said Lilian, ‘but not usually. When you think I’m busy, and don’t see you, you look so anxious and so doubtful, that I hardly like to raise my eyes. There is little cause for smiling in this hard and toilsome life, but you were once so cheerful.’

‘Am I not now!’ cried Meg, speaking in a tone of strange alarm, and rising to embrace her. ‘Do I make our weary life more weary to you, Lilian!’

‘You have been the only thing that made it life,’ said Lilian, fervently kissing her; ‘sometimes the only thing that made me care to live so, Meg. Such work, such work! So many hours, so many days, so many long, long nights of hopeless, cheerless, never-ending work—not to heap up riches, not to live grandly or gaily, not to live upon enough, however coarse; but to earn bare bread; to scrape together just enough to toil upon, and want upon, and keep alive in us the consciousness of our hard fate! Oh Meg, Meg!’ she raised her voice and twined her arms about her as she spoke, like one in pain. ‘How can the cruel world go round, and bear to look upon such lives!’

‘Lilly!’ said Meg, soothing her, and putting back her hair from her wet face. ‘Why, Lilly! You! So pretty and so young!’

‘Oh Meg!’ she interrupted, holding her at arm’s-length, and looking in her face imploringly. ‘The worst of all, the worst of all! Strike me old, Meg! Wither me, and shrivel me, and free me from the dreadful thoughts that tempt me in my youth!’

Trotty turned to look upon his guide. But the Spirit of the child had taken flight. Was gone.

Neither did he himself remain in the same place; for, Sir Joseph Bowley, Friend and Father of the Poor, held a great festivity at Bowley Hall, in honour of the natal day of Lady Bowley. And as Lady Bowley had been born on New Year’s Day (which the local newspapers considered an especial pointing of the finger of Providence to number One, as Lady Bowley’s destined figure in Creation), it was on a New Year’s Day that this festivity took place.

Bowley Hall was full of visitors. The red-faced gentleman was there, Mr. Filer was there, the great Alderman Cute was there—Alderman Cute had a sympathetic feeling with great people, and had considerably improved his acquaintance with Sir Joseph Bowley on the strength of his attentive letter: indeed had become quite a friend of the family since then—and many guests were there. Trotty’s ghost was there, wandering about, poor phantom, drearily; and looking for its guide.

There was to be a great dinner in the Great Hall. At which Sir Joseph Bowley, in his celebrated character of Friend and Father of the Poor, was to make his great speech. Certain plum-puddings were to be eaten by his Friends and Children in another Hall first; and, at a given signal, Friends and Children flocking in among their Friends and Fathers, were to form a family assemblage, with not one manly eye therein unmoistened by emotion.

«L’ho portata io stesso, stasera», disse Trotty, «con queste braccia!»

«Mostrategli come si chiama», dissero le figure scure, una dopo l’altra.

La torre si aprì ai suoi piedi. Guardò giù e vide la propria forma sdraiata sul fondo, all’esterno, schiacciata e immobile.

‘Non più un uomo vivo!’ gridò Trotty. ‘Morto!’

«Morto!» dissero i fantasmi tutti insieme.

‘Oh cielo misericordioso! E il nuovo anno, ’

«Passato», dissero le figure.

«Che cosa!» esclamò, rabbrividendo. «Mi sono smarrito e venendo dal lato esterno di questa torre al buio, sono caduto, un anno fa?»

«Nove anni fa!» risposero le figure.

Mentre davano la risposta, ritirarono le mani tese e dove si erano trovate le loro figure c’erano le Campane.

E suonarono di nuovo; era giunto il loro tempo. E ancora una volta, immense moltitudini di fantasmi presero vita; si impegnarono in modo confuso come prima; svanirono quando le Campane smisero di suonare e si ridussero a nulla.

‘Che cosa sono queste?’ chiese alla sua guida. ‘Se non sono pazzo, che cosa sono queste?’

«Spiriti delle campane. Il loro suono nell’aria», rispose il bambino. «Assumono forme e occupazioni secondo le speranze e i pensieri degli esseri umani, e i ricordi che hanno accumulato.»

“E tu,” disse Trotty in modo selvaggio, “cosa sei?”

«Ssst, ssst!» rispose il bambino. «Guarda qui!»

In una stanza povera e misera, mentre lavorava allo stesso tipo di ricamo che lui aveva spesso, spesso visto prima davanti a lei, Meg, la sua cara figlia, gli fu presentata alla vista. Non fece alcuno sforzo per imprimere i suoi baci sul suo volto; non cercò di stringerla al suo cuore amorevole; sapeva che tali effusioni d’affetto erano ormai perdute per lui. Ma trattenne il respiro tremante e si asciugò le lacrime accecanti, affinché potesse guardarla; solo per vederla.

Ah! Cambiata. Cambiata. La luce dell’occhio limpido, quanto offuscata. Il rossore, quanto svanito dal viso. Era bella come era sempre stata, ma la speranza, la speranza, la speranza, oh dove era la fresca speranza che gli aveva parlato come una voce!

Lei alzò gli occhi dal suo lavoro verso una compagna. Seguendo il suo sguardo, l’anziano uomo indietreggiò.

Nella donna matura la riconobbe al primo sguardo. Nei lunghi capelli setosi vide le stesse identiche ciocche; intorno alle labbra, l’espressione del bambino che ancora persisteva. Guardate! Negli occhi, ora rivolti con curiosità verso Meg, brillava proprio lo stesso sguardo che aveva scrutato quei tratti quando la portò a casa!

Allora cos’era quello accanto a lui!

Guardando con timore il suo volto, vide qualcosa che vi regnava: un qualcosa di sublime, indefinito e indistinto, che lo rendeva a malapena più di un ricordo di quel bambino — come potrebbe essere quella figura laggiù — eppure era lo stesso: lo stesso: e indossava l’abito.

Ascolta. Stavano parlando!

«Meg», disse Lilian esitando, «quante volte alzi la testa dal tuo lavoro per guardarmi!»

«Il mio aspetto è così cambiato da spaventarvi?» chiese Meg.

‘No, cara mia! Ma tu sorridi anche a questo! Perché non sorridere quando mi guardi, Meg?’

«Lo faccio davvero. Non è così?» rispose lei sorridendole.

«Ora lo fai», disse Lilian, «ma non di solito. Quando pensi che io sia occupata e non ti veda, hai un’aria così ansiosa e dubbiosa che a malapena mi piace alzare gli occhi. In questa vita dura e laboriosa c’è poco motivo per sorridere, ma una volta eri così allegro».

«Non lo sono forse adesso!» esclamò Meg con un tono di strana agitazione e alzandosi per abbracciarla. «Rendo la nostra vita già così faticosa ancora più penosa, Lilian?»

«Sei stata l’unica cosa che ha reso la vita degna di essere vissuta», disse Lilian, baciandola con fervore; «a volte l’unica cosa per cui mi è importato vivere così, Meg. Un tale lavoro, un tale lavoro! Tante ore, tanti giorni, tante lunghe, lunghe notti di lavoro senza speranza, senza conforto, senza fine - non per accumulare ricchezze, non per vivere in modo grandioso o allegramente, non per vivere con il necessario, per quanto modesto; ma per guadagnarsi il pane quotidiano; per riuscire a mettere insieme giusto abbastanza per lavorare ancora, soffrire e mantenere viva in noi la consapevolezza del nostro duro destino! Oh Meg, Meg!» alzò la voce e le avvolse le braccia intorno mentre parlava, come se fosse in dolore. «Come può il crudele mondo continuare a girare e sopportare di guardare vite del genere!»

«Lilly!», disse Meg, consolandola e scostandole i capelli dal viso bagnato. «Ma, Lilly! Tu! Così carina e così giovane!»

«Oh, Meg!» la interruppe, tenendola a braccia distese e guardandole implorante il volto. «La cosa peggiore di tutte, la cosa peggiore di tutte! Invecchiati tu per me, Meg! Appassiscimi e avvizziscimi, e liberami dai terribili pensieri che mi tentano nella mia giovinezza!»

Trotty si voltò per guardare la sua guida, ma lo Spirito del bambino era volato via, se n’era andato.

Né lui stesso rimase nello stesso posto; poiché Sir Joseph Bowley, Amico e Padre dei Poveri, tenne una grande festa alla Bowley Hall, in onore del giorno di nascita della Lady Bowley. E dato che Lady Bowley era nata il primo dell’anno (fatto che i giornali locali considerarono un particolare puntamento del dito della Provvidenza sul numero Uno, come cifra destinata di Lady Bowley nella Creazione), fu proprio il primo dell’anno in cui ebbe luogo questa festa.

Bowley Hall era piena di visitatori. C’era il gentiluomo dal viso rosso, c’era Mr. Filer, c’era il grande consigliere Cute — Consigliere Cute aveva un sentimento di simpatia per le grandi persone e aveva notevolmente approfondito la sua conoscenza con Sir Joseph Bowley sulla base della sua attenta lettera: anzi, da allora era diventato quasi un amico della famiglia — e c’erano molti ospiti. Il fantasma di Trotty era lì, che vagava intorno, povero spettro, in modo desolato; e cercava la sua guida.

Nella Grande Sala ci sarebbe stato un grande banchetto. Al quale Sir Joseph Bowley, nel suo famoso ruolo di Amico e Padre dei Poveri, avrebbe pronunciato il suo grande discorso. Certi budini di prugne sarebbero stati mangiati dai suoi Amici e Figli in un’altra Sala per primi; e, a un segnale dato, gli Amici e i Figli accorsi tra i loro Amici e Padri avrebbero formato un raduno familiare, senza che uno solo degli occhi virili presenti non fosse commosso.

But, there was more than this to happen. Even more than this. Sir Joseph Bowley, Baronet and Member of Parliament, was to play a match at skittles—real skittles—with his tenants!

‘Which quite reminds me,’ said Alderman Cute, ‘of the days of old King Hal, stout King Hal, bluff King Hal. Ah! Fine character!’

‘Very,’ said Mr. Filer, dryly. ‘For marrying women and murdering ’em. Considerably more than the average number of wives by the bye.’

‘You’ll marry the beautiful ladies, and not murder ’em, eh?’ said Alderman Cute to the heir of Bowley, aged twelve. ‘Sweet boy! We shall have this little gentleman in Parliament now,’ said the Alderman, holding him by the shoulders, and looking as reflective as he could, ‘before we know where we are. We shall hear of his successes at the poll; his speeches in the House; his overtures from Governments; his brilliant achievements of all kinds; ah! we shall make our little orations about him in the Common Council, I’ll be bound; before we have time to look about us!’

‘Oh, the difference of shoes and stockings!’ Trotty thought. But his heart yearned towards the child, for the love of those same shoeless and stockingless boys, predestined (by the Alderman) to turn out bad, who might have been the children of poor Meg.

‘Richard,’ moaned Trotty, roaming among the company, to and fro; ‘where is he? I can’t find Richard! Where is Richard?’ Not likely to be there, if still alive! But Trotty’s grief and solitude confused him; and he still went wandering among the gallant company, looking for his guide, and saying, ‘Where is Richard? Show me Richard!’

He was wandering thus, when he encountered Mr. Fish, the confidential Secretary: in great agitation.

‘Bless my heart and soul!’ cried Mr. Fish. ‘Where’s Alderman Cute? Has anybody seen the Alderman?’

Seen the Alderman? Oh dear! Who could ever help seeing the Alderman? He was so considerate, so affable, he bore so much in mind the natural desires of folks to see him, that if he had a fault, it was the being constantly On View. And wherever the great people were, there, to be sure, attracted by the kindred sympathy between great souls, was Cute.

Several voices cried that he was in the circle round Sir Joseph. Mr. Fish made way there; found him; and took him secretly into a window near at hand. Trotty joined them. Not of his own accord. He felt that his steps were led in that direction.

‘My dear Alderman Cute,’ said Mr. Fish. ‘A little more this way. The most dreadful circumstance has occurred. I have this moment received the intelligence. I think it will be best not to acquaint Sir Joseph with it till the day is over. You understand Sir Joseph, and will give me your opinion. The most frightful and deplorable event!’

‘Fish!’ returned the Alderman. ‘Fish! My good fellow, what is the matter? Nothing revolutionary, I hope! No—no attempted interference with the magistrates?’

‘Deedles, the banker,’ gasped the Secretary. ‘Deedles Brothers—who was to have been here to-day—high in office in the Goldsmiths’ Company—’

‘Not stopped!’ exclaimed the Alderman, ‘It can’t be!’

‘Shot himself.’

‘Good God!’

‘Put a double-barrelled pistol to his mouth, in his own counting house,’ said Mr. Fish, ‘and blew his brains out. No motive. Princely circumstances!’

‘Circumstances!’ exclaimed the Alderman. ‘A man of noble fortune. One of the most respectable of men. Suicide, Mr. Fish! By his own hand!’

‘This very morning,’ returned Mr. Fish.

‘Oh the brain, the brain!’ exclaimed the pious Alderman, lifting up his hands. ‘Oh the nerves, the nerves; the mysteries of this machine called Man! Oh the little that unhinges it: poor creatures that we are! Perhaps a dinner, Mr. Fish. Perhaps the conduct of his son, who, I have heard, ran very wild, and was in the habit of drawing bills upon him without the least authority! A most respectable man. One of the most respectable men I ever knew! A lamentable instance, Mr. Fish. A public calamity! I shall make a point of wearing the deepest mourning. A most respectable man! But there is One above. We must submit, Mr. Fish. We must submit!’

What, Alderman! No word of Putting Down? Remember, Justice, your high moral boast and pride. Come, Alderman! Balance those scales. Throw me into this, the empty one, no dinner, and Nature’s founts in some poor woman, dried by starving misery and rendered obdurate to claims for which her offspring has authority in holy mother Eve. Weigh me the two, you Daniel, going to judgment, when your day shall come! Weigh them, in the eyes of suffering thousands, audience (not unmindful) of the grim farce you play. Or supposing that you strayed from your five wits—it’s not so far to go, but that it might be—and laid hands upon that throat of yours, warning your fellows (if you have a fellow) how they croak their comfortable wickedness to raving heads and stricken hearts. What then?

The words rose up in Trotty’s breast, as if they had been spoken by some other voice within him. Alderman Cute pledged himself to Mr. Fish that he would assist him in breaking the melancholy catastrophe to Sir Joseph when the day was over. Then, before they parted, wringing Mr. Fish’s hand in bitterness of soul, he said, ‘The most respectable of men!’ And added that he hardly knew (not even he), why such afflictions were allowed on earth.

‘It’s almost enough to make one think, if one didn’t know better,’ said Alderman Cute, ‘that at times some motion of a capsizing nature was going on in things, which affected the general economy of the social fabric. Deedles Brothers!’

The skittle-playing came off with immense success. Sir Joseph knocked the pins about quite skilfully; Master Bowley took an innings at a shorter distance also; and everybody said that now, when a Baronet and the Son of a Baronet played at skittles, the country was coming round again, as fast as it could come.

Ma non era tutto qui. C’era di più. Il baronetto e membro del parlamento sir Joseph Bowley avrebbe giocato una partita a birilli — veri birilli — con i suoi inquilini!

«Il che mi fa ricordare», disse Alderman Cute, «i giorni del vecchio Re Hal, robusto Re Hal, cordiale Re Hal. Ah! Un personaggio magnifico!»

«Molto», disse seccamente il signor Filer. «Per sposare donne e ucciderle. E per avere un numero di mogli considerevolmente superiore alla media, tra l’altro».

«Sposerete le belle signore e non le ucciderete, eh?» disse Alderman Cute all’erede di Bowley, dodicenne. «Dolce ragazzo! Avremo questo piccolo gentiluomo in Parlamento prima che ce ne accorgiamo», disse l’Alderman, tenendolo per le spalle e assumendo un’espressione il più riflessiva possibile, «prima di renderci conto di dove siamo. Sentiremo parlare dei suoi successi alle elezioni; i suoi discorsi in Camera; le sue proposte da parte dei Governi; le sue brillanti imprese di ogni genere; ah! faremo i nostri piccoli discorsi su di lui nel Consiglio Comunale, ne sono certo; prima che abbiamo il tempo di guardarci intorno!»

«Oh, la differenza tra scarpe e calze!» pensò Trotty. Ma il suo cuore si inclinava verso il bambino, per l’amore di quei medesimi ragazzi senza scarpe né calze, predestinati (dall’Aldermano) a diventare cattivi, che avrebbero potuto essere i figli della povera Meg.

«Richard,» gemeva Trotty, vagando tra la compagnia, avanti e indietro; «dov’è? Non riesco a trovare Richard! Dov’è Richard?» Non era probabile che ci fosse, se ancora vivo! Ma il dolore di Trotty e la sua solitudine lo confondevano; e continuava a vagare tra quella nobile compagnia, cercando la sua guida e dicendo: «Dov’è Richard? Fatemi vedere Richard!»

Era così intento a vagare quando incontrò il signor Fish, l’impiegato di fiducia, in grande agitazione.

«Per il mio cuore e la mia anima!» esclamò il signor Fish «Dov’è l’assessore Cute? Qualcuno ha visto l’assessore?»

Avete visto il consigliere? Oh, poverini! Chi mai potrebbe non vedere il consigliere? Era così premuroso, così affabile, teneva tanto a mente i naturali desideri della gente di vederlo che se aveva un difetto era quello di essere costantemente in vista. E dovunque si trovassero le persone importanti, là, attratto dalla simpatia tra grandi anime, c’era il piccolo Cute.

Diverse voci gridarono che si trovava nel gruppo attorno al Sir Joseph. Il signor Fish fece strada lì; lo trovò e lo portò segretamente a una finestra vicina. Trotty li raggiunse. Non di sua spontanea volontà. Sentiva che i suoi passi erano guidati in quella direzione.

«Mio caro Alderman Cute», disse il signor Fish, «un po’ più da questa parte. Si è verificata la circostanza più terribile. Ho ricevuto l’informazione in questo momento. Penso che sia meglio non informare Sir Joseph fino a quando la giornata non sarà finita. Lei conosce Sir Joseph e mi darà il suo parere. L’evento più spaventoso e deplorevole!»

«Pesce!» rispose l’Aldermano. «Pesce! Mio buon uomo, che succede? Nulla di rivoluzionario, lo spero! No - nessun tentativo di interferenza con i magistrati?»

«Deedles, il banchiere», ansimò il Segretario, «i fratelli Deedles — che dovevano essere qui oggi — altolocati nella Compagnia degli Orafi —»

‘Non si è fermato!’, esclamò l’Aldermanno, ‘Impossibile!’

‘Si è sparato.’

‘Gesù mio!’

«Gli ha puntato una doppia canna di pistola alla bocca, nella sua stessa banca,» disse Mr. Fish «e gli ha fatto saltare le cervella. Senza motivo. In condizioni principesche!»

«Circostanze!» esclamò l’Aldermano. «Un uomo di nobile fortuna, uno degli uomini più rispettabili. Suicidio, signor Fish! Per mano propria!»

«Proprio questa mattina», rispose il signor Fish.

«Oh il cervello, il cervello!» esclamò l’edile pio, alzando le mani. «Oh i nervi, i nervi; i misteri di questa macchina chiamata Uomo! Oh quanto poco serve a sconvolgerla: povere creature che siamo! Forse una cena, signor Fish. Forse il comportamento del figlio, che ho sentito dire fosse molto scapestrato e avesse l’abitudine di emettere assegni su suo padre senza la minima autorità! Un uomo estremamente rispettabile. Uno degli uomini più rispettabili che io abbia mai conosciuto! Un caso deplorevole, signor Fish. Una calamità pubblica! Farò un punto d’onore di indossare il lutto più profondo. Un uomo estremamente rispettabile! Ma c’è Qualcuno in alto. Dobbiamo sottometterci, signor Fish. Dobbiamo sottometterci!»

Che cosa, Esecutivo! Niente parola di Abbassamento? Ricordatevi, Giustizia, della vostra alta presunzione e orgoglio morale. Avanti, Esecutivo! Bilanciate quelle bilance. Gettatemi in questa, la vuota, senza pranzo, e le sorgenti di Natura in qualche povera donna, prosciugate dalla miseria che affama e rese insensibile alle rivendicazioni per cui il suo figlio ha autorità nella santa madre Eva. Ponderatemi i due, voi Daniele, andando a giudizio, quando verrà il vostro giorno! Bilanciateli, agli occhi di migliaia che soffrono, pubblico (non inattento) della tetra farsa che recitate. O supponendo che vi allontanaste dai vostri cinque sensi—non è così lontano da non poterlo fare, e metteste le mani su quella vostra gola, ammonendo i vostri simili (se ne avete uno) di come gracchino la loro comoda malvagità a teste deliranti e cuori feriti. Che cosa allora?

Le parole salirono al petto di Trotty come se fossero state pronunciate da un’altra voce dentro di lui. L’Eccellentissimo Alderman Cute promise a Mr. Fish che lo avrebbe aiutato a comunicare la triste catastrofe a Sir Joseph quando fosse finita la giornata. Poi, prima di separarsi, stringendo la mano di Mr. Fish in amarezza d’animo, disse: «Il più rispettabile degli uomini!» E aggiunse che non sapeva (neanche lui) perché tali afflizioni fossero consentite sulla terra.

«È quasi sufficiente per far pensare, se non si sapesse meglio», disse l’assessore Cute, «che a volte avvenisse un movimento di natura capovolgente nelle cose, che influenzasse l’economia generale del tessuto sociale. Fratelli Deedles!»

Il gioco di birilli ebbe un immenso successo. Sir Joseph abbatté i birilli con grande abilità; anche il piccolo Bowley prese la sua battuta a una distanza più breve; e tutti dissero che ora, quando un baronetto e il figlio di un baronetto giocavano ai birilli, il paese stava tornando com’era prima, il più velocemente possibile.

At its proper time, the Banquet was served up. Trotty involuntarily repaired to the Hall with the rest, for he felt himself conducted thither by some stronger impulse than his own free will. The sight was gay in the extreme; the ladies were very handsome; the visitors delighted, cheerful, and good-tempered. When the lower doors were opened, and the people flocked in, in their rustic dresses, the beauty of the spectacle was at its height; but Trotty only murmured more and more, ‘Where is Richard! He should help and comfort her! I can’t see Richard!’

There had been some speeches made; and Lady Bowley’s health had been proposed; and Sir Joseph Bowley had returned thanks, and had made his great speech, showing by various pieces of evidence that he was the born Friend and Father, and so forth; and had given as a Toast, his Friends and Children, and the Dignity of Labour; when a slight disturbance at the bottom of the Hall attracted Toby’s notice. After some confusion, noise, and opposition, one man broke through the rest, and stood forward by himself.

Not Richard. No. But one whom he had thought of, and had looked for, many times. In a scantier supply of light, he might have doubted the identity of that worn man, so old, and grey, and bent; but with a blaze of lamps upon his gnarled and knotted head, he knew Will Fern as soon as he stepped forth.

‘What is this!’ exclaimed Sir Joseph, rising. ‘Who gave this man admittance? This is a criminal from prison! Mr. Fish, sir, will you have the goodness—’

‘A minute!’ said Will Fern. ‘A minute! My Lady, you was born on this day along with a New Year. Get me a minute’s leave to speak.’

She made some intercession for him. Sir Joseph took his seat again, with native dignity.

The ragged visitor—for he was miserably dressed—looked round upon the company, and made his homage to them with a humble bow.

‘Gentlefolks!’ he said. ‘You’ve drunk the Labourer. Look at me!’

‘Just come from jail,’ said Mr. Fish.

‘Just come from jail,’ said Will. ‘And neither for the first time, nor the second, nor the third, nor yet the fourth.’

Mr. Filer was heard to remark testily, that four times was over the average; and he ought to be ashamed of himself.

‘Gentlefolks!’ repeated Will Fern. ‘Look at me! You see I’m at the worst. Beyond all hurt or harm; beyond your help; for the time when your kind words or kind actions could have done me good,’—he struck his hand upon his breast, and shook his head, ‘is gone, with the scent of last year’s beans or clover on the air. Let me say a word for these,’ pointing to the labouring people in the Hall; ‘and when you’re met together, hear the real Truth spoke out for once.’

‘There’s not a man here,’ said the host, ‘who would have him for a spokesman.’

‘Like enough, Sir Joseph. I believe it. Not the less true, perhaps, is what I say. Perhaps that’s a proof on it. Gentlefolks, I’ve lived many a year in this place. You may see the cottage from the sunk fence over yonder. I’ve seen the ladies draw it in their books, a hundred times. It looks well in a picter, I’ve heerd say; but there an’t weather in picters, and maybe ’tis fitter for that, than for a place to live in. Well! I lived there. How hard—how bitter hard, I lived there, I won’t say. Any day in the year, and every day, you can judge for your own selves.’

He spoke as he had spoken on the night when Trotty found him in the street. His voice was deeper and more husky, and had a trembling in it now and then; but he never raised it passionately, and seldom lifted it above the firm stern level of the homely facts he stated.

‘’Tis harder than you think for, gentlefolks, to grow up decent, commonly decent, in such a place. That I growed up a man and not a brute, says something for me—as I was then. As I am now, there’s nothing can be said for me or done for me. I’m past it.’

‘I am glad this man has entered,’ observed Sir Joseph, looking round serenely. ‘Don’t disturb him. It appears to be Ordained. He is an example: a living example. I hope and trust, and confidently expect, that it will not be lost upon my Friends here.’

‘I dragged on,’ said Fern, after a moment’s silence, ‘somehow. Neither me nor any other man knows how; but so heavy, that I couldn’t put a cheerful face upon it, or make believe that I was anything but what I was. Now, gentlemen—you gentlemen that sits at Sessions—when you see a man with discontent writ on his face, you says to one another, “He’s suspicious. I has my doubts,” says you, “about Will Fern. Watch that fellow!” I don’t say, gentlemen, it ain’t quite nat’ral, but I say ’tis so; and from that hour, whatever Will Fern does, or lets alone—all one—it goes against him.’

Alderman Cute stuck his thumbs in his waistcoat-pockets, and leaning back in his chair, and smiling, winked at a neighbouring chandelier. As much as to say, ‘Of course! I told you so. The common cry! Lord bless you, we are up to all this sort of thing—myself and human nature.’

‘Now, gentlemen,’ said Will Fern, holding out his hands, and flushing for an instant in his haggard face, ‘see how your laws are made to trap and hunt us when we’re brought to this. I tries to live elsewhere. And I’m a vagabond. To jail with him! I comes back here. I goes a-nutting in your woods, and breaks—who don’t?—a limber branch or two. To jail with him! One of your keepers sees me in the broad day, near my own patch of garden, with a gun. To jail with him! I has a nat’ral angry word with that man, when I’m free again. To jail with him! I cuts a stick. To jail with him! I eats a rotten apple or a turnip. To jail with him! It’s twenty mile away; and coming back I begs a trifle on the road. To jail with him! At last, the constable, the keeper—anybody—finds me anywhere, a-doing anything. To jail with him, for he’s a vagrant, and a jail-bird known; and jail’s the only home he’s got.’

A suo tempo, il banchetto fu servito. Trotty si recò involontariamente nella sala con gli altri, perché si sentiva condotto lì da un impulso più forte della sua volontà. La scena era allegra in modo estremo; le signore erano molto belle; i visitatori erano deliziati, allegri e di buon umore. Quando le porte inferiori furono aperte e la gente affluì con i loro abiti rustici, la bellezza dello spettacolo raggiunse il suo culmine; ma Trotty continuava solo a mormorare sempre di più: “Dov’è Richard! Dovrebbe aiutarla e confortarla! Non riesco a vedere Richard!”

Erano stati pronunciati alcuni discorsi; la salute di Lady Bowley era stata proposta; Sir Joseph Bowley aveva ringraziato e aveva tenuto il suo grande discorso, dimostrando con vari pezzi di prova che lui era il Nato Amico e Padre, eccetera; e aveva dato come Toast i suoi Amici e Figli, e la Dignità del Lavoro; quando un leggero trambusto alla fine della Sala attirò l’attenzione di Toby. Dopo qualche confusione, rumore e opposizione, un uomo riuscì a farsi strada tra gli altri e si mise in piedi da solo.

Non Richard. No. Ma uno di cui aveva pensato e che aveva cercato molte volte. In una luce più scarsa avrebbe potuto dubitare dell’identità di quell’uomo logorato, così vecchio, grigio e curvo; ma con un bagliore di lampade sul suo capo nodoso e contorto, riconobbe Will Fern non appena si fece avanti.

«Che cosa è questa!» esclamò Sir Joseph alzandosi. «Chi ha dato l’accesso a quest’uomo? Questo è un criminale evaso dal carcere! Signor Fish, vuole avere la gentilezza di—»

«Un minuto!» disse Will Fern. «Un minuto! Mia Signora, voi siete nata in questo giorno insieme al nuovo anno. Concedetemi un minuto per parlare».

Lei fece qualche intercessione per lui. Sir Joseph riprese il suo posto con la sua dignità innata.

Il visitatore stracciato — poiché era vestito in modo miserevole — guardò intorno la compagnia e rese loro omaggio con un umile inchino.

‘Gente perbene!’ disse lui. ‘Avete bevuto il Lavoratore. Guardatemi!’

«Sono appena uscito di prigione», disse il signor Fish.

«Sono appena uscito di prigione», disse Will. «E non è la prima volta, né la seconda, né la terza, né ancora la quarta».

Si udì il signor Filer osservare con irritazione che quattro volte era più del normale e che avrebbe dovuto vergognarsi di sé stesso.

«Signori!» ripeté Will Fern. «Guardatemi! Vedete che sono al peggio. Oltre ogni dolore o danno; oltre il vostro aiuto; perché il tempo in cui le vostre parole gentili o azioni gentili avrebbero potuto farmi del bene» — si batté la mano sul petto e scosse la testa — «è passato, con l’odore dei fagioli dell’anno scorso o del trifoglio nell’aria. Lasciatemi dire una parola per questi», indicando le persone che lavoravano nella Sala; «e quando vi riunite, ascoltate la vera Verità detta una volta per tutte».

‘Non c’è uomo qui’, disse l’oste, ‘che lo vorrebbe come portavoce’.

«Probabilmente sì, Sir Joseph. Lo credo. Ciò non toglie che ciò che dico sia vero. Forse è proprio una prova di questo fatto. Signori, ho vissuto molti anni in questo posto. Potete vedere la casetta dal cancello sommerso laggiù. Ho visto le signore disegnarla nei loro album centinaia di volte. Si dice che sembri bene in un quadro; ma nelle immagini non c’è il tempo atmosferico, e forse è più adatto a questo che come luogo dove vivere. Bene! Ci ho vissuto. Non dirò quanto dura—quanto amaramente dura sia stata la mia vita lì. In qualsiasi giorno dell’anno, ogni giorno, potete giudicare da voi stessi».

Parlò come aveva parlato nella notte in cui Trotty lo trovò per strada. La sua voce era più profonda e roca, e talvolta tremava; ma non la alzò mai con passione, e raramente la portò oltre il fermo livello austero dei semplici fatti che espose.

«È più difficile di quanto pensiate per una persona perbene crescere in modo decoroso, anche solo mediamente decoroso, in un posto del genere. Il fatto che io sia cresciuto uomo e non bruto dice qualcosa a mio favore — come ero allora. Come sono ora, non c’è nulla da dire o fare per me. Sono troppo vecchio ormai».

«Sono contento che quest’uomo sia entrato», osservò Sir Joseph guardandosi intorno con serenità. «Non disturbatelo. Sembra essere Ordinato. È un esempio: un esempio vivente. Spero e confido, e mi aspetto fiduciosamente che non sarà sprecato per i miei amici qui presenti».

«Mi sono trascinato avanti», disse Will Fern dopo un momento di silenzio, «in qualche modo. Nessuno lo sa come; ma era così pesante che non riuscivo a metterci una faccia allegra, o fingere di essere diverso da quello che ero. Ora, signori voi signori che sedete in tribunale quando vedete un uomo con la disperazione scritta sul volto vi dite l’uno all’altro: “È sospetto. Io ho i miei dubbi”, dite voi, “su Will Fern. Tenetelo d’occhio!” Non dico, signori che non sia del tutto naturale, ma dico che è così; e da quell’ora, qualunque cosa faccia Will Fern o lasci alone—tutto uguale—va contro di lui.»

Il consigliere Cute si infilò i pollici nelle tasche del panciotto, e appoggiandosi allo schienale della sedia con un sorriso strizzò l’occhio a una lampada vicina. Era come dire: ‘Naturalmente! Ve lo avevo detto io. È il grido comune! Signore Iddio, siamo al corrente di tutte queste cose—io e la natura umana.’

«Ora, signori», disse Will Fern, tendendo le mani e arrossendo per un istante nel suo viso emaciato, «guardate come le vostre leggi sono fatte per intrappolarci e cacciarci quando siamo ridotti così. Cerco di vivere altrove. E sono un vagabondo. In galera con lui! Torno qui. Vado a raccogliere noci nei vostri boschi, e rompo — chi non lo fa? — uno o due rami flessibili. In galera con lui! Uno dei vostri guardiacaccia mi vede in pieno giorno, vicino al mio pezzetto di orto, con un fucile. In galera con lui! Ho una parola dura con quell’uomo, quando sono libero di nuovo. In galera con lui! Taglio un bastone. In galera con lui! Mangio una mela marcia o un ravanello. In galera con lui! È a venti miglia di distanza; e tornando indietro chiedo l’elemosina sulla strada. In galera con lui! Alla fine, il poliziotto, il guardiacaccia — chiunque — mi trova da qualche parte, mentre faccio qualcosa. In galera con lui, perché è un vagabondo e un detenuto noto; e la prigione è l’unico casa che ha».

The Alderman nodded sagaciously, as who should say, ‘A very good home too!’

‘Do I say this to serve MY cause!’ cried Fern. ‘Who can give me back my liberty, who can give me back my good name, who can give me back my innocent niece? Not all the Lords and Ladies in wide England. But, gentlemen, gentlemen, dealing with other men like me, begin at the right end. Give us, in mercy, better homes when we’re a-lying in our cradles; give us better food when we’re a-working for our lives; give us kinder laws to bring us back when we’re a-going wrong; and don’t set jail, jail, jail, afore us, everywhere we turn. There an’t a condescension you can show the Labourer then, that he won’t take, as ready and as grateful as a man can be; for, he has a patient, peaceful, willing heart. But you must put his rightful spirit in him first; for, whether he’s a wreck and ruin such as me, or is like one of them that stand here now, his spirit is divided from you at this time. Bring it back, gentlefolks, bring it back! Bring it back, afore the day comes when even his Bible changes in his altered mind, and the words seem to him to read, as they have sometimes read in my own eyes—in jail: “Whither thou goest, I can Not go; where thou lodgest, I do Not lodge; thy people are Not my people; Nor thy God my God!”’

A sudden stir and agitation took place in Hall. Trotty thought at first, that several had risen to eject the man; and hence this change in its appearance. But, another moment showed him that the room and all the company had vanished from his sight, and that his daughter was again before him, seated at her work. But in a poorer, meaner garret than before; and with no Lilian by her side.

The frame at which she had worked, was put away upon a shelf and covered up. The chair in which she had sat, was turned against the wall. A history was written in these little things, and in Meg’s grief-worn face. Oh! who could fail to read it!

Meg strained her eyes upon her work until it was too dark to see the threads; and when the night closed in, she lighted her feeble candle and worked on. Still her old father was invisible about her; looking down upon her; loving her—how dearly loving her!—and talking to her in a tender voice about the old times, and the Bells. Though he knew, poor Trotty, though he knew she could not hear him.

A great part of the evening had worn away, when a knock came at her door. She opened it. A man was on the threshold. A slouching, moody, drunken sloven, wasted by intemperance and vice, and with his matted hair and unshorn beard in wild disorder; but, with some traces on him, too, of having been a man of good proportion and good features in his youth.

He stopped until he had her leave to enter; and she, retiring a pace or two from the open door, silently and sorrowfully looked upon him. Trotty had his wish. He saw Richard.

‘May I come in, Margaret?’

‘Yes! Come in. Come in!’

It was well that Trotty knew him before he spoke; for with any doubt remaining on his mind, the harsh discordant voice would have persuaded him that it was not Richard but some other man.

There were but two chairs in the room. She gave him hers, and stood at some short distance from him, waiting to hear what he had to say.

He sat, however, staring vacantly at the floor; with a lustreless and stupid smile. A spectacle of such deep degradation, of such abject hopelessness, of such a miserable downfall, that she put her hands before her face and turned away, lest he should see how much it moved her.

Roused by the rustling of her dress, or some such trifling sound, he lifted his head, and began to speak as if there had been no pause since he entered.

‘Still at work, Margaret? You work late.’

‘I generally do.’

‘And early?’

‘And early.’

‘So she said. She said you never tired; or never owned that you tired. Not all the time you lived together. Not even when you fainted, between work and fasting. But I told you that, the last time I came.’

‘You did,’ she answered. ‘And I implored you to tell me nothing more; and you made me a solemn promise, Richard, that you never would.’

‘A solemn promise,’ he repeated, with a drivelling laugh and vacant stare. ‘A solemn promise. To be sure. A solemn promise!’ Awakening, as it were, after a time; in the same manner as before; he said with sudden animation:

‘How can I help it, Margaret? What am I to do? She has been to me again!’

‘Again!’ cried Meg, clasping her hands. ‘O, does she think of me so often! Has she been again!’

‘Twenty times again,’ said Richard. ‘Margaret, she haunts me. She comes behind me in the street, and thrusts it in my hand. I hear her foot upon the ashes when I’m at my work (ha, ha! that an’t often), and before I can turn my head, her voice is in my ear, saying, “Richard, don’t look round. For Heaven’s love, give her this!” She brings it where I live: she sends it in letters; she taps at the window and lays it on the sill. What can I do? Look at it!’

He held out in his hand a little purse, and chinked the money it enclosed.

‘Hide it,’ said Meg. ‘Hide it! When she comes again, tell her, Richard, that I love her in my soul. That I never lie down to sleep, but I bless her, and pray for her. That, in my solitary work, I never cease to have her in my thoughts. That she is with me, night and day. That if I died to-morrow, I would remember her with my last breath. But, that I cannot look upon it!’

He slowly recalled his hand, and crushing the purse together, said with a kind of drowsy thoughtfulness:

‘I told her so. I told her so, as plain as words could speak. I’ve taken this gift back and left it at her door, a dozen times since then. But when she came at last, and stood before me, face to face, what could I do?’

Il consigliere annuì con sagacia, come se volesse dire: «Una casa davvero ottima!»

«Dico questo per servire LA MIA causa!» gridò Fern. «Chi può restituirmi la mia libertà? Chi mi può ridare il mio buon nome? Chi può darmi indietro la mia nipote innocente? Non tutti i Lord e le Lady di tutta l’Inghilterra! Ma, signori, signori, se volete trattare con uomini come me, dovete cominciare dal punto giusto. Dateci, per pietà, case migliori quando siamo ancora nella culla; dateci un cibo migliore quando lavoriamo per sopravvivere; dateci leggi più umane che ci riportino sulla retta via quando sbagliamo; e non mettete davanti a noi prigione, prigione, prigione, dovunque ci giriamo. Non c’è nessuna concessione che possiate fare all’operaio che lui non accetti con gratitudine e disponibilità; perché ha un cuore paziente, pacifico e disposto. Ma prima dovete infondere in lui lo spirito giusto; perché, sia pure un relitto come me o una persona come quelli che stanno qui ora, il suo spirito è diviso da voi in questo momento. Riportatelo indietro, signori, riportatelo indietro! Riportatelo indietro prima che arrivi il giorno in cui persino la sua Bibbia cambierà nella sua mente alterata e le parole gli sembreranno leggere così come a volte mi è capitato di vederle io stesso, in prigione: “Dove tu vai, Io Non posso andare; dove tu dimori, Io Non dimoro; il tuo popolo Non è il mio popolo; E neppure il tuo Dio è il mio Dio!”»

Un improvviso fermento e agitazione si verificarono nella sala. Trotty pensò dapprima che diversi fossero balzati in piedi per cacciare l’uomo, e da ciò derivasse questo cambiamento nell’aspetto della stanza. Ma un attimo dopo vide che la stanza e tutti i presenti erano svaniti dalla sua vista, e che sua figlia era di nuovo davanti a lui, seduta al suo lavoro. Ma in una soffitta più povera e squallida di prima; e senza Lilian accanto a lei.

Il telaio su cui aveva lavorato fu riposto su uno scaffale e coperto. La sedia su cui era seduta fu spostata contro la parete. Una storia era scritta in queste piccole cose, e nel volto di Meg segnato dal dolore. Oh! Chi non avrebbe saputo leggerla!

Meg si sforzò di lavorare fino a quando non fu troppo buio per vedere i fili; e quando la notte calò, accese la sua debole candela e continuò a lavorare. Il suo vecchio padre era ancora invisibile intorno a lei; la guardava dall’alto; l’amava - come la amava teneramente! - e le parlava con voce dolce dei tempi passati e delle campane. Anche se sapeva, povero Trotty, anche se sapeva che lei non poteva sentirlo.

Gran parte della serata era trascorsa quando qualcuno bussò alla sua porta. La aprì. Sulla soglia c’era un uomo. Un ubriacone trasandato, malinconico e sbronzo, rovinato dall’intemperanza e dal vizio, con i capelli arruffati e la barba incolta in disordine selvaggio; ma conservava ancora qualche traccia di essere stato un uomo di buone proporzioni e bei lineamenti quando era giovane.

Si fermò finché non ebbe il permesso di entrare da parte sua; e lei, arretrando di un passo o due dalla porta aperta, lo guardò in silenzio e con tristezza. Trotty aveva ottenuto ciò che desiderava. Vide Richard.

‘Posso entrare, Margaret?’

‘Entra! Entra!’

Fu una fortuna che Trotty lo conoscesse prima di parlare; perché se avesse ancora qualche dubbio, quella voce aspra e dissonante l’avrebbe convinto che non era Richard ma un altro uomo.

C’erano solo due sedie nella stanza. Gli cedette la sua e rimase in piedi a breve distanza da lui, aspettando di sentire cosa avesse da dire.

Egli sedeva però fissando il vuoto sul pavimento; con un sorriso opaco e stupido. Uno spettacolo di tale profonda degradazione, di tale abietta disperazione, di tale miserevole caduta, che ella si coprì il volto con le mani e distolse lo sguardo, per timore che egli vedesse quanto ciò la commuovesse.

Svegliato dal fruscio del suo vestito o da qualche altro suono insignificante, alzò la testa e cominciò a parlare come se non ci fosse stata alcuna pausa dall’entrata di lui.

‘Al lavoro ancora, Margaret? Lavori fino a tardi.’

‘In genere sì.’

‘Presto?’

‘Ed è presto.’

«Così ha detto lei. Ha detto che non ti stancavi mai; o almeno non ammettevi di essere stanca. Non tutto il tempo in cui avete vissuto insieme. Neanche quando svenivi, tra lavoro e digiuno. Ma te l’ho già detto la scorsa volta che sono venuta».

«Lo hai fatto», rispose lei. «E ti ho supplicato di non dirmi altro; e mi hai fatto una promessa solenne, Richard, che non l’avresti mai fatto».

«Una promessa solenne», ripeté con una risata idiota e uno sguardo vacuo. «Una promessa solenne. Certo! Una promessa solenne!» Risvegliandosi, come se fosse passato un po’ di tempo; nello stesso modo di prima; disse con improvvisa vivacità:

‘Come posso evitarlo, Margaret? Cosa devo fare? È tornata da me!’

«Ancora!» esclamò Meg, stringendosi le mani. «Oh, pensa a me così spesso! È tornata ancora!»

«Venti volte ancora», disse Richard. «Margaret, mi perseguita. Mi viene dietro in strada e me la infila nella mano. Sento il suo passo sulle ceneri quando sono al lavoro (ah ah! che non è spesso), e prima che io possa voltarmi, la sua voce è all’orecchio mio che dice: “Richard, non guardarti indietro. Per l’[[]L03|amor]] del Cielo, daglielo!” Me lo porta dove vivo; me lo manda in lettere; batte alla finestra e lo posa sul davanzale. Che posso fare? Guardatela!»

Egli tese nella sua mano una piccola borsa e fece tintinnare il denaro che conteneva.

«Nascondilo», disse Meg. «Nascondilo! Quando tornerà, diglielo, Richard, che la amo nel mio anima. Che non mi corico mai per dormire senza prima benedirla e pregare per lei. Che, nella mia solitaria fatica, non smetto mai di pensare a lei. Che è con me, notte e giorno. E che se morissi domani la ricorderei col mio ultimo respiro. Ma non posso guardarlo!»

Ritrasse lentamente la mano e stringendo il borsellino insieme disse con una specie di pensierosa sonnolenza:

«Gliel’ho detto. Gliel’ho detto in modo chiaro come potevano fare le parole. Ho ripreso questo regalo e l’ho lasciato alla sua porta una dozzina di volte da allora. Ma quando è venuta finalmente, ed è rimasta davanti a me, faccia a faccia, cosa avrei potuto fare?»

‘You saw her!’ exclaimed Meg. ‘You saw her! O, Lilian, my sweet girl! O, Lilian, Lilian!’

‘I saw her,’ he went on to say, not answering, but engaged in the same slow pursuit of his own thoughts. ‘There she stood: trembling! “How does she look, Richard? Does she ever speak of me? Is she thinner? My old place at the table: what’s in my old place? And the frame she taught me our old work on—has she burnt it, Richard!” There she was. I heard her say it.’

Meg checked her sobs, and with the tears streaming from her eyes, bent over him to listen. Not to lose a breath.

With his arms resting on his knees; and stooping forward in his chair, as if what he said were written on the ground in some half legible character, which it was his occupation to decipher and connect; he went on.

‘“Richard, I have fallen very low; and you may guess how much I have suffered in having this sent back, when I can bear to bring it in my hand to you. But you loved her once, even in my memory, dearly. Others stepped in between you; fears, and jealousies, and doubts, and vanities, estranged you from her; but you did love her, even in my memory!” I suppose I did,’ he said, interrupting himself for a moment. ‘I did! That’s neither here nor there—“O Richard, if you ever did; if you have any memory for what is gone and lost, take it to her once more. Once more! Tell her how I laid my head upon your shoulder, where her own head might have lain, and was so humble to you, Richard. Tell her that you looked into my face, and saw the beauty which she used to praise, all gone: all gone: and in its place, a poor, wan, hollow cheek, that she would weep to see. Tell her everything, and take it back, and she will not refuse again. She will not have the heart!”’

So he sat musing, and repeating the last words, until he woke again, and rose.

‘You won’t take it, Margaret?’

She shook her head, and motioned an entreaty to him to leave her.

‘Good night, Margaret.’

‘Good night!’

He turned to look upon her; struck by her sorrow, and perhaps by the pity for himself which trembled in her voice. It was a quick and rapid action; and for the moment some flash of his old bearing kindled in his form. In the next he went as he had come. Nor did this glimmer of a quenched fire seem to light him to a quicker sense of his debasement.

In any mood, in any grief, in any torture of the mind or body, Meg’s work must be done. She sat down to her task, and plied it. Night, midnight. Still she worked.

She had a meagre fire, the night being very cold; and rose at intervals to mend it. The Chimes rang half-past twelve while she was thus engaged; and when they ceased she heard a gentle knocking at the door. Before she could so much as wonder who was there, at that unusual hour, it opened.

O Youth and Beauty, happy as ye should be, look at this. O Youth and Beauty, blest and blessing all within your reach, and working out the ends of your Beneficent Creator, look at this!

She saw the entering figure; screamed its name; cried ‘Lilian!’

It was swift, and fell upon its knees before her: clinging to her dress.

‘Up, dear! Up! Lilian! My own dearest!’

‘Never more, Meg; never more! Here! Here! Close to you, holding to you, feeling your dear breath upon my face!’

‘Sweet Lilian! Darling Lilian! Child of my heart—no mother’s love can be more tender—lay your head upon my breast!’

‘Never more, Meg. Never more! When I first looked into your face, you knelt before me. On my knees before you, let me die. Let it be here!’

‘You have come back. My Treasure! We will live together, work together, hope together, die together!’

‘Ah! Kiss my lips, Meg; fold your arms about me; press me to your bosom; look kindly on me; but don’t raise me. Let it be here. Let me see the last of your dear face upon my knees!’

O Youth and Beauty, happy as ye should be, look at this! O Youth and Beauty, working out the ends of your Beneficent Creator, look at this!

‘Forgive me, Meg! So dear, so dear! Forgive me! I know you do, I see you do, but say so, Meg!’

She said so, with her lips on Lilian’s cheek. And with her arms twined round—she knew it now—a broken heart.

‘His blessing on you, dearest love. Kiss me once more! He suffered her to sit beside His feet, and dry them with her hair. O Meg, what Mercy and Compassion!’

As she died, the Spirit of the child returning, innocent and radiant, touched the old man with its hand, and beckoned him away.

«L’hai vista!» esclamò Meg. «L’hai vista! Oh, Lilian, la mia dolce bambina! Oh, Lilian, Lilian!»

«L’ho vista», continuò a dire, senza rispondere, ma immerso nello stesso lento inseguimento dei suoi pensieri. «Ecco dove stava: tremante! “Com’è fatta, Richard? Parla mai di me? È dimagrita? Il mio vecchio posto a tavola: cosa c’è nel mio vecchio posto? E il telaio su cui mi ha insegnato il nostro vecchio lavoro — l’ha bruciato, Richard!” Era lì. L’ho sentita dire queste cose».

Meg trattenne i singhiozzi e con le lacrime che le scorrevano dagli occhi si chinò su di lui per ascoltare. Per non perdere un respiro.

Con le braccia appoggiate sulle ginocchia e curvandosi in avanti sulla sedia, come se ciò che diceva fosse scritto a terra con caratteri mezzo leggibili da decifrare e collegare, continuò.

«“Richard, sono caduto molto in basso; e puoi immaginare quanto ho sofferto nel ricevere questo indietro, quando posso sopportare di portarlo con le mie mani a te. Ma tu l’hai amata una volta, anche nella mia memoria, profondamente. Altri si sono messi tra voi; paure, gelosie, dubbi e vanità vi hanno allontanato da lei; ma l’hai amata, anche nella mia memoria!” “Suppongo di sì,” disse lui, interrompendosi per un momento. “Sì! Questo non ha importanza—“O Richard, se l’hai mai fatto; se hai qualche ricordo di ciò che è andato perso, portalo a lei ancora una volta. Ancora una volta! Diglielo come ho posato la mia testa sulla tua spalla, dove avrebbe potuto riposare la sua stessa testa, e sono stato così umile con te, Richard. Dille che hai guardato in faccia a me, e hai visto la bellezza che era solito lodare, tutta scomparsa: tutto sparito: e al suo posto, una povera guancia pallida e scavata, alla vista della quale piangerebbe. Dille tutto, e riprendilo, e lei non rifiuterà di nuovo. Non avrà il cuore!”»

Così rimase seduto a meditare e ripetendo le ultime parole finché si svegliò di nuovo e si alzò.

‘Non lo prenderai, Margaret?’

Scosse la testa e gli fece cenno di lasciarla.

«Buona notte, Margaret».

«Buona notte!»

Si voltò per guardarla; colpito dal suo dolore e forse dalla pietà per se stesso che tremava nella sua voce. Fu un gesto rapido; e per un momento in lui si accese qualche barlume del suo vecchio portamento. Ma subito dopo ripartì come era venuto. E nemmeno questo bagliore di un fuoco spento sembrò illuminarlo sulla sua degradazione.

In qualsiasi stato d’animo, in qualsiasi dolore, in qualunque tortura della mente o del corpo, il lavoro di Meg doveva essere fatto. Si sedette al suo compito e lo svolse. Notte, mezzanotte. Continuava a lavorare.

Aveva un misero fuoco, la notte essendo molto fredda; e si alzava a intervalli per ravvivarlo. Le Campane suonarono le dodici e mezza mentre era così impegnata; e quando smisero di suonare sentì un delicato bussare alla porta. Prima che potesse anche solo meravigliarsi di chi fosse, a quell’ora insolita, la porta si aprì.

O Gioventù e Bellezza, felici come dovreste essere, guardate questo. O Gioventù e Bellezza, beati e benedetti tutti coloro che sono alla vostra portata, e realizzando gli scopi del vostro Benefico Creatore, guardate questo!

Vide la figura che entrava; gridò il suo nome; esclamò “Lilian!”

Fu rapido e cadde in ginocchio davanti a lei, aggrappandosi al suo vestito.

‘Su, cara! Su! Lilian! La mia più cara!’

«Mai più, Meg; mai più! Ecco! Ecco! Vicino a te, abbracciandoti, sentendo il tuo respiro caro sul mio viso!»

«Dolce Lilian! Tesoro Lilian! Bambina del mio cuore — nessun amore materno può essere più tenero — posa la tua testa sul mio seno!»

«Mai più, Meg. Mai più! Quando per la prima volta ho guardato il tuo volto, tu eri inginocchiata davanti a me. Inginocchiato davanti a te, lascia che io muoia. Che sia qui!»

«Sei tornato. Il mio Tesoro! Vivremo insieme, lavoreremo insieme, spereremo insieme, moriremo insieme!»

«Ah! Bacia le mie labbra, Meg; stringimi tra le tue braccia; premi il mio corpo contro di te; guardami con dolcezza; ma non alzarmi. Lascia che sia qui. Voglio vedere l’ultima immagine del tuo caro volto sopra le mie ginocchia!»

O Gioventù e Bellezza, felici come dovreste essere, guardate questo! O Gioventù e Bellezza, che realizzate gli scopi del vostro Creatore Benefico, guardate questo!

«Perdonami, Meg! Così cara, così cara! Perdonami! Lo so che lo fai, vedo che lo fai, ma dimmelo, Meg!»

Lo disse con le labbra sulla guancia di Lilian e con le braccia avvolte intorno a un cuore spezzato — ora lo sapeva.

«La sua benedizione su di te, mia cara amore. Bacialo ancora una volta! Le permise di sedersi ai suoi piedi e asciugarli con i capelli. O Meg, che Misericordia e Compassione!»

Mentre moriva, lo Spirito del bambino che tornava, innocente e radioso, lo toccò con la mano e gli fece cenno di allontanarsi.

CHAPTER IV—Fourth Quarter.

Some new remembrance of the ghostly figures in the Bells; some faint impression of the ringing of the Chimes; some giddy consciousness of having seen the swarm of phantoms reproduced and reproduced until the recollection of them lost itself in the confusion of their numbers; some hurried knowledge, how conveyed to him he knew not, that more years had passed; and Trotty, with the Spirit of the child attending him, stood looking on at mortal company.

Fat company, rosy-cheeked company, comfortable company. They were but two, but they were red enough for ten. They sat before a bright fire, with a small low table between them; and unless the fragrance of hot tea and muffins lingered longer in that room than in most others, the table had seen service very lately. But all the cups and saucers being clean, and in their proper places in the corner-cupboard; and the brass toasting-fork hanging in its usual nook and spreading its four idle fingers out as if it wanted to be measured for a glove; there remained no other visible tokens of the meal just finished, than such as purred and washed their whiskers in the person of the basking cat, and glistened in the gracious, not to say the greasy, faces of her patrons.

This cosy couple (married, evidently) had made a fair division of the fire between them, and sat looking at the glowing sparks that dropped into the grate; now nodding off into a doze; now waking up again when some hot fragment, larger than the rest, came rattling down, as if the fire were coming with it.

It was in no danger of sudden extinction, however; for it gleamed not only in the little room, and on the panes of window-glass in the door, and on the curtain half drawn across them, but in the little shop beyond. A little shop, quite crammed and choked with the abundance of its stock; a perfectly voracious little shop, with a maw as accommodating and full as any shark’s. Cheese, butter, firewood, soap, pickles, matches, bacon, table-beer, peg-tops, sweetmeats, boys’ kites, bird-seed, cold ham, birch brooms, hearth-stones, salt, vinegar, blacking, red-herrings, stationery, lard, mushroom-ketchup, staylaces, loaves of bread, shuttlecocks, eggs, and slate pencil; everything was fish that came to the net of this greedy little shop, and all articles were in its net. How many other kinds of petty merchandise were there, it would be difficult to say; but balls of packthread, ropes of onions, pounds of candles, cabbage-nets, and brushes, hung in bunches from the ceiling, like extraordinary fruit; while various odd canisters emitting aromatic smells, established the veracity of the inscription over the outer door, which informed the public that the keeper of this little shop was a licensed dealer in tea, coffee, tobacco, pepper, and snuff.

Glancing at such of these articles as were visible in the shining of the blaze, and the less cheerful radiance of two smoky lamps which burnt but dimly in the shop itself, as though its plethora sat heavy on their lungs; and glancing, then, at one of the two faces by the parlour-fire; Trotty had small difficulty in recognising in the stout old lady, Mrs. Chickenstalker: always inclined to corpulency, even in the days when he had known her as established in the general line, and having a small balance against him in her books.

The features of her companion were less easy to him. The great broad chin, with creases in it large enough to hide a finger in; the astonished eyes, that seemed to expostulate with themselves for sinking deeper and deeper into the yielding fat of the soft face; the nose afflicted with that disordered action of its functions which is generally termed The Snuffles; the short thick throat and labouring chest, with other beauties of the like description; though calculated to impress the memory, Trotty could at first allot to nobody he had ever known: and yet he had some recollection of them too. At length, in Mrs. Chickenstalker’s partner in the general line, and in the crooked and eccentric line of life, he recognised the former porter of Sir Joseph Bowley; an apoplectic innocent, who had connected himself in Trotty’s mind with Mrs. Chickenstalker years ago, by giving him admission to the mansion where he had confessed his obligations to that lady, and drawn on his unlucky head such grave reproach.

Trotty had little interest in a change like this, after the changes he had seen; but association is very strong sometimes; and he looked involuntarily behind the parlour-door, where the accounts of credit customers were usually kept in chalk. There was no record of his name. Some names were there, but they were strange to him, and infinitely fewer than of old; from which he argued that the porter was an advocate of ready-money transactions, and on coming into the business had looked pretty sharp after the Chickenstalker defaulters.

So desolate was Trotty, and so mournful for the youth and promise of his blighted child, that it was a sorrow to him, even to have no place in Mrs. Chickenstalker’s ledger.

‘What sort of a night is it, Anne?’ inquired the former porter of Sir Joseph Bowley, stretching out his legs before the fire, and rubbing as much of them as his short arms could reach; with an air that added, ‘Here I am if it’s bad, and I don’t want to go out if it’s good.’

‘Blowing and sleeting hard,’ returned his wife; ‘and threatening snow. Dark. And very cold.’

‘I’m glad to think we had muffins,’ said the former porter, in the tone of one who had set his conscience at rest. ‘It’s a sort of night that’s meant for muffins. Likewise crumpets. Also Sally Lunns.’

The former porter mentioned each successive kind of eatable, as if he were musingly summing up his good actions. After which he rubbed his fat legs as before, and jerking them at the knees to get the fire upon the yet unroasted parts, laughed as if somebody had tickled him.

CAPITOLO IV - Quarto trimestre.

Qualche nuovo ricordo delle figure spettrali nelle campane; qualche vaga impressione del suono dei rintocchi; una vertiginosa consapevolezza di aver visto la moltitudine di fantasmi riprodursi e moltiplicarsi fino a quando il loro ricordo si perdeva nella confusione dei numeri; un’informazione affrettata, non sapeva come gli fosse stata trasmessa, che erano passati più anni; e Trotty, con lo Spirito del bambino al suo fianco, stava osservando una compagnia di esseri umani.

Compagnia grassoccia, compagnia dalle guance rosse, compagnia comoda. Erano solo due, ma erano abbastanza rossi per dieci. Sedevano davanti a un vivace fuoco, con un piccolo tavolino basso tra loro; e a meno che il profumo del tè caldo e dei muffin non fosse rimasto più a lungo in quella stanza che nella maggior parte delle altre, il tavolo aveva visto servizio molto di recente. Ma poiché tutte le tazze e i piattini erano puliti, e al loro posto nel mobiletto angolare; e la forchetta per tostare appesa al suo solito angolino e spalancando le sue quattro dita inerti come se volesse essere misurata per un guanto; non rimanevano altri segni visibili del pasto appena concluso, se non quelli che ronzavano e si lavavano i baffi nella persona del gatto accoccolato al caldo, e brillavano nelle facce graziose, per non dire untose, dei suoi protettori.

Questa accogliente coppia (evidentemente sposata) aveva diviso equamente il fuoco tra loro e sedeva a guardare le scintille luminose che cadevano nel focolare; ora si assopivano in un pisolino, ora si svegliavano di nuovo quando qualche caldo frammento, più grande degli altri, veniva giù tintinnando, come se il fuoco stesse arrivando con esso.

Non correva però il rischio di estinguersi all’improvviso; infatti brillava non solo nella piccola stanza e sui vetri della finestra della porta, ma anche sulla tenda che li copriva a metà, e nel negozietto oltre. Un negozietto pieno zeppo di merci in abbondanza; un negozietto davvero vorace, con una bocca capiente e piena come quella di uno squalo. Formaggio, burro, legna da ardere, sapone, conserve, fiammiferi, pancetta, birra da tavola, trottole, dolciumi, aquiloni per ragazzi, semi per uccelli, prosciutto crudo, scope di betulla, pietre per il caminetto, sale, aceto, lucido per scarpe, aringhe rosse, articoli da cancelleria, lardo, salsa di funghi, reggiseni, pagnotte, navette, uova e gessetti; tutto era pesce che veniva a finire nella rete di questo avido negozietto, e tutti gli articoli erano nella sua rete. Quanti altri tipi di piccole merci ci fossero sarebbe difficile dirlo; ma palle di spago, corde d’aglio, chili di candele, reti per cavoli e spazzole pendevano a grappoli dal soffitto come frutti straordinari; mentre vari barattoli strani che emanavano profumi aromatici testimoniavano la veridicità della iscrizione sopra la porta esterna, che informava il pubblico che il custode di questo negozietto era un commerciante autorizzato in tè, caffè, tabacco, pepe e fiuto.

Dando un’occhiata agli articoli visibili nella luce del fuoco e nel chiarore meno accogliente di due lampade fumose che ardevano fiocamente all’interno del negozio, come se la sua abbondanza gravasse pesantemente sui loro polmoni; e dando poi un’occhiata a uno dei due volti vicino al fuoco del salotto, Trotty non ebbe difficoltà a riconoscere nella robusta signora Mrs. Chickenstalker: sempre incline alla pinguedine, anche nei giorni in cui l’aveva conosciuta come proprietaria di un negozio generale e con un piccolo saldo a suo sfavore nei suoi libri contabili.

I tratti del suo compagno gli risultavano meno familiari. Il grande mento largo, con pieghe così ampie da nascondervi un dito; gli occhi sbalorditi, che sembravano rimproverarsi per affondare sempre più nel grasso cedevole del viso morbido; il naso afflitto da quella disordinata azione delle sue funzioni generalmente chiamata raffreddore; la gola corta e spessa e il petto che faticava, con altre bellezze di simile descrizione; sebbene calcolati per impressionare la memoria, Trotty all’inizio non riusciva a collegarli a nessuno che avesse mai conosciuto: eppure ne aveva anche qualche ricordo. Alla fine, nella compagna della signora Chickenstalker nel commercio generale e nella linea contorta ed eccentrica della vita, riconobbe l’ex portiere di Sir Joseph Bowley; un apoplettico innocente, che si era collegato nella mente di Trotty alla signora Chickenstalker anni fa, concedendogli l’accesso al palazzo dove aveva confessato i suoi obblighi verso quella signora e attirando sul suo sfortunato capo tali gravi rimproveri.

Trotty non era molto interessato a un cambiamento del genere, dopo quelli che aveva visto; ma l’associazione è talvolta molto forte; e guardò involontariamente dietro la porta del salotto, dove i conti dei clienti a credito erano solitamente tenuti in gesso. Non c’era traccia del suo nome. Alcuni nomi c’erano, ma gli erano estranei e infinitamente meno di un tempo; da cui dedusse che il facchino era un sostenitore delle transazioni in contanti, e che entrato nell’affare aveva fatto una bella pulizia dei debitori del Chickenstalker.

Trotty era così disperato e addolorato per la giovinezza e le speranze del suo povero bambino che gli faceva quasi pena non avere nemmeno un posto nel registro della signora Chickenstalker.

«Che genere di notte è, Anne?» chiese l’ex portiere del Sir Joseph Bowley, allungando le gambe davanti al fuoco e strofinandole per quanto potevano arrivare i suoi braccia corti; con un’aria che aggiungeva: «Ecco qui se è brutta, e non voglio uscire se è bella.»

«Vento e nevischio forti», rispose sua moglie, «e minaccia di neve.
Buio. E molto freddo».

«Sono contento di pensare che abbiamo avuto i muffin», disse l’ex portiere, con il tono di chi ha messo a riposo la propria coscienza. «È una specie di notte fatta apposta per i muffin. Allo stesso modo anche per le crumpet. E anche per le Sally Lunns.»

Il vecchio portiere elencava ogni successivo tipo di cibo come se stesse meditando sulle sue buone azioni. Dopo di che si strofinò le gambe grasse come prima e, scuotendole alle ginocchia per far arrivare il fuoco alle parti ancora crude, rise come se qualcuno lo avesse solleticato.

‘You’re in spirits, Tugby, my dear,’ observed his wife.

The firm was Tugby, late Chickenstalker.

‘No,’ said Tugby. ‘No. Not particular. I’m a little elewated. The muffins came so pat!’

With that he chuckled until he was black in the face; and had so much ado to become any other colour, that his fat legs took the strangest excursions into the air. Nor were they reduced to anything like decorum until Mrs. Tugby had thumped him violently on the back, and shaken him as if he were a great bottle.

‘Good gracious, goodness, lord-a-mercy bless and save the man!’ cried Mrs. Tugby, in great terror. ‘What’s he doing?’

Mr. Tugby wiped his eyes, and faintly repeated that he found himself a little elewated.

‘Then don’t be so again, that’s a dear good soul,’ said Mrs. Tugby, ‘if you don’t want to frighten me to death, with your struggling and fighting!’

Mr. Tugby said he wouldn’t; but, his whole existence was a fight, in which, if any judgment might be founded on the constantly-increasing shortness of his breath, and the deepening purple of his face, he was always getting the worst of it.

‘So it’s blowing, and sleeting, and threatening snow; and it’s dark, and very cold, is it, my dear?’ said Mr. Tugby, looking at the fire, and reverting to the cream and marrow of his temporary elevation.

‘Hard weather indeed,’ returned his wife, shaking her head.

‘Aye, aye! Years,’ said Mr. Tugby, ‘are like Christians in that respect. Some of ’em die hard; some of ’em die easy. This one hasn’t many days to run, and is making a fight for it. I like him all the better. There’s a customer, my love!’

Attentive to the rattling door, Mrs. Tugby had already risen.

‘Now then!’ said that lady, passing out into the little shop. ‘What’s wanted? Oh! I beg your pardon, sir, I’m sure. I didn’t think it was you.’

She made this apology to a gentleman in black, who, with his wristbands tucked up, and his hat cocked loungingly on one side, and his hands in his pockets, sat down astride on the table-beer barrel, and nodded in return.

‘This is a bad business up-stairs, Mrs. Tugby,’ said the gentleman. ‘The man can’t live.’

‘Not the back-attic can’t!’ cried Tugby, coming out into the shop to join the conference.

‘The back-attic, Mr. Tugby,’ said the gentleman, ‘is coming down-stairs fast, and will be below the basement very soon.’

Looking by turns at Tugby and his wife, he sounded the barrel with his knuckles for the depth of beer, and having found it, played a tune upon the empty part.

‘The back-attic, Mr. Tugby,’ said the gentleman: Tugby having stood in silent consternation for some time: ‘is Going.’

‘Then,’ said Tugby, turning to his wife, ‘he must Go, you know, before he’s Gone.’

‘I don’t think you can move him,’ said the gentleman, shaking his head. ‘I wouldn’t take the responsibility of saying it could be done, myself. You had better leave him where he is. He can’t live long.’

‘It’s the only subject,’ said Tugby, bringing the butter-scale down upon the counter with a crash, by weighing his fist on it, ‘that we’ve ever had a word upon; she and me; and look what it comes to! He’s going to die here, after all. Going to die upon the premises. Going to die in our house!’

‘And where should he have died, Tugby?’ cried his wife.

‘In the workhouse,’ he returned. ‘What are workhouses made for?’

‘Not for that,’ said Mrs. Tugby, with great energy. ‘Not for that! Neither did I marry you for that. Don’t think it, Tugby. I won’t have it. I won’t allow it. I’d be separated first, and never see your face again. When my widow’s name stood over that door, as it did for many years: this house being known as Mrs. Chickenstalker’s far and wide, and never known but to its honest credit and its good report: when my widow’s name stood over that door, Tugby, I knew him as a handsome, steady, manly, independent youth; I knew her as the sweetest-looking, sweetest-tempered girl, eyes ever saw; I knew her father (poor old creetur, he fell down from the steeple walking in his sleep, and killed himself), for the simplest, hardest-working, childest-hearted man, that ever drew the breath of life; and when I turn them out of house and home, may angels turn me out of Heaven. As they would! And serve me right!’

Her old face, which had been a plump and dimpled one before the changes which had come to pass, seemed to shine out of her as she said these words; and when she dried her eyes, and shook her head and her handkerchief at Tugby, with an expression of firmness which it was quite clear was not to be easily resisted, Trotty said, ‘Bless her! Bless her!’

Then he listened, with a panting heart, for what should follow. Knowing nothing yet, but that they spoke of Meg.

If Tugby had been a little elevated in the parlour, he more than balanced that account by being not a little depressed in the shop, where he now stood staring at his wife, without attempting a reply; secretly conveying, however—either in a fit of abstraction or as a precautionary measure—all the money from the till into his own pockets, as he looked at her.

The gentleman upon the table-beer cask, who appeared to be some authorised medical attendant upon the poor, was far too well accustomed, evidently, to little differences of opinion between man and wife, to interpose any remark in this instance. He sat softly whistling, and turning little drops of beer out of the tap upon the ground, until there was a perfect calm: when he raised his head, and said to Mrs. Tugby, late Chickenstalker:

‘There’s something interesting about the woman, even now. How did she come to marry him?’

‘Why that,’ said Mrs. Tugby, taking a seat near him, ‘is not the least cruel part of her story, sir. You see they kept company, she and Richard, many years ago. When they were a young and beautiful couple, everything was settled, and they were to have been married on a New Year’s Day. But, somehow, Richard got it into his head, through what the gentlemen told him, that he might do better, and that he’d soon repent it, and that she wasn’t good enough for him, and that a young man of spirit had no business to be married. And the gentlemen frightened her, and made her melancholy, and timid of his deserting her, and of her children coming to the gallows, and of its being wicked to be man and wife, and a good deal more of it. And in short, they lingered and lingered, and their trust in one another was broken, and so at last was the match. But the fault was his. She would have married him, sir, joyfully. I’ve seen her heart swell many times afterwards, when he passed her in a proud and careless way; and never did a woman grieve more truly for a man, than she for Richard when he first went wrong.’

«Sei di buon umore, Tugby, mio caro», osservò sua moglie.

L’azienda era Tugby, ex Chickenstalker.

«No», disse Tugby. «No. Non particolarmente. Sono un po’ euforico. Le muffin sono arrivate proprio al momento giusto!»

A quel punto scoppiò in una risata che lo rese paonazzo; e gli ci volle tanto tempo per riprendere un colore normale, che le sue gambe grasse si agitavano in modo stranissimo nell’aria. E non tornarono a qualcosa di simile alla decenza finché la signora Tugby non lo ebbe colpito violentemente sulla schiena e scosso come se fosse una grande bottiglia.

«Buon Dio, buona gente, Signore perdoni e salvi quell’uomo!» gridò la signora Tugby, piena di terrore. «Che cosa sta facendo?»

Il signor Tugby si asciugò gli occhi e ripeté debolmente che si sentiva un po’ elevato.

«Allora non farlo più, caro buon anima», disse la signora Tugby, «se non vuoi spaventarmi a morte, con le tue lotte e i tuoi combattimenti!»

Il signor Tugby disse che non lo avrebbe fatto; ma tutta la sua esistenza era una lotta nella quale, se si potesse fondare un giudizio sulla costante diminuzione del suo respiro e sul viola sempre più intenso del suo volto, lui ne usciva sempre peggio.

«Quindi soffia un vento gelido e piovoso, e minaccia di nevicare; e fa buio e molto freddo, vero, mia cara?» disse il signor Tugby guardando il fuoco e tornando al midollo e alla crema della sua temporanea ascesa.

«Tempo davvero rigido», rispose sua moglie scuotendo la testa.

«Sì, sì! Gli anni», disse il signor Tugby, «sono come i cristiani in questo senso. Alcuni di loro muoiono con difficoltà; altri muoiono facilmente. Questo non ha molti giorni davanti a sé, e sta combattendo per sopravvivere. Mi piace ancora di più. Ecco un cliente, mia cara!»

Attenzione al cigolio della porta, la signora Tugby si era già alzata.

«Ebbene!» disse la signora uscendo nel piccolo negozio. «Che cosa desidera? Ah! Le chiedo scusa, signore, non sapevo che fosse lei».

Fece queste scuse a un signore vestito di nero che, con i polsini rimboccati e il cappello inclinato pigramente da una parte e le mani nelle tasche, si sedette a cavalcioni sul barile della birra da tavola e annuì in risposta.

‘Questa è una brutta faccenda al piano di sopra, signora Tugby’, disse il gentiluomo. ‘L’uomo non può vivere.’

«Non l’ultimo sottotetto!» gridò Tugby, uscendo nel negozio per unirsi alla discussione.

«L’ultimo sottotetto, signor Tugby», disse il gentiluomo, «sta scendendo le scale velocemente e presto sarà al di sotto del seminterrato.»

Guardando alternativamente Tugby e sua moglie, suonò il barile con le nocche per misurare la profondità della birra, e dopo averla trovata, suonò una melodia sulla parte vuota.

«L’soffitta dietro, signor Tugby», disse il gentiluomo: Tugby era rimasto in silenziosa costernazione per qualche tempo: «è destinata a scomparire».

“Allora,” disse Tugby rivolgendosi alla moglie, “deve andarsene prima che sia troppo tardi.”

«Non credo che si possa spostarlo», disse il signore scuotendo la testa. «Io non mi assumerei la responsabilità di dire che è possibile farlo. È meglio lasciarlo dov’è. Non gli resta molto da vivere».

«È l’unico argomento», disse Tugby, facendo cadere la bilancia del burro sul banco con un tonfo, appoggiandovi sopra il pugno, «su cui abbiamo mai discusso; lei e io; e guarda a cosa è arrivato! Sta per morire qui, dopotutto. Morirà in questo locale. Morirà nella nostra casa!»

«E dove avrebbe dovuto morire, Tugby?» esclamò sua moglie.

‘Nel ricovero’, rispose lui. ‘A cosa servono i ricoveri?’

«Non per questo», disse la signora Tugby, con grande energia. «Non per questo! Nemmeno io ti ho sposato per questo. Non pensarla così, Tugby. Non lo tollero. Non lo permetterò. Preferirei separarmi e non rivedere mai più il tuo volto. Quando il nome della mia vedova era sopra quella porta, come è stato per molti anni: questa casa era conosciuta ovunque come la casa della signora Chickenstalker, e mai fu nota se non per il suo onesto credito e la sua buona reputazione: quando il nome della mia vedova stava sopra quella porta, Tugby, lo conoscevo come un giovane bello, costante, virile, indipendente; la conoscevo come la ragazza di aspetto più dolce e di temperamento più gentile che gli occhi abbiano mai visto; conoscevo suo padre (povera vecchia creatura, cadde dal campanile mentre camminava nel sonno, e si uccise), come l’uomo più semplice, più laborioso e di cuore più infantile che abbia mai respirato il soffio della vita; e quando li caccio fuori da casa e famiglia, possano gli angeli cacciarmi fuori dal Cielo. Come farebbero! E mi servirebbe proprio giusto!»

Il suo vecchio viso, che era stato grassottello e pieno di fossette prima dei cambiamenti avvenuti, sembrava illuminarsi mentre pronunciava queste parole; e quando si asciugò gli occhi e scosse la testa e il fazzoletto in direzione di Tugby con un’espressione così decisa che era evidente non sarebbe stato facile resistervi, Trotty disse: «Dio la benedica! Dio la benedica!»

Poi ascoltò, con il cuore in gola, per sentire cosa sarebbe seguito. Non sapeva ancora nulla, se non che parlavano di Meg.

Se Tugby si fosse sentito un po’ euforico nel salotto, più che pareggiava i conti essendosi molto depresso in negozio, dove ora stava in piedi a fissare sua moglie senza tentare di rispondere; tuttavia, segretamente - o per un attimo di distrazione o come misura precauzionale - trasferiva tutti i soldi dal registratore di cassa alle proprie tasche mentre la guardava.

Il signore sopra il fusto della birra da tavola, che sembrava essere un qualche medico autorizzato al servizio dei poveri, era evidentemente troppo abituato alle piccole divergenze di opinione tra marito e moglie per intervenire con qualche commento in questo caso. Sedeva fischiettando sommessamente e facendo cadere gocce di birra dal rubinetto sul pavimento, finché non ci fu un perfetto silenzio: allora alzò la testa e disse alla signora Tugby, ex Chickenstalker:

‘La donna ha qualcosa di interessante, anche ora. Come è finita sposata con lui?’

«Perché quello», disse la signora Tugby, prendendo posto vicino a lui, «non è il lato meno crudele della sua storia, signore. Vedete, lei e Richard uscivano insieme molti anni fa. Quando erano una giovane e bella coppia, tutto era deciso, e avrebbero dovuto sposarsi in un giorno di Capodanno. Ma, chissà come, a Richard è venuto in mente, per via delle cose che gli dicevano i signori, che poteva fare meglio, e che presto se ne sarebbe pentito, e che lei non era abbastanza buona per lui, e che un giovane di spirito non aveva bisogno di sposarsi. E i signori l’hanno spaventata, e l’hanno resa malinconica, e timorosa che lui la lasciasse, e che i suoi figli finissero al patibolo, e che fosse un peccato essere marito e moglie, e molte altre cose del genere. E insomma, hanno tergiversato e tergiversato, e la loro fiducia l’uno nell’altra si è rotta, e così alla fine anche il matrimonio. Ma la colpa era sua. Lei lo avrebbe sposato volentieri, signore. L’ho vista molte volte dopo con il cuore gonfio quando lui le passava accanto in modo orgoglioso e distratto; e mai una donna ha pianto più sinceramente per un uomo di quanto lei abbia fatto per Richard quando lui è caduto in disgrazia la prima volta.»

‘Oh! he went wrong, did he?’ said the gentleman, pulling out the vent-peg of the table-beer, and trying to peep down into the barrel through the hole.

‘Well, sir, I don’t know that he rightly understood himself, you see. I think his mind was troubled by their having broke with one another; and that but for being ashamed before the gentlemen, and perhaps for being uncertain too, how she might take it, he’d have gone through any suffering or trial to have had Meg’s promise and Meg’s hand again. That’s my belief. He never said so; more’s the pity! He took to drinking, idling, bad companions: all the fine resources that were to be so much better for him than the Home he might have had. He lost his looks, his character, his health, his strength, his friends, his work: everything!’

‘He didn’t lose everything, Mrs. Tugby,’ returned the gentleman, ‘because he gained a wife; and I want to know how he gained her.’

‘I’m coming to it, sir, in a moment. This went on for years and years; he sinking lower and lower; she enduring, poor thing, miseries enough to wear her life away. At last, he was so cast down, and cast out, that no one would employ or notice him; and doors were shut upon him, go where he would. Applying from place to place, and door to door; and coming for the hundredth time to one gentleman who had often and often tried him (he was a good workman to the very end); that gentleman, who knew his history, said, “I believe you are incorrigible; there is only one person in the world who has a chance of reclaiming you; ask me to trust you no more, until she tries to do it.” Something like that, in his anger and vexation.’

‘Ah!’ said the gentleman. ‘Well?’

‘Well, sir, he went to her, and kneeled to her; said it was so; said it ever had been so; and made a prayer to her to save him.’

‘And she?—Don’t distress yourself, Mrs. Tugby.’

‘She came to me that night to ask me about living here. “What he was once to me,” she said, “is buried in a grave, side by side with what I was to him. But I have thought of this; and I will make the trial. In the hope of saving him; for the love of the light-hearted girl (you remember her) who was to have been married on a New Year’s Day; and for the love of her Richard.” And she said he had come to her from Lilian, and Lilian had trusted to him, and she never could forget that. So they were married; and when they came home here, and I saw them, I hoped that such prophecies as parted them when they were young, may not often fulfil themselves as they did in this case, or I wouldn’t be the makers of them for a Mine of Gold.’

The gentleman got off the cask, and stretched himself, observing:

‘I suppose he used her ill, as soon as they were married?’

‘I don’t think he ever did that,’ said Mrs. Tugby, shaking her head, and wiping her eyes. ‘He went on better for a short time; but, his habits were too old and strong to be got rid of; he soon fell back a little; and was falling fast back, when his illness came so strong upon him. I think he has always felt for her. I am sure he has. I have seen him, in his crying fits and tremblings, try to kiss her hand; and I have heard him call her “Meg,” and say it was her nineteenth birthday. There he has been lying, now, these weeks and months. Between him and her baby, she has not been able to do her old work; and by not being able to be regular, she has lost it, even if she could have done it. How they have lived, I hardly know!’

‘I know,’ muttered Mr. Tugby; looking at the till, and round the shop, and at his wife; and rolling his head with immense intelligence. ‘Like Fighting Cocks!’

He was interrupted by a cry—a sound of lamentation—from the upper story of the house. The gentleman moved hurriedly to the door.

‘My friend,’ he said, looking back, ‘you needn’t discuss whether he shall be removed or not. He has spared you that trouble, I believe.’

Saying so, he ran up-stairs, followed by Mrs. Tugby; while Mr. Tugby panted and grumbled after them at leisure: being rendered more than commonly short-winded by the weight of the till, in which there had been an inconvenient quantity of copper. Trotty, with the child beside him, floated up the staircase like mere air.

‘Follow her! Follow her! Follow her!’ He heard the ghostly voices in the Bells repeat their words as he ascended. ‘Learn it, from the creature dearest to your heart!’

It was over. It was over. And this was she, her father’s pride and joy! This haggard, wretched woman, weeping by the bed, if it deserved that name, and pressing to her breast, and hanging down her head upon, an infant. Who can tell how spare, how sickly, and how poor an infant! Who can tell how dear!

‘Thank God!’ cried Trotty, holding up his folded hands. ‘O, God be thanked! She loves her child!’

The gentleman, not otherwise hard-hearted or indifferent to such scenes, than that he saw them every day, and knew that they were figures of no moment in the Filer sums—mere scratches in the working of these calculations—laid his hand upon the heart that beat no more, and listened for the breath, and said, ‘His pain is over. It’s better as it is!’ Mrs. Tugby tried to comfort her with kindness. Mr. Tugby tried philosophy.

‘Come, come!’ he said, with his hands in his pockets, ‘you mustn’t give way, you know. That won’t do. You must fight up. What would have become of me if I had given way when I was porter, and we had as many as six runaway carriage-doubles at our door in one night! But, I fell back upon my strength of mind, and didn’t open it!’

Again Trotty heard the voices saying, ‘Follow her!’ He turned towards his guide, and saw it rising from him, passing through the air. ‘Follow her!’ it said. And vanished.

He hovered round her; sat down at her feet; looked up into her face for one trace of her old self; listened for one note of her old pleasant voice. He flitted round the child: so wan, so prematurely old, so dreadful in its gravity, so plaintive in its feeble, mournful, miserable wail. He almost worshipped it. He clung to it as her only safeguard; as the last unbroken link that bound her to endurance. He set his father’s hope and trust on the frail baby; watched her every look upon it as she held it in her arms; and cried a thousand times, ‘She loves it! God be thanked, she loves it!’

«Oh! si è sbagliato, eh?» disse il signore, tirando fuori lo spillo di ventilazione della birra da tavola e cercando di sbirciare giù nel barile attraverso il foro.

«Beh, signore, non so se lui capisse bene la situazione, vede. Penso che il suo animo fosse turbato dal fatto che si erano lasciati; e che, se non fosse stato per la vergogna davanti ai gentiluomini, e forse anche perché incerto su come lei avrebbe reagito, lui avrebbe sopportato qualsiasi sofferenza o prova pur di avere nuovamente la promessa e la mano di Meg. Questa è la mia opinione. Non lo ha mai detto; peccato! Si è messo a bere, a non fare niente, a frequentare cattive compagnie: tutte le belle risorse che sarebbero state così tanto migliori per lui della Casa che avrebbe potuto avere. Ha perso il suo aspetto, la sua reputazione, la salute, la forza, gli amici, il lavoro: tutto!»

«Non ha perso tutto, signora Tugby», rispose il gentiluomo, «perché si è guadagnato una moglie; e vorrei sapere come l’ha guadagnata.»

«Ci sto arrivando, signore, tra un momento. Questo è andato avanti per anni e anni; lui affondava sempre più in basso; lei sopportava, poverina, miserie tali da consumarle la vita. Alla fine, era così abbattuto e scartato che nessuno lo voleva assumere o notare; e le porte gli venivano sbattute in faccia, ovunque andasse. Si presentava di posto in posto, e porta a porta; e arrivando per la centesima volta da un gentiluomo che lo aveva provato più volte (era un buon lavoratore fino alla fine); quel gentiluomo, che conosceva la sua storia, disse: «Credo che tu sia incorreggibile; c’è solo una persona al mondo che ha una possibilità di riscattarti; non chiedermi più di fidarmi di te, finché lei non proverà a farlo». Qualcosa del genere, nella sua ira e frustrazione.»

«Ah!» disse il signore. «Bene?»

«Bene, signore, lui è andato da lei e le si è inginocchiato davanti; ha detto che era così; ha detto che era sempre stato così; e le ha fatto una preghiera per salvarlo».

‘Lei?’ - Non si preoccupi, signora Tugby.

«Venne da me quella notte per chiedermi di vivere qui. “Ciò che fu un tempo tra noi”, disse, “è sepolto in una tomba, fianco a fianco con ciò che io fui per lui. Ma ho pensato a questo; e farò il tentativo. Nella speranza di salvarlo; per l’amore della ragazza allegra (tu la ricordi) che avrebbe dovuto sposarsi in un Capodanno; e per l’amore del suo Richard.” E disse che lui era venuto da lei da Lilian, e Lilian si era affidata a lui, e lei non poteva mai dimenticare questo. Così si sposarono; e quando tornarono a casa qui, e li vidi, sperai che tali profezie che li separarono da giovani non si avverino spesso come fecero in questo caso, o non sarei io a farle per una Miniera d’Oro.»

Il gentiluomo scese dalla botte e si stirò, osservando:

‘Suppongo che l’abbia maltrattata non appena sposati?’

«Non credo che l’abbia mai fatto», disse la signora Tugby scuotendo il capo e asciugandosi gli occhi. «Per un breve periodo è andato meglio; ma le sue abitudini erano troppo vecchie e radicate per poter essere cambiate; presto è ricaduto un po’; ed era in rapido declino quando la malattia lo ha colpito così duramente. Penso che l’abbia sempre voluta bene. Ne sono sicura. L’ho visto, nei suoi attacchi di pianto e tremore, cercare di baciarle la mano; e l’ho sentito chiamarla “Meg” e dire che era il suo diciannovesimo compleanno. Ecco dove è rimasto disteso per settimane e mesi. Tra lui e il bambino di lei, non è stata in grado di fare il suo vecchio lavoro; e non essendo in grado di essere regolare, l’ha perso, anche se avrebbe potuto farlo. Come hanno vissuto, a malapena lo so!»

«Lo so», mormorò il signor Tugby, guardando la cassa e in giro per il negozio e sua moglie, e agitando la testa con immensa intelligenza. «Come i galli da combattimento!»

Fu interrotto da un grido — un suono di lamento — proveniente dal piano superiore della casa. Il signore si avviò in fretta verso la porta.

«Mio caro amico», disse guardandosi indietro, «non c’è bisogno di discutere se lo si deve rimuovere o no. Credo che ci abbia risparmiato questo disturbo».

Detto ciò, corse su per le scale, seguito dalla signora Tugby; mentre il signor Tugby ansimava e brontolava dietro di loro con calma: reso più del solito senza fiato dal peso della cassa, in cui c’era una quantità scomoda di monete di rame. Trotty, con il bambino accanto a lui, galleggiò su per le scale come aria pura.

«Seguitela! Seguitela! Seguitela!» Udì le voci spettrali nelle campane ripetere quelle parole mentre saliva. «Imparate questo dalla creatura più cara al vostro cuore!»

Era finita. Era finita. E questa era lei, l’orgoglio e la gioia di suo padre! Questa donna smunta e infelice che piangeva accanto al letto, se lo si poteva chiamare così, stringendo a sé un bambino e chinando su di lui il capo. Chi può dire quanto fosse gracile, quanto malaticcio e quanto povero quel bambino! Chi può dire quanto fosse prezioso!

«Grazie a Dio!» esclamò Trotty, alzando le mani giunte. «Oh, ringraziato sia Iddio! Lei ama il suo bambino!»

Il signore, che non era più duro di cuore o indifferente a tali scene, di quanto fosse abituato a vederle ogni giorno e sapesse che erano figure senza importanza nei calcoli del Filer—meri graffi nel meccanismo di questi calcoli—pose la mano sul cuore che non batteva più, ascoltò il respiro, e disse: «Il suo dolore è finito. È meglio così!». La signora Tugby cercò di consolarla con gentilezza. Il signor Tugby cercò la filosofia.

«Dai, dai!» disse con le mani nelle tasche «non dovete cedere, sapete. Non va bene. Dovete lottare. Cosa sarebbe successo a me se io avessi ceduto quando ero portiere e avevamo ben sei carrozze sfuggite al controllo davanti alla nostra porta in una notte! Ma mi sono affidato alla mia forza d’animo, e non l’ho aperta!»

Ancora una volta Trotty udì le voci che dicevano: «Seguitela!». Si voltò verso la sua guida e vide che si stava sollevando da lui, passando attraverso l’aria. «Seguitela!», disse. E scomparve.

Le girava intorno; si sedette ai suoi piedi; cercò sul suo volto un solo tratto del suo vecchio sé; ascoltò per cogliere una nota della sua antica voce piacevole. Gli volteggiava attorno il bambino: così pallido, così prematuramente vecchio, così terribile nella sua gravità, così lamentoso nel suo debole, triste, miserevole pianto. Lo adorava quasi. Si aggrappò a lui come al suo unico baluardo; come all’ultimo legame intatto che la teneva unita alla resistenza. Ripose in quel bambino fragile la speranza e la fiducia di suo padre; osservava ogni suo sguardo su di lui mentre lo teneva tra le braccia; e gridò mille volte: «Lo ama! Dio sia ringraziato, lo ama!»

He saw the woman tend her in the night; return to her when her grudging husband was asleep, and all was still; encourage her, shed tears with her, set nourishment before her. He saw the day come, and the night again; the day, the night; the time go by; the house of death relieved of death; the room left to herself and to the child; he heard it moan and cry; he saw it harass her, and tire her out, and when she slumbered in exhaustion, drag her back to consciousness, and hold her with its little hands upon the rack; but she was constant to it, gentle with it, patient with it. Patient! Was its loving mother in her inmost heart and soul, and had its Being knitted up with hers as when she carried it unborn.

All this time, she was in want: languishing away, in dire and pining want. With the baby in her arms, she wandered here and there, in quest of occupation; and with its thin face lying in her lap, and looking up in hers, did any work for any wretched sum; a day and night of labour for as many farthings as there were figures on the dial. If she had quarrelled with it; if she had neglected it; if she had looked upon it with a moment’s hate; if, in the frenzy of an instant, she had struck it! No. His comfort was, She loved it always.

She told no one of her extremity, and wandered abroad in the day lest she should be questioned by her only friend: for any help she received from her hands, occasioned fresh disputes between the good woman and her husband; and it was new bitterness to be the daily cause of strife and discord, where she owed so much.

She loved it still. She loved it more and more. But a change fell on the aspect of her love. One night.

She was singing faintly to it in its sleep, and walking to and fro to hush it, when her door was softly opened, and a man looked in.

‘For the last time,’ he said.

‘William Fern!’

‘For the last time.’

He listened like a man pursued: and spoke in whispers.

‘Margaret, my race is nearly run. I couldn’t finish it, without a parting word with you. Without one grateful word.’

‘What have you done?’ she asked: regarding him with terror.

He looked at her, but gave no answer.

After a short silence, he made a gesture with his hand, as if he set her question by; as if he brushed it aside; and said:

‘It’s long ago, Margaret, now: but that night is as fresh in my memory as ever ’twas. We little thought, then,’ he added, looking round, ‘that we should ever meet like this. Your child, Margaret? Let me have it in my arms. Let me hold your child.’

He put his hat upon the floor, and took it. And he trembled as he took it, from head to foot.

‘Is it a girl?’

‘Yes.’

He put his hand before its little face.

‘See how weak I’m grown, Margaret, when I want the courage to look at it! Let her be, a moment. I won’t hurt her. It’s long ago, but—What’s her name?’

‘Margaret,’ she answered, quickly.

‘I’m glad of that,’ he said. ‘I’m glad of that!’ He seemed to breathe more freely; and after pausing for an instant, took away his hand, and looked upon the infant’s face. But covered it again, immediately.

‘Margaret!’ he said; and gave her back the child. ‘It’s Lilian’s.’

‘Lilian’s!’

‘I held the same face in my arms when Lilian’s mother died and left her.’

‘When Lilian’s mother died and left her!’ she repeated, wildly.

‘How shrill you speak! Why do you fix your eyes upon me so? Margaret!’

She sunk down in a chair, and pressed the infant to her breast, and wept over it. Sometimes, she released it from her embrace, to look anxiously in its face: then strained it to her bosom again. At those times, when she gazed upon it, then it was that something fierce and terrible began to mingle with her love. Then it was that her old father quailed.

‘Follow her!’ was sounded through the house. ‘Learn it, from the creature dearest to your heart!’

‘Margaret,’ said Fern, bending over her, and kissing her upon the brow: ‘I thank you for the last time. Good night. Good bye! Put your hand in mine, and tell me you’ll forget me from this hour, and try to think the end of me was here.’

‘What have you done?’ she asked again.

‘There’ll be a Fire to-night,’ he said, removing from her. ‘There’ll be Fires this winter-time, to light the dark nights, East, West, North, and South. When you see the distant sky red, they’ll be blazing. When you see the distant sky red, think of me no more; or, if you do, remember what a Hell was lighted up inside of me, and think you see its flames reflected in the clouds. Good night. Good bye!’ She called to him; but he was gone. She sat down stupefied, until her infant roused her to a sense of hunger, cold, and darkness. She paced the room with it the livelong night, hushing it and soothing it. She said at intervals, ‘Like Lilian, when her mother died and left her!’ Why was her step so quick, her eye so wild, her love so fierce and terrible, whenever she repeated those words?

‘But, it is Love,’ said Trotty. ‘It is Love. She’ll never cease to love it. My poor Meg!’

She dressed the child next morning with unusual care—ah, vain expenditure of care upon such squalid robes!—and once more tried to find some means of life. It was the last day of the Old Year. She tried till night, and never broke her fast. She tried in vain.

She mingled with an abject crowd, who tarried in the snow, until it pleased some officer appointed to dispense the public charity (the lawful charity; not that once preached upon a Mount), to call them in, and question them, and say to this one, ‘Go to such a place,’ to that one, ‘Come next week;’ to make a football of another wretch, and pass him here and there, from hand to hand, from house to house, until he wearied and lay down to die; or started up and robbed, and so became a higher sort of criminal, whose claims allowed of no delay. Here, too, she failed.

Vide la donna prendersi cura di lei nella notte; tornare da lei quando il marito, che non voleva saperne, era addormentato e tutto era silenzio; incoraggiarla, piangere con lei, metterle del cibo davanti. Vide arrivare il giorno e poi di nuovo la notte; il giorno, la notte; passare il tempo; la casa della morte liberata dalla morte; la stanza lasciata a lei e al bambino; lo sentì lamentarsi e piangere; vide che la tormentava, la sfiancava, e quando si assopiva per l’affaticamento, la riportava alla coscienza e la teneva sul rogo con le sue piccole mani; ma lei fu costante nei suoi confronti, gentile, paziente. Paziente! La sua amorevole madre era nel suo cuore più intimo e nella sua anima, e il suo Essere era legato al suo come quando lo portava in grembo non nato.

Tutto questo tempo, lei era bisognosa: languiva, in una miseria e un desiderio disperati. Con il bambino tra le braccia, vagava qua e là, in ricerca di lavoro; e con quel visetto smunto che giaceva sul suo grembo e la guardava negli occhi, faceva qualsiasi lavoro per qualsiasi misera somma; un giorno e una notte di fatica in cambio di altrettanti soldi quanti erano i numeri sul quadrante. Se si fosse azzuffata con lui; se lo avesse trascurato; se l’avesse guardato con odio anche solo per un attimo; se, nella follia di un istante, lo avesse colpito! No. Il suo conforto era che lei lo aveva sempre amato.

Non disse a nessuno la sua estrema miseria e vagava fuori di casa durante il giorno per non essere interrogata dalla sua unica amica: ogni aiuto che riceveva dalle sue mani provocava nuove dispute tra la buona donna e suo marito; ed era una nuova amarezza essere la causa quotidiana di liti e discordie, dove aveva tanto debiti.

Ne era ancora innamorata. Ne era sempre più innamorata. Ma un cambiamento si abbatté sull’aspetto del suo amore. Una notte.

Cantava sommessamente mentre dormiva e camminava avanti e indietro per calmarlo quando la sua porta si aprì dolcemente ed un uomo guardò dentro.

«Per l’ultima volta», disse.

‘William Fern!’

«Per l’ultima volta».

Ascoltò come un uomo perseguitato e parlò sussurrando.

«Margaret, la mia corsa sta per finire. Non potevo concluderla senza salutarti. Senza una parola di gratitudine».

«Cosa avete fatto?» chiese lei, guardandolo con terrore.

La guardò, ma non rispose.

Dopo un breve silenzio, fece un gesto con la mano, come se mettesse da parte la sua domanda, come se la scostasse, e disse:

«È passato tanto tempo, Margaret: ma quella notte è ancora fresca nella mia memoria come lo fu allora». Poi aggiunse guardandosi intorno: «Non avremmo mai pensato di rivederci così. Il tuo bambino, Margaret? Lascia che lo prenda in braccio. Lascia che tenga il tuo bambino.»

Mise il cappello sul pavimento e lo prese; e mentre lo prendeva tremava da capo a piedi.

‘È una bambina?’

“Sì, davvero.”

Mise la mano davanti al suo piccolo viso.

«Vedi quanto sono diventato debole, Margaret, quando voglio avere il coraggio di guardarla!
Lasciala stare un momento. Non le farò del male. È passato tanto tempo, ma, com’è che si chiama?»

«Margaret», rispose lei, in fretta.

«Ne sono felice», disse. «Ne sono davvero felice!» Sembrava respirare più liberamente e dopo essersi fermato un istante ritrasse la mano e guardò il viso del bambino. Ma lo ricoprì subito di nuovo.

«Margaret!» disse e le restituì il bambino. «È di Lilian.»

‘Quella di Lilian!’

‘Ho tenuto lo stesso viso tra le mie braccia quando la madre di Lilian morì e la lasciò.’

«Quando la madre di Lilian morì e la lasciò!» ripeté, in modo selvaggio.

‘Come parli acuto! Perché mi fissi così? Margaret!’

Si lasciò cadere su una sedia e strinse il bambino al seno, piangendo sopra di lui. A volte lo liberava dal suo abbraccio per scrutare ansiosamente il suo viso: poi lo stringeva nuovamente al petto. In quei momenti, quando lo fissava, era allora che qualcosa di feroce e terribile cominciava a mescolarsi con il suo amore. Era in quel momento che il vecchio padre si ritraeva spaventato.

«Seguitela!» risuonò in tutta la casa. «Imparate da lei, dalla creatura più cara al vostro cuore!»

«Margaret», disse Fern, chinandosi su di lei e baciandola sulla fronte: «ti ringrazio per l’ultima volta. Buona notte. Addio! Metti la tua mano nella mia e dimmi che mi dimenticherai da questo momento in poi, e cerca di pensare che la fine di me sia qui».

«Cosa avete fatto?» chiese di nuovo.

«Ci sarà un fuoco stasera», disse, allontanandosi da lei. «Ci saranno fuochi in questo inverno-tempo, per illuminare le notti buie, a Est, Ovest, Nord e Sud. Quando vedrai il cielo lontano rosso, staranno ardentando. Quando vedrai il cielo lontano rosso, non pensare più a me; o se lo farai, ricorda che un Inferno si è acceso dentro di me, e pensa di vedere le sue fiamme riflesse nelle nuvole. Buona notte. Addio!» Lei gli gridò dietro; ma lui era già andato via. Si sedette stordita, finché il suo bambino non la risvegliò alla fame, al freddo e all’oscurità. Passeggiò per la stanza tutta la notte con il piccolo in braccio, cullandolo e tranquillizzandolo. Di tanto in tanto diceva: «Come Lilian, quando sua madre morì e la lasciò!» Perché il suo passo era così veloce, il suo sguardo così selvaggio, il suo amore così feroce e terribile ogni volta che ripeteva quelle parole?

«Ma è Amore», disse Trotty, «è Amore. Non smetterà mai di amare. La mia povera Meg!»

La mattina seguente vestì il bambino con una cura insolita — ah, vano spreco di cure per indumenti così squallidi! — e cercò ancora una volta di trovare qualche mezzo di sostentamento. Era l’ultimo giorno dell’anno vecchio. Cercò fino a notte, senza mai fare colazione. Cercò invano.

Si mescolava con una folla abietta che sostava nella neve finché non piacesse ad un qualche funzionario incaricato di distribuire la pubblica elemosina (la legale elemosina; non quella predicata una volta su una montagna) chiamarli e interrogarli, dicendo a questo: “Vai in tal posto”, a quello: “Vieni la settimana prossima”; per fare un pallone di un altro miserabile e passarlo da una mano all’altra, da casa a casa, finché non si stancava e si coricava ad aspettare la morte; oppure balzava in piedi e rubava, diventando così un criminale di grado superiore, le cui pretese non ammettevano ritardi. Anche qui lei fallì.

She loved her child, and wished to have it lying on her breast. And that was quite enough.

It was night: a bleak, dark, cutting night: when, pressing the child close to her for warmth, she arrived outside the house she called her home. She was so faint and giddy, that she saw no one standing in the doorway until she was close upon it, and about to enter. Then, she recognised the master of the house, who had so disposed himself—with his person it was not difficult—as to fill up the whole entry.

‘O!’ he said softly. ‘You have come back?’

She looked at the child, and shook her head.

‘Don’t you think you have lived here long enough without paying any rent? Don’t you think that, without any money, you’ve been a pretty constant customer at this shop, now?’ said Mr. Tugby.

She repeated the same mute appeal.

‘Suppose you try and deal somewhere else,’ he said. ‘And suppose you provide yourself with another lodging. Come! Don’t you think you could manage it?’

She said in a low voice, that it was very late. To-morrow.

‘Now I see what you want,’ said Tugby; ‘and what you mean. You know there are two parties in this house about you, and you delight in setting ’em by the ears. I don’t want any quarrels; I’m speaking softly to avoid a quarrel; but if you don’t go away, I’ll speak out loud, and you shall cause words high enough to please you. But you shan’t come in. That I am determined.’

She put her hair back with her hand, and looked in a sudden manner at the sky, and the dark lowering distance.

‘This is the last night of an Old Year, and I won’t carry ill-blood and quarrellings and disturbances into a New One, to please you nor anybody else,’ said Tugby, who was quite a retail Friend and Father. ‘I wonder you an’t ashamed of yourself, to carry such practices into a New Year. If you haven’t any business in the world, but to be always giving way, and always making disturbances between man and wife, you’d be better out of it. Go along with you.’

‘Follow her! To desperation!’

Again the old man heard the voices. Looking up, he saw the figures hovering in the air, and pointing where she went, down the dark street.

‘She loves it!’ he exclaimed, in agonised entreaty for her. ‘Chimes! she loves it still!’

‘Follow her!’ The shadow swept upon the track she had taken, like a cloud.

He joined in the pursuit; he kept close to her; he looked into her face. He saw the same fierce and terrible expression mingling with her love, and kindling in her eyes. He heard her say, ‘Like Lilian! To be changed like Lilian!’ and her speed redoubled.

O, for something to awaken her! For any sight, or sound, or scent, to call up tender recollections in a brain on fire! For any gentle image of the Past, to rise before her!

‘I was her father! I was her father!’ cried the old man, stretching out his hands to the dark shadows flying on above. ‘Have mercy on her, and on me! Where does she go? Turn her back! I was her father!’

But they only pointed to her, as she hurried on; and said, ‘To desperation! Learn it from the creature dearest to your heart!’ A hundred voices echoed it. The air was made of breath expended in those words. He seemed to take them in, at every gasp he drew. They were everywhere, and not to be escaped. And still she hurried on; the same light in her eyes, the same words in her mouth, ‘Like Lilian! To be changed like Lilian!’ All at once she stopped.

‘Now, turn her back!’ exclaimed the old man, tearing his white hair. ‘My child! Meg! Turn her back! Great Father, turn her back!’

In her own scanty shawl, she wrapped the baby warm. With her fevered hands, she smoothed its limbs, composed its face, arranged its mean attire. In her wasted arms she folded it, as though she never would resign it more. And with her dry lips, kissed it in a final pang, and last long agony of Love.

Putting its tiny hand up to her neck, and holding it there, within her dress, next to her distracted heart, she set its sleeping face against her: closely, steadily, against her: and sped onward to the River.

To the rolling River, swift and dim, where Winter Night sat brooding like the last dark thoughts of many who had sought a refuge there before her. Where scattered lights upon the banks gleamed sullen, red, and dull, as torches that were burning there, to show the way to Death. Where no abode of living people cast its shadow, on the deep, impenetrable, melancholy shade.

To the River! To that portal of Eternity, her desperate footsteps tended with the swiftness of its rapid waters running to the sea. He tried to touch her as she passed him, going down to its dark level: but, the wild distempered form, the fierce and terrible love, the desperation that had left all human check or hold behind, swept by him like the wind.

He followed her. She paused a moment on the brink, before the dreadful plunge. He fell down on his knees, and in a shriek addressed the figures in the Bells now hovering above them.

‘I have learnt it!’ cried the old man. ‘From the creature dearest to my heart! O, save her, save her!’

He could wind his fingers in her dress; could hold it! As the words escaped his lips, he felt his sense of touch return, and knew that he detained her.

The figures looked down steadfastly upon him.

‘I have learnt it!’ cried the old man. ‘O, have mercy on me in this hour, if, in my love for her, so young and good, I slandered Nature in the breasts of mothers rendered desperate! Pity my presumption, wickedness, and ignorance, and save her.’ He felt his hold relaxing. They were silent still.

‘Have mercy on her!’ he exclaimed, ‘as one in whom this dreadful crime has sprung from Love perverted; from the strongest, deepest Love we fallen creatures know! Think what her misery must have been, when such seed bears such fruit! Heaven meant her to be good. There is no loving mother on the earth who might not come to this, if such a life had gone before. O, have mercy on my child, who, even at this pass, means mercy to her own, and dies herself, and perils her immortal soul, to save it!’

Amava il suo bambino e desiderava tenerlo sul seno, e questo era più che sufficiente.

Era notte: una fredda, buia e pungente notte: quando, stringendo a sé il bambino per riscaldarlo, arrivò fuori dalla casa che chiamava sua casa. Era così debole e stordita che non vide nessuno in piedi sulla porta finché non si trovò vicina ad essa, sul punto di entrare. Allora riconobbe il padrone della casa, che si era disposto—non era difficile per la sua persona—in modo da riempire l’intera entrata.

‘Oh!’ disse dolcemente. ‘Sei tornato?’

Guardò il bambino e scosse la testa.

«Non pensa di aver vissuto qui abbastanza tempo senza pagare l’affitto? Non crede che, senza soldi, sia stato un cliente piuttosto costante in questo negozio, ora?» disse il signor Tugby.

Ripeté lo stesso muto appello.

«Provate a fare affari altrove», disse, «e procuratevi un altro alloggio. Su, non credete di potercela fare?»

Disse con voce bassa che era molto tardi. Domani.

«Ora capisco cosa vuoi», disse Tugby, «e cosa intendi. Sai che ci sono due fazioni in questa casa riguardo a te e ti diverti a metterle l’una contro l’altra. Non voglio nessun litigio; parlo con calma per evitare una lite, ma se non te ne vai, parlerò forte e tu causerai parole abbastanza alte da farti piacere. Ma non entrerai. Su questo sono deciso».

Si ravviò i capelli con la mano e guardò improvvisamente il cielo e l’oscura distesa minacciosa.

«Questa è l’ultima notte di un Vecchio Anno e non porterò mal sangue, né litigi né disordini in uno nuovo, per compiacere te o chiunque altro», disse Tugby, che era un vero amico e padre della gente comune. «Mi meraviglio che tu non abbia vergogna di portare simili comportamenti nel Nuovo Anno. Se il tuo unico scopo nella vita è cedere sempre e creare disordini tra marito e moglie, sarebbe meglio se ti ritirassi. Vattene».

‘Seguitela! Fino alla disperazione!’

Ancora una volta il vecchio udì le voci. Alzando lo sguardo, vide le figure che fluttuavano nell’aria e indicavano la direzione presa da lei lungo la strada buia.

“Le piace ancora!” esclamò lui, implorando per lei con angoscia. “I rintocchi! Le piacciono ancora!”

«Seguitela!» La sombra si precipitò sulla strada che aveva preso, come una nuvola.

Si unì all’inseguimento; le rimase vicino; la guardò in faccia. Vide la stessa espressione feroce e terribile mescolarsi al suo amore, e accendersi nei suoi occhi. La sentì dire: «Come Lilian! Essere cambiata come Lilian!» e la sua velocità raddoppiò.

Oh, se qualcosa potesse svegliarla! Se una qualsiasi vista o suono o profumo potessero evocare teneri ricordi in un cervello in fiamme! Se qualche dolce immagine del Passato potesse apparire davanti a lei!

«Ero suo padre! Ero suo padre!», gridò il vecchio, tendendo le mani verso le ombre scure che volavano sopra di lui. «Abbi pietà di lei e di me! Dove va? Riportala indietro! Ero suo padre!»

Ma essi indicavano solo lei mentre si affrettava e dicevano: «Alla disperazione! Imparatelo dalla creatura più cara al vostro cuore!» Un centinaio di voci faceva eco a quelle parole. L’aria era fatta del respiro speso in quei suoni. Sembrava che li assorbisse ad ogni respiro che prendeva. Erano ovunque, e non si potevano evitare. E lei continuava ad affrettarsi; la stessa luce negli occhi, le stesse parole in bocca: «Come Lilian! Cambiata come Lilian!» All’improvviso si fermò.

«Ora, voltatela!» esclamò il vecchio strappandosi i capelli bianchi. «La mia figlia! Meg! Voltatela! Grande Padre, voltatela!»

Nel suo misero scialle avvolse il bambino per riscaldarlo. Con le sue mani febbrili gli lisciò i membri, compose il viso e sistemò i suoi poveri abiti. Nei suoi braccia magri lo strinse a sé come se non volesse più rinunciarvi mai. E con le labbra secche lo baciò in un ultimo spasmo, l’ultima lunga agonia dell’Amore.

Mettendo la sua manina sul collo di lei e tenendola lì, sotto il suo abito, accanto al cuore distratto della donna, si mise il viso addormentato del bambino contro di sé: stretto, fermo, contro di sé: e corse avanti verso il fiume.

Verso il fiume rotolante, rapido e scuro, dove la notte d’inverno stava a covar come gli ultimi pensieri oscuri di molti che avevano cercato rifugio lì prima di lei. Dove le luci sparse sulle rive brillavano torve, rosse e opache, come fiaccole che ardevano là per mostrare la via alla morte. Dove nessuna dimora di persone vive proiettava la sua ombra, sull’oscurità profonda, impenetrabile, malinconica.

Al Fiume! A quel portale dell’Eternità, i suoi disperati passi tendevano con la velocità delle sue rapide acque che corrono verso il mare. Egli cercò di toccarla mentre lei gli passava accanto, scendendo al suo livello oscuro: ma quella forma selvaggia e squilibrata, quell’amore feroce e terribile, la disperazione che aveva lasciato ogni freno o controllo umano alle spalle, lo oltrepassò come il vento.

La seguì. Lei si fermò un momento sul bordo, prima del terribile salto. Cadde in ginocchio e con un urlo rivolse le parole alle figure nelle campane che ora fluttuavano sopra di loro.

«L’ho imparato!» gridò il vecchio. «Dalla creatura più cara al mio cuore! Oh, salvatela, salvatela!»

Poteva intrecciare le dita nel suo vestito; poteva tenerlo! Mentre le parole gli uscivano dalle labbra, sentì tornargli il senso del tatto e seppe che la tratteneva.

Le figure lo fissavano con sguardo fermo dall’alto.

«L’ho imparata!» gridò il vecchio uomo. «O, abbi pietà di me in questo momento, se, nel mio amore per lei, così giovane e buona, ho calunniato la Natura nei cuori delle madri disperate! Abbi pietà della mia presunzione, malvagità e ignoranza, e salvala.» Sentì che la sua presa si allentava. Essi rimasero ancora in silenzio.

«Abbi pietà di lei!» esclamò «come di una in cui questo terribile crimine è scaturito dall’Amore pervertito; dal più forte, profondo amore che noi povere creature conosciamo! Pensa quale deve essere stata la sua miseria quando un seme del genere produce frutti simili! Il Cielo voleva che fosse buona. Non esiste madre amorevole sulla terra che non potrebbe arrivare a questo, se una vita come quella l’avesse preceduta. O, abbi pietà della mia figlia, che anche in questa situazione vuole bene ai suoi cari e muore lei stessa, rischiando la sua immortale anima, per salvarla!»

She was in his arms. He held her now. His strength was like a giant’s.

‘I see the Spirit of the Chimes among you!’ cried the old man, singling out the child, and speaking in some inspiration, which their looks conveyed to him. ‘I know that our inheritance is held in store for us by Time. I know there is a sea of Time to rise one day, before which all who wrong us or oppress us will be swept away like leaves. I see it, on the flow! I know that we must trust and hope, and neither doubt ourselves, nor doubt the good in one another. I have learnt it from the creature dearest to my heart. I clasp her in my arms again. O Spirits, merciful and good, I take your lesson to my breast along with her! O Spirits, merciful and good, I am grateful!’

He might have said more; but, the Bells, the old familiar Bells, his own dear, constant, steady friends, the Chimes, began to ring the joy-peals for a New Year: so lustily, so merrily, so happily, so gaily, that he leapt upon his feet, and broke the spell that bound him.

---

‘And whatever you do, father,’ said Meg, ‘don’t eat tripe again, without asking some doctor whether it’s likely to agree with you; for how you have been going on, Good gracious!’

She was working with her needle, at the little table by the fire; dressing her simple gown with ribbons for her wedding. So quietly happy, so blooming and youthful, so full of beautiful promise, that he uttered a great cry as if it were an Angel in his house; then flew to clasp her in his arms.

But, he caught his feet in the newspaper, which had fallen on the hearth; and somebody came rushing in between them.

‘No!’ cried the voice of this same somebody; a generous and jolly voice it was! ‘Not even you. Not even you. The first kiss of Meg in the New Year is mine. Mine! I have been waiting outside the house, this hour, to hear the Bells and claim it. Meg, my precious prize, a happy year! A life of happy years, my darling wife!’

And Richard smothered her with kisses.

You never in all your life saw anything like Trotty after this. I don’t care where you have lived or what you have seen; you never in all your life saw anything at all approaching him! He sat down in his chair and beat his knees and cried; he sat down in his chair and beat his knees and laughed; he sat down in his chair and beat his knees and laughed and cried together; he got out of his chair and hugged Meg; he got out of his chair and hugged Richard; he got out of his chair and hugged them both at once; he kept running up to Meg, and squeezing her fresh face between his hands and kissing it, going from her backwards not to lose sight of it, and running up again like a figure in a magic lantern; and whatever he did, he was constantly sitting himself down in his chair, and never stopping in it for one single moment; being—that’s the truth—beside himself with joy.

‘And to-morrow’s your wedding-day, my pet!’ cried Trotty. ‘Your real, happy wedding-day!’

‘To-day!’ cried Richard, shaking hands with him. ‘To-day. The Chimes are ringing in the New Year. Hear them!’

They WERE ringing! Bless their sturdy hearts, they WERE ringing! Great Bells as they were; melodious, deep-mouthed, noble Bells; cast in no common metal; made by no common founder; when had they ever chimed like that, before!

‘But, to-day, my pet,’ said Trotty. ‘You and Richard had some words to-day.’

‘Because he’s such a bad fellow, father,’ said Meg. ‘An’t you, Richard? Such a headstrong, violent man! He’d have made no more of speaking his mind to that great Alderman, and putting him down I don’t know where, than he would of—’

‘—Kissing Meg,’ suggested Richard. Doing it too!

‘No. Not a bit more,’ said Meg. ‘But I wouldn’t let him, father. Where would have been the use!’

‘Richard my boy!’ cried Trotty. ‘You was turned up Trumps originally; and Trumps you must be, till you die! But, you were crying by the fire to-night, my pet, when I came home! Why did you cry by the fire?’

‘I was thinking of the years we’ve passed together, father. Only that. And thinking that you might miss me, and be lonely.’

Trotty was backing off to that extraordinary chair again, when the child, who had been awakened by the noise, came running in half-dressed.

‘Why, here she is!’ cried Trotty, catching her up. ‘Here’s little Lilian! Ha ha ha! Here we are and here we go! O here we are and here we go again! And here we are and here we go! and Uncle Will too!’ Stopping in his trot to greet him heartily. ‘O, Uncle Will, the vision that I’ve had to-night, through lodging you! O, Uncle Will, the obligations that you’ve laid me under, by your coming, my good friend!’

Before Will Fern could make the least reply, a band of music burst into the room, attended by a lot of neighbours, screaming ‘A Happy New Year, Meg!’ ‘A Happy Wedding!’ ‘Many of ’em!’ and other fragmentary good wishes of that sort. The Drum (who was a private friend of Trotty’s) then stepped forward, and said:

‘Trotty Veck, my boy! It’s got about, that your daughter is going to be married to-morrow. There an’t a soul that knows you that don’t wish you well, or that knows her and don’t wish her well. Or that knows you both, and don’t wish you both all the happiness the New Year can bring. And here we are, to play it in and dance it in, accordingly.’

Which was received with a general shout. The Drum was rather drunk, by-the-bye; but, never mind.

‘What a happiness it is, I’m sure,’ said Trotty, ‘to be so esteemed! How kind and neighbourly you are! It’s all along of my dear daughter. She deserves it!’

They were ready for a dance in half a second (Meg and Richard at the top); and the Drum was on the very brink of feathering away with all his power; when a combination of prodigious sounds was heard outside, and a good-humoured comely woman of some fifty years of age, or thereabouts, came running in, attended by a man bearing a stone pitcher of terrific size, and closely followed by the marrow-bones and cleavers, and the bells; not the Bells, but a portable collection on a frame.

Era tra le sue braccia. Ora la teneva stretta. La sua forza era come quella di un gigante.

«Vedo lo Spirito delle Campane tra voi!» gridò il vecchio, indicando la bambina e parlando in un certo stato di ispirazione che i loro sguardi gli avevano trasmesso. «So che la nostra eredità è custodita per noi dal Tempo. So che c’è un mare di tempo destinato a salire un giorno, davanti al quale tutti coloro che ci fanno torto o ci opprimono saranno spazzati via come foglie. Lo vedo, in arrivo! So che dobbiamo fidarci e sperare, senza mai dubitare di noi stessi né dubitare del bene negli altri. Ho imparato tutto questo dalla creatura più cara al mio cuore. La stringo di nuovo tra le mie braccia. O Spiriti, misericordiosi e buoni, accolgo la vostra lezione nel mio cuore insieme a lei! O Spiriti, misericordiosi e buoni, vi sono grato!»

Avrebbe potuto dire di più; ma le campane, le vecchie familiari campane, i suoi cari amici costanti e fedeli, gli scampanii, cominciarono a suonare gioiosamente per un nuovo anno: così vigorosamente, così allegramente, così felicemente, così festosamente che balzò in piedi e ruppe l’incantesimo che lo teneva legato.

---

«E qualunque cosa tu faccia, papà», disse Meg, «non mangiare più trippa senza chiedere a un medico se è probabile che ti vada a genio; perché come sei stato in questi giorni, Madonna santa!»

Ella stava lavorando con l’ago al piccolo tavolo accanto al fuoco, ornando il suo semplice abito con nastri per le nozze. Così tranquillamente felice, così fiorente e giovane, così piena di belle promesse che egli emise un grande grido come se fosse stato un Angelo nella sua casa; poi volò ad abbracciarla.

Ma si impigliò i piedi nel giornale caduto sul focolare, e qualcuno entrò di corsa tra loro.

«No!» gridò la voce di questo stesso qualcuno; era una voce generosa e allegra! «Neanche tu. Néppure tu. Il primo bacio di Meg nel nuovo anno è mio. Mio! Sono rimasto in attesa fuori dalla casa, per un’ora, per sentire le campane e rivendicarlo. Meg, il mio prezioso tesoro, un felice anno! Una vita di anni felici, mia adorata moglie!»

E Richard la sommerse di baci.

Non hai mai visto niente di simile a Trotty dopo questo. Non mi interessa dove tu abbia vissuto o cosa tu abbia visto, non hai mai visto in tutta la tua vita nulla che gli si avvicinasse neanche lontanamente! Si sedette sulla sua sedia e si batté le ginocchia e pianse; si sedette sulla sua sedia e si batté le ginocchia e rise; si sedette sulla sua sedia e si batté le ginocchia e rise e piangeva insieme; uscì dalla sua sedia e abbracciò Meg; uscì dalla sua sedia e abbracciò Richard; uscì dalla sua sedia e li abbracciò entrambi nello stesso momento; continuava a correre da Meg, stringendo il suo fresco viso tra le mani e baciandolo, allontanandosi all’indietro per non perderlo di vista e correndo di nuovo verso di lei come una figura in una magica lanterna; e qualunque cosa facesse, si sedeva costantemente sulla sua sedia, senza mai fermarsi un solo istante; essendo — questa è la verità — fuori di sé dalla gioia.

“Domani è il tuo giorno di nozze, tesoro!” esclamò Trotty. “Il tuo vero, felice giorno di nozze!”

«Oggi!» esclamò Richard, stringendogli la mano. «Oggi. I Campanili stanno suonando per il nuovo anno. Sentiteli!»

Suonavano davvero! Benedetti i loro robusti cuori, suonavano davvero! Grandi campane com’erano; melodiose, a bocca larga, nobili campane; fuse in un metallo non comune; fatte da un fonditore non comune; quando avevano mai suonato così prima d’ora!

«Ma oggi, tesoro», disse Trotty «tu e Richard avete avuto una discussione».

«Perché è un cattivo ragazzo, papà», disse Meg. «Non lo sei, Richard? Un uomo così testardo e violento! Non avrebbe fatto più caso a dire la sua a quel grande aldermanno e metterlo giù non so dove di quanto ne farebbe—»

«Baciando Meg», suggerì Richard. E lo stava facendo davvero!

«No. Neanche un po’ di più», disse Meg. «Ma non glielo avrei permesso, papà. A che sarebbe servito!»

«Richard, mio caro ragazzo!» esclamò Trotty. «Sei nato con la carta vincente; e tale devi rimanere, fino alla morte! Ma ieri sera piangevi accanto al fuoco, quando sono tornato a casa! Perché piangevi accanto al fuoco?»

«Pensavo agli anni che abbiamo passato insieme, padre. Solo a questo. E pensavo che forse mi avresti sentito mancare e ti saresti sentito solo».

Trotty stava indietreggiando di nuovo verso quella straordinaria sedia quando il bambino, che era stato svegliato dal rumore, entrò correndo a mezzi abiti.

«Ecco qui che arriva!» esclamò Trotty, afferrandola. «Ecco la piccola Lilian! Ah ah ah! Ecco dove siamo ed ecco dove andiamo! Ora siamo qui e ora ci rimettiamo in marcia! E ora siamo qui e ora ce ne andiamo! e anche lo zio Will!» Fermò il suo trotto per salutarlo calorosamente. «Oh, zio Will, la visione che ho avuto stanotte, ospitandoti! Oh, zio Will, gli obblighi che mi hai imposto venendo qui, mio buon amico!»

Prima che Will Fern potesse fare la minima risposta, una banda musicale irruppe nella stanza, seguita da un sacco di vicini, gridando “Un Buon Anno Nuovo, Meg!” “Un Felice Matrimonio!” “Molti altri ancora!” e altri frammentari buoni auguri del genere. Il Tamburo (che era un amico personale di Trotty) fece quindi un passo avanti e disse:

«Trotty Veck, ragazzo mio! Si è sparsa la voce che tua figlia si sposerà domani. Non c’è una persona che ti conosca e non ti voglia bene, o che la conosca e non le voglia bene. O che vi conosca entrambi, e non auguri a voi due tutta la felicità che il nuovo anno può portare. E siamo qui per suonarla e ballarla di conseguenza».

Fu accolto da un grido generale. Il Tamburo era piuttosto ubriaco, tra l’altro; ma non importa.

«Che felicità è questa», disse Trotty, «essere così stimati! Che gentilezza e vicinato avete! È tutto per colpa di mia figlia cara. Lei lo merita!»

Erano pronti per una danza in mezzo secondo (Meg e Richard in testa); e il Tamburo era sul punto di mettersi a suonare con tutta la sua potenza; quando si udì un concerto di suoni prodigiosi all’esterno, ed entrò correndo una donna di buon umore e piacente di circa cinquant’anni, accompagnata da un uomo che portava un brocca di pietra di dimensioni terrificanti, seguita a ruota dalle costole e dai taglierini, e dalle campane; non le Campane, ma una collezione portatile su un telaio.

Trotty said, ‘It’s Mrs. Chickenstalker!’ And sat down and beat his knees again.

‘Married, and not tell me, Meg!’ cried the good woman. ‘Never! I couldn’t rest on the last night of the Old Year without coming to wish you joy. I couldn’t have done it, Meg. Not if I had been bed-ridden. So here I am; and as it’s New Year’s Eve, and the Eve of your wedding too, my dear, I had a little flip made, and brought it with me.’

Mrs. Chickenstalker’s notion of a little flip did honour to her character. The pitcher steamed and smoked and reeked like a volcano; and the man who had carried it, was faint.

‘Mrs. Tugby!’ said Trotty, who had been going round and round her, in an ecstasy.—‘I should say, Chickenstalker—Bless your heart and soul! A Happy New Year, and many of ’em! Mrs. Tugby,’ said Trotty when he had saluted her;—‘I should say, Chickenstalker—This is William Fern and Lilian.’

The worthy dame, to his surprise, turned very pale and very red.

‘Not Lilian Fern whose mother died in Dorsetshire!’ said she.

Her uncle answered ‘Yes,’ and meeting hastily, they exchanged some hurried words together; of which the upshot was, that Mrs. Chickenstalker shook him by both hands; saluted Trotty on his cheek again of her own free will; and took the child to her capacious breast.

‘Will Fern!’ said Trotty, pulling on his right-hand muffler. ‘Not the friend you was hoping to find?’

‘Ay!’ returned Will, putting a hand on each of Trotty’s shoulders. ‘And like to prove a’most as good a friend, if that can be, as one I found.’

‘O!’ said Trotty. ‘Please to play up there. Will you have the goodness!’

To the music of the band, and, the bells, the marrow-bones and cleavers, all at once; and while the Chimes were yet in lusty operation out of doors; Trotty, making Meg and Richard, second couple, led off Mrs. Chickenstalker down the dance, and danced it in a step unknown before or since; founded on his own peculiar trot.

Had Trotty dreamed? Or, are his joys and sorrows, and the actors in them, but a dream; himself a dream; the teller of this tale a dreamer, waking but now? If it be so, O listener, dear to him in all his visions, try to bear in mind the stern realities from which these shadows come; and in your sphere—none is too wide, and none too limited for such an end—endeavour to correct, improve, and soften them. So may the New Year be a happy one to you, happy to many more whose happiness depends on you! So may each year be happier than the last, and not the meanest of our brethren or sisterhood debarred their rightful share, in what our Great Creator formed them to enjoy.

Trotty disse: «È la signora Chickenstalker!» E si sedette e si batté di nuovo le ginocchia.

«Sposata e non dirmelo, Meg!» esclamò la buona donna. «Mai! Non avrei potuto riposare l’ultima notte dell’anno vecchio senza venire a augurarti felicità. Non ce l’avrei fatta, Meg. Nemmeno se fossi stata costretta al letto. E così eccomi qui; e dato che è la vigilia di Capodanno, e anche la vigilia del tuo matrimonio, mia cara, ho fatto fare un po’ di punch e l’ho portato con me».

La nozione di un po’ di flip della signora Chickenstalker faceva onore al suo carattere. La brocca fumava e puzzava come un vulcano; e l’uomo che l’aveva portata era svenuto.

«Signora Tugby!» disse Trotty, che le era stato intorno in estasi.—«Io dovrei dire, Chickenstalker—Benedica il suo cuore e la sua anima! Un Buon Anno Nuovo, e molti altri ancora! Signora Tugby» disse Trotty dopo averla salutata;—«Io dovrei dire, Chickenstalker—Questo è William Fern e Lilian.»

La degna dama, a sua sorpresa, impallidì e arrossì molto.

«Non Lilian Fern la cui madre morì nel Dorsetshire!» disse lei.

Lo zio rispose «Sì», e incontrandosi frettolosamente, scambiarono alcune parole affrettate; il risultato delle quali fu che la signora Chickenstalker gli strinse entrambe le mani; salutò Trotty sulla guancia di sua spontanea volontà; e prese il bambino tra i suoi ampi seni.

«Will Fern!», disse Trotty tirando su il suo fazzoletto di seta destro. «Non è l’amico che speravi di trovare?»

«Eh!» rispose Will, posando una mano su ciascuna delle spalle di Trotty. «E quasi sicuramente dimostrerà di essere un amico altrettanto buono, se possibile, quanto uno che ho trovato io».

“Per favore, suonate lassù!” disse Trotty. “Sareste così gentili?”

Al suono della banda e delle campane, le midolle ossee e i manici di scure, tutti insieme, mentre le campane erano ancora in piena attività fuori; Trotty, facendo di Meg e Richard la seconda coppia, condusse Mrs. Chickenstalker lungo il ballo, danzandolo con un passo mai visto prima né dopo, fondato sul suo trotto peculiare.

Trotty aveva sognato? O le sue gioie e i suoi dolori, e gli attori che vi recitano, non sono forse un sogno; lui stesso un sogno; colui che racconta questa storia un sognatore appena risvegliatosi? Se così è, o ascoltatore caro a lui in tutte le sue visioni, cerca di ricordare le dure realtà da cui queste ombre provengono; e nella tua sfera—nessuna è troppo vasta né troppo limitata per un tale scopo—cerca di correggerle, migliorarle e addolcirle. Così il nuovo anno possa essere felice per te, felice per molti altri la cui felicità dipende da te! Così ogni anno sia più felice dell’ultimo, e non il più umile dei nostri fratelli o sorelle sia privato della sua giusta parte in ciò che il nostro Grande Creatore li ha formati per godere.