The Haunted Man and the Ghost's Bargain

THE HAUNTED MAN AND THE GHOST’S BARGAIN

CHAPTER I The Gift Bestowed

Everybody said so.

Far be it from me to assert that what everybody says must be true. Everybody is, often, as likely to be wrong as right. In the general experience, everybody has been wrong so often, and it has taken, in most instances, such a weary while to find out how wrong, that the authority is proved to be fallible. Everybody may sometimes be right; “but that’s no rule,” as the ghost of Giles Scroggins says in the ballad.

The dread word, GHOST, recalls me.

Everybody said he looked like a haunted man. The extent of my present claim for everybody is, that they were so far right. He did.

Who could have seen his hollow cheek; his sunken brilliant eye; his black-attired figure, indefinably grim, although well-knit and well-proportioned; his grizzled hair hanging, like tangled sea-weed, about his face,—as if he had been, through his whole life, a lonely mark for the chafing and beating of the great deep of humanity,—but might have said he looked like a haunted man?

Who could have observed his manner, taciturn, thoughtful, gloomy, shadowed by habitual reserve, retiring always and jocund never, with a distraught air of reverting to a bygone place and time, or of listening to some old echoes in his mind, but might have said it was the manner of a haunted man?

Who could have heard his voice, slow-speaking, deep, and grave, with a natural fulness and melody in it which he seemed to set himself against and stop, but might have said it was the voice of a haunted man?

Who that had seen him in his inner chamber, part library and part laboratory,—for he was, as the world knew, far and wide, a learned man in chemistry, and a teacher on whose lips and hands a crowd of aspiring ears and eyes hung daily,—who that had seen him there, upon a winter night, alone, surrounded by his drugs and instruments and books; the shadow of his shaded lamp a monstrous beetle on the wall, motionless among a crowd of spectral shapes raised there by the flickering of the fire upon the quaint objects around him; some of these phantoms (the reflection of glass vessels that held liquids), trembling at heart like things that knew his power to uncombine them, and to give back their component parts to fire and vapour;—who that had seen him then, his work done, and he pondering in his chair before the rusted grate and red flame, moving his thin mouth as if in speech, but silent as the dead, would not have said that the man seemed haunted and the chamber too?

Who might not, by a very easy flight of fancy, have believed that everything about him took this haunted tone, and that he lived on haunted ground?

His dwelling was so solitary and vault-like,—an old, retired part of an ancient endowment for students, once a brave edifice, planted in an open place, but now the obsolete whim of forgotten architects; smoke-age-and-weather-darkened, squeezed on every side by the overgrowing of the great city, and choked, like an old well, with stones and bricks; its small quadrangles, lying down in very pits formed by the streets and buildings, which, in course of time, had been constructed above its heavy chimney stacks; its old trees, insulted by the neighbouring smoke, which deigned to droop so low when it was very feeble and the weather very moody; its grass-plots, struggling with the mildewed earth to be grass, or to win any show of compromise; its silent pavements, unaccustomed to the tread of feet, and even to the observation of eyes, except when a stray face looked down from the upper world, wondering what nook it was; its sun-dial in a little bricked-up corner, where no sun had straggled for a hundred years, but where, in compensation for the sun’s neglect, the snow would lie for weeks when it lay nowhere else, and the black east wind would spin like a huge humming-top, when in all other places it was silent and still.

His dwelling, at its heart and core—within doors—at his fireside—was so lowering and old, so crazy, yet so strong, with its worm-eaten beams of wood in the ceiling, and its sturdy floor shelving downward to the great oak chimney-piece; so environed and hemmed in by the pressure of the town yet so remote in fashion, age, and custom; so quiet, yet so thundering with echoes when a distant voice was raised or a door was shut,—echoes, not confined to the many low passages and empty rooms, but rumbling and grumbling till they were stifled in the heavy air of the forgotten Crypt where the Norman arches were half-buried in the earth.

You should have seen him in his dwelling about twilight, in the dead winter time.

When the wind was blowing, shrill and shrewd, with the going down of the blurred sun. When it was just so dark, as that the forms of things were indistinct and big—but not wholly lost. When sitters by the fire began to see wild faces and figures, mountains and abysses, ambuscades and armies, in the coals. When people in the streets bent down their heads and ran before the weather. When those who were obliged to meet it, were stopped at angry corners, stung by wandering snow-flakes alighting on the lashes of their eyes,—which fell too sparingly, and were blown away too quickly, to leave a trace upon the frozen ground. When windows of private houses closed up tight and warm. When lighted gas began to burst forth in the busy and the quiet streets, fast blackening otherwise. When stray pedestrians, shivering along the latter, looked down at the glowing fires in kitchens, and sharpened their sharp appetites by sniffing up the fragrance of whole miles of dinners.

When travellers by land were bitter cold, and looked wearily on gloomy landscapes, rustling and shuddering in the blast. When mariners at sea, outlying upon icy yards, were tossed and swung above the howling ocean dreadfully. When lighthouses, on rocks and headlands, showed solitary and watchful; and benighted sea-birds breasted on against their ponderous lanterns, and fell dead. When little readers of story-books, by the firelight, trembled to think of Cassim Baba cut into quarters, hanging in the Robbers’ Cave, or had some small misgivings that the fierce little old woman, with the crutch, who used to start out of the box in the merchant Abudah’s bedroom, might, one of these nights, be found upon the stairs, in the long, cold, dusky journey up to bed.

When, in rustic places, the last glimmering of daylight died away from the ends of avenues; and the trees, arching overhead, were sullen and black. When, in parks and woods, the high wet fern and sodden moss, and beds of fallen leaves, and trunks of trees, were lost to view, in masses of impenetrable shade. When mists arose from dyke, and fen, and river. When lights in old halls and in cottage windows, were a cheerful sight. When the mill stopped, the wheelwright and the blacksmith shut their workshops, the turnpike-gate closed, the plough and harrow were left lonely in the fields, the labourer and team went home, and the striking of the church clock had a deeper sound than at noon, and the churchyard wicket would be swung no more that night.

When twilight everywhere released the shadows, prisoned up all day, that now closed in and gathered like mustering swarms of ghosts. When they stood lowering, in corners of rooms, and frowned out from behind half-opened doors. When they had full possession of unoccupied apartments. When they danced upon the floors, and walls, and ceilings of inhabited chambers, while the fire was low, and withdrew like ebbing waters when it sprang into a blaze. When they fantastically mocked the shapes of household objects, making the nurse an ogress, the rocking-horse a monster, the wondering child, half-scared and half-amused, a stranger to itself,—the very tongs upon the hearth, a straddling giant with his arms a-kimbo, evidently smelling the blood of Englishmen, and wanting to grind people’s bones to make his bread.

When these shadows brought into the minds of older people, other thoughts, and showed them different images. When they stole from their retreats, in the likenesses of forms and faces from the past, from the grave, from the deep, deep gulf, where the things that might have been, and never were, are always wandering.

When he sat, as already mentioned, gazing at the fire. When, as it rose and fell, the shadows went and came. When he took no heed of them, with his bodily eyes; but, let them come or let them go, looked fixedly at the fire. You should have seen him, then.

When the sounds that had arisen with the shadows, and come out of their lurking-places at the twilight summons, seemed to make a deeper stillness all about him. When the wind was rumbling in the chimney, and sometimes crooning, sometimes howling, in the house. When the old trees outside were so shaken and beaten, that one querulous old rook, unable to sleep, protested now and then, in a feeble, dozy, high-up “Caw!” When, at intervals, the window trembled, the rusty vane upon the turret-top complained, the clock beneath it recorded that another quarter of an hour was gone, or the fire collapsed and fell in with a rattle.

—When a knock came at his door, in short, as he was sitting so, and roused him.

“Who’s that?” said he. “Come in!”

Surely there had been no figure leaning on the back of his chair; no face looking over it. It is certain that no gliding footstep touched the floor, as he lifted up his head, with a start, and spoke. And yet there was no mirror in the room on whose surface his own form could have cast its shadow for a moment; and, Something had passed darkly and gone!

“I’m humbly fearful, sir,” said a fresh-coloured busy man, holding the door open with his foot for the admission of himself and a wooden tray he carried, and letting it go again by very gentle and careful degrees, when he and the tray had got in, lest it should close noisily, “that it’s a good bit past the time to-night. But Mrs. William has been taken off her legs so often”—

“By the wind? Ay! I have heard it rising.”

“—By the wind, sir—that it’s a mercy she got home at all. Oh dear, yes. Yes. It was by the wind, Mr. Redlaw. By the wind.”

He had, by this time, put down the tray for dinner, and was employed in lighting the lamp, and spreading a cloth on the table. From this employment he desisted in a hurry, to stir and feed the fire, and then resumed it; the lamp he had lighted, and the blaze that rose under his hand, so quickly changing the appearance of the room, that it seemed as if the mere coming in of his fresh red face and active manner had made the pleasant alteration.

“Mrs. William is of course subject at any time, sir, to be taken off her balance by the elements. She is not formed superior to that.”

“No,” returned Mr. Redlaw good-naturedly, though abruptly.

“No, sir. Mrs. William may be taken off her balance by Earth; as for example, last Sunday week, when sloppy and greasy, and she going out to tea with her newest sister-in-law, and having a pride in herself, and wishing to appear perfectly spotless though pedestrian. Mrs. William may be taken off her balance by Air; as being once over-persuaded by a friend to try a swing at Peckham Fair, which acted on her constitution instantly like a steam-boat. Mrs. William may be taken off her balance by Fire; as on a false alarm of engines at her mother’s, when she went two miles in her nightcap. Mrs. William may be taken off her balance by Water; as at Battersea, when rowed into the piers by her young nephew, Charley Swidger junior, aged twelve, which had no idea of boats whatever. But these are elements. Mrs. William must be taken out of elements for the strength of her character to come into play.”

As he stopped for a reply, the reply was “Yes,” in the same tone as before.

“Yes, sir. Oh dear, yes!” said Mr. Swidger, still proceeding with his preparations, and checking them off as he made them. “That’s where it is, sir. That’s what I always say myself, sir. Such a many of us Swidgers!—Pepper. Why there’s my father, sir, superannuated keeper and custodian of this Institution, eighty-seven year old. He’s a Swidger!—Spoon.”

“True, William,” was the patient and abstracted answer, when he stopped again.

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Swidger. “That’s what I always say, sir. You may call him the trunk of the tree!—Bread. Then you come to his successor, my unworthy self—Salt—and Mrs. William, Swidgers both.—Knife and fork. Then you come to all my brothers and their families, Swidgers, man and woman, boy and girl. Why, what with cousins, uncles, aunts, and relationships of this, that, and t’other degree, and whatnot degree, and marriages, and lyings-in, the Swidgers—Tumbler—might take hold of hands, and make a ring round England!”

Receiving no reply at all here, from the thoughtful man whom he addressed, Mr. William approached, him nearer, and made a feint of accidentally knocking the table with a decanter, to rouse him. The moment he succeeded, he went on, as if in great alacrity of acquiescence.

“Yes, sir! That’s just what I say myself, sir. Mrs. William and me have often said so. ‘There’s Swidgers enough,’ we say, ‘without our voluntary contributions,’—Butter. In fact, sir, my father is a family in himself—Castors—to take care of; and it happens all for the best that we have no child of our own, though it’s made Mrs. William rather quiet-like, too. Quite ready for the fowl and mashed potatoes, sir? Mrs. William said she’d dish in ten minutes when I left the Lodge.”

“I am quite ready,” said the other, waking as from a dream, and walking slowly to and fro.

“Mrs. William has been at it again, sir!” said the keeper, as he stood warming a plate at the fire, and pleasantly shading his face with it. Mr. Redlaw stopped in his walking, and an expression of interest appeared in him.

“What I always say myself, sir. She will do it! There’s a motherly feeling in Mrs. William’s breast that must and will have went.”

“What has she done?”

“Why, sir, not satisfied with being a sort of mother to all the young gentlemen that come up from a variety of parts, to attend your courses of lectures at this ancient foundation—it’s surprising how stone-chaney catches the heat this frosty weather, to be sure!” Here he turned the plate, and cooled his fingers.

“Well?” said Mr. Redlaw.

“That’s just what I say myself, sir,” returned Mr. William, speaking over his shoulder, as if in ready and delighted assent. “That’s exactly where it is, sir! There ain’t one of our students but appears to regard Mrs. William in that light. Every day, right through the course, they puts their heads into the Lodge, one after another, and have all got something to tell her, or something to ask her. ‘Swidge’ is the appellation by which they speak of Mrs. William in general, among themselves, I’m told; but that’s what I say, sir. Better be called ever so far out of your name, if it’s done in real liking, than have it made ever so much of, and not cared about! What’s a name for? To know a person by. If Mrs. William is known by something better than her name—I allude to Mrs. William’s qualities and disposition—never mind her name, though it is Swidger, by rights. Let ’em call her Swidge, Widge, Bridge—Lord! London Bridge, Blackfriars, Chelsea, Putney, Waterloo, or Hammersmith Suspension—if they like.”

The close of this triumphant oration brought him and the plate to the table, upon which he half laid and half dropped it, with a lively sense of its being thoroughly heated, just as the subject of his praises entered the room, bearing another tray and a lantern, and followed by a venerable old man with long grey hair.

Mrs. William, like Mr. William, was a simple, innocent-looking person, in whose smooth cheeks the cheerful red of her husband’s official waistcoat was very pleasantly repeated. But whereas Mr. William’s light hair stood on end all over his head, and seemed to draw his eyes up with it in an excess of bustling readiness for anything, the dark brown hair of Mrs. William was carefully smoothed down, and waved away under a trim tidy cap, in the most exact and quiet manner imaginable. Whereas Mr. William’s very trousers hitched themselves up at the ankles, as if it were not in their iron-grey nature to rest without looking about them, Mrs. William’s neatly-flowered skirts—red and white, like her own pretty face—were as composed and orderly, as if the very wind that blew so hard out of doors could not disturb one of their folds. Whereas his coat had something of a fly-away and half-off appearance about the collar and breast, her little bodice was so placid and neat, that there should have been protection for her, in it, had she needed any, with the roughest people. Who could have had the heart to make so calm a bosom swell with grief, or throb with fear, or flutter with a thought of shame! To whom would its repose and peace have not appealed against disturbance, like the innocent slumber of a child!

“Punctual, of course, Milly,” said her husband, relieving her of the tray, “or it wouldn’t be you. Here’s Mrs. William, sir!—He looks lonelier than ever to-night,” whispering to his wife, as he was taking the tray, “and ghostlier altogether.”

Without any show of hurry or noise, or any show of herself even, she was so calm and quiet, Milly set the dishes she had brought upon the table,—Mr. William, after much clattering and running about, having only gained possession of a butter-boat of gravy, which he stood ready to serve.

“What is that the old man has in his arms?” asked Mr. Redlaw, as he sat down to his solitary meal.

“Holly, sir,” replied the quiet voice of Milly.

“That’s what I say myself, sir,” interposed Mr. William, striking in with the butter-boat. “Berries is so seasonable to the time of year!—Brown gravy!”

“Another Christmas come, another year gone!” murmured the Chemist, with a gloomy sigh. “More figures in the lengthening sum of recollection that we work and work at to our torment, till Death idly jumbles all together, and rubs all out. So, Philip!” breaking off, and raising his voice as he addressed the old man, standing apart, with his glistening burden in his arms, from which the quiet Mrs. William took small branches, which she noiselessly trimmed with her scissors, and decorated the room with, while her aged father-in-law looked on much interested in the ceremony.

“My duty to you, sir,” returned the old man. “Should have spoke before, sir, but know your ways, Mr. Redlaw—proud to say—and wait till spoke to! Merry Christmas, sir, and Happy New Year, and many of ’em. Have had a pretty many of ’em myself—ha, ha!—and may take the liberty of wishing ’em. I’m eighty-seven!”

“Have you had so many that were merry and happy?” asked the other.

“Ay, sir, ever so many,” returned the old man.

“Is his memory impaired with age? It is to be expected now,” said Mr. Redlaw, turning to the son, and speaking lower.

“Not a morsel of it, sir,” replied Mr. William. “That’s exactly what I say myself, sir. There never was such a memory as my father’s. He’s the most wonderful man in the world. He don’t know what forgetting means. It’s the very observation I’m always making to Mrs. William, sir, if you’ll believe me!”

Mr. Swidger, in his polite desire to seem to acquiesce at all events, delivered this as if there were no iota of contradiction in it, and it were all said in unbounded and unqualified assent.

The Chemist pushed his plate away, and, rising from the table, walked across the room to where the old man stood looking at a little sprig of holly in his hand.

“It recalls the time when many of those years were old and new, then?” he said, observing him attentively, and touching him on the shoulder. “Does it?”

“Oh many, many!” said Philip, half awaking from his reverie. “I’m eighty-seven!”

“Merry and happy, was it?” asked the Chemist in a low voice. “Merry and happy, old man?”

“Maybe as high as that, no higher,” said the old man, holding out his hand a little way above the level of his knee, and looking retrospectively at his questioner, “when I first remember ’em! Cold, sunshiny day it was, out a-walking, when some one—it was my mother as sure as you stand there, though I don’t know what her blessed face was like, for she took ill and died that Christmas-time—told me they were food for birds. The pretty little fellow thought—that’s me, you understand—that birds’ eyes were so bright, perhaps, because the berries that they lived on in the winter were so bright. I recollect that. And I’m eighty-seven!”

“Merry and happy!” mused the other, bending his dark eyes upon the stooping figure, with a smile of compassion. “Merry and happy—and remember well?”

“Ay, ay, ay!” resumed the old man, catching the last words. “I remember ’em well in my school time, year after year, and all the merry-making that used to come along with them. I was a strong chap then, Mr. Redlaw; and, if you’ll believe me, hadn’t my match at football within ten mile. Where’s my son William? Hadn’t my match at football, William, within ten mile!”

“That’s what I always say, father!” returned the son promptly, and with great respect. “You ARE a Swidger, if ever there was one of the family!”

“Dear!” said the old man, shaking his head as he again looked at the holly. “His mother—my son William’s my youngest son—and I, have sat among ’em all, boys and girls, little children and babies, many a year, when the berries like these were not shining half so bright all round us, as their bright faces. Many of ’em are gone; she’s gone; and my son George (our eldest, who was her pride more than all the rest!) is fallen very low: but I can see them, when I look here, alive and healthy, as they used to be in those days; and I can see him, thank God, in his innocence. It’s a blessed thing to me, at eighty-seven.”

The keen look that had been fixed upon him with so much earnestness, had gradually sought the ground.

“When my circumstances got to be not so good as formerly, through not being honestly dealt by, and I first come here to be custodian,” said the old man, “—which was upwards of fifty years ago—where’s my son William? More than half a century ago, William!”

“That’s what I say, father,” replied the son, as promptly and dutifully as before, “that’s exactly where it is. Two times ought’s an ought, and twice five ten, and there’s a hundred of ’em.”

“It was quite a pleasure to know that one of our founders—or more correctly speaking,” said the old man, with a great glory in his subject and his knowledge of it, “one of the learned gentlemen that helped endow us in Queen Elizabeth’s time, for we were founded afore her day—left in his will, among the other bequests he made us, so much to buy holly, for garnishing the walls and windows, come Christmas. There was something homely and friendly in it. Being but strange here, then, and coming at Christmas time, we took a liking for his very picter that hangs in what used to be, anciently, afore our ten poor gentlemen commuted for an annual stipend in money, our great Dinner Hall.—A sedate gentleman in a peaked beard, with a ruff round his neck, and a scroll below him, in old English letters, ‘Lord! keep my memory green!’ You know all about him, Mr. Redlaw?”

“I know the portrait hangs there, Philip.”

“Yes, sure, it’s the second on the right, above the panelling. I was going to say—he has helped to keep my memory green, I thank him; for going round the building every year, as I’m a doing now, and freshening up the bare rooms with these branches and berries, freshens up my bare old brain. One year brings back another, and that year another, and those others numbers! At last, it seems to me as if the birth-time of our Lord was the birth-time of all I have ever had affection for, or mourned for, or delighted in,—and they’re a pretty many, for I’m eighty-seven!”

“Merry and happy,” murmured Redlaw to himself.

The room began to darken strangely.

“So you see, sir,” pursued old Philip, whose hale wintry cheek had warmed into a ruddier glow, and whose blue eyes had brightened while he spoke, “I have plenty to keep, when I keep this present season. Now, where’s my quiet Mouse? Chattering’s the sin of my time of life, and there’s half the building to do yet, if the cold don’t freeze us first, or the wind don’t blow us away, or the darkness don’t swallow us up.”

The quiet Mouse had brought her calm face to his side, and silently taken his arm, before he finished speaking.

“Come away, my dear,” said the old man. “Mr. Redlaw won’t settle to his dinner, otherwise, till it’s cold as the winter. I hope you’ll excuse me rambling on, sir, and I wish you good night, and, once again, a merry—”

“Stay!” said Mr. Redlaw, resuming his place at the table, more, it would have seemed from his manner, to reassure the old keeper, than in any remembrance of his own appetite. “Spare me another moment, Philip. William, you were going to tell me something to your excellent wife’s honour. It will not be disagreeable to her to hear you praise her. What was it?”

“Why, that’s where it is, you see, sir,” returned Mr. William Swidger, looking towards his wife in considerable embarrassment. “Mrs. William’s got her eye upon me.”

“But you’re not afraid of Mrs. William’s eye?”

“Why, no, sir,” returned Mr. Swidger, “that’s what I say myself. It wasn’t made to be afraid of. It wouldn’t have been made so mild, if that was the intention. But I wouldn’t like to—Milly!—him, you know. Down in the Buildings.”

Mr. William, standing behind the table, and rummaging disconcertedly among the objects upon it, directed persuasive glances at Mrs. William, and secret jerks of his head and thumb at Mr. Redlaw, as alluring her towards him.

“Him, you know, my love,” said Mr. William. “Down in the Buildings. Tell, my dear! You’re the works of Shakespeare in comparison with myself. Down in the Buildings, you know, my love.—Student.”

“Student?” repeated Mr. Redlaw, raising his head.

“That’s what I say, sir!” cried Mr. William, in the utmost animation of assent. “If it wasn’t the poor student down in the Buildings, why should you wish to hear it from Mrs. William’s lips? Mrs. William, my dear—Buildings.”

“I didn’t know,” said Milly, with a quiet frankness, free from any haste or confusion, “that William had said anything about it, or I wouldn’t have come. I asked him not to. It’s a sick young gentleman, sir—and very poor, I am afraid—who is too ill to go home this holiday-time, and lives, unknown to any one, in but a common kind of lodging for a gentleman, down in Jerusalem Buildings. That’s all, sir.”

“Why have I never heard of him?” said the Chemist, rising hurriedly. “Why has he not made his situation known to me? Sick!—give me my hat and cloak. Poor!—what house?—what number?”

“Oh, you mustn’t go there, sir,” said Milly, leaving her father-in-law, and calmly confronting him with her collected little face and folded hands.

“Not go there?”

“Oh dear, no!” said Milly, shaking her head as at a most manifest and self-evident impossibility. “It couldn’t be thought of!”

“What do you mean? Why not?”

“Why, you see, sir,” said Mr. William Swidger, persuasively and confidentially, “that’s what I say. Depend upon it, the young gentleman would never have made his situation known to one of his own sex. Mrs. Williams has got into his confidence, but that’s quite different. They all confide in Mrs. William; they all trust her. A man, sir, couldn’t have got a whisper out of him; but woman, sir, and Mrs. William combined—!”

“There is good sense and delicacy in what you say, William,” returned Mr. Redlaw, observant of the gentle and composed face at his shoulder. And laying his finger on his lip, he secretly put his purse into her hand.

“Oh dear no, sir!” cried Milly, giving it back again. “Worse and worse! Couldn’t be dreamed of!”

Such a staid matter-of-fact housewife she was, and so unruffled by the momentary haste of this rejection, that, an instant afterwards, she was tidily picking up a few leaves which had strayed from between her scissors and her apron, when she had arranged the holly.

Finding, when she rose from her stooping posture, that Mr. Redlaw was still regarding her with doubt and astonishment, she quietly repeated—looking about, the while, for any other fragments that might have escaped her observation:

“Oh dear no, sir! He said that of all the world he would not be known to you, or receive help from you—though he is a student in your class. I have made no terms of secrecy with you, but I trust to your honour completely.”

“Why did he say so?”

“Indeed I can’t tell, sir,” said Milly, after thinking a little, “because I am not at all clever, you know; and I wanted to be useful to him in making things neat and comfortable about him, and employed myself that way. But I know he is poor, and lonely, and I think he is somehow neglected too.—How dark it is!”

The room had darkened more and more. There was a very heavy gloom and shadow gathering behind the Chemist’s chair.

“What more about him?” he asked.

“He is engaged to be married when he can afford it,” said Milly, “and is studying, I think, to qualify himself to earn a living. I have seen, a long time, that he has studied hard and denied himself much.—How very dark it is!”

“It’s turned colder, too,” said the old man, rubbing his hands. “There’s a chill and dismal feeling in the room. Where’s my son William? William, my boy, turn the lamp, and rouse the fire!”

Milly’s voice resumed, like quiet music very softly played:

“He muttered in his broken sleep yesterday afternoon, after talking to me” (this was to herself) “about some one dead, and some great wrong done that could never be forgotten; but whether to him or to another person, I don’t know. Not by him, I am sure.”

“And, in short, Mrs. William, you see—which she wouldn’t say herself, Mr. Redlaw, if she was to stop here till the new year after this next one—” said Mr. William, coming up to him to speak in his ear, “has done him worlds of good! Bless you, worlds of good! All at home just the same as ever—my father made as snug and comfortable—not a crumb of litter to be found in the house, if you were to offer fifty pound ready money for it—Mrs. William apparently never out of the way—yet Mrs. William backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, up and down, up and down, a mother to him!”

The room turned darker and colder, and the gloom and shadow gathering behind the chair was heavier.

“Not content with this, sir, Mrs. William goes and finds, this very night, when she was coming home (why it’s not above a couple of hours ago), a creature more like a young wild beast than a young child, shivering upon a door-step. What does Mrs. William do, but brings it home to dry it, and feed it, and keep it till our old Bounty of food and flannel is given away, on Christmas morning! If it ever felt a fire before, it’s as much as ever it did; for it’s sitting in the old Lodge chimney, staring at ours as if its ravenous eyes would never shut again. It’s sitting there, at least,” said Mr. William, correcting himself, on reflection, “unless it’s bolted!”

“Heaven keep her happy!” said the Chemist aloud, “and you too, Philip! and you, William! I must consider what to do in this. I may desire to see this student, I’ll not detain you any longer now. Good-night!”

“I thank’ee, sir, I thank’ee!” said the old man, “for Mouse, and for my son William, and for myself. Where’s my son William? William, you take the lantern and go on first, through them long dark passages, as you did last year and the year afore. Ha ha! I remember—though I’m eighty-seven! ‘Lord, keep my memory green!’ It’s a very good prayer, Mr. Redlaw, that of the learned gentleman in the peaked beard, with a ruff round his neck—hangs up, second on the right above the panelling, in what used to be, afore our ten poor gentlemen commuted, our great Dinner Hall. ‘Lord, keep my memory green!’ It’s very good and pious, sir. Amen! Amen!”

As they passed out and shut the heavy door, which, however carefully withheld, fired a long train of thundering reverberations when it shut at last, the room turned darker.

As he fell a musing in his chair alone, the healthy holly withered on the wall, and dropped—dead branches.

As the gloom and shadow thickened behind him, in that place where it had been gathering so darkly, it took, by slow degrees,—or out of it there came, by some unreal, unsubstantial process—not to be traced by any human sense,—an awful likeness of himself!

Ghastly and cold, colourless in its leaden face and hands, but with his features, and his bright eyes, and his grizzled hair, and dressed in the gloomy shadow of his dress, it came into his terrible appearance of existence, motionless, without a sound. As he leaned his arm upon the elbow of his chair, ruminating before the fire, it leaned upon the chair-back, close above him, with its appalling copy of his face looking where his face looked, and bearing the expression his face bore.

This, then, was the Something that had passed and gone already. This was the dread companion of the haunted man!

It took, for some moments, no more apparent heed of him, than he of it. The Christmas Waits were playing somewhere in the distance, and, through his thoughtfulness, he seemed to listen to the music. It seemed to listen too.

At length he spoke; without moving or lifting up his face.

“Here again!” he said.

“Here again,” replied the Phantom.

“I see you in the fire,” said the haunted man; “I hear you in music, in the wind, in the dead stillness of the night.”

The Phantom moved its head, assenting.

“Why do you come, to haunt me thus?”

“I come as I am called,” replied the Ghost.

“No. Unbidden,” exclaimed the Chemist.

“Unbidden be it,” said the Spectre. “It is enough. I am here.”

Hitherto the light of the fire had shone on the two faces—if the dread lineaments behind the chair might be called a face—both addressed towards it, as at first, and neither looking at the other. But, now, the haunted man turned, suddenly, and stared upon the Ghost. The Ghost, as sudden in its motion, passed to before the chair, and stared on him.

The living man, and the animated image of himself dead, might so have looked, the one upon the other. An awful survey, in a lonely and remote part of an empty old pile of building, on a winter night, with the loud wind going by upon its journey of mystery—whence or whither, no man knowing since the world began—and the stars, in unimaginable millions, glittering through it, from eternal space, where the world’s bulk is as a grain, and its hoary age is infancy.

“Look upon me!” said the Spectre. “I am he, neglected in my youth, and miserably poor, who strove and suffered, and still strove and suffered, until I hewed out knowledge from the mine where it was buried, and made rugged steps thereof, for my worn feet to rest and rise on.”

“I am that man,” returned the Chemist.

“No mother’s self-denying love,” pursued the Phantom, “no father’s counsel, aided me. A stranger came into my father’s place when I was but a child, and I was easily an alien from my mother’s heart. My parents, at the best, were of that sort whose care soon ends, and whose duty is soon done; who cast their offspring loose, early, as birds do theirs; and, if they do well, claim the merit; and, if ill, the pity.”

It paused, and seemed to tempt and goad him with its look, and with the manner of its speech, and with its smile.

“I am he,” pursued the Phantom, “who, in this struggle upward, found a friend. I made him—won him—bound him to me! We worked together, side by side. All the love and confidence that in my earlier youth had had no outlet, and found no expression, I bestowed on him.”

“Not all,” said Redlaw, hoarsely.

“No, not all,” returned the Phantom. “I had a sister.”

The haunted man, with his head resting on his hands, replied “I had!” The Phantom, with an evil smile, drew closer to the chair, and resting its chin upon its folded hands, its folded hands upon the back, and looking down into his face with searching eyes, that seemed instinct with fire, went on:

“Such glimpses of the light of home as I had ever known, had streamed from her. How young she was, how fair, how loving! I took her to the first poor roof that I was master of, and made it rich. She came into the darkness of my life, and made it bright.—She is before me!”

“I saw her, in the fire, but now. I hear her in music, in the wind, in the dead stillness of the night,” returned the haunted man.

“Did he love her?” said the Phantom, echoing his contemplative tone. “I think he did, once. I am sure he did. Better had she loved him less—less secretly, less dearly, from the shallower depths of a more divided heart!”

“Let me forget it!” said the Chemist, with an angry motion of his hand. “Let me blot it from my memory!”

The Spectre, without stirring, and with its unwinking, cruel eyes still fixed upon his face, went on:

“A dream, like hers, stole upon my own life.”

“It did,” said Redlaw.

“A love, as like hers,” pursued the Phantom, “as my inferior nature might cherish, arose in my own heart. I was too poor to bind its object to my fortune then, by any thread of promise or entreaty. I loved her far too well, to seek to do it. But, more than ever I had striven in my life, I strove to climb! Only an inch gained, brought me something nearer to the height. I toiled up! In the late pauses of my labour at that time,—my sister (sweet companion!) still sharing with me the expiring embers and the cooling hearth,—when day was breaking, what pictures of the future did I see!”

“I saw them, in the fire, but now,” he murmured. “They come back to me in music, in the wind, in the dead stillness of the night, in the revolving years.”

“—Pictures of my own domestic life, in aftertime, with her who was the inspiration of my toil. Pictures of my sister, made the wife of my dear friend, on equal terms—for he had some inheritance, we none—pictures of our sobered age and mellowed happiness, and of the golden links, extending back so far, that should bind us, and our children, in a radiant garland,” said the Phantom.

“Pictures,” said the haunted man, “that were delusions. Why is it my doom to remember them too well!”

“Delusions,” echoed the Phantom in its changeless voice, and glaring on him with its changeless eyes. “For my friend (in whose breast my confidence was locked as in my own), passing between me and the centre of the system of my hopes and struggles, won her to himself, and shattered my frail universe. My sister, doubly dear, doubly devoted, doubly cheerful in my home, lived on to see me famous, and my old ambition so rewarded when its spring was broken, and then—”

“Then died,” he interposed. “Died, gentle as ever; happy; and with no concern but for her brother. Peace!”

The Phantom watched him silently.

“Remembered!” said the haunted man, after a pause. “Yes. So well remembered, that even now, when years have passed, and nothing is more idle or more visionary to me than the boyish love so long outlived, I think of it with sympathy, as if it were a younger brother’s or a son’s. Sometimes I even wonder when her heart first inclined to him, and how it had been affected towards me.—Not lightly, once, I think.—But that is nothing. Early unhappiness, a wound from a hand I loved and trusted, and a loss that nothing can replace, outlive such fancies.”

“Thus,” said the Phantom, “I bear within me a Sorrow and a Wrong. Thus I prey upon myself. Thus, memory is my curse; and, if I could forget my sorrow and my wrong, I would!”

“Mocker!” said the Chemist, leaping up, and making, with a wrathful hand, at the throat of his other self. “Why have I always that taunt in my ears?”

“Forbear!” exclaimed the Spectre in an awful voice. “Lay a hand on Me, and die!”

He stopped midway, as if its words had paralysed him, and stood looking on it. It had glided from him; it had its arm raised high in warning; and a smile passed over its unearthly features, as it reared its dark figure in triumph.

“If I could forget my sorrow and wrong, I would,” the Ghost repeated. “If I could forget my sorrow and my wrong, I would!”

“Evil spirit of myself,” returned the haunted man, in a low, trembling tone, “my life is darkened by that incessant whisper.”

“It is an echo,” said the Phantom.

“If it be an echo of my thoughts—as now, indeed, I know it is,” rejoined the haunted man, “why should I, therefore, be tormented? It is not a selfish thought. I suffer it to range beyond myself. All men and women have their sorrows,—most of them their wrongs; ingratitude, and sordid jealousy, and interest, besetting all degrees of life. Who would not forget their sorrows and their wrongs?”

“Who would not, truly, and be happier and better for it?” said the Phantom.

“These revolutions of years, which we commemorate,” proceeded Redlaw, “what do they recall! Are there any minds in which they do not re-awaken some sorrow, or some trouble? What is the remembrance of the old man who was here to-night? A tissue of sorrow and trouble.”

“But common natures,” said the Phantom, with its evil smile upon its glassy face, “unenlightened minds and ordinary spirits, do not feel or reason on these things like men of higher cultivation and profounder thought.”

“Tempter,” answered Redlaw, “whose hollow look and voice I dread more than words can express, and from whom some dim foreshadowing of greater fear is stealing over me while I speak, I hear again an echo of my own mind.”

“Receive it as a proof that I am powerful,” returned the Ghost. “Hear what I offer! Forget the sorrow, wrong, and trouble you have known!”

“Forget them!” he repeated.

“I have the power to cancel their remembrance—to leave but very faint, confused traces of them, that will die out soon,” returned the Spectre. “Say! Is it done?”

“Stay!” cried the haunted man, arresting by a terrified gesture the uplifted hand. “I tremble with distrust and doubt of you; and the dim fear you cast upon me deepens into a nameless horror I can hardly bear.—I would not deprive myself of any kindly recollection, or any sympathy that is good for me, or others. What shall I lose, if I assent to this? What else will pass from my remembrance?”

“No knowledge; no result of study; nothing but the intertwisted chain of feelings and associations, each in its turn dependent on, and nourished by, the banished recollections. Those will go.”

“Are they so many?” said the haunted man, reflecting in alarm.

“They have been wont to show themselves in the fire, in music, in the wind, in the dead stillness of the night, in the revolving years,” returned the Phantom scornfully.

“In nothing else?”

The Phantom held its peace.

But having stood before him, silent, for a little while, it moved towards the fire; then stopped.

“Decide!” it said, “before the opportunity is lost!”

“A moment! I call Heaven to witness,” said the agitated man, “that I have never been a hater of any kind,—never morose, indifferent, or hard, to anything around me. If, living here alone, I have made too much of all that was and might have been, and too little of what is, the evil, I believe, has fallen on me, and not on others. But, if there were poison in my body, should I not, possessed of antidotes and knowledge how to use them, use them? If there be poison in my mind, and through this fearful shadow I can cast it out, shall I not cast it out?”

“Say,” said the Spectre, “is it done?”

“A moment longer!” he answered hurriedly. “I would forget it if I could! Have I thought that, alone, or has it been the thought of thousands upon thousands, generation after generation? All human memory is fraught with sorrow and trouble. My memory is as the memory of other men, but other men have not this choice. Yes, I close the bargain. Yes! I WILL forget my sorrow, wrong, and trouble!”

“Say,” said the Spectre, “is it done?”

“It is!”

“IT IS. And take this with you, man whom I here renounce! The gift that I have given, you shall give again, go where you will. Without recovering yourself the power that you have yielded up, you shall henceforth destroy its like in all whom you approach. Your wisdom has discovered that the memory of sorrow, wrong, and trouble is the lot of all mankind, and that mankind would be the happier, in its other memories, without it. Go! Be its benefactor! Freed from such remembrance, from this hour, carry involuntarily the blessing of such freedom with you. Its diffusion is inseparable and inalienable from you. Go! Be happy in the good you have won, and in the good you do!”

The Phantom, which had held its bloodless hand above him while it spoke, as if in some unholy invocation, or some ban; and which had gradually advanced its eyes so close to his, that he could see how they did not participate in the terrible smile upon its face, but were a fixed, unalterable, steady horror melted before him and was gone.

As he stood rooted to the spot, possessed by fear and wonder, and imagining he heard repeated in melancholy echoes, dying away fainter and fainter, the words, “Destroy its like in all whom you approach!” a shrill cry reached his ears. It came, not from the passages beyond the door, but from another part of the old building, and sounded like the cry of some one in the dark who had lost the way.

He looked confusedly upon his hands and limbs, as if to be assured of his identity, and then shouted in reply, loudly and wildly; for there was a strangeness and terror upon him, as if he too were lost.

The cry responding, and being nearer, he caught up the lamp, and raised a heavy curtain in the wall, by which he was accustomed to pass into and out of the theatre where he lectured,—which adjoined his room. Associated with youth and animation, and a high amphitheatre of faces which his entrance charmed to interest in a moment, it was a ghostly place when all this life was faded out of it, and stared upon him like an emblem of Death.

“Halloa!” he cried. “Halloa! This way! Come to the light!” When, as he held the curtain with one hand, and with the other raised the lamp and tried to pierce the gloom that filled the place, something rushed past him into the room like a wild-cat, and crouched down in a corner.

“What is it?” he said, hastily.

He might have asked “What is it?” even had he seen it well, as presently he did when he stood looking at it gathered up in its corner.

A bundle of tatters, held together by a hand, in size and form almost an infant’s, but in its greedy, desperate little clutch, a bad old man’s. A face rounded and smoothed by some half-dozen years, but pinched and twisted by the experiences of a life. Bright eyes, but not youthful. Naked feet, beautiful in their childish delicacy,—ugly in the blood and dirt that cracked upon them. A baby savage, a young monster, a child who had never been a child, a creature who might live to take the outward form of man, but who, within, would live and perish a mere beast.

Used, already, to be worried and hunted like a beast, the boy crouched down as he was looked at, and looked back again, and interposed his arm to ward off the expected blow.

“I’ll bite,” he said, “if you hit me!”

The time had been, and not many minutes since, when such a sight as this would have wrung the Chemist’s heart. He looked upon it now, coldly; but with a heavy effort to remember something—he did not know what—he asked the boy what he did there, and whence he came.

“Where’s the woman?” he replied. “I want to find the woman.”

“Who?”

“The woman. Her that brought me here, and set me by the large fire. She was so long gone, that I went to look for her, and lost myself. I don’t want you. I want the woman.”

He made a spring, so suddenly, to get away, that the dull sound of his naked feet upon the floor was near the curtain, when Redlaw caught him by his rags.

“Come! you let me go!” muttered the boy, struggling, and clenching his teeth. “I’ve done nothing to you. Let me go, will you, to the woman!”

“That is not the way. There is a nearer one,” said Redlaw, detaining him, in the same blank effort to remember some association that ought, of right, to bear upon this monstrous object. “What is your name?”

“Got none.”

“Where do you live?

“Live! What’s that?”

The boy shook his hair from his eyes to look at him for a moment, and then, twisting round his legs and wrestling with him, broke again into his repetition of “You let me go, will you? I want to find the woman.”

The Chemist led him to the door. “This way,” he said, looking at him still confusedly, but with repugnance and avoidance, growing out of his coldness. “I’ll take you to her.”

The sharp eyes in the child’s head, wandering round the room, lighted on the table where the remnants of the dinner were.

“Give me some of that!” he said, covetously.

“Has she not fed you?”

“I shall be hungry again to-morrow, sha’n’t I? Ain’t I hungry every day?”

Finding himself released, he bounded at the table like some small animal of prey, and hugging to his breast bread and meat, and his own rags, all together, said:

“There! Now take me to the woman!”

As the Chemist, with a new-born dislike to touch him, sternly motioned him to follow, and was going out of the door, he trembled and stopped.

“The gift that I have given, you shall give again, go where you will!”

The Phantom’s words were blowing in the wind, and the wind blew chill upon him.

“I’ll not go there, to-night,” he murmured faintly. “I’ll go nowhere to-night. Boy! straight down this long-arched passage, and past the great dark door into the yard,—you see the fire shining on the window there.”

“The woman’s fire?” inquired the boy.

He nodded, and the naked feet had sprung away. He came back with his lamp, locked his door hastily, and sat down in his chair, covering his face like one who was frightened at himself.

For now he was, indeed, alone. Alone, alone.

CHAPTER II The Gift Diffused

A small man sat in a small parlour, partitioned off from a small shop by a small screen, pasted all over with small scraps of newspapers. In company with the small man, was almost any amount of small children you may please to name—at least it seemed so; they made, in that very limited sphere of action, such an imposing effect, in point of numbers.

Of these small fry, two had, by some strong machinery, been got into bed in a corner, where they might have reposed snugly enough in the sleep of innocence, but for a constitutional propensity to keep awake, and also to scuffle in and out of bed. The immediate occasion of these predatory dashes at the waking world, was the construction of an oyster-shell wall in a corner, by two other youths of tender age; on which fortification the two in bed made harassing descents (like those accursed Picts and Scots who beleaguer the early historical studies of most young Britons), and then withdrew to their own territory.

In addition to the stir attendant on these inroads, and the retorts of the invaded, who pursued hotly, and made lunges at the bed-clothes under which the marauders took refuge, another little boy, in another little bed, contributed his mite of confusion to the family stock, by casting his boots upon the waters; in other words, by launching these and several small objects, inoffensive in themselves, though of a hard substance considered as missiles, at the disturbers of his repose,—who were not slow to return these compliments.

Besides which, another little boy—the biggest there, but still little—was tottering to and fro, bent on one side, and considerably affected in his knees by the weight of a large baby, which he was supposed by a fiction that obtains sometimes in sanguine families, to be hushing to sleep. But oh! the inexhaustible regions of contemplation and watchfulness into which this baby’s eyes were then only beginning to compose themselves to stare, over his unconscious shoulder!

It was a very Moloch of a baby, on whose insatiate altar the whole existence of this particular young brother was offered up a daily sacrifice. Its personality may be said to have consisted in its never being quiet, in any one place, for five consecutive minutes, and never going to sleep when required. “Tetterby’s baby” was as well known in the neighbourhood as the postman or the pot-boy. It roved from door-step to door-step, in the arms of little Johnny Tetterby, and lagged heavily at the rear of troops of juveniles who followed the Tumblers or the Monkey, and came up, all on one side, a little too late for everything that was attractive, from Monday morning until Saturday night. Wherever childhood congregated to play, there was little Moloch making Johnny fag and toil. Wherever Johnny desired to stay, little Moloch became fractious, and would not remain. Whenever Johnny wanted to go out, Moloch was asleep, and must be watched. Whenever Johnny wanted to stay at home, Moloch was awake, and must be taken out. Yet Johnny was verily persuaded that it was a faultless baby, without its peer in the realm of England, and was quite content to catch meek glimpses of things in general from behind its skirts, or over its limp flapping bonnet, and to go staggering about with it like a very little porter with a very large parcel, which was not directed to anybody, and could never be delivered anywhere.

The small man who sat in the small parlour, making fruitless attempts to read his newspaper peaceably in the midst of this disturbance, was the father of the family, and the chief of the firm described in the inscription over the little shop front, by the name and title of A. TETTERBY AND CO., NEWSMEN. Indeed, strictly speaking, he was the only personage answering to that designation, as Co. was a mere poetical abstraction, altogether baseless and impersonal.

Tetterby’s was the corner shop in Jerusalem Buildings. There was a good show of literature in the window, chiefly consisting of picture-newspapers out of date, and serial pirates, and footpads. Walking-sticks, likewise, and marbles, were included in the stock in trade. It had once extended into the light confectionery line; but it would seem that those elegancies of life were not in demand about Jerusalem Buildings, for nothing connected with that branch of commerce remained in the window, except a sort of small glass lantern containing a languishing mass of bull’s-eyes, which had melted in the summer and congealed in the winter until all hope of ever getting them out, or of eating them without eating the lantern too, was gone for ever. Tetterby’s had tried its hand at several things. It had once made a feeble little dart at the toy business; for, in another lantern, there was a heap of minute wax dolls, all sticking together upside down, in the direst confusion, with their feet on one another’s heads, and a precipitate of broken arms and legs at the bottom. It had made a move in the millinery direction, which a few dry, wiry bonnet-shapes remained in a corner of the window to attest. It had fancied that a living might lie hidden in the tobacco trade, and had stuck up a representation of a native of each of the three integral portions of the British Empire, in the act of consuming that fragrant weed; with a poetic legend attached, importing that united in one cause they sat and joked, one chewed tobacco, one took snuff, one smoked: but nothing seemed to have come of it—except flies. Time had been when it had put a forlorn trust in imitative jewellery, for in one pane of glass there was a card of cheap seals, and another of pencil-cases, and a mysterious black amulet of inscrutable intention, labelled ninepence. But, to that hour, Jerusalem Buildings had bought none of them. In short, Tetterby’s had tried so hard to get a livelihood out of Jerusalem Buildings in one way or other, and appeared to have done so indifferently in all, that the best position in the firm was too evidently Co.’s; Co., as a bodiless creation, being untroubled with the vulgar inconveniences of hunger and thirst, being chargeable neither to the poor’s-rates nor the assessed taxes, and having no young family to provide for.

Tetterby himself, however, in his little parlour, as already mentioned, having the presence of a young family impressed upon his mind in a manner too clamorous to be disregarded, or to comport with the quiet perusal of a newspaper, laid down his paper, wheeled, in his distraction, a few times round the parlour, like an undecided carrier-pigeon, made an ineffectual rush at one or two flying little figures in bed-gowns that skimmed past him, and then, bearing suddenly down upon the only unoffending member of the family, boxed the ears of little Moloch’s nurse.

“You bad boy!” said Mr. Tetterby, “haven’t you any feeling for your poor father after the fatigues and anxieties of a hard winter’s day, since five o’clock in the morning, but must you wither his rest, and corrode his latest intelligence, with your wicious tricks? Isn’t it enough, sir, that your brother ’Dolphus is toiling and moiling in the fog and cold, and you rolling in the lap of luxury with a—with a baby, and everything you can wish for,” said Mr. Tetterby, heaping this up as a great climax of blessings, “but must you make a wilderness of home, and maniacs of your parents? Must you, Johnny? Hey?” At each interrogation, Mr. Tetterby made a feint of boxing his ears again, but thought better of it, and held his hand.

“Oh, father!” whimpered Johnny, “when I wasn’t doing anything, I’m sure, but taking such care of Sally, and getting her to sleep. Oh, father!”

“I wish my little woman would come home!” said Mr. Tetterby, relenting and repenting, “I only wish my little woman would come home! I ain’t fit to deal with ’em. They make my head go round, and get the better of me. Oh, Johnny! Isn’t it enough that your dear mother has provided you with that sweet sister?” indicating Moloch; “isn’t it enough that you were seven boys before without a ray of gal, and that your dear mother went through what she did go through, on purpose that you might all of you have a little sister, but must you so behave yourself as to make my head swim?”

Softening more and more, as his own tender feelings and those of his injured son were worked on, Mr. Tetterby concluded by embracing him, and immediately breaking away to catch one of the real delinquents. A reasonably good start occurring, he succeeded, after a short but smart run, and some rather severe cross-country work under and over the bedsteads, and in and out among the intricacies of the chairs, in capturing this infant, whom he condignly punished, and bore to bed. This example had a powerful, and apparently, mesmeric influence on him of the boots, who instantly fell into a deep sleep, though he had been, but a moment before, broad awake, and in the highest possible feather. Nor was it lost upon the two young architects, who retired to bed, in an adjoining closet, with great privacy and speed. The comrade of the Intercepted One also shrinking into his nest with similar discretion, Mr. Tetterby, when he paused for breath, found himself unexpectedly in a scene of peace.

“My little woman herself,” said Mr. Tetterby, wiping his flushed face, “could hardly have done it better! I only wish my little woman had had it to do, I do indeed!”

Mr. Tetterby sought upon his screen for a passage appropriate to be impressed upon his children’s minds on the occasion, and read the following.

“‘It is an undoubted fact that all remarkable men have had remarkable mothers, and have respected them in after life as their best friends.’ Think of your own remarkable mother, my boys,” said Mr. Tetterby, “and know her value while she is still among you!”

He sat down again in his chair by the fire, and composed himself, cross-legged, over his newspaper.

“Let anybody, I don’t care who it is, get out of bed again,” said Tetterby, as a general proclamation, delivered in a very soft-hearted manner, “and astonishment will be the portion of that respected contemporary!”—which expression Mr. Tetterby selected from his screen. “Johnny, my child, take care of your only sister, Sally; for she’s the brightest gem that ever sparkled on your early brow.”

Johnny sat down on a little stool, and devotedly crushed himself beneath the weight of Moloch.

“Ah, what a gift that baby is to you, Johnny!” said his father, “and how thankful you ought to be! ‘It is not generally known, Johnny,’” he was now referring to the screen again, “‘but it is a fact ascertained, by accurate calculations, that the following immense percentage of babies never attain to two years old; that is to say—’”

“Oh, don’t, father, please!” cried Johnny. “I can’t bear it, when I think of Sally.”

Mr. Tetterby desisting, Johnny, with a profound sense of his trust, wiped his eyes, and hushed his sister.

“Your brother ’Dolphus,” said his father, poking the fire, “is late to-night, Johnny, and will come home like a lump of ice. What’s got your precious mother?”

“Here’s mother, and ’Dolphus too, father!” exclaimed Johnny, “I think.”

“You’re right!” returned his father, listening. “Yes, that’s the footstep of my little woman.”

The process of induction, by which Mr. Tetterby had come to the conclusion that his wife was a little woman, was his own secret. She would have made two editions of himself, very easily. Considered as an individual, she was rather remarkable for being robust and portly; but considered with reference to her husband, her dimensions became magnificent. Nor did they assume a less imposing proportion, when studied with reference to the size of her seven sons, who were but diminutive. In the case of Sally, however, Mrs. Tetterby had asserted herself, at last; as nobody knew better than the victim Johnny, who weighed and measured that exacting idol every hour in the day.

Mrs. Tetterby, who had been marketing, and carried a basket, threw back her bonnet and shawl, and sitting down, fatigued, commanded Johnny to bring his sweet charge to her straightway, for a kiss. Johnny having complied, and gone back to his stool, and again crushed himself, Master Adolphus Tetterby, who had by this time unwound his torso out of a prismatic comforter, apparently interminable, requested the same favour. Johnny having again complied, and again gone back to his stool, and again crushed himself, Mr. Tetterby, struck by a sudden thought, preferred the same claim on his own parental part. The satisfaction of this third desire completely exhausted the sacrifice, who had hardly breath enough left to get back to his stool, crush himself again, and pant at his relations.

“Whatever you do, Johnny,” said Mrs. Tetterby, shaking her head, “take care of her, or never look your mother in the face again.”

“Nor your brother,” said Adolphus.

“Nor your father, Johnny,” added Mr. Tetterby.

Johnny, much affected by this conditional renunciation of him, looked down at Moloch’s eyes to see that they were all right, so far, and skilfully patted her back (which was uppermost), and rocked her with his foot.

“Are you wet, ’Dolphus, my boy?” said his father. “Come and take my chair, and dry yourself.”

“No, father, thank’ee,” said Adolphus, smoothing himself down with his hands. “I an’t very wet, I don’t think. Does my face shine much, father?”

“Well, it does look waxy, my boy,” returned Mr. Tetterby.

“It’s the weather, father,” said Adolphus, polishing his cheeks on the worn sleeve of his jacket. “What with rain, and sleet, and wind, and snow, and fog, my face gets quite brought out into a rash sometimes. And shines, it does—oh, don’t it, though!”

Master Adolphus was also in the newspaper line of life, being employed, by a more thriving firm than his father and Co., to vend newspapers at a railway station, where his chubby little person, like a shabbily-disguised Cupid, and his shrill little voice (he was not much more than ten years old), were as well known as the hoarse panting of the locomotives, running in and out. His juvenility might have been at some loss for a harmless outlet, in this early application to traffic, but for a fortunate discovery he made of a means of entertaining himself, and of dividing the long day into stages of interest, without neglecting business. This ingenious invention, remarkable, like many great discoveries, for its simplicity, consisted in varying the first vowel in the word “paper,” and substituting, in its stead, at different periods of the day, all the other vowels in grammatical succession. Thus, before daylight in the winter-time, he went to and fro, in his little oilskin cap and cape, and his big comforter, piercing the heavy air with his cry of “Morn-ing Pa-per!” which, about an hour before noon, changed to “Morn-ing Pepper!” which, at about two, changed to “Morn-ing Pip-per!” which in a couple of hours changed to “Morn-ing Pop-per!” and so declined with the sun into “Eve-ning Pup-per!” to the great relief and comfort of this young gentleman’s spirits.

Mrs. Tetterby, his lady-mother, who had been sitting with her bonnet and shawl thrown back, as aforesaid, thoughtfully turning her wedding-ring round and round upon her finger, now rose, and divesting herself of her out-of-door attire, began to lay the cloth for supper.

“Ah, dear me, dear me, dear me!” said Mrs. Tetterby. “That’s the way the world goes!”

“Which is the way the world goes, my dear?” asked Mr. Tetterby, looking round.

“Oh, nothing,” said Mrs. Tetterby.

Mr. Tetterby elevated his eyebrows, folded his newspaper afresh, and carried his eyes up it, and down it, and across it, but was wandering in his attention, and not reading it.

Mrs. Tetterby, at the same time, laid the cloth, but rather as if she were punishing the table than preparing the family supper; hitting it unnecessarily hard with the knives and forks, slapping it with the plates, dinting it with the salt-cellar, and coming heavily down upon it with the loaf.

“Ah, dear me, dear me, dear me!” said Mrs. Tetterby. “That’s the way the world goes!”

“My duck,” returned her husband, looking round again, “you said that before. Which is the way the world goes?”

“Oh, nothing!” said Mrs. Tetterby.

“Sophia!” remonstrated her husband, “you said that before, too.”

“Well, I’ll say it again if you like,” returned Mrs. Tetterby. “Oh nothing—there! And again if you like, oh nothing—there! And again if you like, oh nothing—now then!”

Mr. Tetterby brought his eye to bear upon the partner of his bosom, and said, in mild astonishment:

“My little woman, what has put you out?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” she retorted. “Don’t ask me. Who said I was put out at all? I never did.”

Mr. Tetterby gave up the perusal of his newspaper as a bad job, and, taking a slow walk across the room, with his hands behind him, and his shoulders raised—his gait according perfectly with the resignation of his manner—addressed himself to his two eldest offspring.

“Your supper will be ready in a minute, ’Dolphus,” said Mr. Tetterby. “Your mother has been out in the wet, to the cook’s shop, to buy it. It was very good of your mother so to do. You shall get some supper too, very soon, Johnny. Your mother’s pleased with you, my man, for being so attentive to your precious sister.”

Mrs. Tetterby, without any remark, but with a decided subsidence of her animosity towards the table, finished her preparations, and took, from her ample basket, a substantial slab of hot pease pudding wrapped in paper, and a basin covered with a saucer, which, on being uncovered, sent forth an odour so agreeable, that the three pair of eyes in the two beds opened wide and fixed themselves upon the banquet. Mr. Tetterby, without regarding this tacit invitation to be seated, stood repeating slowly, “Yes, yes, your supper will be ready in a minute, ’Dolphus—your mother went out in the wet, to the cook’s shop, to buy it. It was very good of your mother so to do”—until Mrs. Tetterby, who had been exhibiting sundry tokens of contrition behind him, caught him round the neck, and wept.

“Oh, Dolphus!” said Mrs. Tetterby, “how could I go and behave so?”

This reconciliation affected Adolphus the younger and Johnny to that degree, that they both, as with one accord, raised a dismal cry, which had the effect of immediately shutting up the round eyes in the beds, and utterly routing the two remaining little Tetterbys, just then stealing in from the adjoining closet to see what was going on in the eating way.

“I am sure, ’Dolphus,” sobbed Mrs. Tetterby, “coming home, I had no more idea than a child unborn—”

Mr. Tetterby seemed to dislike this figure of speech, and observed, “Say than the baby, my dear.”

“—Had no more idea than the baby,” said Mrs. Tetterby.—“Johnny, don’t look at me, but look at her, or she’ll fall out of your lap and be killed, and then you’ll die in agonies of a broken heart, and serve you right.—No more idea I hadn’t than that darling, of being cross when I came home; but somehow, ’Dolphus—” Mrs. Tetterby paused, and again turned her wedding-ring round and round upon her finger.

“I see!” said Mr. Tetterby. “I understand! My little woman was put out. Hard times, and hard weather, and hard work, make it trying now and then. I see, bless your soul! No wonder! Dolf, my man,” continued Mr. Tetterby, exploring the basin with a fork, “here’s your mother been and bought, at the cook’s shop, besides pease pudding, a whole knuckle of a lovely roast leg of pork, with lots of crackling left upon it, and with seasoning gravy and mustard quite unlimited. Hand in your plate, my boy, and begin while it’s simmering.”

Master Adolphus, needing no second summons, received his portion with eyes rendered moist by appetite, and withdrawing to his particular stool, fell upon his supper tooth and nail. Johnny was not forgotten, but received his rations on bread, lest he should, in a flush of gravy, trickle any on the baby. He was required, for similar reasons, to keep his pudding, when not on active service, in his pocket.

There might have been more pork on the knucklebone,—which knucklebone the carver at the cook’s shop had assuredly not forgotten in carving for previous customers—but there was no stint of seasoning, and that is an accessory dreamily suggesting pork, and pleasantly cheating the sense of taste. The pease pudding, too, the gravy and mustard, like the Eastern rose in respect of the nightingale, if they were not absolutely pork, had lived near it; so, upon the whole, there was the flavour of a middle-sized pig. It was irresistible to the Tetterbys in bed, who, though professing to slumber peacefully, crawled out when unseen by their parents, and silently appealed to their brothers for any gastronomic token of fraternal affection. They, not hard of heart, presenting scraps in return, it resulted that a party of light skirmishers in nightgowns were careering about the parlour all through supper, which harassed Mr. Tetterby exceedingly, and once or twice imposed upon him the necessity of a charge, before which these guerilla troops retired in all directions and in great confusion.

Mrs. Tetterby did not enjoy her supper. There seemed to be something on Mrs. Tetterby’s mind. At one time she laughed without reason, and at another time she cried without reason, and at last she laughed and cried together in a manner so very unreasonable that her husband was confounded.

“My little woman,” said Mr. Tetterby, “if the world goes that way, it appears to go the wrong way, and to choke you.”

“Give me a drop of water,” said Mrs. Tetterby, struggling with herself, “and don’t speak to me for the present, or take any notice of me. Don’t do it!”

Mr. Tetterby having administered the water, turned suddenly on the unlucky Johnny (who was full of sympathy), and demanded why he was wallowing there, in gluttony and idleness, instead of coming forward with the baby, that the sight of her might revive his mother. Johnny immediately approached, borne down by its weight; but Mrs. Tetterby holding out her hand to signify that she was not in a condition to bear that trying appeal to her feelings, he was interdicted from advancing another inch, on pain of perpetual hatred from all his dearest connections; and accordingly retired to his stool again, and crushed himself as before.

After a pause, Mrs. Tetterby said she was better now, and began to laugh.

“My little woman,” said her husband, dubiously, “are you quite sure you’re better? Or are you, Sophia, about to break out in a fresh direction?”

“No, ’Dolphus, no,” replied his wife. “I’m quite myself.” With that, settling her hair, and pressing the palms of her hands upon her eyes, she laughed again.

“What a wicked fool I was, to think so for a moment!” said Mrs. Tetterby. “Come nearer, ’Dolphus, and let me ease my mind, and tell you what I mean. Let me tell you all about it.”

Mr. Tetterby bringing his chair closer, Mrs. Tetterby laughed again, gave him a hug, and wiped her eyes.

“You know, Dolphus, my dear,” said Mrs. Tetterby, “that when I was single, I might have given myself away in several directions. At one time, four after me at once; two of them were sons of Mars.”

“We’re all sons of Ma’s, my dear,” said Mr. Tetterby, “jointly with Pa’s.”

“I don’t mean that,” replied his wife, “I mean soldiers—serjeants.”

“Oh!” said Mr. Tetterby.

“Well, ’Dolphus, I’m sure I never think of such things now, to regret them; and I’m sure I’ve got as good a husband, and would do as much to prove that I was fond of him, as—”

“As any little woman in the world,” said Mr. Tetterby. “Very good. Very good.”

If Mr. Tetterby had been ten feet high, he could not have expressed a gentler consideration for Mrs. Tetterby’s fairy-like stature; and if Mrs. Tetterby had been two feet high, she could not have felt it more appropriately her due.

“But you see, ’Dolphus,” said Mrs. Tetterby, “this being Christmas-time, when all people who can, make holiday, and when all people who have got money, like to spend some, I did, somehow, get a little out of sorts when I was in the streets just now. There were so many things to be sold—such delicious things to eat, such fine things to look at, such delightful things to have—and there was so much calculating and calculating necessary, before I durst lay out a sixpence for the commonest thing; and the basket was so large, and wanted so much in it; and my stock of money was so small, and would go such a little way;—you hate me, don’t you, ’Dolphus?”

“Not quite,” said Mr. Tetterby, “as yet.”

“Well! I’ll tell you the whole truth,” pursued his wife, penitently, “and then perhaps you will. I felt all this, so much, when I was trudging about in the cold, and when I saw a lot of other calculating faces and large baskets trudging about, too, that I began to think whether I mightn’t have done better, and been happier, if—I—hadn’t—” the wedding-ring went round again, and Mrs. Tetterby shook her downcast head as she turned it.

“I see,” said her husband quietly; “if you hadn’t married at all, or if you had married somebody else?”

“Yes,” sobbed Mrs. Tetterby. “That’s really what I thought. Do you hate me now, ’Dolphus?”

“Why no,” said Mr. Tetterby. “I don’t find that I do, as yet.”

Mrs. Tetterby gave him a thankful kiss, and went on.

“I begin to hope you won’t, now, ’Dolphus, though I’m afraid I haven’t told you the worst. I can’t think what came over me. I don’t know whether I was ill, or mad, or what I was, but I couldn’t call up anything that seemed to bind us to each other, or to reconcile me to my fortune. All the pleasures and enjoyments we had ever had—they seemed so poor and insignificant, I hated them. I could have trodden on them. And I could think of nothing else, except our being poor, and the number of mouths there were at home.”

“Well, well, my dear,” said Mr. Tetterby, shaking her hand encouragingly, “that’s truth, after all. We are poor, and there are a number of mouths at home here.”

“Ah! but, Dolf, Dolf!” cried his wife, laying her hands upon his neck, “my good, kind, patient fellow, when I had been at home a very little while—how different! Oh, Dolf, dear, how different it was! I felt as if there was a rush of recollection on me, all at once, that softened my hard heart, and filled it up till it was bursting. All our struggles for a livelihood, all our cares and wants since we have been married, all the times of sickness, all the hours of watching, we have ever had, by one another, or by the children, seemed to speak to me, and say that they had made us one, and that I never might have been, or could have been, or would have been, any other than the wife and mother I am. Then, the cheap enjoyments that I could have trodden on so cruelly, got to be so precious to me—Oh so priceless, and dear!—that I couldn’t bear to think how much I had wronged them; and I said, and say again a hundred times, how could I ever behave so, ’Dolphus, how could I ever have the heart to do it!”

The good woman, quite carried away by her honest tenderness and remorse, was weeping with all her heart, when she started up with a scream, and ran behind her husband. Her cry was so terrified, that the children started from their sleep and from their beds, and clung about her. Nor did her gaze belie her voice, as she pointed to a pale man in a black cloak who had come into the room.

“Look at that man! Look there! What does he want?”

“My dear,” returned her husband, “I’ll ask him if you’ll let me go. What’s the matter! How you shake!”

“I saw him in the street, when I was out just now. He looked at me, and stood near me. I am afraid of him.”

“Afraid of him! Why?”

“I don’t know why—I—stop! husband!” for he was going towards the stranger.

She had one hand pressed upon her forehead, and one upon her breast; and there was a peculiar fluttering all over her, and a hurried unsteady motion of her eyes, as if she had lost something.

“Are you ill, my dear?”

“What is it that is going from me again?” she muttered, in a low voice. “What is this that is going away?”

Then she abruptly answered: “Ill? No, I am quite well,” and stood looking vacantly at the floor.

Her husband, who had not been altogether free from the infection of her fear at first, and whom the present strangeness of her manner did not tend to reassure, addressed himself to the pale visitor in the black cloak, who stood still, and whose eyes were bent upon the ground.

“What may be your pleasure, sir,” he asked, “with us?”

“I fear that my coming in unperceived,” returned the visitor, “has alarmed you; but you were talking and did not hear me.”

“My little woman says—perhaps you heard her say it,” returned Mr. Tetterby, “that it’s not the first time you have alarmed her to-night.”

“I am sorry for it. I remember to have observed her, for a few moments only, in the street. I had no intention of frightening her.”

As he raised his eyes in speaking, she raised hers. It was extraordinary to see what dread she had of him, and with what dread he observed it—and yet how narrowly and closely.

“My name,” he said, “is Redlaw. I come from the old college hard by. A young gentleman who is a student there, lodges in your house, does he not?”

“Mr. Denham?” said Tetterby.

“Yes.”

It was a natural action, and so slight as to be hardly noticeable; but the little man, before speaking again, passed his hand across his forehead, and looked quickly round the room, as though he were sensible of some change in its atmosphere. The Chemist, instantly transferring to him the look of dread he had directed towards the wife, stepped back, and his face turned paler.

“The gentleman’s room,” said Tetterby, “is upstairs, sir. There’s a more convenient private entrance; but as you have come in here, it will save your going out into the cold, if you’ll take this little staircase,” showing one communicating directly with the parlour, “and go up to him that way, if you wish to see him.”

“Yes, I wish to see him,” said the Chemist. “Can you spare a light?”

The watchfulness of his haggard look, and the inexplicable distrust that darkened it, seemed to trouble Mr. Tetterby. He paused; and looking fixedly at him in return, stood for a minute or so, like a man stupefied, or fascinated.

At length he said, “I’ll light you, sir, if you’ll follow me.”

“No,” replied the Chemist, “I don’t wish to be attended, or announced to him. He does not expect me. I would rather go alone. Please to give me the light, if you can spare it, and I’ll find the way.”

In the quickness of his expression of this desire, and in taking the candle from the newsman, he touched him on the breast. Withdrawing his hand hastily, almost as though he had wounded him by accident (for he did not know in what part of himself his new power resided, or how it was communicated, or how the manner of its reception varied in different persons), he turned and ascended the stair.

But when he reached the top, he stopped and looked down. The wife was standing in the same place, twisting her ring round and round upon her finger. The husband, with his head bent forward on his breast, was musing heavily and sullenly. The children, still clustering about the mother, gazed timidly after the visitor, and nestled together when they saw him looking down.

“Come!” said the father, roughly. “There’s enough of this. Get to bed here!”

“The place is inconvenient and small enough,” the mother added, “without you. Get to bed!”

The whole brood, scared and sad, crept away; little Johnny and the baby lagging last. The mother, glancing contemptuously round the sordid room, and tossing from her the fragments of their meal, stopped on the threshold of her task of clearing the table, and sat down, pondering idly and dejectedly. The father betook himself to the chimney-corner, and impatiently raking the small fire together, bent over it as if he would monopolise it all. They did not interchange a word.

The Chemist, paler than before, stole upward like a thief; looking back upon the change below, and dreading equally to go on or return.

“What have I done!” he said, confusedly. “What am I going to do!”

“To be the benefactor of mankind,” he thought he heard a voice reply.

He looked round, but there was nothing there; and a passage now shutting out the little parlour from his view, he went on, directing his eyes before him at the way he went.

“It is only since last night,” he muttered gloomily, “that I have remained shut up, and yet all things are strange to me. I am strange to myself. I am here, as in a dream. What interest have I in this place, or in any place that I can bring to my remembrance? My mind is going blind!”

There was a door before him, and he knocked at it. Being invited, by a voice within, to enter, he complied.

“Is that my kind nurse?” said the voice. “But I need not ask her. There is no one else to come here.”

It spoke cheerfully, though in a languid tone, and attracted his attention to a young man lying on a couch, drawn before the chimney-piece, with the back towards the door. A meagre scanty stove, pinched and hollowed like a sick man’s cheeks, and bricked into the centre of a hearth that it could scarcely warm, contained the fire, to which his face was turned. Being so near the windy house-top, it wasted quickly, and with a busy sound, and the burning ashes dropped down fast.

“They chink when they shoot out here,” said the student, smiling, “so, according to the gossips, they are not coffins, but purses. I shall be well and rich yet, some day, if it please God, and shall live perhaps to love a daughter Milly, in remembrance of the kindest nature and the gentlest heart in the world.”

He put up his hand as if expecting her to take it, but, being weakened, he lay still, with his face resting on his other hand, and did not turn round.

The Chemist glanced about the room;—at the student’s books and papers, piled upon a table in a corner, where they, and his extinguished reading-lamp, now prohibited and put away, told of the attentive hours that had gone before this illness, and perhaps caused it;—at such signs of his old health and freedom, as the out-of-door attire that hung idle on the wall;—at those remembrances of other and less solitary scenes, the little miniatures upon the chimney-piece, and the drawing of home;—at that token of his emulation, perhaps, in some sort, of his personal attachment too, the framed engraving of himself, the looker-on. The time had been, only yesterday, when not one of these objects, in its remotest association of interest with the living figure before him, would have been lost on Redlaw. Now, they were but objects; or, if any gleam of such connexion shot upon him, it perplexed, and not enlightened him, as he stood looking round with a dull wonder.

The student, recalling the thin hand which had remained so long untouched, raised himself on the couch, and turned his head.

“Mr. Redlaw!” he exclaimed, and started up.

Redlaw put out his arm.

“Don’t come nearer to me. I will sit here. Remain you, where you are!”

He sat down on a chair near the door, and having glanced at the young man standing leaning with his hand upon the couch, spoke with his eyes averted towards the ground.

“I heard, by an accident, by what accident is no matter, that one of my class was ill and solitary. I received no other description of him, than that he lived in this street. Beginning my inquiries at the first house in it, I have found him.”

“I have been ill, sir,” returned the student, not merely with a modest hesitation, but with a kind of awe of him, “but am greatly better. An attack of fever—of the brain, I believe—has weakened me, but I am much better. I cannot say I have been solitary, in my illness, or I should forget the ministering hand that has been near me.”

“You are speaking of the keeper’s wife,” said Redlaw.

“Yes.” The student bent his head, as if he rendered her some silent homage.

The Chemist, in whom there was a cold, monotonous apathy, which rendered him more like a marble image on the tomb of the man who had started from his dinner yesterday at the first mention of this student’s case, than the breathing man himself, glanced again at the student leaning with his hand upon the couch, and looked upon the ground, and in the air, as if for light for his blinded mind.

“I remembered your name,” he said, “when it was mentioned to me down stairs, just now; and I recollect your face. We have held but very little personal communication together?”

“Very little.”

“You have retired and withdrawn from me, more than any of the rest, I think?”

The student signified assent.

“And why?” said the Chemist; not with the least expression of interest, but with a moody, wayward kind of curiosity. “Why? How comes it that you have sought to keep especially from me, the knowledge of your remaining here, at this season, when all the rest have dispersed, and of your being ill? I want to know why this is?”

The young man, who had heard him with increasing agitation, raised his downcast eyes to his face, and clasping his hands together, cried with sudden earnestness and with trembling lips:

“Mr. Redlaw! You have discovered me. You know my secret!”

“Secret?” said the Chemist, harshly. “I know?”

“Yes! Your manner, so different from the interest and sympathy which endear you to so many hearts, your altered voice, the constraint there is in everything you say, and in your looks,” replied the student, “warn me that you know me. That you would conceal it, even now, is but a proof to me (God knows I need none!) of your natural kindness and of the bar there is between us.”

A vacant and contemptuous laugh, was all his answer.

“But, Mr. Redlaw,” said the student, “as a just man, and a good man, think how innocent I am, except in name and descent, of participation in any wrong inflicted on you or in any sorrow you have borne.”

“Sorrow!” said Redlaw, laughing. “Wrong! What are those to me?”

“For Heaven’s sake,” entreated the shrinking student, “do not let the mere interchange of a few words with me change you like this, sir! Let me pass again from your knowledge and notice. Let me occupy my old reserved and distant place among those whom you instruct. Know me only by the name I have assumed, and not by that of Longford—”

“Longford!” exclaimed the other.

He clasped his head with both his hands, and for a moment turned upon the young man his own intelligent and thoughtful face. But the light passed from it, like the sun-beam of an instant, and it clouded as before.

“The name my mother bears, sir,” faltered the young man, “the name she took, when she might, perhaps, have taken one more honoured. Mr. Redlaw,” hesitating, “I believe I know that history. Where my information halts, my guesses at what is wanting may supply something not remote from the truth. I am the child of a marriage that has not proved itself a well-assorted or a happy one. From infancy, I have heard you spoken of with honour and respect—with something that was almost reverence. I have heard of such devotion, of such fortitude and tenderness, of such rising up against the obstacles which press men down, that my fancy, since I learnt my little lesson from my mother, has shed a lustre on your name. At last, a poor student myself, from whom could I learn but you?”

Redlaw, unmoved, unchanged, and looking at him with a staring frown, answered by no word or sign.

“I cannot say,” pursued the other, “I should try in vain to say, how much it has impressed me, and affected me, to find the gracious traces of the past, in that certain power of winning gratitude and confidence which is associated among us students (among the humblest of us, most) with Mr. Redlaw’s generous name. Our ages and positions are so different, sir, and I am so accustomed to regard you from a distance, that I wonder at my own presumption when I touch, however lightly, on that theme. But to one who—I may say, who felt no common interest in my mother once—it may be something to hear, now that all is past, with what indescribable feelings of affection I have, in my obscurity, regarded him; with what pain and reluctance I have kept aloof from his encouragement, when a word of it would have made me rich; yet how I have felt it fit that I should hold my course, content to know him, and to be unknown. Mr. Redlaw,” said the student, faintly, “what I would have said, I have said ill, for my strength is strange to me as yet; but for anything unworthy in this fraud of mine, forgive me, and for all the rest forget me!”

The staring frown remained on Redlaw’s face, and yielded to no other expression until the student, with these words, advanced towards him, as if to touch his hand, when he drew back and cried to him:

“Don’t come nearer to me!”

The young man stopped, shocked by the eagerness of his recoil, and by the sternness of his repulsion; and he passed his hand, thoughtfully, across his forehead.

“The past is past,” said the Chemist. “It dies like the brutes. Who talks to me of its traces in my life? He raves or lies! What have I to do with your distempered dreams? If you want money, here it is. I came to offer it; and that is all I came for. There can be nothing else that brings me here,” he muttered, holding his head again, with both his hands. “There can be nothing else, and yet—”

He had tossed his purse upon the table. As he fell into this dim cogitation with himself, the student took it up, and held it out to him.

“Take it back, sir,” he said proudly, though not angrily. “I wish you could take from me, with it, the remembrance of your words and offer.”

“You do?” he retorted, with a wild light in his eyes. “You do?”

“I do!”

The Chemist went close to him, for the first time, and took the purse, and turned him by the arm, and looked him in the face.

“There is sorrow and trouble in sickness, is there not?” he demanded, with a laugh.

The wondering student answered, “Yes.”

“In its unrest, in its anxiety, in its suspense, in all its train of physical and mental miseries?” said the Chemist, with a wild unearthly exultation. “All best forgotten, are they not?”

The student did not answer, but again passed his hand, confusedly, across his forehead. Redlaw still held him by the sleeve, when Milly’s voice was heard outside.

“I can see very well now,” she said, “thank you, Dolf. Don’t cry, dear. Father and mother will be comfortable again, to-morrow, and home will be comfortable too. A gentleman with him, is there!”

Redlaw released his hold, as he listened.

“I have feared, from the first moment,” he murmured to himself, “to meet her. There is a steady quality of goodness in her, that I dread to influence. I may be the murderer of what is tenderest and best within her bosom.”

She was knocking at the door.

“Shall I dismiss it as an idle foreboding, or still avoid her?” he muttered, looking uneasily around.

She was knocking at the door again.

“Of all the visitors who could come here,” he said, in a hoarse alarmed voice, turning to his companion, “this is the one I should desire most to avoid. Hide me!”

The student opened a frail door in the wall, communicating where the garret-roof began to slope towards the floor, with a small inner room. Redlaw passed in hastily, and shut it after him.

The student then resumed his place upon the couch, and called to her to enter.

“Dear Mr. Edmund,” said Milly, looking round, “they told me there was a gentleman here.”

“There is no one here but I.”

“There has been some one?”

“Yes, yes, there has been some one.”

She put her little basket on the table, and went up to the back of the couch, as if to take the extended hand—but it was not there. A little surprised, in her quiet way, she leaned over to look at his face, and gently touched him on the brow.

“Are you quite as well to-night? Your head is not so cool as in the afternoon.”

“Tut!” said the student, petulantly, “very little ails me.”

A little more surprise, but no reproach, was expressed in her face, as she withdrew to the other side of the table, and took a small packet of needlework from her basket. But she laid it down again, on second thoughts, and going noiselessly about the room, set everything exactly in its place, and in the neatest order; even to the cushions on the couch, which she touched with so light a hand, that he hardly seemed to know it, as he lay looking at the fire. When all this was done, and she had swept the hearth, she sat down, in her modest little bonnet, to her work, and was quietly busy on it directly.

“It’s the new muslin curtain for the window, Mr. Edmund,” said Milly, stitching away as she talked. “It will look very clean and nice, though it costs very little, and will save your eyes, too, from the light. My William says the room should not be too light just now, when you are recovering so well, or the glare might make you giddy.”

He said nothing; but there was something so fretful and impatient in his change of position, that her quick fingers stopped, and she looked at him anxiously.

“The pillows are not comfortable,” she said, laying down her work and rising. “I will soon put them right.”

“They are very well,” he answered. “Leave them alone, pray. You make so much of everything.”

He raised his head to say this, and looked at her so thanklessly, that, after he had thrown himself down again, she stood timidly pausing. However, she resumed her seat, and her needle, without having directed even a murmuring look towards him, and was soon as busy as before.

“I have been thinking, Mr. Edmund, that you have been often thinking of late, when I have been sitting by, how true the saying is, that adversity is a good teacher. Health will be more precious to you, after this illness, than it has ever been. And years hence, when this time of year comes round, and you remember the days when you lay here sick, alone, that the knowledge of your illness might not afflict those who are dearest to you, your home will be doubly dear and doubly blest. Now, isn’t that a good, true thing?”

She was too intent upon her work, and too earnest in what she said, and too composed and quiet altogether, to be on the watch for any look he might direct towards her in reply; so the shaft of his ungrateful glance fell harmless, and did not wound her.

“Ah!” said Milly, with her pretty head inclining thoughtfully on one side, as she looked down, following her busy fingers with her eyes. “Even on me—and I am very different from you, Mr. Edmund, for I have no learning, and don’t know how to think properly—this view of such things has made a great impression, since you have been lying ill. When I have seen you so touched by the kindness and attention of the poor people down stairs, I have felt that you thought even that experience some repayment for the loss of health, and I have read in your face, as plain as if it was a book, that but for some trouble and sorrow we should never know half the good there is about us.”

His getting up from the couch, interrupted her, or she was going on to say more.

“We needn’t magnify the merit, Mrs. William,” he rejoined slightingly. “The people down stairs will be paid in good time I dare say, for any little extra service they may have rendered me; and perhaps they anticipate no less. I am much obliged to you, too.”

Her fingers stopped, and she looked at him.

“I can’t be made to feel the more obliged by your exaggerating the case,” he said. “I am sensible that you have been interested in me, and I say I am much obliged to you. What more would you have?”

Her work fell on her lap, as she still looked at him walking to and fro with an intolerant air, and stopping now and then.

“I say again, I am much obliged to you. Why weaken my sense of what is your due in obligation, by preferring enormous claims upon me? Trouble, sorrow, affliction, adversity! One might suppose I had been dying a score of deaths here!”

“Do you believe, Mr. Edmund,” she asked, rising and going nearer to him, “that I spoke of the poor people of the house, with any reference to myself? To me?” laying her hand upon her bosom with a simple and innocent smile of astonishment.

“Oh! I think nothing about it, my good creature,” he returned. “I have had an indisposition, which your solicitude—observe! I say solicitude—makes a great deal more of, than it merits; and it’s over, and we can’t perpetuate it.”

He coldly took a book, and sat down at the table.

She watched him for a little while, until her smile was quite gone, and then, returning to where her basket was, said gently:

“Mr. Edmund, would you rather be alone?”

“There is no reason why I should detain you here,” he replied.

“Except—” said Milly, hesitating, and showing her work.

“Oh! the curtain,” he answered, with a supercilious laugh. “That’s not worth staying for.”

She made up the little packet again, and put it in her basket. Then, standing before him with such an air of patient entreaty that he could not choose but look at her, she said:

“If you should want me, I will come back willingly. When you did want me, I was quite happy to come; there was no merit in it. I think you must be afraid, that, now you are getting well, I may be troublesome to you; but I should not have been, indeed. I should have come no longer than your weakness and confinement lasted. You owe me nothing; but it is right that you should deal as justly by me as if I was a lady—even the very lady that you love; and if you suspect me of meanly making much of the little I have tried to do to comfort your sick room, you do yourself more wrong than ever you can do me. That is why I am sorry. That is why I am very sorry.”

If she had been as passionate as she was quiet, as indignant as she was calm, as angry in her look as she was gentle, as loud of tone as she was low and clear, she might have left no sense of her departure in the room, compared with that which fell upon the lonely student when she went away.

He was gazing drearily upon the place where she had been, when Redlaw came out of his concealment, and came to the door.

“When sickness lays its hand on you again,” he said, looking fiercely back at him, “—may it be soon!—Die here! Rot here!”

“What have you done?” returned the other, catching at his cloak. “What change have you wrought in me? What curse have you brought upon me? Give me back _my_self!”

“Give me back myself!” exclaimed Redlaw like a madman. “I am infected! I am infectious! I am charged with poison for my own mind, and the minds of all mankind. Where I felt interest, compassion, sympathy, I am turning into stone. Selfishness and ingratitude spring up in my blighting footsteps. I am only so much less base than the wretches whom I make so, that in the moment of their transformation I can hate them.”

As he spoke—the young man still holding to his cloak—he cast him off, and struck him: then, wildly hurried out into the night air where the wind was blowing, the snow falling, the cloud-drift sweeping on, the moon dimly shining; and where, blowing in the wind, falling with the snow, drifting with the clouds, shining in the moonlight, and heavily looming in the darkness, were the Phantom’s words, “The gift that I have given, you shall give again, go where you will!”

Whither he went, he neither knew nor cared, so that he avoided company. The change he felt within him made the busy streets a desert, and himself a desert, and the multitude around him, in their manifold endurances and ways of life, a mighty waste of sand, which the winds tossed into unintelligible heaps and made a ruinous confusion of. Those traces in his breast which the Phantom had told him would “die out soon,” were not, as yet, so far upon their way to death, but that he understood enough of what he was, and what he made of others, to desire to be alone.

This put it in his mind—he suddenly bethought himself, as he was going along, of the boy who had rushed into his room. And then he recollected, that of those with whom he had communicated since the Phantom’s disappearance, that boy alone had shown no sign of being changed.

Monstrous and odious as the wild thing was to him, he determined to seek it out, and prove if this were really so; and also to seek it with another intention, which came into his thoughts at the same time.

So, resolving with some difficulty where he was, he directed his steps back to the old college, and to that part of it where the general porch was, and where, alone, the pavement was worn by the tread of the students’ feet.

The keeper’s house stood just within the iron gates, forming a part of the chief quadrangle. There was a little cloister outside, and from that sheltered place he knew he could look in at the window of their ordinary room, and see who was within. The iron gates were shut, but his hand was familiar with the fastening, and drawing it back by thrusting in his wrist between the bars, he passed through softly, shut it again, and crept up to the window, crumbling the thin crust of snow with his feet.

The fire, to which he had directed the boy last night, shining brightly through the glass, made an illuminated place upon the ground. Instinctively avoiding this, and going round it, he looked in at the window. At first, he thought that there was no one there, and that the blaze was reddening only the old beams in the ceiling and the dark walls; but peering in more narrowly, he saw the object of his search coiled asleep before it on the floor. He passed quickly to the door, opened it, and went in.

The creature lay in such a fiery heat, that, as the Chemist stooped to rouse him, it scorched his head. So soon as he was touched, the boy, not half awake, clutching his rags together with the instinct of flight upon him, half rolled and half ran into a distant corner of the room, where, heaped upon the ground, he struck his foot out to defend himself.

“Get up!” said the Chemist. “You have not forgotten me?”

“You let me alone!” returned the boy. “This is the woman’s house—not yours.”

The Chemist’s steady eye controlled him somewhat, or inspired him with enough submission to be raised upon his feet, and looked at.

“Who washed them, and put those bandages where they were bruised and cracked?” asked the Chemist, pointing to their altered state.

“The woman did.”

“And is it she who has made you cleaner in the face, too?”

“Yes, the woman.”

Redlaw asked these questions to attract his eyes towards himself, and with the same intent now held him by the chin, and threw his wild hair back, though he loathed to touch him. The boy watched his eyes keenly, as if he thought it needful to his own defence, not knowing what he might do next; and Redlaw could see well that no change came over him.

“Where are they?” he inquired.

“The woman’s out.”

“I know she is. Where is the old man with the white hair, and his son?”

“The woman’s husband, d’ye mean?” inquired the boy.

“Ay. Where are those two?”

“Out. Something’s the matter, somewhere. They were fetched out in a hurry, and told me to stop here.”

“Come with me,” said the Chemist, “and I’ll give you money.”

“Come where? and how much will you give?”

“I’ll give you more shillings than you ever saw, and bring you back soon. Do you know your way to where you came from?”

“You let me go,” returned the boy, suddenly twisting out of his grasp. “I’m not a going to take you there. Let me be, or I’ll heave some fire at you!”

He was down before it, and ready, with his savage little hand, to pluck the burning coals out.

What the Chemist had felt, in observing the effect of his charmed influence stealing over those with whom he came in contact, was not nearly equal to the cold vague terror with which he saw this baby-monster put it at defiance. It chilled his blood to look on the immovable impenetrable thing, in the likeness of a child, with its sharp malignant face turned up to his, and its almost infant hand, ready at the bars.

“Listen, boy!” he said. “You shall take me where you please, so that you take me where the people are very miserable or very wicked. I want to do them good, and not to harm them. You shall have money, as I have told you, and I will bring you back. Get up! Come quickly!” He made a hasty step towards the door, afraid of her returning.

“Will you let me walk by myself, and never hold me, nor yet touch me?” said the boy, slowly withdrawing the hand with which he threatened, and beginning to get up.

“I will!”

“And let me go, before, behind, or anyways I like?”

“I will!”

“Give me some money first, then, and go.”

The Chemist laid a few shillings, one by one, in his extended hand. To count them was beyond the boy’s knowledge, but he said “one,” every time, and avariciously looked at each as it was given, and at the donor. He had nowhere to put them, out of his hand, but in his mouth; and he put them there.

Redlaw then wrote with his pencil on a leaf of his pocket-book, that the boy was with him; and laying it on the table, signed to him to follow. Keeping his rags together, as usual, the boy complied, and went out with his bare head and naked feet into the winter night.

Preferring not to depart by the iron gate by which he had entered, where they were in danger of meeting her whom he so anxiously avoided, the Chemist led the way, through some of those passages among which the boy had lost himself, and by that portion of the building where he lived, to a small door of which he had the key. When they got into the street, he stopped to ask his guide—who instantly retreated from him—if he knew where they were.

The savage thing looked here and there, and at length, nodding his head, pointed in the direction he designed to take. Redlaw going on at once, he followed, something less suspiciously; shifting his money from his mouth into his hand, and back again into his mouth, and stealthily rubbing it bright upon his shreds of dress, as he went along.

Three times, in their progress, they were side by side. Three times they stopped, being side by side. Three times the Chemist glanced down at his face, and shuddered as it forced upon him one reflection.

The first occasion was when they were crossing an old churchyard, and Redlaw stopped among the graves, utterly at a loss how to connect them with any tender, softening, or consolatory thought.

The second was, when the breaking forth of the moon induced him to look up at the Heavens, where he saw her in her glory, surrounded by a host of stars he still knew by the names and histories which human science has appended to them; but where he saw nothing else he had been wont to see, felt nothing he had been wont to feel, in looking up there, on a bright night.

The third was when he stopped to listen to a plaintive strain of music, but could only hear a tune, made manifest to him by the dry mechanism of the instruments and his own ears, with no address to any mystery within him, without a whisper in it of the past, or of the future, powerless upon him as the sound of last year’s running water, or the rushing of last year’s wind.

At each of these three times, he saw with horror that, in spite of the vast intellectual distance between them, and their being unlike each other in all physical respects, the expression on the boy’s face was the expression on his own.

They journeyed on for some time—now through such crowded places, that he often looked over his shoulder thinking he had lost his guide, but generally finding him within his shadow on his other side; now by ways so quiet, that he could have counted his short, quick, naked footsteps coming on behind—until they arrived at a ruinous collection of houses, and the boy touched him and stopped.

“In there!” he said, pointing out one house where there were scattered lights in the windows, and a dim lantern in the doorway, with “Lodgings for Travellers” painted on it.

Redlaw looked about him; from the houses to the waste piece of ground on which the houses stood, or rather did not altogether tumble down, unfenced, undrained, unlighted, and bordered by a sluggish ditch; from that, to the sloping line of arches, part of some neighbouring viaduct or bridge with which it was surrounded, and which lessened gradually towards them, until the last but one was a mere kennel for a dog, the last a plundered little heap of bricks; from that, to the child, close to him, cowering and trembling with the cold, and limping on one little foot, while he coiled the other round his leg to warm it, yet staring at all these things with that frightful likeness of expression so apparent in his face, that Redlaw started from him.

“In there!” said the boy, pointing out the house again. “I’ll wait.”

“Will they let me in?” asked Redlaw.

“Say you’re a doctor,” he answered with a nod. “There’s plenty ill here.”

Looking back on his way to the house-door, Redlaw saw him trail himself upon the dust and crawl within the shelter of the smallest arch, as if he were a rat. He had no pity for the thing, but he was afraid of it; and when it looked out of its den at him, he hurried to the house as a retreat.

“Sorrow, wrong, and trouble,” said the Chemist, with a painful effort at some more distinct remembrance, “at least haunt this place darkly. He can do no harm, who brings forgetfulness of such things here!”

With these words, he pushed the yielding door, and went in.

There was a woman sitting on the stairs, either asleep or forlorn, whose head was bent down on her hands and knees. As it was not easy to pass without treading on her, and as she was perfectly regardless of his near approach, he stopped, and touched her on the shoulder. Looking up, she showed him quite a young face, but one whose bloom and promise were all swept away, as if the haggard winter should unnaturally kill the spring.

With little or no show of concern on his account, she moved nearer to the wall to leave him a wider passage.

“What are you?” said Redlaw, pausing, with his hand upon the broken stair-rail.

“What do you think I am?” she answered, showing him her face again.

He looked upon the ruined Temple of God, so lately made, so soon disfigured; and something, which was not compassion—for the springs in which a true compassion for such miseries has its rise, were dried up in his breast—but which was nearer to it, for the moment, than any feeling that had lately struggled into the darkening, but not yet wholly darkened, night of his mind—mingled a touch of softness with his next words.

“I am come here to give relief, if I can,” he said. “Are you thinking of any wrong?”

She frowned at him, and then laughed; and then her laugh prolonged itself into a shivering sigh, as she dropped her head again, and hid her fingers in her hair.

“Are you thinking of a wrong?” he asked once more.

“I am thinking of my life,” she said, with a momentary look at him.

He had a perception that she was one of many, and that he saw the type of thousands, when he saw her, drooping at his feet.

“What are your parents?” he demanded.

“I had a good home once. My father was a gardener, far away, in the country.”

“Is he dead?”

“He’s dead to me. All such things are dead to me. You a gentleman, and not know that!” She raised her eyes again, and laughed at him.

“Girl!” said Redlaw, sternly, “before this death, of all such things, was brought about, was there no wrong done to you? In spite of all that you can do, does no remembrance of wrong cleave to you? Are there not times upon times when it is misery to you?”

So little of what was womanly was left in her appearance, that now, when she burst into tears, he stood amazed. But he was more amazed, and much disquieted, to note that in her awakened recollection of this wrong, the first trace of her old humanity and frozen tenderness appeared to show itself.

He drew a little off, and in doing so, observed that her arms were black, her face cut, and her bosom bruised.

“What brutal hand has hurt you so?” he asked.

“My own. I did it myself!” she answered quickly.

“It is impossible.”

“I’ll swear I did! He didn’t touch me. I did it to myself in a passion, and threw myself down here. He wasn’t near me. He never laid a hand upon me!”

In the white determination of her face, confronting him with this untruth, he saw enough of the last perversion and distortion of good surviving in that miserable breast, to be stricken with remorse that he had ever come near her.

“Sorrow, wrong, and trouble!” he muttered, turning his fearful gaze away. “All that connects her with the state from which she has fallen, has those roots! In the name of God, let me go by!”

Afraid to look at her again, afraid to touch her, afraid to think of having sundered the last thread by which she held upon the mercy of Heaven, he gathered his cloak about him, and glided swiftly up the stairs.

Opposite to him, on the landing, was a door, which stood partly open, and which, as he ascended, a man with a candle in his hand, came forward from within to shut. But this man, on seeing him, drew back, with much emotion in his manner, and, as if by a sudden impulse, mentioned his name aloud.

In the surprise of such a recognition there, he stopped, endeavouring to recollect the wan and startled face. He had no time to consider it, for, to his yet greater amazement, old Philip came out of the room, and took him by the hand.

“Mr. Redlaw,” said the old man, “this is like you, this is like you, sir! you have heard of it, and have come after us to render any help you can. Ah, too late, too late!”

Redlaw, with a bewildered look, submitted to be led into the room. A man lay there, on a truckle-bed, and William Swidger stood at the bedside.

“Too late!” murmured the old man, looking wistfully into the Chemist’s face; and the tears stole down his cheeks.

“That’s what I say, father,” interposed his son in a low voice. “That’s where it is, exactly. To keep as quiet as ever we can while he’s a dozing, is the only thing to do. You’re right, father!”

Redlaw paused at the bedside, and looked down on the figure that was stretched upon the mattress. It was that of a man, who should have been in the vigour of his life, but on whom it was not likely the sun would ever shine again. The vices of his forty or fifty years’ career had so branded him, that, in comparison with their effects upon his face, the heavy hand of Time upon the old man’s face who watched him had been merciful and beautifying.

“Who is this?” asked the Chemist, looking round.

“My son George, Mr. Redlaw,” said the old man, wringing his hands. “My eldest son, George, who was more his mother’s pride than all the rest!”

Redlaw’s eyes wandered from the old man’s grey head, as he laid it down upon the bed, to the person who had recognised him, and who had kept aloof, in the remotest corner of the room. He seemed to be about his own age; and although he knew no such hopeless decay and broken man as he appeared to be, there was something in the turn of his figure, as he stood with his back towards him, and now went out at the door, that made him pass his hand uneasily across his brow.

“William,” he said in a gloomy whisper, “who is that man?”

“Why you see, sir,” returned Mr. William, “that’s what I say, myself. Why should a man ever go and gamble, and the like of that, and let himself down inch by inch till he can’t let himself down any lower!”

“Has he done so?” asked Redlaw, glancing after him with the same uneasy action as before.

“Just exactly that, sir,” returned William Swidger, “as I’m told. He knows a little about medicine, sir, it seems; and having been wayfaring towards London with my unhappy brother that you see here,” Mr. William passed his coat-sleeve across his eyes, “and being lodging up stairs for the night—what I say, you see, is that strange companions come together here sometimes—he looked in to attend upon him, and came for us at his request. What a mournful spectacle, sir! But that’s where it is. It’s enough to kill my father!”

Redlaw looked up, at these words, and, recalling where he was and with whom, and the spell he carried with him—which his surprise had obscured—retired a little, hurriedly, debating with himself whether to shun the house that moment, or remain.

Yielding to a certain sullen doggedness, which it seemed to be a part of his condition to struggle with, he argued for remaining.

“Was it only yesterday,” he said, “when I observed the memory of this old man to be a tissue of sorrow and trouble, and shall I be afraid, to-night, to shake it? Are such remembrances as I can drive away, so precious to this dying man that I need fear for him? No! I’ll stay here.”

But he stayed in fear and trembling none the less for these words; and, shrouded in his black cloak with his face turned from them, stood away from the bedside, listening to what they said, as if he felt himself a demon in the place.

“Father!” murmured the sick man, rallying a little from stupor.

“My boy! My son George!” said old Philip.

“You spoke, just now, of my being mother’s favourite, long ago. It’s a dreadful thing to think now, of long ago!”

“No, no, no;” returned the old man. “Think of it. Don’t say it’s dreadful. It’s not dreadful to me, my son.”

“It cuts you to the heart, father.” For the old man’s tears were falling on him.

“Yes, yes,” said Philip, “so it does; but it does me good. It’s a heavy sorrow to think of that time, but it does me good, George. Oh, think of it too, think of it too, and your heart will be softened more and more! Where’s my son William? William, my boy, your mother loved him dearly to the last, and with her latest breath said, ‘Tell him I forgave him, blessed him, and prayed for him.’ Those were her words to me. I have never forgotten them, and I’m eighty-seven!”

“Father!” said the man upon the bed, “I am dying, I know. I am so far gone, that I can hardly speak, even of what my mind most runs on. Is there any hope for me beyond this bed?”

“There is hope,” returned the old man, “for all who are softened and penitent. There is hope for all such. Oh!” he exclaimed, clasping his hands and looking up, “I was thankful, only yesterday, that I could remember this unhappy son when he was an innocent child. But what a comfort it is, now, to think that even God himself has that remembrance of him!”

Redlaw spread his hands upon his face, and shrank, like a murderer.

“Ah!” feebly moaned the man upon the bed. “The waste since then, the waste of life since then!”

“But he was a child once,” said the old man. “He played with children. Before he lay down on his bed at night, and fell into his guiltless rest, he said his prayers at his poor mother’s knee. I have seen him do it, many a time; and seen her lay his head upon her breast, and kiss him. Sorrowful as it was to her and me, to think of this, when he went so wrong, and when our hopes and plans for him were all broken, this gave him still a hold upon us, that nothing else could have given. Oh, Father, so much better than the fathers upon earth! Oh, Father, so much more afflicted by the errors of Thy children! take this wanderer back! Not as he is, but as he was then, let him cry to Thee, as he has so often seemed to cry to us!”

As the old man lifted up his trembling hands, the son, for whom he made the supplication, laid his sinking head against him for support and comfort, as if he were indeed the child of whom he spoke.

When did man ever tremble, as Redlaw trembled, in the silence that ensued! He knew it must come upon them, knew that it was coming fast.

“My time is very short, my breath is shorter,” said the sick man, supporting himself on one arm, and with the other groping in the air, “and I remember there is something on my mind concerning the man who was here just now, Father and William—wait!—is there really anything in black, out there?”

“Yes, yes, it is real,” said his aged father.

“Is it a man?”

“What I say myself, George,” interposed his brother, bending kindly over him. “It’s Mr. Redlaw.”

“I thought I had dreamed of him. Ask him to come here.”

The Chemist, whiter than the dying man, appeared before him. Obedient to the motion of his hand, he sat upon the bed.

“It has been so ripped up, to-night, sir,” said the sick man, laying his hand upon his heart, with a look in which the mute, imploring agony of his condition was concentrated, “by the sight of my poor old father, and the thought of all the trouble I have been the cause of, and all the wrong and sorrow lying at my door, that—”

Was it the extremity to which he had come, or was it the dawning of another change, that made him stop?

“—that what I can do right, with my mind running on so much, so fast, I’ll try to do. There was another man here. Did you see him?”

Redlaw could not reply by any word; for when he saw that fatal sign he knew so well now, of the wandering hand upon the forehead, his voice died at his lips. But he made some indication of assent.

“He is penniless, hungry, and destitute. He is completely beaten down, and has no resource at all. Look after him! Lose no time! I know he has it in his mind to kill himself.”

It was working. It was on his face. His face was changing, hardening, deepening in all its shades, and losing all its sorrow.

“Don’t you remember? Don’t you know him?” he pursued.

He shut his face out for a moment, with the hand that again wandered over his forehead, and then it lowered on Redlaw, reckless, ruffianly, and callous.

“Why, d-n you!” he said, scowling round, “what have you been doing to me here! I have lived bold, and I mean to die bold. To the Devil with you!”

And so lay down upon his bed, and put his arms up, over his head and ears, as resolute from that time to keep out all access, and to die in his indifference.

If Redlaw had been struck by lightning, it could not have struck him from the bedside with a more tremendous shock. But the old man, who had left the bed while his son was speaking to him, now returning, avoided it quickly likewise, and with abhorrence.

“Where’s my boy William?” said the old man hurriedly. “William, come away from here. We’ll go home.”

“Home, father!” returned William. “Are you going to leave your own son?”

“Where’s my own son?” replied the old man.

“Where? why, there!”

“That’s no son of mine,” said Philip, trembling with resentment. “No such wretch as that, has any claim on me. My children are pleasant to look at, and they wait upon me, and get my meat and drink ready, and are useful to me. I’ve a right to it! I’m eighty-seven!”

“You’re old enough to be no older,” muttered William, looking at him grudgingly, with his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know what good you are, myself. We could have a deal more pleasure without you.”

“My son, Mr. Redlaw!” said the old man. “My son, too! The boy talking to me of my son! Why, what has he ever done to give me any pleasure, I should like to know?”

“I don’t know what you have ever done to give me any pleasure,” said William, sulkily.

“Let me think,” said the old man. “For how many Christmas times running, have I sat in my warm place, and never had to come out in the cold night air; and have made good cheer, without being disturbed by any such uncomfortable, wretched sight as him there? Is it twenty, William?”

“Nigher forty, it seems,” he muttered. “Why, when I look at my father, sir, and come to think of it,” addressing Redlaw, with an impatience and irritation that were quite new, “I’m whipped if I can see anything in him but a calendar of ever so many years of eating and drinking, and making himself comfortable, over and over again.”

“I—I’m eighty-seven,” said the old man, rambling on, childishly and weakly, “and I don’t know as I ever was much put out by anything. I’m not going to begin now, because of what he calls my son. He’s not my son. I’ve had a power of pleasant times. I recollect once—no I don’t—no, it’s broken off. It was something about a game of cricket and a friend of mine, but it’s somehow broken off. I wonder who he was—I suppose I liked him? And I wonder what became of him—I suppose he died? But I don’t know. And I don’t care, neither; I don’t care a bit.”

In his drowsy chuckling, and the shaking of his head, he put his hands into his waistcoat pockets. In one of them he found a bit of holly (left there, probably last night), which he now took out, and looked at.

“Berries, eh?” said the old man. “Ah! It’s a pity they’re not good to eat. I recollect, when I was a little chap about as high as that, and out a walking with—let me see—who was I out a walking with?—no, I don’t remember how that was. I don’t remember as I ever walked with any one particular, or cared for any one, or any one for me. Berries, eh? There’s good cheer when there’s berries. Well; I ought to have my share of it, and to be waited on, and kept warm and comfortable; for I’m eighty-seven, and a poor old man. I’m eigh-ty-seven. Eigh-ty-seven!”

The drivelling, pitiable manner in which, as he repeated this, he nibbled at the leaves, and spat the morsels out; the cold, uninterested eye with which his youngest son (so changed) regarded him; the determined apathy with which his eldest son lay hardened in his sin; impressed themselves no more on Redlaw’s observation,—for he broke his way from the spot to which his feet seemed to have been fixed, and ran out of the house.

His guide came crawling forth from his place of refuge, and was ready for him before he reached the arches.

“Back to the woman’s?” he inquired.

“Back, quickly!” answered Redlaw. “Stop nowhere on the way!”

For a short distance the boy went on before; but their return was more like a flight than a walk, and it was as much as his bare feet could do, to keep pace with the Chemist’s rapid strides. Shrinking from all who passed, shrouded in his cloak, and keeping it drawn closely about him, as though there were mortal contagion in any fluttering touch of his garments, he made no pause until they reached the door by which they had come out. He unlocked it with his key, went in, accompanied by the boy, and hastened through the dark passages to his own chamber.

The boy watched him as he made the door fast, and withdrew behind the table, when he looked round.

“Come!” he said. “Don’t you touch me! You’ve not brought me here to take my money away.”

Redlaw threw some more upon the ground. He flung his body on it immediately, as if to hide it from him, lest the sight of it should tempt him to reclaim it; and not until he saw him seated by his lamp, with his face hidden in his hands, began furtively to pick it up. When he had done so, he crept near the fire, and, sitting down in a great chair before it, took from his breast some broken scraps of food, and fell to munching, and to staring at the blaze, and now and then to glancing at his shillings, which he kept clenched up in a bunch, in one hand.

“And this,” said Redlaw, gazing on him with increased repugnance and fear, “is the only one companion I have left on earth!”

How long it was before he was aroused from his contemplation of this creature, whom he dreaded so—whether half-an-hour, or half the night—he knew not. But the stillness of the room was broken by the boy (whom he had seen listening) starting up, and running towards the door.

“Here’s the woman coming!” he exclaimed.

The Chemist stopped him on his way, at the moment when she knocked.

“Let me go to her, will you?” said the boy.

“Not now,” returned the Chemist. “Stay here. Nobody must pass in or out of the room now. Who’s that?”

“It’s I, sir,” cried Milly. “Pray, sir, let me in!”

“No! not for the world!” he said.

“Mr. Redlaw, Mr. Redlaw, pray, sir, let me in.”

“What is the matter?” he said, holding the boy.

“The miserable man you saw, is worse, and nothing I can say will wake him from his terrible infatuation. William’s father has turned childish in a moment, William himself is changed. The shock has been too sudden for him; I cannot understand him; he is not like himself. Oh, Mr. Redlaw, pray advise me, help me!”

“No! No! No!” he answered.

“Mr. Redlaw! Dear sir! George has been muttering, in his doze, about the man you saw there, who, he fears, will kill himself.”

“Better he should do it, than come near me!”

“He says, in his wandering, that you know him; that he was your friend once, long ago; that he is the ruined father of a student here—my mind misgives me, of the young gentleman who has been ill. What is to be done? How is he to be followed? How is he to be saved? Mr. Redlaw, pray, oh, pray, advise me! Help me!”

All this time he held the boy, who was half-mad to pass him, and let her in.

“Phantoms! Punishers of impious thoughts!” cried Redlaw, gazing round in anguish, “look upon me! From the darkness of my mind, let the glimmering of contrition that I know is there, shine up and show my misery! In the material world as I have long taught, nothing can be spared; no step or atom in the wondrous structure could be lost, without a blank being made in the great universe. I know, now, that it is the same with good and evil, happiness and sorrow, in the memories of men. Pity me! Relieve me!”

There was no response, but her “Help me, help me, let me in!” and the boy’s struggling to get to her.

“Shadow of myself! Spirit of my darker hours!” cried Redlaw, in distraction, “come back, and haunt me day and night, but take this gift away! Or, if it must still rest with me, deprive me of the dreadful power of giving it to others. Undo what I have done. Leave me benighted, but restore the day to those whom I have cursed. As I have spared this woman from the first, and as I never will go forth again, but will die here, with no hand to tend me, save this creature’s who is proof against me,—hear me!”

The only reply still was, the boy struggling to get to her, while he held him back; and the cry, increasing in its energy, “Help! let me in. He was your friend once, how shall he be followed, how shall he be saved? They are all changed, there is no one else to help me, pray, pray, let me in!”

CHAPTER III The Gift Reversed

Night was still heavy in the sky. On open plains, from hill-tops, and from the decks of solitary ships at sea, a distant low-lying line, that promised by-and-by to change to light, was visible in the dim horizon; but its promise was remote and doubtful, and the moon was striving with the night-clouds busily.

The shadows upon Redlaw’s mind succeeded thick and fast to one another, and obscured its light as the night-clouds hovered between the moon and earth, and kept the latter veiled in darkness. Fitful and uncertain as the shadows which the night-clouds cast, were their concealments from him, and imperfect revelations to him; and, like the night-clouds still, if the clear light broke forth for a moment, it was only that they might sweep over it, and make the darkness deeper than before.

Without, there was a profound and solemn hush upon the ancient pile of building, and its buttresses and angles made dark shapes of mystery upon the ground, which now seemed to retire into the smooth white snow and now seemed to come out of it, as the moon’s path was more or less beset. Within, the Chemist’s room was indistinct and murky, by the light of the expiring lamp; a ghostly silence had succeeded to the knocking and the voice outside; nothing was audible but, now and then, a low sound among the whitened ashes of the fire, as of its yielding up its last breath. Before it on the ground the boy lay fast asleep. In his chair, the Chemist sat, as he had sat there since the calling at his door had ceased—like a man turned to stone.

At such a time, the Christmas music he had heard before, began to play. He listened to it at first, as he had listened in the church-yard; but presently—it playing still, and being borne towards him on the night air, in a low, sweet, melancholy strain—he rose, and stood stretching his hands about him, as if there were some friend approaching within his reach, on whom his desolate touch might rest, yet do no harm. As he did this, his face became less fixed and wondering; a gentle trembling came upon him; and at last his eyes filled with tears, and he put his hands before them, and bowed down his head.

His memory of sorrow, wrong, and trouble, had not come back to him; he knew that it was not restored; he had no passing belief or hope that it was. But some dumb stir within him made him capable, again, of being moved by what was hidden, afar off, in the music. If it were only that it told him sorrowfully the value of what he had lost, he thanked Heaven for it with a fervent gratitude.

As the last chord died upon his ear, he raised his head to listen to its lingering vibration. Beyond the boy, so that his sleeping figure lay at its feet, the Phantom stood, immovable and silent, with its eyes upon him.

Ghastly it was, as it had ever been, but not so cruel and relentless in its aspect—or he thought or hoped so, as he looked upon it trembling. It was not alone, but in its shadowy hand it held another hand.

And whose was that? Was the form that stood beside it indeed Milly’s, or but her shade and picture? The quiet head was bent a little, as her manner was, and her eyes were looking down, as if in pity, on the sleeping child. A radiant light fell on her face, but did not touch the Phantom; for, though close beside her, it was dark and colourless as ever.

“Spectre!” said the Chemist, newly troubled as he looked, “I have not been stubborn or presumptuous in respect of her. Oh, do not bring her here. Spare me that!”

“This is but a shadow,” said the Phantom; “when the morning shines seek out the reality whose image I present before you.”

“Is it my inexorable doom to do so?” cried the Chemist.

“It is,” replied the Phantom.

“To destroy her peace, her goodness; to make her what I am myself, and what I have made of others!”

“I have said seek her out,” returned the Phantom. “I have said no more.”

“Oh, tell me,” exclaimed Redlaw, catching at the hope which he fancied might lie hidden in the words. “Can I undo what I have done?”

“No,” returned the Phantom.

“I do not ask for restoration to myself,” said Redlaw. “What I abandoned, I abandoned of my own free will, and have justly lost. But for those to whom I have transferred the fatal gift; who never sought it; who unknowingly received a curse of which they had no warning, and which they had no power to shun; can I do nothing?”

“Nothing,” said the Phantom.

“If I cannot, can any one?”

The Phantom, standing like a statue, kept its gaze upon him for a while; then turned its head suddenly, and looked upon the shadow at its side.

“Ah! Can she?” cried Redlaw, still looking upon the shade.

The Phantom released the hand it had retained till now, and softly raised its own with a gesture of dismissal. Upon that, her shadow, still preserving the same attitude, began to move or melt away.

“Stay,” cried Redlaw with an earnestness to which he could not give enough expression. “For a moment! As an act of mercy! I know that some change fell upon me, when those sounds were in the air just now. Tell me, have I lost the power of harming her? May I go near her without dread? Oh, let her give me any sign of hope!”

The Phantom looked upon the shade as he did—not at him—and gave no answer.

“At least, say this—has she, henceforth, the consciousness of any power to set right what I have done?”

“She has not,” the Phantom answered.

“Has she the power bestowed on her without the consciousness?”

The phantom answered: “Seek her out.”

And her shadow slowly vanished.

They were face to face again, and looking on each other, as intently and awfully as at the time of the bestowal of the gift, across the boy who still lay on the ground between them, at the Phantom’s feet.

“Terrible instructor,” said the Chemist, sinking on his knee before it, in an attitude of supplication, “by whom I was renounced, but by whom I am revisited (in which, and in whose milder aspect, I would fain believe I have a gleam of hope), I will obey without inquiry, praying that the cry I have sent up in the anguish of my soul has been, or will be, heard, in behalf of those whom I have injured beyond human reparation. But there is one thing—”

“You speak to me of what is lying here,” the phantom interposed, and pointed with its finger to the boy.

“I do,” returned the Chemist. “You know what I would ask. Why has this child alone been proof against my influence, and why, why, have I detected in its thoughts a terrible companionship with mine?”

“This,” said the Phantom, pointing to the boy, “is the last, completest illustration of a human creature, utterly bereft of such remembrances as you have yielded up. No softening memory of sorrow, wrong, or trouble enters here, because this wretched mortal from his birth has been abandoned to a worse condition than the beasts, and has, within his knowledge, no one contrast, no humanising touch, to make a grain of such a memory spring up in his hardened breast. All within this desolate creature is barren wilderness. All within the man bereft of what you have resigned, is the same barren wilderness. Woe to such a man! Woe, tenfold, to the nation that shall count its monsters such as this, lying here, by hundreds and by thousands!”

Redlaw shrank, appalled, from what he heard.

“There is not,” said the Phantom, “one of these—not one—but sows a harvest that mankind MUST reap. From every seed of evil in this boy, a field of ruin is grown that shall be gathered in, and garnered up, and sown again in many places in the world, until regions are overspread with wickedness enough to raise the waters of another Deluge. Open and unpunished murder in a city’s streets would be less guilty in its daily toleration, than one such spectacle as this.”

It seemed to look down upon the boy in his sleep. Redlaw, too, looked down upon him with a new emotion.

“There is not a father,” said the Phantom, “by whose side in his daily or his nightly walk, these creatures pass; there is not a mother among all the ranks of loving mothers in this land; there is no one risen from the state of childhood, but shall be responsible in his or her degree for this enormity. There is not a country throughout the earth on which it would not bring a curse. There is no religion upon earth that it would not deny; there is no people upon earth it would not put to shame.”

The Chemist clasped his hands, and looked, with trembling fear and pity, from the sleeping boy to the Phantom, standing above him with his finger pointing down.

“Behold, I say,” pursued the Spectre, “the perfect type of what it was your choice to be. Your influence is powerless here, because from this child’s bosom you can banish nothing. His thoughts have been in ‘terrible companionship’ with yours, because you have gone down to his unnatural level. He is the growth of man’s indifference; you are the growth of man’s presumption. The beneficent design of Heaven is, in each case, overthrown, and from the two poles of the immaterial world you come together.”

The Chemist stooped upon the ground beside the boy, and, with the same kind of compassion for him that he now felt for himself, covered him as he slept, and no longer shrank from him with abhorrence or indifference.

Soon, now, the distant line on the horizon brightened, the darkness faded, the sun rose red and glorious, and the chimney stacks and gables of the ancient building gleamed in the clear air, which turned the smoke and vapour of the city into a cloud of gold. The very sun-dial in his shady corner, where the wind was used to spin with such unwindy constancy, shook off the finer particles of snow that had accumulated on his dull old face in the night, and looked out at the little white wreaths eddying round and round him. Doubtless some blind groping of the morning made its way down into the forgotten crypt so cold and earthy, where the Norman arches were half buried in the ground, and stirred the dull sap in the lazy vegetation hanging to the walls, and quickened the slow principle of life within the little world of wonderful and delicate creation which existed there, with some faint knowledge that the sun was up.

The Tetterbys were up, and doing. Mr. Tetterby took down the shutters of the shop, and, strip by strip, revealed the treasures of the window to the eyes, so proof against their seductions, of Jerusalem Buildings. Adolphus had been out so long already, that he was halfway on to “Morning Pepper.” Five small Tetterbys, whose ten round eyes were much inflamed by soap and friction, were in the tortures of a cool wash in the back kitchen; Mrs. Tetterby presiding. Johnny, who was pushed and hustled through his toilet with great rapidity when Moloch chanced to be in an exacting frame of mind (which was always the case), staggered up and down with his charge before the shop door, under greater difficulties than usual; the weight of Moloch being much increased by a complication of defences against the cold, composed of knitted worsted-work, and forming a complete suit of chain-armour, with a head-piece and blue gaiters.

It was a peculiarity of this baby to be always cutting teeth. Whether they never came, or whether they came and went away again, is not in evidence; but it had certainly cut enough, on the showing of Mrs. Tetterby, to make a handsome dental provision for the sign of the Bull and Mouth. All sorts of objects were impressed for the rubbing of its gums, notwithstanding that it always carried, dangling at its waist (which was immediately under its chin), a bone ring, large enough to have represented the rosary of a young nun. Knife-handles, umbrella-tops, the heads of walking-sticks selected from the stock, the fingers of the family in general, but especially of Johnny, nutmeg-graters, crusts, the handles of doors, and the cool knobs on the tops of pokers, were among the commonest instruments indiscriminately applied for this baby’s relief. The amount of electricity that must have been rubbed out of it in a week, is not to be calculated. Still Mrs. Tetterby always said “it was coming through, and then the child would be herself;” and still it never did come through, and the child continued to be somebody else.

The tempers of the little Tetterbys had sadly changed with a few hours. Mr. and Mrs. Tetterby themselves were not more altered than their offspring. Usually they were an unselfish, good-natured, yielding little race, sharing short commons when it happened (which was pretty often) contentedly and even generously, and taking a great deal of enjoyment out of a very little meat. But they were fighting now, not only for the soap and water, but even for the breakfast which was yet in perspective. The hand of every little Tetterby was against the other little Tetterbys; and even Johnny’s hand—the patient, much-enduring, and devoted Johnny—rose against the baby! Yes, Mrs. Tetterby, going to the door by mere accident, saw him viciously pick out a weak place in the suit of armour where a slap would tell, and slap that blessed child.

Mrs. Tetterby had him into the parlour by the collar, in that same flash of time, and repaid him the assault with usury thereto.

“You brute, you murdering little boy,” said Mrs. Tetterby. “Had you the heart to do it?”

“Why don’t her teeth come through, then,” retorted Johnny, in a loud rebellious voice, “instead of bothering me? How would you like it yourself?”

“Like it, sir!” said Mrs. Tetterby, relieving him of his dishonoured load.

“Yes, like it,” said Johnny. “How would you? Not at all. If you was me, you’d go for a soldier. I will, too. There an’t no babies in the Army.”

Mr. Tetterby, who had arrived upon the scene of action, rubbed his chin thoughtfully, instead of correcting the rebel, and seemed rather struck by this view of a military life.

“I wish I was in the Army myself, if the child’s in the right,” said Mrs. Tetterby, looking at her husband, “for I have no peace of my life here. I’m a slave—a Virginia slave:” some indistinct association with their weak descent on the tobacco trade perhaps suggested this aggravated expression to Mrs. Tetterby. “I never have a holiday, or any pleasure at all, from year’s end to year’s end! Why, Lord bless and save the child,” said Mrs. Tetterby, shaking the baby with an irritability hardly suited to so pious an aspiration, “what’s the matter with her now?”

Not being able to discover, and not rendering the subject much clearer by shaking it, Mrs. Tetterby put the baby away in a cradle, and, folding her arms, sat rocking it angrily with her foot.

“How you stand there, ’Dolphus,” said Mrs. Tetterby to her husband. “Why don’t you do something?”

“Because I don’t care about doing anything,” Mr. Tetterby replied.

“I am sure I don’t,” said Mrs. Tetterby.

“I’ll take my oath I don’t,” said Mr. Tetterby.

A diversion arose here among Johnny and his five younger brothers, who, in preparing the family breakfast table, had fallen to skirmishing for the temporary possession of the loaf, and were buffeting one another with great heartiness; the smallest boy of all, with precocious discretion, hovering outside the knot of combatants, and harassing their legs. Into the midst of this fray, Mr. and Mrs. Tetterby both precipitated themselves with great ardour, as if such ground were the only ground on which they could now agree; and having, with no visible remains of their late soft-heartedness, laid about them without any lenity, and done much execution, resumed their former relative positions.

“You had better read your paper than do nothing at all,” said Mrs. Tetterby.

“What’s there to read in a paper?” returned Mr. Tetterby, with excessive discontent.

“What?” said Mrs. Tetterby. “Police.”

“It’s nothing to me,” said Tetterby. “What do I care what people do, or are done to?”

“Suicides,” suggested Mrs. Tetterby.

“No business of mine,” replied her husband.

“Births, deaths, and marriages, are those nothing to you?” said Mrs. Tetterby.

“If the births were all over for good, and all to-day; and the deaths were all to begin to come off to-morrow; I don’t see why it should interest me, till I thought it was a coming to my turn,” grumbled Tetterby. “As to marriages, I’ve done it myself. I know quite enough about them.”

To judge from the dissatisfied expression of her face and manner, Mrs. Tetterby appeared to entertain the same opinions as her husband; but she opposed him, nevertheless, for the gratification of quarrelling with him.

“Oh, you’re a consistent man,” said Mrs. Tetterby, “an’t you? You, with the screen of your own making there, made of nothing else but bits of newspapers, which you sit and read to the children by the half-hour together!”

“Say used to, if you please,” returned her husband. “You won’t find me doing so any more. I’m wiser now.”

“Bah! wiser, indeed!” said Mrs. Tetterby. “Are you better?”

The question sounded some discordant note in Mr. Tetterby’s breast. He ruminated dejectedly, and passed his hand across and across his forehead.

“Better!” murmured Mr. Tetterby. “I don’t know as any of us are better, or happier either. Better, is it?”

He turned to the screen, and traced about it with his finger, until he found a certain paragraph of which he was in quest.

“This used to be one of the family favourites, I recollect,” said Tetterby, in a forlorn and stupid way, “and used to draw tears from the children, and make ’em good, if there was any little bickering or discontent among ’em, next to the story of the robin redbreasts in the wood. ‘Melancholy case of destitution. Yesterday a small man, with a baby in his arms, and surrounded by half-a-dozen ragged little ones, of various ages between ten and two, the whole of whom were evidently in a famishing condition, appeared before the worthy magistrate, and made the following recital:’—Ha! I don’t understand it, I’m sure,” said Tetterby; “I don’t see what it has got to do with us.”

“How old and shabby he looks,” said Mrs. Tetterby, watching him. “I never saw such a change in a man. Ah! dear me, dear me, dear me, it was a sacrifice!”

“What was a sacrifice?” her husband sourly inquired.

Mrs. Tetterby shook her head; and without replying in words, raised a complete sea-storm about the baby, by her violent agitation of the cradle.

“If you mean your marriage was a sacrifice, my good woman—” said her husband.

“I do mean it,” said his wife.

“Why, then I mean to say,” pursued Mr. Tetterby, as sulkily and surlily as she, “that there are two sides to that affair; and that I was the sacrifice; and that I wish the sacrifice hadn’t been accepted.”

“I wish it hadn’t, Tetterby, with all my heart and soul I do assure you,” said his wife. “You can’t wish it more than I do, Tetterby.”

“I don’t know what I saw in her,” muttered the newsman, “I’m sure;—certainly, if I saw anything, it’s not there now. I was thinking so, last night, after supper, by the fire. She’s fat, she’s ageing, she won’t bear comparison with most other women.”

“He’s common-looking, he has no air with him, he’s small, he’s beginning to stoop and he’s getting bald,” muttered Mrs. Tetterby.

“I must have been half out of my mind when I did it,” muttered Mr. Tetterby.

“My senses must have forsook me. That’s the only way in which I can explain it to myself,” said Mrs. Tetterby with elaboration.

In this mood they sat down to breakfast. The little Tetterbys were not habituated to regard that meal in the light of a sedentary occupation, but discussed it as a dance or trot; rather resembling a savage ceremony, in the occasionally shrill whoops, and brandishings of bread and butter, with which it was accompanied, as well as in the intricate filings off into the street and back again, and the hoppings up and down the door-steps, which were incidental to the performance. In the present instance, the contentions between these Tetterby children for the milk-and-water jug, common to all, which stood upon the table, presented so lamentable an instance of angry passions risen very high indeed, that it was an outrage on the memory of Dr. Watts. It was not until Mr. Tetterby had driven the whole herd out at the front door, that a moment’s peace was secured; and even that was broken by the discovery that Johnny had surreptitiously come back, and was at that instant choking in the jug like a ventriloquist, in his indecent and rapacious haste.

“These children will be the death of me at last!” said Mrs. Tetterby, after banishing the culprit. “And the sooner the better, I think.”

“Poor people,” said Mr. Tetterby, “ought not to have children at all. They give us no pleasure.”

He was at that moment taking up the cup which Mrs. Tetterby had rudely pushed towards him, and Mrs. Tetterby was lifting her own cup to her lips, when they both stopped, as if they were transfixed.

“Here! Mother! Father!” cried Johnny, running into the room. “Here’s Mrs. William coming down the street!”

And if ever, since the world began, a young boy took a baby from a cradle with the care of an old nurse, and hushed and soothed it tenderly, and tottered away with it cheerfully, Johnny was that boy, and Moloch was that baby, as they went out together!

Mr. Tetterby put down his cup; Mrs. Tetterby put down her cup. Mr. Tetterby rubbed his forehead; Mrs. Tetterby rubbed hers. Mr. Tetterby’s face began to smooth and brighten; Mrs. Tetterby’s began to smooth and brighten.

“Why, Lord forgive me,” said Mr. Tetterby to himself, “what evil tempers have I been giving way to? What has been the matter here!”

“How could I ever treat him ill again, after all I said and felt last night!” sobbed Mrs. Tetterby, with her apron to her eyes.

“Am I a brute,” said Mr. Tetterby, “or is there any good in me at all? Sophia! My little woman!”

“’Dolphus dear,” returned his wife.

“I—I’ve been in a state of mind,” said Mr. Tetterby, “that I can’t abear to think of, Sophy.”

“Oh! It’s nothing to what I’ve been in, Dolf,” cried his wife in a great burst of grief.

“My Sophia,” said Mr. Tetterby, “don’t take on. I never shall forgive myself. I must have nearly broke your heart, I know.”

“No, Dolf, no. It was me! Me!” cried Mrs. Tetterby.

“My little woman,” said her husband, “don’t. You make me reproach myself dreadful, when you show such a noble spirit. Sophia, my dear, you don’t know what I thought. I showed it bad enough, no doubt; but what I thought, my little woman!—”

“Oh, dear Dolf, don’t! Don’t!” cried his wife.

“Sophia,” said Mr. Tetterby, “I must reveal it. I couldn’t rest in my conscience unless I mentioned it. My little woman—”

“Mrs. William’s very nearly here!” screamed Johnny at the door.

“My little woman, I wondered how,” gasped Mr. Tetterby, supporting himself by his chair, “I wondered how I had ever admired you—I forgot the precious children you have brought about me, and thought you didn’t look as slim as I could wish. I—I never gave a recollection,” said Mr. Tetterby, with severe self-accusation, “to the cares you’ve had as my wife, and along of me and mine, when you might have had hardly any with another man, who got on better and was luckier than me (anybody might have found such a man easily I am sure); and I quarrelled with you for having aged a little in the rough years you have lightened for me. Can you believe it, my little woman? I hardly can myself.”

Mrs. Tetterby, in a whirlwind of laughing and crying, caught his face within her hands, and held it there.

“Oh, Dolf!” she cried. “I am so happy that you thought so; I am so grateful that you thought so! For I thought that you were common-looking, Dolf; and so you are, my dear, and may you be the commonest of all sights in my eyes, till you close them with your own good hands. I thought that you were small; and so you are, and I’ll make much of you because you are, and more of you because I love my husband. I thought that you began to stoop; and so you do, and you shall lean on me, and I’ll do all I can to keep you up. I thought there was no air about you; but there is, and it’s the air of home, and that’s the purest and the best there is, and God bless home once more, and all belonging to it, Dolf!”

“Hurrah! Here’s Mrs. William!” cried Johnny.

So she was, and all the children with her; and so she came in, they kissed her, and kissed one another, and kissed the baby, and kissed their father and mother, and then ran back and flocked and danced about her, trooping on with her in triumph.

Mr. and Mrs. Tetterby were not a bit behind-hand in the warmth of their reception. They were as much attracted to her as the children were; they ran towards her, kissed her hands, pressed round her, could not receive her ardently or enthusiastically enough. She came among them like the spirit of all goodness, affection, gentle consideration, love, and domesticity.

“What! are you all so glad to see me, too, this bright Christmas morning?” said Milly, clapping her hands in a pleasant wonder. “Oh dear, how delightful this is!”

More shouting from the children, more kissing, more trooping round her, more happiness, more love, more joy, more honour, on all sides, than she could bear.

“Oh dear!” said Milly, “what delicious tears you make me shed. How can I ever have deserved this! What have I done to be so loved?”

“Who can help it!” cried Mr. Tetterby.

“Who can help it!” cried Mrs. Tetterby.

“Who can help it!” echoed the children, in a joyful chorus. And they danced and trooped about her again, and clung to her, and laid their rosy faces against her dress, and kissed and fondled it, and could not fondle it, or her, enough.

“I never was so moved,” said Milly, drying her eyes, “as I have been this morning. I must tell you, as soon as I can speak.—Mr. Redlaw came to me at sunrise, and with a tenderness in his manner, more as if I had been his darling daughter than myself, implored me to go with him to where William’s brother George is lying ill. We went together, and all the way along he was so kind, and so subdued, and seemed to put such trust and hope in me, that I could not help crying with pleasure. When we got to the house, we met a woman at the door (somebody had bruised and hurt her, I am afraid), who caught me by the hand, and blessed me as I passed.”

“She was right!” said Mr. Tetterby. Mrs. Tetterby said she was right. All the children cried out that she was right.

“Ah, but there’s more than that,” said Milly. “When we got up stairs, into the room, the sick man who had lain for hours in a state from which no effort could rouse him, rose up in his bed, and, bursting into tears, stretched out his arms to me, and said that he had led a mis-spent life, but that he was truly repentant now, in his sorrow for the past, which was all as plain to him as a great prospect, from which a dense black cloud had cleared away, and that he entreated me to ask his poor old father for his pardon and his blessing, and to say a prayer beside his bed. And when I did so, Mr. Redlaw joined in it so fervently, and then so thanked and thanked me, and thanked Heaven, that my heart quite overflowed, and I could have done nothing but sob and cry, if the sick man had not begged me to sit down by him,—which made me quiet of course. As I sat there, he held my hand in his until he sank in a doze; and even then, when I withdrew my hand to leave him to come here (which Mr. Redlaw was very earnest indeed in wishing me to do), his hand felt for mine, so that some one else was obliged to take my place and make believe to give him my hand back. Oh dear, oh dear,” said Milly, sobbing. “How thankful and how happy I should feel, and do feel, for all this!”

While she was speaking, Redlaw had come in, and, after pausing for a moment to observe the group of which she was the centre, had silently ascended the stairs. Upon those stairs he now appeared again; remaining there, while the young student passed him, and came running down.

“Kind nurse, gentlest, best of creatures,” he said, falling on his knee to her, and catching at her hand, “forgive my cruel ingratitude!”

“Oh dear, oh dear!” cried Milly innocently, “here’s another of them! Oh dear, here’s somebody else who likes me. What shall I ever do!”

The guileless, simple way in which she said it, and in which she put her hands before her eyes and wept for very happiness, was as touching as it was delightful.

“I was not myself,” he said. “I don’t know what it was—it was some consequence of my disorder perhaps—I was mad. But I am so no longer. Almost as I speak, I am restored. I heard the children crying out your name, and the shade passed from me at the very sound of it. Oh, don’t weep! Dear Milly, if you could read my heart, and only knew with what affection and what grateful homage it is glowing, you would not let me see you weep. It is such deep reproach.”

“No, no,” said Milly, “it’s not that. It’s not indeed. It’s joy. It’s wonder that you should think it necessary to ask me to forgive so little, and yet it’s pleasure that you do.”

“And will you come again? and will you finish the little curtain?”

“No,” said Milly, drying her eyes, and shaking her head. “You won’t care for my needlework now.”

“Is it forgiving me, to say that?”

She beckoned him aside, and whispered in his ear.

“There is news from your home, Mr. Edmund.”

“News? How?”

“Either your not writing when you were very ill, or the change in your handwriting when you began to be better, created some suspicion of the truth; however that is—but you’re sure you’ll not be the worse for any news, if it’s not bad news?”

“Sure.”

“Then there’s some one come!” said Milly.

“My mother?” asked the student, glancing round involuntarily towards Redlaw, who had come down from the stairs.

“Hush! No,” said Milly.

“It can be no one else.”

“Indeed?” said Milly, “are you sure?”

“It is not—” Before he could say more, she put her hand upon his mouth.

“Yes it is!” said Milly. “The young lady (she is very like the miniature, Mr. Edmund, but she is prettier) was too unhappy to rest without satisfying her doubts, and came up, last night, with a little servant-maid. As you always dated your letters from the college, she came there; and before I saw Mr. Redlaw this morning, I saw her. She likes me too!” said Milly. “Oh dear, that’s another!”

“This morning! Where is she now?”

“Why, she is now,” said Milly, advancing her lips to his ear, “in my little parlour in the Lodge, and waiting to see you.”

He pressed her hand, and was darting off, but she detained him.

“Mr. Redlaw is much altered, and has told me this morning that his memory is impaired. Be very considerate to him, Mr. Edmund; he needs that from us all.”

The young man assured her, by a look, that her caution was not ill-bestowed; and as he passed the Chemist on his way out, bent respectfully and with an obvious interest before him.

Redlaw returned the salutation courteously and even humbly, and looked after him as he passed on. He drooped his head upon his hand too, as trying to reawaken something he had lost. But it was gone.

The abiding change that had come upon him since the influence of the music, and the Phantom’s reappearance, was, that now he truly felt how much he had lost, and could compassionate his own condition, and contrast it, clearly, with the natural state of those who were around him. In this, an interest in those who were around him was revived, and a meek, submissive sense of his calamity was bred, resembling that which sometimes obtains in age, when its mental powers are weakened, without insensibility or sullenness being added to the list of its infirmities.

He was conscious that, as he redeemed, through Milly, more and more of the evil he had done, and as he was more and more with her, this change ripened itself within him. Therefore, and because of the attachment she inspired him with (but without other hope), he felt that he was quite dependent on her, and that she was his staff in his affliction.

So, when she asked him whether they should go home now, to where the old man and her husband were, and he readily replied “yes”—being anxious in that regard—he put his arm through hers, and walked beside her; not as if he were the wise and learned man to whom the wonders of Nature were an open book, and hers were the uninstructed mind, but as if their two positions were reversed, and he knew nothing, and she all.

He saw the children throng about her, and caress her, as he and she went away together thus, out of the house; he heard the ringing of their laughter, and their merry voices; he saw their bright faces, clustering around him like flowers; he witnessed the renewed contentment and affection of their parents; he breathed the simple air of their poor home, restored to its tranquillity; he thought of the unwholesome blight he had shed upon it, and might, but for her, have been diffusing then; and perhaps it is no wonder that he walked submissively beside her, and drew her gentle bosom nearer to his own.

When they arrived at the Lodge, the old man was sitting in his chair in the chimney-corner, with his eyes fixed on the ground, and his son was leaning against the opposite side of the fire-place, looking at him. As she came in at the door, both started, and turned round towards her, and a radiant change came upon their faces.

“Oh dear, dear, dear, they are all pleased to see me like the rest!” cried Milly, clapping her hands in an ecstasy, and stopping short. “Here are two more!”

Pleased to see her! Pleasure was no word for it. She ran into her husband’s arms, thrown wide open to receive her, and he would have been glad to have her there, with her head lying on his shoulder, through the short winter’s day. But the old man couldn’t spare her. He had arms for her too, and he locked her in them.

“Why, where has my quiet Mouse been all this time?” said the old man. “She has been a long while away. I find that it’s impossible for me to get on without Mouse. I—where’s my son William?—I fancy I have been dreaming, William.”

“That’s what I say myself, father,” returned his son. “I have been in an ugly sort of dream, I think.—How are you, father? Are you pretty well?”

“Strong and brave, my boy,” returned the old man.

It was quite a sight to see Mr. William shaking hands with his father, and patting him on the back, and rubbing him gently down with his hand, as if he could not possibly do enough to show an interest in him.

“What a wonderful man you are, father!—How are you, father? Are you really pretty hearty, though?” said William, shaking hands with him again, and patting him again, and rubbing him gently down again.

“I never was fresher or stouter in my life, my boy.”

“What a wonderful man you are, father! But that’s exactly where it is,” said Mr. William, with enthusiasm. “When I think of all that my father’s gone through, and all the chances and changes, and sorrows and troubles, that have happened to him in the course of his long life, and under which his head has grown grey, and years upon years have gathered on it, I feel as if we couldn’t do enough to honour the old gentleman, and make his old age easy.—How are you, father? Are you really pretty well, though?”

Mr. William might never have left off repeating this inquiry, and shaking hands with him again, and patting him again, and rubbing him down again, if the old man had not espied the Chemist, whom until now he had not seen.

“I ask your pardon, Mr. Redlaw,” said Philip, “but didn’t know you were here, sir, or should have made less free. It reminds me, Mr. Redlaw, seeing you here on a Christmas morning, of the time when you was a student yourself, and worked so hard that you were backwards and forwards in our Library even at Christmas time. Ha! ha! I’m old enough to remember that; and I remember it right well, I do, though I am eighty-seven. It was after you left here that my poor wife died. You remember my poor wife, Mr. Redlaw?”

The Chemist answered yes.

“Yes,” said the old man. “She was a dear creetur.—I recollect you come here one Christmas morning with a young lady—I ask your pardon, Mr. Redlaw, but I think it was a sister you was very much attached to?”

The Chemist looked at him, and shook his head. “I had a sister,” he said vacantly. He knew no more.

“One Christmas morning,” pursued the old man, “that you come here with her—and it began to snow, and my wife invited the lady to walk in, and sit by the fire that is always a burning on Christmas Day in what used to be, before our ten poor gentlemen commuted, our great Dinner Hall. I was there; and I recollect, as I was stirring up the blaze for the young lady to warm her pretty feet by, she read the scroll out loud, that is underneath that pictur, ‘Lord, keep my memory green!’ She and my poor wife fell a talking about it; and it’s a strange thing to think of, now, that they both said (both being so unlike to die) that it was a good prayer, and that it was one they would put up very earnestly, if they were called away young, with reference to those who were dearest to them. ‘My brother,’ says the young lady—‘My husband,’ says my poor wife.—‘Lord, keep his memory of me, green, and do not let me be forgotten!’”

Tears more painful, and more bitter than he had ever shed in all his life, coursed down Redlaw’s face. Philip, fully occupied in recalling his story, had not observed him until now, nor Milly’s anxiety that he should not proceed.

“Philip!” said Redlaw, laying his hand upon his arm, “I am a stricken man, on whom the hand of Providence has fallen heavily, although deservedly. You speak to me, my friend, of what I cannot follow; my memory is gone.”

“Merciful power!” cried the old man.

“I have lost my memory of sorrow, wrong, and trouble,” said the Chemist, “and with that I have lost all man would remember!”

To see old Philip’s pity for him, to see him wheel his own great chair for him to rest in, and look down upon him with a solemn sense of his bereavement, was to know, in some degree, how precious to old age such recollections are.

The boy came running in, and ran to Milly.

“Here’s the man,” he said, “in the other room. I don’t want him.”

“What man does he mean?” asked Mr. William.

“Hush!” said Milly.

Obedient to a sign from her, he and his old father softly withdrew. As they went out, unnoticed, Redlaw beckoned to the boy to come to him.

“I like the woman best,” he answered, holding to her skirts.

“You are right,” said Redlaw, with a faint smile. “But you needn’t fear to come to me. I am gentler than I was. Of all the world, to you, poor child!”

The boy still held back at first, but yielding little by little to her urging, he consented to approach, and even to sit down at his feet. As Redlaw laid his hand upon the shoulder of the child, looking on him with compassion and a fellow-feeling, he put out his other hand to Milly. She stooped down on that side of him, so that she could look into his face, and after silence, said:

“Mr. Redlaw, may I speak to you?”

“Yes,” he answered, fixing his eyes upon her. “Your voice and music are the same to me.”

“May I ask you something?”

“What you will.”

“Do you remember what I said, when I knocked at your door last night? About one who was your friend once, and who stood on the verge of destruction?”

“Yes. I remember,” he said, with some hesitation.

“Do you understand it?”

He smoothed the boy’s hair—looking at her fixedly the while, and shook his head.

“This person,” said Milly, in her clear, soft voice, which her mild eyes, looking at him, made clearer and softer, “I found soon afterwards. I went back to the house, and, with Heaven’s help, traced him. I was not too soon. A very little and I should have been too late.”

He took his hand from the boy, and laying it on the back of that hand of hers, whose timid and yet earnest touch addressed him no less appealingly than her voice and eyes, looked more intently on her.

“He is the father of Mr. Edmund, the young gentleman we saw just now. His real name is Longford.—You recollect the name?”

“I recollect the name.”

“And the man?”

“No, not the man. Did he ever wrong me?”

“Yes!”

“Ah! Then it’s hopeless—hopeless.”

He shook his head, and softly beat upon the hand he held, as though mutely asking her commiseration.

“I did not go to Mr. Edmund last night,” said Milly,—“You will listen to me just the same as if you did remember all?”

“To every syllable you say.”

“Both, because I did not know, then, that this really was his father, and because I was fearful of the effect of such intelligence upon him, after his illness, if it should be. Since I have known who this person is, I have not gone either; but that is for another reason. He has long been separated from his wife and son—has been a stranger to his home almost from this son’s infancy, I learn from him—and has abandoned and deserted what he should have held most dear. In all that time he has been falling from the state of a gentleman, more and more, until—” she rose up, hastily, and going out for a moment, returned, accompanied by the wreck that Redlaw had beheld last night.

“Do you know me?” asked the Chemist.

“I should be glad,” returned the other, “and that is an unwonted word for me to use, if I could answer no.”

The Chemist looked at the man, standing in self-abasement and degradation before him, and would have looked longer, in an ineffectual struggle for enlightenment, but that Milly resumed her late position by his side, and attracted his attentive gaze to her own face.

“See how low he is sunk, how lost he is!” she whispered, stretching out her arm towards him, without looking from the Chemist’s face. “If you could remember all that is connected with him, do you not think it would move your pity to reflect that one you ever loved (do not let us mind how long ago, or in what belief that he has forfeited), should come to this?”

“I hope it would,” he answered. “I believe it would.”

His eyes wandered to the figure standing near the door, but came back speedily to her, on whom he gazed intently, as if he strove to learn some lesson from every tone of her voice, and every beam of her eyes.

“I have no learning, and you have much,” said Milly; “I am not used to think, and you are always thinking. May I tell you why it seems to me a good thing for us, to remember wrong that has been done us?”

“Yes.”

“That we may forgive it.”

“Pardon me, great Heaven!” said Redlaw, lifting up his eyes, “for having thrown away thine own high attribute!”

“And if,” said Milly, “if your memory should one day be restored, as we will hope and pray it may be, would it not be a blessing to you to recall at once a wrong and its forgiveness?”

He looked at the figure by the door, and fastened his attentive eyes on her again; a ray of clearer light appeared to him to shine into his mind, from her bright face.

“He cannot go to his abandoned home. He does not seek to go there. He knows that he could only carry shame and trouble to those he has so cruelly neglected; and that the best reparation he can make them now, is to avoid them. A very little money carefully bestowed, would remove him to some distant place, where he might live and do no wrong, and make such atonement as is left within his power for the wrong he has done. To the unfortunate lady who is his wife, and to his son, this would be the best and kindest boon that their best friend could give them—one too that they need never know of; and to him, shattered in reputation, mind, and body, it might be salvation.”

He took her head between her hands, and kissed it, and said: “It shall be done. I trust to you to do it for me, now and secretly; and to tell him that I would forgive him, if I were so happy as to know for what.”

As she rose, and turned her beaming face towards the fallen man, implying that her mediation had been successful, he advanced a step, and without raising his eyes, addressed himself to Redlaw.

“You are so generous,” he said, “—you ever were—that you will try to banish your rising sense of retribution in the spectacle that is before you. I do not try to banish it from myself, Redlaw. If you can, believe me.”

The Chemist entreated Milly, by a gesture, to come nearer to him; and, as he listened looked in her face, as if to find in it the clue to what he heard.

“I am too decayed a wretch to make professions; I recollect my own career too well, to array any such before you. But from the day on which I made my first step downward, in dealing falsely by you, I have gone down with a certain, steady, doomed progression. That, I say.”

Redlaw, keeping her close at his side, turned his face towards the speaker, and there was sorrow in it. Something like mournful recognition too.

“I might have been another man, my life might have been another life, if I had avoided that first fatal step. I don’t know that it would have been. I claim nothing for the possibility. Your sister is at rest, and better than she could have been with me, if I had continued even what you thought me: even what I once supposed myself to be.”

Redlaw made a hasty motion with his hand, as if he would have put that subject on one side.

“I speak,” the other went on, “like a man taken from the grave. I should have made my own grave, last night, had it not been for this blessed hand.”

“Oh dear, he likes me too!” sobbed Milly, under her breath. “That’s another!”

“I could not have put myself in your way, last night, even for bread. But, to-day, my recollection of what has been is so strongly stirred, and is presented to me, I don’t know how, so vividly, that I have dared to come at her suggestion, and to take your bounty, and to thank you for it, and to beg you, Redlaw, in your dying hour, to be as merciful to me in your thoughts, as you are in your deeds.”

He turned towards the door, and stopped a moment on his way forth.

“I hope my son may interest you, for his mother’s sake. I hope he may deserve to do so. Unless my life should be preserved a long time, and I should know that I have not misused your aid, I shall never look upon him more.”

Going out, he raised his eyes to Redlaw for the first time. Redlaw, whose steadfast gaze was fixed upon him, dreamily held out his hand. He returned and touched it—little more—with both his own; and bending down his head, went slowly out.

In the few moments that elapsed, while Milly silently took him to the gate, the Chemist dropped into his chair, and covered his face with his hands. Seeing him thus, when she came back, accompanied by her husband and his father (who were both greatly concerned for him), she avoided disturbing him, or permitting him to be disturbed; and kneeled down near the chair to put some warm clothing on the boy.

“That’s exactly where it is. That’s what I always say, father!” exclaimed her admiring husband. “There’s a motherly feeling in Mrs. William’s breast that must and will have went!”

“Ay, ay,” said the old man; “you’re right. My son William’s right!”

“It happens all for the best, Milly dear, no doubt,” said Mr. William, tenderly, “that we have no children of our own; and yet I sometimes wish you had one to love and cherish. Our little dead child that you built such hopes upon, and that never breathed the breath of life—it has made you quiet-like, Milly.”

“I am very happy in the recollection of it, William dear,” she answered. “I think of it every day.”

“I was afraid you thought of it a good deal.”

“Don’t say, afraid; it is a comfort to me; it speaks to me in so many ways. The innocent thing that never lived on earth, is like an angel to me, William.”

“You are like an angel to father and me,” said Mr. William, softly. “I know that.”

“When I think of all those hopes I built upon it, and the many times I sat and pictured to myself the little smiling face upon my bosom that never lay there, and the sweet eyes turned up to mine that never opened to the light,” said Milly, “I can feel a greater tenderness, I think, for all the disappointed hopes in which there is no harm. When I see a beautiful child in its fond mother’s arms, I love it all the better, thinking that my child might have been like that, and might have made my heart as proud and happy.”

Redlaw raised his head, and looked towards her.

“All through life, it seems by me,” she continued, “to tell me something. For poor neglected children, my little child pleads as if it were alive, and had a voice I knew, with which to speak to me. When I hear of youth in suffering or shame, I think that my child might have come to that, perhaps, and that God took it from me in His mercy. Even in age and grey hair, such as father’s, it is present: saying that it too might have lived to be old, long and long after you and I were gone, and to have needed the respect and love of younger people.”

Her quiet voice was quieter than ever, as she took her husband’s arm, and laid her head against it.

“Children love me so, that sometimes I half fancy—it’s a silly fancy, William—they have some way I don’t know of, of feeling for my little child, and me, and understanding why their love is precious to me. If I have been quiet since, I have been more happy, William, in a hundred ways. Not least happy, dear, in this—that even when my little child was born and dead but a few days, and I was weak and sorrowful, and could not help grieving a little, the thought arose, that if I tried to lead a good life, I should meet in Heaven a bright creature, who would call me, Mother!”

Redlaw fell upon his knees, with a loud cry.

“O Thou,” he said, “who through the teaching of pure love, hast graciously restored me to the memory which was the memory of Christ upon the Cross, and of all the good who perished in His cause, receive my thanks, and bless her!”

Then, he folded her to his heart; and Milly, sobbing more than ever, cried, as she laughed, “He is come back to himself! He likes me very much indeed, too! Oh, dear, dear, dear me, here’s another!”

Then, the student entered, leading by the hand a lovely girl, who was afraid to come. And Redlaw so changed towards him, seeing in him and his youthful choice, the softened shadow of that chastening passage in his own life, to which, as to a shady tree, the dove so long imprisoned in his solitary ark might fly for rest and company, fell upon his neck, entreating them to be his children.

Then, as Christmas is a time in which, of all times in the year, the memory of every remediable sorrow, wrong, and trouble in the world around us, should be active with us, not less than our own experiences, for all good, he laid his hand upon the boy, and, silently calling Him to witness who laid His hand on children in old time, rebuking, in the majesty of His prophetic knowledge, those who kept them from Him, vowed to protect him, teach him, and reclaim him.

Then, he gave his right hand cheerily to Philip, and said that they would that day hold a Christmas dinner in what used to be, before the ten poor gentlemen commuted, their great Dinner Hall; and that they would bid to it as many of that Swidger family, who, his son had told him, were so numerous that they might join hands and make a ring round England, as could be brought together on so short a notice.

And it was that day done. There were so many Swidgers there, grown up and children, that an attempt to state them in round numbers might engender doubts, in the distrustful, of the veracity of this history. Therefore the attempt shall not be made. But there they were, by dozens and scores—and there was good news and good hope there, ready for them, of George, who had been visited again by his father and brother, and by Milly, and again left in a quiet sleep. There, present at the dinner, too, were the Tetterbys, including young Adolphus, who arrived in his prismatic comforter, in good time for the beef. Johnny and the baby were too late, of course, and came in all on one side, the one exhausted, the other in a supposed state of double-tooth; but that was customary, and not alarming.

It was sad to see the child who had no name or lineage, watching the other children as they played, not knowing how to talk with them, or sport with them, and more strange to the ways of childhood than a rough dog. It was sad, though in a different way, to see what an instinctive knowledge the youngest children there had of his being different from all the rest, and how they made timid approaches to him with soft words and touches, and with little presents, that he might not be unhappy. But he kept by Milly, and began to love her—that was another, as she said!—and, as they all liked her dearly, they were glad of that, and when they saw him peeping at them from behind her chair, they were pleased that he was so close to it.

All this, the Chemist, sitting with the student and his bride that was to be, Philip, and the rest, saw.

Some people have said since, that he only thought what has been herein set down; others, that he read it in the fire, one winter night about the twilight time; others, that the Ghost was but the representation of his gloomy thoughts, and Milly the embodiment of his better wisdom. I say nothing.

—Except this. That as they were assembled in the old Hall, by no other light than that of a great fire (having dined early), the shadows once more stole out of their hiding-places, and danced about the room, showing the children marvellous shapes and faces on the walls, and gradually changing what was real and familiar there, to what was wild and magical. But that there was one thing in the Hall, to which the eyes of Redlaw, and of Milly and her husband, and of the old man, and of the student, and his bride that was to be, were often turned, which the shadows did not obscure or change. Deepened in its gravity by the fire-light, and gazing from the darkness of the panelled wall like life, the sedate face in the portrait, with the beard and ruff, looked down at them from under its verdant wreath of holly, as they looked up at it; and, clear and plain below, as if a voice had uttered them, were the words.

---

Lord keep my Memory green.

CHAPTER I The Gift Bestowed

Everybody said so.

Far be it from me to assert that what everybody says must be true. Everybody is, often, as likely to be wrong as right. In the general experience, everybody has been wrong so often, and it has taken, in most instances, such a weary while to find out how wrong, that the authority is proved to be fallible. Everybody may sometimes be right; “but that’s no rule,” as the ghost of Giles Scroggins says in the ballad.

The dread word, GHOST, recalls me.

Everybody said he looked like a haunted man. The extent of my present claim for everybody is, that they were so far right. He did.

Who could have seen his hollow cheek; his sunken brilliant eye; his black-attired figure, indefinably grim, although well-knit and well-proportioned; his grizzled hair hanging, like tangled sea-weed, about his face,—as if he had been, through his whole life, a lonely mark for the chafing and beating of the great deep of humanity,—but might have said he looked like a haunted man?

Who could have observed his manner, taciturn, thoughtful, gloomy, shadowed by habitual reserve, retiring always and jocund never, with a distraught air of reverting to a bygone place and time, or of listening to some old echoes in his mind, but might have said it was the manner of a haunted man?

Who could have heard his voice, slow-speaking, deep, and grave, with a natural fulness and melody in it which he seemed to set himself against and stop, but might have said it was the voice of a haunted man?

Who that had seen him in his inner chamber, part library and part laboratory,—for he was, as the world knew, far and wide, a learned man in chemistry, and a teacher on whose lips and hands a crowd of aspiring ears and eyes hung daily,—who that had seen him there, upon a winter night, alone, surrounded by his drugs and instruments and books; the shadow of his shaded lamp a monstrous beetle on the wall, motionless among a crowd of spectral shapes raised there by the flickering of the fire upon the quaint objects around him; some of these phantoms (the reflection of glass vessels that held liquids), trembling at heart like things that knew his power to uncombine them, and to give back their component parts to fire and vapour;—who that had seen him then, his work done, and he pondering in his chair before the rusted grate and red flame, moving his thin mouth as if in speech, but silent as the dead, would not have said that the man seemed haunted and the chamber too?

Who might not, by a very easy flight of fancy, have believed that everything about him took this haunted tone, and that he lived on haunted ground?

His dwelling was so solitary and vault-like,—an old, retired part of an ancient endowment for students, once a brave edifice, planted in an open place, but now the obsolete whim of forgotten architects; smoke-age-and-weather-darkened, squeezed on every side by the overgrowing of the great city, and choked, like an old well, with stones and bricks; its small quadrangles, lying down in very pits formed by the streets and buildings, which, in course of time, had been constructed above its heavy chimney stacks; its old trees, insulted by the neighbouring smoke, which deigned to droop so low when it was very feeble and the weather very moody; its grass-plots, struggling with the mildewed earth to be grass, or to win any show of compromise; its silent pavements, unaccustomed to the tread of feet, and even to the observation of eyes, except when a stray face looked down from the upper world, wondering what nook it was; its sun-dial in a little bricked-up corner, where no sun had straggled for a hundred years, but where, in compensation for the sun’s neglect, the snow would lie for weeks when it lay nowhere else, and the black east wind would spin like a huge humming-top, when in all other places it was silent and still.

His dwelling, at its heart and core—within doors—at his fireside—was so lowering and old, so crazy, yet so strong, with its worm-eaten beams of wood in the ceiling, and its sturdy floor shelving downward to the great oak chimney-piece; so environed and hemmed in by the pressure of the town yet so remote in fashion, age, and custom; so quiet, yet so thundering with echoes when a distant voice was raised or a door was shut,—echoes, not confined to the many low passages and empty rooms, but rumbling and grumbling till they were stifled in the heavy air of the forgotten Crypt where the Norman arches were half-buried in the earth.

You should have seen him in his dwelling about twilight, in the dead winter time.

When the wind was blowing, shrill and shrewd, with the going down of the blurred sun. When it was just so dark, as that the forms of things were indistinct and big—but not wholly lost. When sitters by the fire began to see wild faces and figures, mountains and abysses, ambuscades and armies, in the coals. When people in the streets bent down their heads and ran before the weather. When those who were obliged to meet it, were stopped at angry corners, stung by wandering snow-flakes alighting on the lashes of their eyes,—which fell too sparingly, and were blown away too quickly, to leave a trace upon the frozen ground. When windows of private houses closed up tight and warm. When lighted gas began to burst forth in the busy and the quiet streets, fast blackening otherwise. When stray pedestrians, shivering along the latter, looked down at the glowing fires in kitchens, and sharpened their sharp appetites by sniffing up the fragrance of whole miles of dinners.

When travellers by land were bitter cold, and looked wearily on gloomy landscapes, rustling and shuddering in the blast. When mariners at sea, outlying upon icy yards, were tossed and swung above the howling ocean dreadfully. When lighthouses, on rocks and headlands, showed solitary and watchful; and benighted sea-birds breasted on against their ponderous lanterns, and fell dead. When little readers of story-books, by the firelight, trembled to think of Cassim Baba cut into quarters, hanging in the Robbers’ Cave, or had some small misgivings that the fierce little old woman, with the crutch, who used to start out of the box in the merchant Abudah’s bedroom, might, one of these nights, be found upon the stairs, in the long, cold, dusky journey up to bed.

CAPITOLO I Il Dono Concesso

Tutti lo dicevano.

Lungi da me affermare che ciò che tutti dicono debba essere vero. Tutti sono, spesso, altrettanto probabili di sbagliare quanto di avere ragione. Nell’esperienza generale, tutti si sono sbagliati così spesso e, nella maggior parte dei casi, è stato necessario un tempo così lungo per scoprire quanto fossero errati, che l’autorità si rivela essere fallibile. Tutti possono talvolta avere ragione; “ma questa non è una regola”, come dice il fantasma di Giles Scroggins nella ballata.

La parola spaventosa, fantasma, mi torna in mente.

Tutti dicevano che aveva l’aria di un uomo ossessionato. Il mio attuale merito verso tutti è quello di aver riconosciuto in loro una certa ragione. Era vero.

Chi avrebbe potuto vedere la sua guancia scavata; il suo occhio brillante e infossato; la sua figura vestita di nero, indefinibilmente tetra, sebbene bene costruita e bene proporzionata; i suoi capelli grigi che gli pendevano sul viso come alghe marine aggrovigliate — come se fosse stato per tutta la vita un bersaglio solitario per l’attrito e il flagello dell’immensa distesa dell’umanità — senza dire che sembrava un uomo ossessionato?

Chi avrebbe potuto osservare il suo comportamento, taciturno, pensieroso, cupo, ombreggiato da una riserva abituale, sempre ritirato e mai giocondo, con un’aria distratta di tornare a un luogo passato e tempo, o di ascoltare alcuni vecchi echi nella sua mente, ma avrebbe potuto dire che era il comportamento di un uomo ossessionato?

Chi avrebbe potuto ascoltare la sua voce, lenta, profonda e grave, con una naturale pienezza e melodia che sembrava contrastasse e trattenesse, senza dire che era la voce di un uomo ossessionato?

Chi lo avesse visto nella sua stanza interna, parte biblioteca e parte laboratorio — poiché era, come il mondo sapeva, un uomo dottissimo in chimica e un insegnante ai cui labbra e mani si appassionavano quotidianamente occhi ed orecchie aspiranti — chi lo avesse visto lì, una notte invernale, solo, circondato dai suoi farmaci, strumenti e libri; la ombra della sua lampada schermata un mostruoso coleottero sul muro, immobile tra una folla di forme spettrali sollevate lì dal tremolio del fuoco sui curiosi oggetti intorno a lui; alcuni di questi fantasmi (il riflesso dei vasi di vetro che contenevano liquidi) tremavano nel cuore come cose che conoscevano il suo potere di disunirli e restituire le loro parti componenti al fuoco e al vapore; — chi lo avesse visto allora, il lavoro compiuto, lui meditabondo nella sua poltrona davanti alla grata arrugginita e alla fiamma rossa, muovendo la sua bocca sottile come se parlasse, ma silenzioso come i morti, non avrebbe detto che l’uomo sembrava perseguitato e la stanza pure?

Chi non avrebbe potuto credere, con un volo di fantasia molto facile, che tutto ciò che lo circondava assumesse questo tono inquietante e che vivesse su terreni infestati?

La sua dimora era così solitaria e simile a una cripta — un vecchio edificio isolato di un’antica fondazione per studenti, un tempo imponente struttura situata in uno spazio aperto, ma ora il capriccio obsoleto di architetti dimenticati; oscurata dal fumo, dall’età e dalle intemperie, stretta da ogni lato dalla crescita della grande città, e ostruita come un vecchio pozzo con pietre e mattoni; i suoi piccoli quadrangoli giacevano in veri e propri fosse formate dalle strade e dagli edifici, che col tempo erano stati costruiti sopra ai suoi massicci camini; i suoi vecchi alberi, offesi dal fumo dei dintorni, che si degnava di abbassarsi solo quando era molto debole e il tempo era particolarmente malinconico; le sue aiuole d’erba, che lottavano con la terra ammuffita per essere erba o per ottenere anche un minimo compromesso; i suoi silenziosi marciapiedi, non abituati al passaggio dei piedi e nemmeno all’osservazione degli occhi, tranne quando un volto smarrito guardava giù dal mondo superiore, chiedendosi quale angolo fosse; la sua meridiana in un piccolo angolo murato, dove il sole non si era affacciato per cento anni, ma dove, in compenso per l’indifferenza del sole, la neve rimaneva per settimane quando non resisteva da nessun’altra parte e il vento di levante nero girava come una gigantesca trottola, mentre in tutti gli altri luoghi era silenzioso e immobile.

La sua dimora, nel suo cuore e nel suo nucleo — all’interno delle mura — accanto al caminetto — era così tetra e antica, così malandata, eppure così solida, con le sue travi di legno rosicchiate dai tarli sul soffitto, e il robusto pavimento che scendeva verso il grande camino in quercia; così circondata e compressa dalla pressione della città, eppure così remota per stile, età e usanze; così tranquilla, eppure così rumorosa di echi quando una voce lontana si alzava o una porta veniva chiusa — echi che non si limitavano ai numerosi passaggi bassi e alle stanze vuote, ma rimbombavano e brontolavano finché non venivano soffocati nell’aria pesante della dimenticata cripta dove gli archi normanni erano semisepolti nella terra.

Avreste dovuto vederlo nella sua dimora al crepuscolo, nel morto tempo di inverno.

Quando il vento soffiava acuto e penetrante con il tramonto del sole sfumato. Quando era appena così buio che le forme delle cose erano indistinte e grandi, ma non completamente perse. Quando i seduti accanto al fuoco cominciavano a vedere facce selvagge e figure, montagne e abissi, imboscate ed eserciti nelle braci. Quando la gente per le strade si chinava in avanti e correva davanti al maltempo. Quando coloro che erano costretti ad affrontarlo venivano fermati agli angoli arrabbiati, pungendo da fiocchi di neve erranti che si posavano sulle ciglia dei loro occhi, che cadevano troppo raramente e venivano spazzati via troppo velocemente per lasciare una traccia sul terreno ghiacciato. Quando le finestre delle case private erano chiuse strette e calde. Quando il gas acceso cominciava a scoppiare nelle strade affollate e tranquille, annerendosi rapidamente altrimenti. Quando i pedoni smarriti, rabbrividendo lungo queste ultime, guardavano giù verso i fuochi ardenti nelle cucine, e acuivano il loro appetito già affilato annusando la fragranza di interi chilometri di cene.

Quando i viaggiatori di terra erano gelati fino alle ossa e guardavano con occhi stanchi paesaggi cupi, frusciare e tremare nella bufera. Quando i marinai in mare aperto, appesi a pennoni ghiacciati, venivano scagliati e dondolati sopra l’oceano ululante in modo spaventoso. Quando i fari su scogliere e promontori apparivano solitari e vigili; e gli uccelli marini notturni si scontravano contro le loro enormi lanterne, cadendo morti. Quando piccoli lettori di libri di storie, alla luce del fuoco, tremavano al pensiero di Cassim Baba tagliato a pezzi e appeso nella Caverna dei Briganti, o avevano qualche timore che la feroce vecchietta con il bastone, che usciva dalla scatola nella camera del mercante Abudah, potesse una di queste notti essere trovata sulle scale, nel lungo, freddo e buio viaggio verso la camera da letto.

When, in rustic places, the last glimmering of daylight died away from the ends of avenues; and the trees, arching overhead, were sullen and black. When, in parks and woods, the high wet fern and sodden moss, and beds of fallen leaves, and trunks of trees, were lost to view, in masses of impenetrable shade. When mists arose from dyke, and fen, and river. When lights in old halls and in cottage windows, were a cheerful sight. When the mill stopped, the wheelwright and the blacksmith shut their workshops, the turnpike-gate closed, the plough and harrow were left lonely in the fields, the labourer and team went home, and the striking of the church clock had a deeper sound than at noon, and the churchyard wicket would be swung no more that night.

When twilight everywhere released the shadows, prisoned up all day, that now closed in and gathered like mustering swarms of ghosts. When they stood lowering, in corners of rooms, and frowned out from behind half-opened doors. When they had full possession of unoccupied apartments. When they danced upon the floors, and walls, and ceilings of inhabited chambers, while the fire was low, and withdrew like ebbing waters when it sprang into a blaze. When they fantastically mocked the shapes of household objects, making the nurse an ogress, the rocking-horse a monster, the wondering child, half-scared and half-amused, a stranger to itself,—the very tongs upon the hearth, a straddling giant with his arms a-kimbo, evidently smelling the blood of Englishmen, and wanting to grind people’s bones to make his bread.

When these shadows brought into the minds of older people, other thoughts, and showed them different images. When they stole from their retreats, in the likenesses of forms and faces from the past, from the grave, from the deep, deep gulf, where the things that might have been, and never were, are always wandering.

When he sat, as already mentioned, gazing at the fire. When, as it rose and fell, the shadows went and came. When he took no heed of them, with his bodily eyes; but, let them come or let them go, looked fixedly at the fire. You should have seen him, then.

When the sounds that had arisen with the shadows, and come out of their lurking-places at the twilight summons, seemed to make a deeper stillness all about him. When the wind was rumbling in the chimney, and sometimes crooning, sometimes howling, in the house. When the old trees outside were so shaken and beaten, that one querulous old rook, unable to sleep, protested now and then, in a feeble, dozy, high-up “Caw!” When, at intervals, the window trembled, the rusty vane upon the turret-top complained, the clock beneath it recorded that another quarter of an hour was gone, or the fire collapsed and fell in with a rattle.

—When a knock came at his door, in short, as he was sitting so, and roused him.

“Who’s that?” said he. “Come in!”

Surely there had been no figure leaning on the back of his chair; no face looking over it. It is certain that no gliding footstep touched the floor, as he lifted up his head, with a start, and spoke. And yet there was no mirror in the room on whose surface his own form could have cast its shadow for a moment; and, Something had passed darkly and gone!

“I’m humbly fearful, sir,” said a fresh-coloured busy man, holding the door open with his foot for the admission of himself and a wooden tray he carried, and letting it go again by very gentle and careful degrees, when he and the tray had got in, lest it should close noisily, “that it’s a good bit past the time to-night. But Mrs. William has been taken off her legs so often”—

“By the wind? Ay! I have heard it rising.”

“—By the wind, sir—that it’s a mercy she got home at all. Oh dear, yes. Yes. It was by the wind, Mr. Redlaw. By the wind.”

He had, by this time, put down the tray for dinner, and was employed in lighting the lamp, and spreading a cloth on the table. From this employment he desisted in a hurry, to stir and feed the fire, and then resumed it; the lamp he had lighted, and the blaze that rose under his hand, so quickly changing the appearance of the room, that it seemed as if the mere coming in of his fresh red face and active manner had made the pleasant alteration.

“Mrs. William is of course subject at any time, sir, to be taken off her balance by the elements. She is not formed superior to that.”

“No,” returned Mr. Redlaw good-naturedly, though abruptly.

“No, sir. Mrs. William may be taken off her balance by Earth; as for example, last Sunday week, when sloppy and greasy, and she going out to tea with her newest sister-in-law, and having a pride in herself, and wishing to appear perfectly spotless though pedestrian. Mrs. William may be taken off her balance by Air; as being once over-persuaded by a friend to try a swing at Peckham Fair, which acted on her constitution instantly like a steam-boat. Mrs. William may be taken off her balance by Fire; as on a false alarm of engines at her mother’s, when she went two miles in her nightcap. Mrs. William may be taken off her balance by Water; as at Battersea, when rowed into the piers by her young nephew, Charley Swidger junior, aged twelve, which had no idea of boats whatever. But these are elements. Mrs. William must be taken out of elements for the strength of her character to come into play.”

As he stopped for a reply, the reply was “Yes,” in the same tone as before.

“Yes, sir. Oh dear, yes!” said Mr. Swidger, still proceeding with his preparations, and checking them off as he made them. “That’s where it is, sir. That’s what I always say myself, sir. Such a many of us Swidgers!—Pepper. Why there’s my father, sir, superannuated keeper and custodian of this Institution, eighty-seven year old. He’s a Swidger!—Spoon.”

Quando, nei luoghi rustici, l’ultimo barlume di luce del giorno svaniva dalle estremità dei viali; e gli alberi, che si arcuavano sopra le teste, erano cupi e neri. Quando, nei parchi e nelle foreste, il alto felce bagnato e la muschio imbevuto d’acqua, i letti di foglie cadute e i tronchi degli alberi si perdevano alla vista in masse di ombra imperscrutabile. Quando le nebbie sorgevano dai fossati, dalle paludi e dal fiume. Quando le luci nelle vecchie sale e nelle finestre delle casette erano una vista allegra. Quando il mulino si fermava, il carrozziere e il fabbro chiudevano i loro laboratori, il cancello pedaggiato si chiudeva, l’aratro e la zappatrice venivano lasciati solitari nei campi, il lavoratore e il suo equipaggio andavano a casa, e il rintocco dell’orologio della chiesa aveva un suono più profondo che a mezzogiorno, e il cancelletto del cimitero non si sarebbe mosso più quella notte.

Quando il crepuscolo ovunque liberava le ombre imprigionate per tutto il giorno, che ora si addensavano e si radunavano come stormi di fantasmi in attesa. Quando esse si ergevano minacciose negli angoli delle stanze, e scrutavano da dietro le porte socchiuse. Quando avevano pieno possesso degli appartamenti vuoti. Quando danzavano sui pavimenti, sulle pareti e sui soffitti delle camere abitate, mentre il fuoco era basso, e si ritiravano come acque che rifluiscono quando esso divampava. Quando fantasticamente beffeggiavano le forme degli oggetti domestici, trasformando la balia in un’ogressa, il dondolo-cavallo in un mostro, lo stupito bambino, mezzo spaventato e mezzo divertito, in uno straniero a se stesso, — le stesse pinze sul focolare, in un gigante arcigno con le braccia sui fianchi, che evidentemente annusava il sangue degli inglesi e voleva macinare le ossa della gente per fare il suo pane.

Quando queste ombre portavano nelle menti delle persone più anziane altri pensieri e mostravano loro immagini diverse. Quando rubavano dai loro rifugi le somiglianze di forme e volti del passato, dal tomba, dall’abisso profondo, profondissimo, dove vagano sempre cose che avrebbero potuto essere ma non lo sono mai state.

Quando sedeva, come già accennato, fissando il fuoco. Quando, mentre si alzava e abbassava, le ombre andavano e venivano. Quando non ne teneva conto con i suoi occhi fisici; ma, che venissero o se ne andassero, guardava fissamente il fuoco. Avreste dovuto vederlo allora.

Quando i suoni che erano sorti con le ombre e usciti dai loro nascondigli al richiamo del crepuscolo sembravano rendere ancora più profondo il silenzio intorno a lui. Quando lo vento rimbombava nel camino, e talvolta gorgogliava, talaltra ululava nella casa. Quando gli alberi antichi fuori venivano così scossi e percossi che un vecchio corvo lamentoso, incapace di dormire, protestava ogni tanto con un debole, assonnato “Cra!” acuto. Quando, a intervalli, la finestra tremava, la banderuola arrugginita sulla sommità della torretta si lamentava, la clessidra sotto di essa segnalava che un altro quarto d’ora era trascorso o il fuoco crollava e cadeva con un crepitio.

Quando un colpo alla porta lo svegliò, insomma, mentre era seduto così.

“Chi è?” disse lui. “Entri!”

Sicuramente non c’era stata alcuna figura appoggiata allo schienale della sua sedia; nessun volto che la sovrastasse. È certo che nessun passo furtivo toccò il pavimento, quando alzò la testa di scatto e parlò. Eppure non c’era alcuno specchio nella stanza sulla cui superficie la sua stessa figura avrebbe potuto proiettare per un momento la propria ombra; e qualcosa era passato oscuramente ed era scomparso!

«Ho timore di essere umilmente indiscreto, signore», disse un uomo dall’aspetto florido e attivo, tenendo la porta aperta con il piede per far entrare se stesso e un vassoio di legno che portava, e lasciandola andare molto lentamente e con cautela quando lui e il vassoio furono dentro, per evitare che si chiudesse rumorosamente, «che è già passato da un bel po’ il tempo di-stasera. Ma la signora William è stata chiamata via così spesso» —

«Per il vento? Sì! L’ho sentito alzarsi».

«—Per il vento, signore — che è una benedizione che sia riuscita a tornare a casa per niente. Oh, sì. Sì. È stato per il vento, Mr. Redlaw. Per il vento.»

A quell’ora, aveva posato il vassoio della cena e si era messo a accendere la lampada e ad apparecchiare la tavola. Da questo lavoro si interruppe di corsa per ravvivare e alimentare il fuoco, dopodiché riprese; la lampada che aveva acceso, e le fiamme che salivano sotto le sue mani, cambiarono così rapidamente l’aspetto della stanza da sembrare che fosse stata semplicemente la sua fresca faccia rossa e il suo modo di fare attivo a provocare quel piacevole cambiamento.

«La signora William è naturalmente soggetta in ogni momento, signore, a perdere l’equilibrio per colpa degli elementi. Non è fatta di una pasta migliore».

«No», rispose il signor Redlaw in modo cordiale, sebbene brusco.

“No, signore. La signora William può essere destabilizzata dalla Terra; per esempio, la domenica scorsa, quando era umida e untuosa, mentre usciva a prendere il tè con sua cognata più nuova, orgogliosa di sé stessa e desiderosa di apparire perfettamente immacolata anche se a piedi. La signora William può essere destabilizzata dall’Aria; come quando fu convinta da un’amica a provare l’altalena alla fiera di Peckham, che agì immediatamente sulla sua costituzione come una barca a vapore. La signora William può essere destabilizzata dal Fuoco; come in occasione di un falso allarme di incendio a casa di sua madre, quando percorse due miglia con il suo berretto da notte. La signora William può essere destabilizzata dall’Acqua; come a Battersea, quando fu portata tra i pontili dal suo giovane nipote, Charley Swidger junior, di dodici anni, che non aveva la minima idea di barche. Ma questi sono elementi. La signora William deve essere estratta dagli elementi affinché la forza del suo carattere possa manifestarsi.”

Mentre si fermava per una risposta, la risposta fu “Sì”, nello stesso tono di prima.

«Sì, signore. Oh sì, certo!» disse il signor Swidger continuando i suoi preparativi e controllandoli man mano che li faceva. «Ecco dove sta la questione, signore. È quello che dico sempre io stesso, signore. Ci sono così tanti di noi Swidger!—Pepe. Mio padre, per esempio, signore, custode e guardiano in pensione di questa Istituzione, ottantasette anni. È un Swidger!—Cucchiaio.»

“True, William,” was the patient and abstracted answer, when he stopped again.

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Swidger. “That’s what I always say, sir. You may call him the trunk of the tree!—Bread. Then you come to his successor, my unworthy self—Salt—and Mrs. William, Swidgers both.—Knife and fork. Then you come to all my brothers and their families, Swidgers, man and woman, boy and girl. Why, what with cousins, uncles, aunts, and relationships of this, that, and t’other degree, and whatnot degree, and marriages, and lyings-in, the Swidgers—Tumbler—might take hold of hands, and make a ring round England!”

Receiving no reply at all here, from the thoughtful man whom he addressed, Mr. William approached, him nearer, and made a feint of accidentally knocking the table with a decanter, to rouse him. The moment he succeeded, he went on, as if in great alacrity of acquiescence.

“Yes, sir! That’s just what I say myself, sir. Mrs. William and me have often said so. ‘There’s Swidgers enough,’ we say, ‘without our voluntary contributions,’—Butter. In fact, sir, my father is a family in himself—Castors—to take care of; and it happens all for the best that we have no child of our own, though it’s made Mrs. William rather quiet-like, too. Quite ready for the fowl and mashed potatoes, sir? Mrs. William said she’d dish in ten minutes when I left the Lodge.”

“I am quite ready,” said the other, waking as from a dream, and walking slowly to and fro.

“Mrs. William has been at it again, sir!” said the keeper, as he stood warming a plate at the fire, and pleasantly shading his face with it. Mr. Redlaw stopped in his walking, and an expression of interest appeared in him.

“What I always say myself, sir. She will do it! There’s a motherly feeling in Mrs. William’s breast that must and will have went.”

“What has she done?”

“Why, sir, not satisfied with being a sort of mother to all the young gentlemen that come up from a variety of parts, to attend your courses of lectures at this ancient foundation—it’s surprising how stone-chaney catches the heat this frosty weather, to be sure!” Here he turned the plate, and cooled his fingers.

“Well?” said Mr. Redlaw.

“That’s just what I say myself, sir,” returned Mr. William, speaking over his shoulder, as if in ready and delighted assent. “That’s exactly where it is, sir! There ain’t one of our students but appears to regard Mrs. William in that light. Every day, right through the course, they puts their heads into the Lodge, one after another, and have all got something to tell her, or something to ask her. ‘Swidge’ is the appellation by which they speak of Mrs. William in general, among themselves, I’m told; but that’s what I say, sir. Better be called ever so far out of your name, if it’s done in real liking, than have it made ever so much of, and not cared about! What’s a name for? To know a person by. If Mrs. William is known by something better than her name—I allude to Mrs. William’s qualities and disposition—never mind her name, though it is Swidger, by rights. Let ’em call her Swidge, Widge, Bridge—Lord! London Bridge, Blackfriars, Chelsea, Putney, Waterloo, or Hammersmith Suspension—if they like.”

The close of this triumphant oration brought him and the plate to the table, upon which he half laid and half dropped it, with a lively sense of its being thoroughly heated, just as the subject of his praises entered the room, bearing another tray and a lantern, and followed by a venerable old man with long grey hair.

Mrs. William, like Mr. William, was a simple, innocent-looking person, in whose smooth cheeks the cheerful red of her husband’s official waistcoat was very pleasantly repeated. But whereas Mr. William’s light hair stood on end all over his head, and seemed to draw his eyes up with it in an excess of bustling readiness for anything, the dark brown hair of Mrs. William was carefully smoothed down, and waved away under a trim tidy cap, in the most exact and quiet manner imaginable. Whereas Mr. William’s very trousers hitched themselves up at the ankles, as if it were not in their iron-grey nature to rest without looking about them, Mrs. William’s neatly-flowered skirts—red and white, like her own pretty face—were as composed and orderly, as if the very wind that blew so hard out of doors could not disturb one of their folds. Whereas his coat had something of a fly-away and half-off appearance about the collar and breast, her little bodice was so placid and neat, that there should have been protection for her, in it, had she needed any, with the roughest people. Who could have had the heart to make so calm a bosom swell with grief, or throb with fear, or flutter with a thought of shame! To whom would its repose and peace have not appealed against disturbance, like the innocent slumber of a child!

“Punctual, of course, Milly,” said her husband, relieving her of the tray, “or it wouldn’t be you. Here’s Mrs. William, sir!—He looks lonelier than ever to-night,” whispering to his wife, as he was taking the tray, “and ghostlier altogether.”

Without any show of hurry or noise, or any show of herself even, she was so calm and quiet, Milly set the dishes she had brought upon the table,—Mr. William, after much clattering and running about, having only gained possession of a butter-boat of gravy, which he stood ready to serve.

“What is that the old man has in his arms?” asked Mr. Redlaw, as he sat down to his solitary meal.

“Holly, sir,” replied the quiet voice of Milly.

“That’s what I say myself, sir,” interposed Mr. William, striking in with the butter-boat. “Berries is so seasonable to the time of year!—Brown gravy!”

“Another Christmas come, another year gone!” murmured the Chemist, with a gloomy sigh. “More figures in the lengthening sum of recollection that we work and work at to our torment, till Death idly jumbles all together, and rubs all out. So, Philip!” breaking off, and raising his voice as he addressed the old man, standing apart, with his glistening burden in his arms, from which the quiet Mrs. William took small branches, which she noiselessly trimmed with her scissors, and decorated the room with, while her aged father-in-law looked on much interested in the ceremony.

«È vero, William», fu la risposta paziente e distratta quando si fermò di nuovo.

«Sì, signore», disse il signor Swidger. «È quello che dico sempre io, signore. Potete chiamarlo il tronco dell’albero! — Pane. Poi venite al suo successore, il mio indegno io — Sale — e alla signora William, entrambi Swidger.— Coltello e forchetta. Poi venite a tutti i miei fratelli e alle loro famiglie, Swidger maschi e femmine, ragazzi e ragazze. Ma con cugini, zii, zie e parenti di questo, quell’altro grado, e chissà quale altro grado, e matrimoni, e partorienti, gli Swidger — Bicchiere — potrebbero prendersi per mano e fare un cerchio intorno all’Inghilterra!»

Non ricevendo alcuna risposta da quell’uomo pensieroso che aveva interpellato, il signor William si avvicinò a lui e simulò di urtare accidentalmente il tavolo con un decanter per svegliarlo. Nel momento in cui ci riuscì, continuò come se fosse molto sollecito nell’acconsentire.

“Sì, signore! È proprio quello che dico io stesso, signore. La signora William ed io lo abbiamo spesso detto. ‘Ci sono già abbastanza Swidgers’, diciamo noi, ‘senza i nostri contributi volontari’ — burro. Infatti, signore, mio padre è una famiglia lui per sé stesso — castorame — da accudire; e succede tutto per il meglio che non abbiamo figli nostri, anche se questo ha reso la signora William piuttosto tranquilla. Pronti per il pollame e le patate schiacciate, signore? La signora William mi ha detto che avrebbe servito tra dieci minuti quando ho lasciato la Lodge.”

“Sono perfettamente pronto”, disse l’altro, svegliandosi come da un sogno e camminando lentamente avanti e indietro.

«La signora William ha ricominciato, signore!» disse il custode mentre stava scaldando un piatto sul fuoco e si riparava piacevolmente il viso con esso. Il signor Redlaw si fermò nel suo camminare e un’espressione di interesse gli apparve in volto.

«Quello che dico sempre io stesso, signore. Lo farà di sicuro! C’è un sentimento materno nel cuore della signora Williams che deve e avrà la meglio».

“Cosa ha fatto?”

«Perché, signore, non contenta di essere una sorta di madre per tutti i giovani gentiluomini che arrivano da varie parti per seguire le sue serie di conferenze in questa antica istituzione - è sorprendente come il calcare assorba il calore in questo tempo gelido, davvero!» Qui girò il piatto e si raffreddò le dita.

«Bene?», disse il signor Redlaw.

«È proprio quello che dico io stesso, signore», rispose il signor William, parlando al di sopra della sua spalla, come se fosse pronto e lieto di assentire. «È esattamente questo, signore! Non c’è uno dei nostri studenti che non sembri considerare la signora William in quella luce. Ogni giorno, per tutta la durata del corso, mettono la testa nella Loggia, uno dopo l’altro, e hanno tutti qualcosa da dirle o qualcosa da chiederle. ‘Swidge’ è il soprannome con cui parlano della signora William in generale, tra di loro, mi dicono; ma questo è quello che dico io, signore. È meglio essere chiamati anche molto lontano dal proprio nome, se ciò avviene per reale simpatia, piuttosto che avere il proprio nome fatto tanto importante e non esserne curati! A cosa serve un nome? Per conoscere una persona. Se la signora William è conosciuta per qualcosa di meglio del suo nome — mi riferisco alle qualità e al carattere della signora William — non importa il suo nome, anche se è Swidger, di diritto. Lasciate che la chiamino Swidge, Widge, Bridge—Signore! London Bridge, Blackfriars, Chelsea, Putney, Waterloo o Hammersmith Suspension — se vogliono».

La fine di questo trionfale discorso lo portò lui e il vassoio al tavolo, sopra cui lo depose a metà e lo lasciò cadere a metà, con una vivace sensazione che fosse ben riscaldato, proprio mentre l’oggetto delle sue lodi entrava nella stanza, portando un altro vassoio e una lanterna, seguito da un vecchio venerabile con lunghi capelli grigi.

La signora William, come il signor William, era una persona semplice e dall’aspetto ingenuo, nelle cui guance lisce si ripeteva piacevolmente il rosso allegro del panciotto ufficiale di suo marito. Ma mentre i capelli chiari del signor William erano dritti in testa, come se volessero tirare su anche gli occhi con loro in un eccesso di prontezza per qualsiasi cosa, i capelli castano scuro della signora William erano accuratamente lisciati e ondulati sotto un cappello ordinato e ben curato, nel modo più esatto e tranquillo immaginabile. Mentre i pantaloni del signor William si tiravano su alle caviglie, come se non fosse nella loro natura grigio ferro riposare senza guardarsi intorno, le gonne fiorate della signora William—rosse e bianche, come il suo bel viso—erano composte e ordinate, come se anche il più forte vento che soffiasse fuori non potesse disturbare una delle loro pieghe. Mentre il suo cappotto aveva un aspetto vagamente svolazzante e semi-aperto al colletto e sul petto, il suo piccolo corpetto era così placido e ordinato, che avrebbe dovuto offrirle protezione, se ne avesse avuto bisogno, anche tra le persone più rozze. Chi avrebbe potuto avere il cuore di far gonfiare un seno così calmo di dolore, o palpitare di paura, o tremare al pensiero della vergogna! A chi non sarebbe stato chiesto riposo e pace contro il disturbo, come il sonno innocente di un bambino!

«Puntuale, naturalmente, Milly», disse suo marito, liberandola del vassoio, «altrimenti non saresti tu. Ecco la signora William, signore! — Sembra più solo che mai questa sera», bisbigliò alla moglie mentre prendeva il vassoio, «e anche più spettrale in generale».

Senza alcun segno di fretta o rumore, senza nemmeno mostrarsi, era così calma e tranquilla che Milly posò i piatti che aveva portato sul tavolo: il signor William, dopo tanto fracasso e correre avanti e indietro, era riuscito solo a impossessarsi di una barchetta di salsa per il burro, che si teneva pronto a servire.

«Che cos’è che il vecchio ha tra le braccia?» chiese il signor Redlaw mentre si sedeva per la sua solitaria cena.

«Holly, signore», rispose la calma voce di Milly.

“È quello che dico io stesso, signore”, intervenne il signor William, introducendo la barca del burro. “Le bacche sono così adatte alla stagione dell’anno! — Salsa bruna!”

“Un altro Natale è arrivato, un altro anno se n’è andato!” mormorò il Farmacista con un sospiro cupo. “Altre cifre nella somma che si allunga dei ricordi su cui lavoriamo e lavoriamo a nostro tormento, finché morte li mischia insieme in modo distratto e li cancella tutti. E così, Filippo!” interrompendosi e alzando la voce mentre si rivolgeva all’anziano uomo che stava in disparte con il suo bagaglio luccicante tra le braccia, da cui la tranquilla signora William prendeva piccoli rami che tagliava silenziosamente con le forbici e decorava la stanza mentre il vecchio suocero osservava molto interessato alla cerimonia.

“My duty to you, sir,” returned the old man. “Should have spoke before, sir, but know your ways, Mr. Redlaw—proud to say—and wait till spoke to! Merry Christmas, sir, and Happy New Year, and many of ’em. Have had a pretty many of ’em myself—ha, ha!—and may take the liberty of wishing ’em. I’m eighty-seven!”

“Have you had so many that were merry and happy?” asked the other.

“Ay, sir, ever so many,” returned the old man.

“Is his memory impaired with age? It is to be expected now,” said Mr. Redlaw, turning to the son, and speaking lower.

“Not a morsel of it, sir,” replied Mr. William. “That’s exactly what I say myself, sir. There never was such a memory as my father’s. He’s the most wonderful man in the world. He don’t know what forgetting means. It’s the very observation I’m always making to Mrs. William, sir, if you’ll believe me!”

Mr. Swidger, in his polite desire to seem to acquiesce at all events, delivered this as if there were no iota of contradiction in it, and it were all said in unbounded and unqualified assent.

The Chemist pushed his plate away, and, rising from the table, walked across the room to where the old man stood looking at a little sprig of holly in his hand.

“It recalls the time when many of those years were old and new, then?” he said, observing him attentively, and touching him on the shoulder. “Does it?”

“Oh many, many!” said Philip, half awaking from his reverie. “I’m eighty-seven!”

“Merry and happy, was it?” asked the Chemist in a low voice. “Merry and happy, old man?”

“Maybe as high as that, no higher,” said the old man, holding out his hand a little way above the level of his knee, and looking retrospectively at his questioner, “when I first remember ’em! Cold, sunshiny day it was, out a-walking, when some one—it was my mother as sure as you stand there, though I don’t know what her blessed face was like, for she took ill and died that Christmas-time—told me they were food for birds. The pretty little fellow thought—that’s me, you understand—that birds’ eyes were so bright, perhaps, because the berries that they lived on in the winter were so bright. I recollect that. And I’m eighty-seven!”

“Merry and happy!” mused the other, bending his dark eyes upon the stooping figure, with a smile of compassion. “Merry and happy—and remember well?”

“Ay, ay, ay!” resumed the old man, catching the last words. “I remember ’em well in my school time, year after year, and all the merry-making that used to come along with them. I was a strong chap then, Mr. Redlaw; and, if you’ll believe me, hadn’t my match at football within ten mile. Where’s my son William? Hadn’t my match at football, William, within ten mile!”

“That’s what I always say, father!” returned the son promptly, and with great respect. “You ARE a Swidger, if ever there was one of the family!”

“Dear!” said the old man, shaking his head as he again looked at the holly. “His mother—my son William’s my youngest son—and I, have sat among ’em all, boys and girls, little children and babies, many a year, when the berries like these were not shining half so bright all round us, as their bright faces. Many of ’em are gone; she’s gone; and my son George (our eldest, who was her pride more than all the rest!) is fallen very low: but I can see them, when I look here, alive and healthy, as they used to be in those days; and I can see him, thank God, in his innocence. It’s a blessed thing to me, at eighty-seven.”

The keen look that had been fixed upon him with so much earnestness, had gradually sought the ground.

“When my circumstances got to be not so good as formerly, through not being honestly dealt by, and I first come here to be custodian,” said the old man, “—which was upwards of fifty years ago—where’s my son William? More than half a century ago, William!”

“That’s what I say, father,” replied the son, as promptly and dutifully as before, “that’s exactly where it is. Two times ought’s an ought, and twice five ten, and there’s a hundred of ’em.”

“It was quite a pleasure to know that one of our founders—or more correctly speaking,” said the old man, with a great glory in his subject and his knowledge of it, “one of the learned gentlemen that helped endow us in Queen Elizabeth’s time, for we were founded afore her day—left in his will, among the other bequests he made us, so much to buy holly, for garnishing the walls and windows, come Christmas. There was something homely and friendly in it. Being but strange here, then, and coming at Christmas time, we took a liking for his very picter that hangs in what used to be, anciently, afore our ten poor gentlemen commuted for an annual stipend in money, our great Dinner Hall.—A sedate gentleman in a peaked beard, with a ruff round his neck, and a scroll below him, in old English letters, ‘Lord! keep my memory green!’ You know all about him, Mr. Redlaw?”

“I know the portrait hangs there, Philip.”

“Yes, sure, it’s the second on the right, above the panelling. I was going to say—he has helped to keep my memory green, I thank him; for going round the building every year, as I’m a doing now, and freshening up the bare rooms with these branches and berries, freshens up my bare old brain. One year brings back another, and that year another, and those others numbers! At last, it seems to me as if the birth-time of our Lord was the birth-time of all I have ever had affection for, or mourned for, or delighted in,—and they’re a pretty many, for I’m eighty-seven!”

“Merry and happy,” murmured Redlaw to himself.

The room began to darken strangely.

“So you see, sir,” pursued old Philip, whose hale wintry cheek had warmed into a ruddier glow, and whose blue eyes had brightened while he spoke, “I have plenty to keep, when I keep this present season. Now, where’s my quiet Mouse? Chattering’s the sin of my time of life, and there’s half the building to do yet, if the cold don’t freeze us first, or the wind don’t blow us away, or the darkness don’t swallow us up.”

«Il mio dovere verso di voi, signore», rispose il vecchio. «Avrei dovuto parlare prima, signore, ma conosco i vostri modi, Mr. Redlaw — e ne sono orgoglioso! — e aspetto che siate voi a parlarmi! Buon Natale, signore, e Felice Anno Nuovo, e molti altri ancora. Ne ho avuti parecchi anch’io — ah, ah! — e mi permetto di augurarveli. Ho ottantasette anni!»

«Avete avuto tanti che erano allegri e felici?» chiese l’altro.

«Sì, signore, tantissimi», rispose il vecchio.

«La sua memoria è indebolita dall’età? Ora sarebbe normale», disse il signor Redlaw, rivolgendosi al figlio e abbassando la voce.

«Neanche un boccone, signore», rispose il signor William. «È esattamente quello che dico io stesso, signore. Non c’è mai stato un ricordo come quello di mio padre. È l’uomo più straordinario del mondo. Lui non sa cosa significa dimenticare. È proprio l’osservazione che faccio sempre alla signora William, signore, se mi crede!»

Il signor Swidger, nel suo cortese desiderio di sembrare che acconsentisse a ogni costo, pronunciò queste parole come se non vi fosse il minimo accenno di contraddizione e tutto fosse detto con un assenso illimitato e incondizionato.

Il chimico allontanò il piatto e, alzandosi da tavola, attraversò la stanza fino a dove l’anziano stava osservando un piccolo rametto di agrifoglio che teneva in mano.

“Ricorda il tempo in cui molti di quegli anni erano vecchi e nuovi, allora?” disse, osservandolo con attenzione e toccandogli la spalla. “È così?”

“Oh, tanti, tanti!” disse Filippo, risvegliandosi a metà dalla sua fantasticheria. “Ho ottantasette anni!”

“Felice e contento, eh?” chiese il chimico con voce bassa. “Felice e contento, vecchio mio?”

“Forse così alto, non più,” disse il vecchio, tenendo la mano un po’ al di sopra del livello del ginocchio e guardando con aria nostalgica chi gli faceva domande, “quando li ricordo per la prima volta! Era una fredda giornata soleggiata, ero fuori a fare quattro passi quando qualcuno — era mia madre tanto sicuro quanto sta lì in piedi, anche se non so com’era il suo benedetto viso perché si ammalò e morì quel Natale — mi disse che erano cibo per uccelli. Il carino piccolo pensava — sono io, capite — che gli occhi degli uccelli fossero così luminosi forse perché i frutti di cui si nutrivano in inverno erano così luminosi. Me lo ricordo questo. E ho ottantasette anni!”

«Allegra e felice!» rifletté l’altro, posando i suoi occhi scuri sulla figura curva con un sorriso di compassione. «Allegra e felice — e ricorda bene?»

“Ay, ay, ay!” riprese il vecchio, cogliendo le ultime parole. “Me li ricordo bene ai miei tempi di scuola scuola, anno dopo anno, e tutte le allegre feste che si facevano in quell’occasione. Ero un ragazzo robusto allora, signor Redlaw; e, se mi crede, non avevo pari nel gioco della palla nei dieci miglia intorno. Dove è mio figlio William? Non avevo pari nel gioco della palla, William, nei dieci miglia intorno!”

«È quello che dico sempre io, padre!» rispose il figlio prontamente e con grande rispetto. «Sei un Swidger, se mai ce n’è stato uno in famiglia!»

«Caro!», disse il vecchio scuotendo la testa mentre guardava di nuovo l’agrifoglio. «La madre - mio figlio William è il mio figlio più giovane - e io siamo stati seduti tra loro tutti, ragazzi e ragazze, bambini piccoli e neonati, per molti anni, quando le bacche come queste non brillavano nemmeno la metà di quanto brillassero i loro visi sorridenti. Molti di loro se ne sono andati; lei è morta; e mio figlio Giorgio (il nostro primogenito, che era il suo orgoglio più di tutti gli altri!) è caduto molto in basso: ma li posso vedere, quando guardo qui, vivi e sani come erano in quei giorni; e lo posso vedere lui, grazie a Dio, nella sua innocenza. È una benedizione per me, all’età di ottantasette anni.»

Lo sguardo penetrante che lo aveva fissato con tanta intensità si era gradualmente abbassato verso terra.

«Quando le mie circostanze non furono più così buone come prima, per colpa di chi non mi trattò onestamente e venne qui come custode», disse il vecchio, «—che fu oltre cinquant’anni fa—dov’è mio figlio William? Più di mezzo secolo fa, William!»

«Questo è quello che dico io, padre», rispose il figlio, con la stessa prontezza e devozione di prima, «questo è esattamente dove si trova. Due volte zero fa zero, e due volte cinque dieci, e ce ne sono cento».

«Fu un vero piacere sapere che uno dei nostri fondatori — o per meglio dire», disse il vecchio con grande orgoglio del suo argomento e della sua conoscenza, «uno dei dotti signori che ci aiutarono a dotarci in epoca di regina Elisabetta, perché fummo fondati prima del suo tempo — lasciò nel suo testamento, tra gli altri lasciti che ci fece, una somma per comprare agrifoglio da appendere alle pareti e alle finestre a Natale. C’era qualcosa di familiare e amichevole in questo. Essendo appena arrivato qui, allora, e venendo nel periodo natalizio, ci siamo affezionati al suo ritratto che è appeso a quello che era anticamente, prima che i nostri dieci poveri signori accettassero uno stipendio annuale in denaro, la nostra grande Sala da Pranzo. — Un gentiluomo serio con una barba a punta, con un colletto rigido intorno al collo e un rotolo sotto di lui, con lettere inglesi antiche: ‘Signore! mantieni verde il mio ricordo!’ Ne sa tutto, signor Redlaw?»

“So che il ritratto è appeso lì, Filippo.”

«Sì, certo, è la seconda sulla destra, sopra il pannello. Stavo per dire: ha contribuito a mantenere il mio ricordo verde, gliene sono grato; perché girando intorno all’edificio ogni anno, come sto facendo ora, e rinfrescando le stanze spoglie con questi rami e bacche, rinfresca anche il mio vecchio cervello vuoto. Un anno richiama un altro, e quell’anno un altro ancora, e quegli altri numeri! Alla fine, mi sembra che il tempo della nascita del nostro Signore sia il tempo di nascita di tutto ciò per cui ho mai avuto affetto, o pianto, o gioito — e sono parecchi, perché ne ho ottantasette!»

«Allegra e felice», mormorò tra sé Redlaw.

La stanza cominciò a oscurarsi stranamente.

«Vede dunque, signore», proseguì il vecchio Philip, le cui guance invernali e floride si erano riscaldate fino a un rossore più intenso, e i cui occhi blu si erano illuminati mentre parlava, «ho abbastanza da fare per mantenere questo periodo dell’anno. Ora, dove è il mio tranquillo Topolino? Parlare tanto è il peccato della mia epoca di vita, e c’è ancora metà del lavoro da fare, se prima non ci congeliamo dal freddo, o se il vento non ci spazza via, o se l’oscurità non ci inghiotte.»

The quiet Mouse had brought her calm face to his side, and silently taken his arm, before he finished speaking.

“Come away, my dear,” said the old man. “Mr. Redlaw won’t settle to his dinner, otherwise, till it’s cold as the winter. I hope you’ll excuse me rambling on, sir, and I wish you good night, and, once again, a merry—”

“Stay!” said Mr. Redlaw, resuming his place at the table, more, it would have seemed from his manner, to reassure the old keeper, than in any remembrance of his own appetite. “Spare me another moment, Philip. William, you were going to tell me something to your excellent wife’s honour. It will not be disagreeable to her to hear you praise her. What was it?”

“Why, that’s where it is, you see, sir,” returned Mr. William Swidger, looking towards his wife in considerable embarrassment. “Mrs. William’s got her eye upon me.”

“But you’re not afraid of Mrs. William’s eye?”

“Why, no, sir,” returned Mr. Swidger, “that’s what I say myself. It wasn’t made to be afraid of. It wouldn’t have been made so mild, if that was the intention. But I wouldn’t like to—Milly!—him, you know. Down in the Buildings.”

Mr. William, standing behind the table, and rummaging disconcertedly among the objects upon it, directed persuasive glances at Mrs. William, and secret jerks of his head and thumb at Mr. Redlaw, as alluring her towards him.

“Him, you know, my love,” said Mr. William. “Down in the Buildings. Tell, my dear! You’re the works of Shakespeare in comparison with myself. Down in the Buildings, you know, my love.—Student.”

“Student?” repeated Mr. Redlaw, raising his head.

“That’s what I say, sir!” cried Mr. William, in the utmost animation of assent. “If it wasn’t the poor student down in the Buildings, why should you wish to hear it from Mrs. William’s lips? Mrs. William, my dear—Buildings.”

“I didn’t know,” said Milly, with a quiet frankness, free from any haste or confusion, “that William had said anything about it, or I wouldn’t have come. I asked him not to. It’s a sick young gentleman, sir—and very poor, I am afraid—who is too ill to go home this holiday-time, and lives, unknown to any one, in but a common kind of lodging for a gentleman, down in Jerusalem Buildings. That’s all, sir.”

“Why have I never heard of him?” said the Chemist, rising hurriedly. “Why has he not made his situation known to me? Sick!—give me my hat and cloak. Poor!—what house?—what number?”

“Oh, you mustn’t go there, sir,” said Milly, leaving her father-in-law, and calmly confronting him with her collected little face and folded hands.

“Not go there?”

“Oh dear, no!” said Milly, shaking her head as at a most manifest and self-evident impossibility. “It couldn’t be thought of!”

“What do you mean? Why not?”

“Why, you see, sir,” said Mr. William Swidger, persuasively and confidentially, “that’s what I say. Depend upon it, the young gentleman would never have made his situation known to one of his own sex. Mrs. Williams has got into his confidence, but that’s quite different. They all confide in Mrs. William; they all trust her. A man, sir, couldn’t have got a whisper out of him; but woman, sir, and Mrs. William combined—!”

“There is good sense and delicacy in what you say, William,” returned Mr. Redlaw, observant of the gentle and composed face at his shoulder. And laying his finger on his lip, he secretly put his purse into her hand.

“Oh dear no, sir!” cried Milly, giving it back again. “Worse and worse! Couldn’t be dreamed of!”

Such a staid matter-of-fact housewife she was, and so unruffled by the momentary haste of this rejection, that, an instant afterwards, she was tidily picking up a few leaves which had strayed from between her scissors and her apron, when she had arranged the holly.

Finding, when she rose from her stooping posture, that Mr. Redlaw was still regarding her with doubt and astonishment, she quietly repeated—looking about, the while, for any other fragments that might have escaped her observation:

“Oh dear no, sir! He said that of all the world he would not be known to you, or receive help from you—though he is a student in your class. I have made no terms of secrecy with you, but I trust to your honour completely.”

“Why did he say so?”

“Indeed I can’t tell, sir,” said Milly, after thinking a little, “because I am not at all clever, you know; and I wanted to be useful to him in making things neat and comfortable about him, and employed myself that way. But I know he is poor, and lonely, and I think he is somehow neglected too.—How dark it is!”

The room had darkened more and more. There was a very heavy gloom and shadow gathering behind the Chemist’s chair.

“What more about him?” he asked.

“He is engaged to be married when he can afford it,” said Milly, “and is studying, I think, to qualify himself to earn a living. I have seen, a long time, that he has studied hard and denied himself much.—How very dark it is!”

“It’s turned colder, too,” said the old man, rubbing his hands. “There’s a chill and dismal feeling in the room. Where’s my son William? William, my boy, turn the lamp, and rouse the fire!”

Milly’s voice resumed, like quiet music very softly played:

“He muttered in his broken sleep yesterday afternoon, after talking to me” (this was to herself) “about some one dead, and some great wrong done that could never be forgotten; but whether to him or to another person, I don’t know. Not by him, I am sure.”

“And, in short, Mrs. William, you see—which she wouldn’t say herself, Mr. Redlaw, if she was to stop here till the new year after this next one—” said Mr. William, coming up to him to speak in his ear, “has done him worlds of good! Bless you, worlds of good! All at home just the same as ever—my father made as snug and comfortable—not a crumb of litter to be found in the house, if you were to offer fifty pound ready money for it—Mrs. William apparently never out of the way—yet Mrs. William backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, up and down, up and down, a mother to him!”

Il topo tranquillo aveva portato il suo viso calmo al suo fianco e gli aveva preso silenziosamente il braccio prima che lui finisse di parlare.

“Vieni via, mia cara”, disse il vecchio. “Altrimenti il signor Redlaw non si metterà mai a tavola finché il pranzo sarà freddo come l’inverno. Spero che mi perdonerete se vado avanti, signore, e vi auguro una buona sera, e ancora una volta un felice—”

«Resta!» disse il signor Redlaw, riprendendo posto a tavola, più per rassicurare l’anziano guardiano che non per ricordarsi del proprio appetito. «Concedimi un altro momento, Philip. William, stavi per dirmi qualcosa in onore della tua eccellente moglie. Non le dispiacerà sentirti lodarla. Cos’era?»

«Perché è proprio lì che sta il problema, vede, signore», rispose il signor William Swidger, guardando verso sua moglie con notevole imbarazzo. «La signora William ha gli occhi puntati su di me».

“Ma non hai paura dello sguardo della signora Williams?”

«Perché no, signore», rispose il signor Swidger, «è quello che dico anch’io. Non è stato fatto per spaventarsi. Non sarebbe stato creato così mite se fosse stata quella l’intenzione. Ma non mi piacerebbe—Milly!—lui, sapete. Giù negli Edifici».

Il signor William, in piedi dietro il tavolo e frugando con aria smarrita tra gli oggetti sopra di esso, lanciava sguardi persuasivi alla signora William e segnali nascosti della testa e del pollice al signor Redlaw, invitandola ad avvicinarsi a lui.

«Lui, sapete, mio amore», disse il signor William. «Giù negli Edifici. Racconta tu, mia cara! Sei le opere di Shakespeare in confronto a me. Giù negli Edifici, sapete, mio amore. — Studente».

«Studente?» ripeté il signor Redlaw, alzando la testa.

«È proprio quello che dico io, signore!» esclamò il signor William con la massima vivacità di assenso. «Se non fosse per lo studente povero giù negli Edifici, perché dovreste volerlo sapere dalle labbra della signora William? Signora William, mia cara — Edifici».

“Non lo sapevo”, disse Milly con una tranquilla sincerità, senza fretta né confusione, “che William ne avesse parlato, altrimenti non sarei venuta. Gli avevo chiesto di non farlo. È un giovane signore malato, e molto povero, temo — che è troppo ammalato per tornare a casa in questo periodo festivo, e vive, senza che nessuno lo sappia, in una semplice pensione adatta a un gentiluomo, giù a Jerusalem Buildings. Questo è tutto.”

«Perché non ho mai sentito parlare di lui?» disse il farmacista, alzandosi in fretta. «Perché non mi ha fatto sapere la sua situazione? Malato! — datemi il mio cappello e il mantello. Povero! — quale casa? — quale numero?»

«Oh, non dovete andare là, signore», disse Milly, lasciando suocero e affrontandolo con calma col suo visetto composto e le mani giunte.

“Non andarci?”

“Oh, caro, no!”, disse Milly scuotendo la testa come di fronte a un’assoluta e auto-evidente impossibilità. “Non si può neanche pensare una cosa del genere!”

“Cosa intendi? Perché no?”

«Perché vede, signore», disse il signor William Swidger, persuasivo e confidenziale, «è quello che dico io. Può starne certo, quel giovane non avrebbe mai rivelato la sua situazione a un suo pari. La signora Williams ha conquistato la sua fiducia, ma è tutta un’altra cosa. Tutti si confidano con la signora Williams; tutti le fanno affidamento. Un uomo, signore, non sarebbe riuscito a cavargli fuori una parola; ma una donna, signore, e la signora Williams messa insieme—!»

“Ciò che hai detto è pieno di buon senso e delicatezza, William”, rispose il signor Redlaw, osservando il viso gentile e composto sulla sua spalla. E posandole un dito sulle labbra, le mise segretamente in mano la borsa.

«Oh, per carità, no, signore!» esclamò Milly, restituendolo di nuovo. «Peggio e peggio! Non si potrebbe neanche sognare una cosa del genere!»

Era una casalinga così sobria e concreta, e così imperturbabile per la momentanea fretta di quel rifiuto che, un istante dopo, stava meticolosamente raccogliendo alcune foglie sfuggite tra le sue forbici e il grembiule quando aveva sistemato l’agrifoglio.

Scoprendo, quando si rialzò dalla sua posizione curva, che il signor Redlaw la stava ancora guardando con dubbio e stupore, ripeté tranquillamente - cercando intanto altri frammenti che potessero essere sfuggiti alla sua attenzione:

“Oh, per carità, no, signore! Ha detto che di tutto il mondo non voleva essere riconosciuto da lei o ricevere aiuto da lei - anche se è uno studente della sua classe. Non ho stretto con lei alcun patto di segretezza, ma mi affido completamente al suo onore.”

“Perché lo ha detto?”

«In verità non saprei dirlo, signore», disse Milly dopo aver riflettuto un po’, «perché come lei sa io non sono affatto intelligente; e volevo essergli utile rendendo le cose ordinate e confortevoli intorno a lui, e mi dedicavo a questo. Ma so che è povero e solo, e penso che in qualche modo sia anche trascurato.—Com’è buio!»

La stanza si era fatta sempre più buia. C’era un’oscurità e una sombra molto fitte che si addensavano dietro la sedia del farmacista.

«Che altro c’è da dire di lui?» chiese.

«È fidanzato e si sposerà quando potrà permetterselo», disse Milly, «e credo che stia studiando per qualificarsi a guadagnarsi da vivere. Ho visto, da un bel pezzo, che ha studiato molto e si è negato molte cose.—Com’è buio!»

“È diventato più freddo anche qui”, disse il vecchio strofinandosi le mani. “C’è un’aria gelida e tetra in questa stanza. Dov’è mio figlio William? William, ragazzo mio, gira la lampada e ravviva il fuoco!”

La voce di Milly riprese, come musica tranquilla suonata molto dolcemente:

“Borbottava nel suo sonno agitato ieri pomeriggio, dopo avermi parlato” (questo lo diceva tra sé) “di qualcuno morto e di un grande torto subito che non si sarebbe mai potuto dimenticare; ma se fosse stato a lui o a un’altra persona, non so. Non da parte sua, ne sono sicura.”

«E in breve, signora William, lei vede — cosa che non direbbe mai da sé, signor Redlaw, anche se dovesse restare qui fino al nuovo anno dopo quello prossimo —» disse il signor William avvicinandosi a lui per parlargli all’orecchio «gli ha fatto un mondo di bene! Dio la benedica, un mondo di bene! Tutto come sempre in famiglia — mio padre era accudito e al caldo — non una briciola di disordine da trovare in casa, anche se offrissi cinquanta sterline contanti per trovarlo — la signora William apparentemente mai fuori posto — eppure la signora William avanti e indietro, avanti e indietro, su e giù, su e giù, una madre per lui!»

The room turned darker and colder, and the gloom and shadow gathering behind the chair was heavier.

“Not content with this, sir, Mrs. William goes and finds, this very night, when she was coming home (why it’s not above a couple of hours ago), a creature more like a young wild beast than a young child, shivering upon a door-step. What does Mrs. William do, but brings it home to dry it, and feed it, and keep it till our old Bounty of food and flannel is given away, on Christmas morning! If it ever felt a fire before, it’s as much as ever it did; for it’s sitting in the old Lodge chimney, staring at ours as if its ravenous eyes would never shut again. It’s sitting there, at least,” said Mr. William, correcting himself, on reflection, “unless it’s bolted!”

“Heaven keep her happy!” said the Chemist aloud, “and you too, Philip! and you, William! I must consider what to do in this. I may desire to see this student, I’ll not detain you any longer now. Good-night!”

“I thank’ee, sir, I thank’ee!” said the old man, “for Mouse, and for my son William, and for myself. Where’s my son William? William, you take the lantern and go on first, through them long dark passages, as you did last year and the year afore. Ha ha! I remember—though I’m eighty-seven! ‘Lord, keep my memory green!’ It’s a very good prayer, Mr. Redlaw, that of the learned gentleman in the peaked beard, with a ruff round his neck—hangs up, second on the right above the panelling, in what used to be, afore our ten poor gentlemen commuted, our great Dinner Hall. ‘Lord, keep my memory green!’ It’s very good and pious, sir. Amen! Amen!”

As they passed out and shut the heavy door, which, however carefully withheld, fired a long train of thundering reverberations when it shut at last, the room turned darker.

As he fell a musing in his chair alone, the healthy holly withered on the wall, and dropped—dead branches.

As the gloom and shadow thickened behind him, in that place where it had been gathering so darkly, it took, by slow degrees,—or out of it there came, by some unreal, unsubstantial process—not to be traced by any human sense,—an awful likeness of himself!

Ghastly and cold, colourless in its leaden face and hands, but with his features, and his bright eyes, and his grizzled hair, and dressed in the gloomy shadow of his dress, it came into his terrible appearance of existence, motionless, without a sound. As he leaned his arm upon the elbow of his chair, ruminating before the fire, it leaned upon the chair-back, close above him, with its appalling copy of his face looking where his face looked, and bearing the expression his face bore.

This, then, was the Something that had passed and gone already. This was the dread companion of the haunted man!

It took, for some moments, no more apparent heed of him, than he of it. The Christmas Waits were playing somewhere in the distance, and, through his thoughtfulness, he seemed to listen to the music. It seemed to listen too.

At length he spoke; without moving or lifting up his face.

“Here again!” he said.

“Here again,” replied the Phantom.

“I see you in the fire,” said the haunted man; “I hear you in music, in the wind, in the dead stillness of the night.”

The Phantom moved its head, assenting.

“Why do you come, to haunt me thus?”

“I come as I am called,” replied the Ghost.

“No. Unbidden,” exclaimed the Chemist.

“Unbidden be it,” said the Spectre. “It is enough. I am here.”

Hitherto the light of the fire had shone on the two faces—if the dread lineaments behind the chair might be called a face—both addressed towards it, as at first, and neither looking at the other. But, now, the haunted man turned, suddenly, and stared upon the Ghost. The Ghost, as sudden in its motion, passed to before the chair, and stared on him.

The living man, and the animated image of himself dead, might so have looked, the one upon the other. An awful survey, in a lonely and remote part of an empty old pile of building, on a winter night, with the loud wind going by upon its journey of mystery—whence or whither, no man knowing since the world began—and the stars, in unimaginable millions, glittering through it, from eternal space, where the world’s bulk is as a grain, and its hoary age is infancy.

“Look upon me!” said the Spectre. “I am he, neglected in my youth, and miserably poor, who strove and suffered, and still strove and suffered, until I hewed out knowledge from the mine where it was buried, and made rugged steps thereof, for my worn feet to rest and rise on.”

“I am that man,” returned the Chemist.

“No mother’s self-denying love,” pursued the Phantom, “no father’s counsel, aided me. A stranger came into my father’s place when I was but a child, and I was easily an alien from my mother’s heart. My parents, at the best, were of that sort whose care soon ends, and whose duty is soon done; who cast their offspring loose, early, as birds do theirs; and, if they do well, claim the merit; and, if ill, the pity.”

It paused, and seemed to tempt and goad him with its look, and with the manner of its speech, and with its smile.

“I am he,” pursued the Phantom, “who, in this struggle upward, found a friend. I made him—won him—bound him to me! We worked together, side by side. All the love and confidence that in my earlier youth had had no outlet, and found no expression, I bestowed on him.”

“Not all,” said Redlaw, hoarsely.

“No, not all,” returned the Phantom. “I had a sister.”

The haunted man, with his head resting on his hands, replied “I had!” The Phantom, with an evil smile, drew closer to the chair, and resting its chin upon its folded hands, its folded hands upon the back, and looking down into his face with searching eyes, that seemed instinct with fire, went on:

La stanza divenne più buia e fredda, e l’oscurità e la penombra che si addensava dietro la sedia erano più opprimenti.

«Non contenta di questo, signore, la signora William va e trova, proprio questa sera, mentre tornava a casa (non è passato più di un paio d’ore), una creatura più simile a una giovane bestia selvatica che a un bambino, che tremava su uno scalino. E cosa fa la signora William? Lo porta a casa per asciugarlo, nutrirlo e tenerlo fino a quando non verrà distribuita la nostra vecchia elemosina di cibo e flanella, il mattino di Natale! Se mai ha sentito un fuoco prima d’ora, è stato solo per un attimo; perché ora se ne sta seduto nel camino della vecchia guardiola, fissando il nostro come se i suoi occhi famelici non si chiudessero più. Almeno è lì», disse il signor William correggendosi dopo averci pensato su «a meno che non sia scappato!»

“Che Dio la mantenga felice!” disse il farmacista ad alta voce “e anche te, Filippo! e anche tu, William! Devo pensare a cosa fare in questo caso. Potrei desiderare di vedere questo studente, ma non vi tratterrò più a lungo. Buona notte!”

“La ringrazio, signore, la ringrazio!” disse il vecchio “per Mouse e per mio figlio William e per me stesso. Dov’è mio figlio William? William, prendi la lanterna e vai avanti tu, attraverso quei lunghi corridoi bui, come hai fatto l’anno scorso e quello prima ancora. Ha ha! Io ricordo — anche se ho ottantasette anni! ‘Signore, mantieni verde il mio ricordo!’ È una preghiera davvero eccellente, signor Redlaw, quella del dottissimo gentiluomo con la barba a punta e il colletto rigido — appeso al muro, secondo sulla destra sopra i pannelli di legno, nella nostra antica Sala da Pranzo. ‘Signore, mantieni verde il mio ricordo!’ È davvero eccellente e devota, signore. Amen! Amen!”

Mentre uscivano e chiudevano la pesante porta che, per quanto tenuta ferma con cura, scatenava una lunga serie di rimbombanti eco quando alla fine si richiudeva, la stanza divenne più buia.

Mentre sedeva immerso nei suoi pensieri sulla sedia da solo, l’agrifoglio rigoglioso appassì sul muro e cadde a pezzi: rami morti.

Mentre l’oscurità e la ombra si addensavano dietro di lui in quel luogo dove si erano accumulate così fittamente, presero forma lentamente — o ne emerse attraverso un processo irreale, insostanziale, che nessun senso umano avrebbe potuto cogliere — una spaventosa somiglianza con se stesso!

Spettrale e freddo, incolore nel suo volto e nelle mani piombate, ma con i suoi tratti, i suoi occhi luminosi, i suoi capelli grigiastri, vestito nell’ombra tetra del suo abito, si materializzò nella sua terribile apparenza di esistenza, immobile, senza un suono. Mentre lui poggiava il braccio sullo schienale della sedia, meditando davanti al fuoco, esso si appoggiava allo schienale della sedia, proprio sopra di lui, con la sua spaventosa copia del suo volto che guardava dove il suo volto guardava e portava l’espressione che il suo volto portava.

Ecco dunque la Cosa che era già passata e svanita. Ecco il terribile compagno dell’uomo ossessionato!

Per alcuni istanti non sembrò prestargli più attenzione di quanta lui ne desse a essa. I cori di Natale suonavano da qualche parte in lontananza, e, immerso nei suoi pensieri, sembrava ascoltare la musica. Anche lei sembrava ascoltarla.

Alla fine parlò; senza muoversi o alzare il viso.

«Eccoci di nuovo!» disse.

«Eccoci di nuovo», rispose lo Spettro.

“Vi vedo nel fuoco”, disse l’uomo ossessionato; “vi sento nella musica, nel vento, nella mortale immobilità della notte.”

Il fantasma mosse la testa in segno di assenso.

“Perché mi perseguiti in questo modo?”

«Vengo perché sono chiamato», rispose lo Spirito.

«No. Senza essere invitato», esclamò il chimico.

“Non è stato chiesto”, disse lo Spettro. “È sufficiente. Sono qui.”

Finora la luce del fuoco aveva illuminato i due volti — se si potevano chiamare volti quei lineamenti spaventosi dietro la sedia — entrambi rivolti verso di essa, come all’inizio, e nessuno dei due che guardava l’altro. Ma ora l’uomo ossessionato si voltò improvvisamente e fissò lo Spettro. Lo Spettro, con un movimento altrettanto rapido, passò davanti alla sedia e lo fissò a sua volta.

Così avrebbero potuto apparire l’uomo vivente e la sua immagine animata da morto, uno di fronte all’altro. Un confronto spaventoso, in un luogo solitario e remoto di una vecchia costruzione vuota, in una notte d’inverno, con il forte vento che passava nel suo viaggio misterioso—da dove o verso dove, nessuno lo sapeva fin dall’inizio del mondo—e le stelle, in milioni inimmaginabili, scintillanti attraverso di esso, dallo spazio eterno, dove la massa del mondo è come un granello e la sua antica età è infanzia.

«Guardami!» disse lo Spettro. «Sono io che fui trascurato in gioventù e miseramente povero, che mi sforzai e soffrii, e ancora mi sforzai e soffrii, finché non estrassi la conoscenza dalla miniera dove era sepolta, e ne feci ruvide gradini su cui i miei piedi stanchi potevano riposare ed ergersi.»

«Sono proprio quell’uomo», rispose il chimico.

“Nessun amore materno disinteressato”, proseguì lo spettro, “nessun consiglio paterno mi ha aiutato. Uno sconosciuto prese il posto di mio padre quando ero ancora un bambino, e fui facilmente estraneo al cuore di mia madre. I miei genitori, nel migliore dei casi, erano di quel tipo la cui cura finisce presto e il dovere è ben presto compiuto; che lasciano liberi i loro figli in giovane età, come fanno gli uccelli con i loro piccoli; e, se questi si comportano bene, ne rivendicano il merito; e, se male, la pietà.”

Si fermò e sembrò tentarlo e provocarlo con il suo sguardo, con la sua maniera di parlare e col suo sorriso.

«Sono io», proseguì lo spettro, «che, in questa lotta verso l’alto, ho trovato un amico. L’ho creato, conquistato, legato a me! Abbiamo lavorato insieme, fianco a fianco. Tutto l’amore e la fiducia che nella mia giovinezza non avevano avuto sbocco né espressione, li ho donati a lui».

«Non tutti», disse Redlaw con voce rauca.

“No, non tutti”, rispose lo Spettro. “Avevo una sorella”.

L’uomo infestato, con la testa appoggiata sulle mani, rispose «Ce l’avevo!». Il Fantasma, con un sorriso malvagio, si avvicinò alla sedia e, appoggiandovi il mento sulle mani incrociate, le mani incrociate allo schienale, guardando in giù nel suo volto con occhi scrutatori che sembravano istinti di fuoco, continuò:

“Such glimpses of the light of home as I had ever known, had streamed from her. How young she was, how fair, how loving! I took her to the first poor roof that I was master of, and made it rich. She came into the darkness of my life, and made it bright.—She is before me!”

“I saw her, in the fire, but now. I hear her in music, in the wind, in the dead stillness of the night,” returned the haunted man.

“Did he love her?” said the Phantom, echoing his contemplative tone. “I think he did, once. I am sure he did. Better had she loved him less—less secretly, less dearly, from the shallower depths of a more divided heart!”

“Let me forget it!” said the Chemist, with an angry motion of his hand. “Let me blot it from my memory!”

The Spectre, without stirring, and with its unwinking, cruel eyes still fixed upon his face, went on:

“A dream, like hers, stole upon my own life.”

“It did,” said Redlaw.

“A love, as like hers,” pursued the Phantom, “as my inferior nature might cherish, arose in my own heart. I was too poor to bind its object to my fortune then, by any thread of promise or entreaty. I loved her far too well, to seek to do it. But, more than ever I had striven in my life, I strove to climb! Only an inch gained, brought me something nearer to the height. I toiled up! In the late pauses of my labour at that time,—my sister (sweet companion!) still sharing with me the expiring embers and the cooling hearth,—when day was breaking, what pictures of the future did I see!”

“I saw them, in the fire, but now,” he murmured. “They come back to me in music, in the wind, in the dead stillness of the night, in the revolving years.”

“—Pictures of my own domestic life, in aftertime, with her who was the inspiration of my toil. Pictures of my sister, made the wife of my dear friend, on equal terms—for he had some inheritance, we none—pictures of our sobered age and mellowed happiness, and of the golden links, extending back so far, that should bind us, and our children, in a radiant garland,” said the Phantom.

“Pictures,” said the haunted man, “that were delusions. Why is it my doom to remember them too well!”

“Delusions,” echoed the Phantom in its changeless voice, and glaring on him with its changeless eyes. “For my friend (in whose breast my confidence was locked as in my own), passing between me and the centre of the system of my hopes and struggles, won her to himself, and shattered my frail universe. My sister, doubly dear, doubly devoted, doubly cheerful in my home, lived on to see me famous, and my old ambition so rewarded when its spring was broken, and then—”

“Then died,” he interposed. “Died, gentle as ever; happy; and with no concern but for her brother. Peace!”

The Phantom watched him silently.

“Remembered!” said the haunted man, after a pause. “Yes. So well remembered, that even now, when years have passed, and nothing is more idle or more visionary to me than the boyish love so long outlived, I think of it with sympathy, as if it were a younger brother’s or a son’s. Sometimes I even wonder when her heart first inclined to him, and how it had been affected towards me.—Not lightly, once, I think.—But that is nothing. Early unhappiness, a wound from a hand I loved and trusted, and a loss that nothing can replace, outlive such fancies.”

“Thus,” said the Phantom, “I bear within me a Sorrow and a Wrong. Thus I prey upon myself. Thus, memory is my curse; and, if I could forget my sorrow and my wrong, I would!”

“Mocker!” said the Chemist, leaping up, and making, with a wrathful hand, at the throat of his other self. “Why have I always that taunt in my ears?”

“Forbear!” exclaimed the Spectre in an awful voice. “Lay a hand on Me, and die!”

He stopped midway, as if its words had paralysed him, and stood looking on it. It had glided from him; it had its arm raised high in warning; and a smile passed over its unearthly features, as it reared its dark figure in triumph.

“If I could forget my sorrow and wrong, I would,” the Ghost repeated. “If I could forget my sorrow and my wrong, I would!”

“Evil spirit of myself,” returned the haunted man, in a low, trembling tone, “my life is darkened by that incessant whisper.”

“It is an echo,” said the Phantom.

“If it be an echo of my thoughts—as now, indeed, I know it is,” rejoined the haunted man, “why should I, therefore, be tormented? It is not a selfish thought. I suffer it to range beyond myself. All men and women have their sorrows,—most of them their wrongs; ingratitude, and sordid jealousy, and interest, besetting all degrees of life. Who would not forget their sorrows and their wrongs?”

“Who would not, truly, and be happier and better for it?” said the Phantom.

“These revolutions of years, which we commemorate,” proceeded Redlaw, “what do they recall! Are there any minds in which they do not re-awaken some sorrow, or some trouble? What is the remembrance of the old man who was here to-night? A tissue of sorrow and trouble.”

“But common natures,” said the Phantom, with its evil smile upon its glassy face, “unenlightened minds and ordinary spirits, do not feel or reason on these things like men of higher cultivation and profounder thought.”

“Tempter,” answered Redlaw, “whose hollow look and voice I dread more than words can express, and from whom some dim foreshadowing of greater fear is stealing over me while I speak, I hear again an echo of my own mind.”

“Receive it as a proof that I am powerful,” returned the Ghost. “Hear what I offer! Forget the sorrow, wrong, and trouble you have known!”

“Forget them!” he repeated.

“I have the power to cancel their remembrance—to leave but very faint, confused traces of them, that will die out soon,” returned the Spectre. “Say! Is it done?”

«Tali sprazzi di luce del focolare che io abbia mai conosciuto, erano emanati da lei. Com’era giovane, com’era bella, com’era amorevole! La portai sotto il primo povero tetto di cui fossi padrone e lo resi ricco. Ella venne nelle tenebre della mia vita e le illuminò.—Ella è davanti a me!»

“L’ho vista, nel fuoco, ma adesso. La sento nella musica, nel vento, nella mortale immobilità della notte”, rispose l’uomo ossessionato.

«L’ha amata?» disse lo Spirito, ripetendo il tono contemplativo di lui. «Penso che l’abbia amata, una volta. Ne sono sicuro. Sarebbe stato meglio se lei lo avesse amato meno - meno segretamente, meno teneramente, dalle profondità più superficiali di un cuore meno diviso!»

«Dimentichiamolo!» disse il chimico con un gesto di rabbia della mano. «Cancelliamolo dalla mia memoria!»

Lo Spettro, senza muoversi e con i suoi occhi crudeli e immobili ancora fissi sul suo volto, continuò:

«Un sogno come il suo si insinuò nella mia vita».

«È così», disse Redlaw.

“Un amore come il suo,” continuò lo spettro, “come la mia inferiore natura poteva nutrire, nacque nel mio cuore. Ero troppo povero per legare a me la sua fortuna allora, con qualsiasi filo di promessa o preghiera. La amavo troppo bene, per cercare di farlo. Ma più che mai avevo lottato nella mia vita, lottai per salire! Ogni pollice guadagnato mi avvicinava alla vetta. Mi affannai a salire! Nelle pause tardive del mio lavoro in quel periodo,—mia sorella (dolce compagna!) ancora condividendo con me le braci morenti e il focolare che si raffreddava,—quando l’alba stava sorgendo, quali immagini del futuro vedevo!”

“Li vidi nel fuoco, ma ora”, mormorò “tornano a me nella musica, nel vento, nella mortale immobilità della notte, negli anni che ruotano.”

«—Immagini della mia vita domestica futura con lei che è stata l’ispirazione del mio lavoro. Immagini di mia sorella diventata la moglie del mio caro amico, in condizioni di parità — perché lui aveva un po’ d’eredità e noi no — immagini della nostra età più matura e della felicità che si è addolcita, e dei legami d’oro che, estendendosi così lontano nel passato, dovrebbero unirci, noi e i nostri figli, in una corona luminosa», disse lo Spirito.

«Quadri», disse l’uomo ossessionato, «che erano illusioni. Perché è il mio destino ricordarli troppo bene!»

“Illusioni”, fece eco lo Spirito con la sua voce immutabile e fissandolo con i suoi occhi immutabili. “Perché il mio amico (nel cui petto riponevo fiducia come nel mio), mettendosi tra me e il centro del sistema delle mie speranze e lotte, se la conquistò per sé stesso e distrusse il mio fragile universo. Mia sorella, doppiamente cara, devota e allegra nella mia casa, visse abbastanza a lungo da vedermi famoso e la mia vecchia ambizione così ricompensata quando la sua fonte era ormai esaurita, e poi—”

«Poi morì», intervenne lui. «Morì dolce come sempre; felice; e senza preoccuparsi di altro che per suo fratello. Pace!»

Il fantasma lo osservava in silenzio.

«Ricordato!» disse l’uomo ossessionato dopo una pausa. «Sì. Ricordato così bene che anche ora, dopo tanti anni, e quando nulla è più ozioso o più irrealizzabile per me del amore adolescenziale ormai superato da tanto tempo, ci penso con simpatia, come se fosse quello di un fratello minore o di un figlio. A volte mi chiedo anche quando il suo cuore si sia inclinato verso di lui e come si sia sentito nei miei confronti. — Non in modo superficiale, credo.— Ma non ha importanza. La sofferenza precoce, una ferita da una mano che amavo e di cui mi fidavo, e una perdita che nulla può sostituire, sopravvivono a tali fantasie.»

«Così», disse lo Spettro, «porto in me un Dolor e un Torto. Così mi divoro da dentro. Così la memoria è la mia maledizione; e se potessi dimenticare il mio dolore e il mio torto, lo farei!»

«Beffardo!» disse il chimico balzando in piedi e afferrando con mano irata la gola del suo altro io. «Perché ho sempre quella beffa nelle orecchie?»

“Fermati!” esclamò lo Spettro con voce terribile. “Toccammi e morirai!”

Si fermò a metà strada, come se le sue parole lo avessero paralizzato, e rimase lì a fissarlo. Era scivolato via da lui; aveva il braccio alzato in alto per ammonirlo; e un sorriso attraversò i suoi tratti sovrannaturali mentre ergeva la sua figura oscura in trionfo.

«Se potessi dimenticare il mio dolore e la mia ingiustizia, lo farei», ripeté lo spettro.
«Se potessi dimenticare il mio dolore e la mia ingiustizia, lo farei!»

«Spirito maligno di me stesso», rispose l’uomo ossessionato con un tono basso e tremante, «la mia vita è oscurata da quel sussurro incessante.»

«È un’eco», disse lo spettro.

«Se è un’eco dei miei pensieri — come ora so che è», replicò l’uomo tormentato, «perché dovrei essere quindi martoriato? Non è un pensiero egoistico. Lo lascio vagare oltre me stesso. Tutti gli uomini e le donne hanno i loro dolori, — la maggior parte di loro ha torti subiti; ingratitudine e gelosia meschina e interesse, che assediano tutti i livelli della vita. Chi non vorrebbe dimenticare i propri dolori e le proprie offese?»

«Chi non lo farebbe, davvero, e ne sarebbe più felice e migliore?» disse il Fantasma.

«Queste rivoluzioni degli anni che ricordiamo» proseguì Redlaw, «cosa ricordano! Ci sono menti in cui non risvegliano qualche dolore o qualche turbamento? Qual è il ricordo del vecchio che era qui ieri sera? Un tessuto di dolori e turbamenti.»

«Ma le nature comuni», disse lo Spettro, con il suo malvagio sorriso sul volto vitreo, «le menti non illuminate e gli spiriti ordinari, non sentono né ragionano su queste cose come fanno uomini di coltura superiore e pensiero più profondo.»

«Tentatore», rispose Redlaw, «il cui sguardo e voce vuoti io temo più di quanto le parole possano esprimere, e da cui un’ombra premonitrice di una paura maggiore mi sta invadendo mentre parlo, sento ancora un’eco della mia stessa mente.»

«Accettatelo come prova del mio potere», rispose lo Spirito, «e ascoltate la mia offerta: dimenticate il dolore, l’ingiustizia e le difficoltà che avete conosciuto!»

«Dimenticali!» ripeté.

«Ho il potere di cancellare la loro memoria — lasciando solo tracce molto deboli e confuse che presto svaniranno», rispose lo Spettro. «Dimmi: è fatto?»

“Stay!” cried the haunted man, arresting by a terrified gesture the uplifted hand. “I tremble with distrust and doubt of you; and the dim fear you cast upon me deepens into a nameless horror I can hardly bear.—I would not deprive myself of any kindly recollection, or any sympathy that is good for me, or others. What shall I lose, if I assent to this? What else will pass from my remembrance?”

“No knowledge; no result of study; nothing but the intertwisted chain of feelings and associations, each in its turn dependent on, and nourished by, the banished recollections. Those will go.”

“Are they so many?” said the haunted man, reflecting in alarm.

“They have been wont to show themselves in the fire, in music, in the wind, in the dead stillness of the night, in the revolving years,” returned the Phantom scornfully.

“In nothing else?”

The Phantom held its peace.

But having stood before him, silent, for a little while, it moved towards the fire; then stopped.

“Decide!” it said, “before the opportunity is lost!”

“A moment! I call Heaven to witness,” said the agitated man, “that I have never been a hater of any kind,—never morose, indifferent, or hard, to anything around me. If, living here alone, I have made too much of all that was and might have been, and too little of what is, the evil, I believe, has fallen on me, and not on others. But, if there were poison in my body, should I not, possessed of antidotes and knowledge how to use them, use them? If there be poison in my mind, and through this fearful shadow I can cast it out, shall I not cast it out?”

“Say,” said the Spectre, “is it done?”

“A moment longer!” he answered hurriedly. “I would forget it if I could! Have I thought that, alone, or has it been the thought of thousands upon thousands, generation after generation? All human memory is fraught with sorrow and trouble. My memory is as the memory of other men, but other men have not this choice. Yes, I close the bargain. Yes! I WILL forget my sorrow, wrong, and trouble!”

“Say,” said the Spectre, “is it done?”

“It is!”

“IT IS. And take this with you, man whom I here renounce! The gift that I have given, you shall give again, go where you will. Without recovering yourself the power that you have yielded up, you shall henceforth destroy its like in all whom you approach. Your wisdom has discovered that the memory of sorrow, wrong, and trouble is the lot of all mankind, and that mankind would be the happier, in its other memories, without it. Go! Be its benefactor! Freed from such remembrance, from this hour, carry involuntarily the blessing of such freedom with you. Its diffusion is inseparable and inalienable from you. Go! Be happy in the good you have won, and in the good you do!”

The Phantom, which had held its bloodless hand above him while it spoke, as if in some unholy invocation, or some ban; and which had gradually advanced its eyes so close to his, that he could see how they did not participate in the terrible smile upon its face, but were a fixed, unalterable, steady horror melted before him and was gone.

As he stood rooted to the spot, possessed by fear and wonder, and imagining he heard repeated in melancholy echoes, dying away fainter and fainter, the words, “Destroy its like in all whom you approach!” a shrill cry reached his ears. It came, not from the passages beyond the door, but from another part of the old building, and sounded like the cry of some one in the dark who had lost the way.

He looked confusedly upon his hands and limbs, as if to be assured of his identity, and then shouted in reply, loudly and wildly; for there was a strangeness and terror upon him, as if he too were lost.

The cry responding, and being nearer, he caught up the lamp, and raised a heavy curtain in the wall, by which he was accustomed to pass into and out of the theatre where he lectured,—which adjoined his room. Associated with youth and animation, and a high amphitheatre of faces which his entrance charmed to interest in a moment, it was a ghostly place when all this life was faded out of it, and stared upon him like an emblem of Death.

“Halloa!” he cried. “Halloa! This way! Come to the light!” When, as he held the curtain with one hand, and with the other raised the lamp and tried to pierce the gloom that filled the place, something rushed past him into the room like a wild-cat, and crouched down in a corner.

“What is it?” he said, hastily.

He might have asked “What is it?” even had he seen it well, as presently he did when he stood looking at it gathered up in its corner.

A bundle of tatters, held together by a hand, in size and form almost an infant’s, but in its greedy, desperate little clutch, a bad old man’s. A face rounded and smoothed by some half-dozen years, but pinched and twisted by the experiences of a life. Bright eyes, but not youthful. Naked feet, beautiful in their childish delicacy,—ugly in the blood and dirt that cracked upon them. A baby savage, a young monster, a child who had never been a child, a creature who might live to take the outward form of man, but who, within, would live and perish a mere beast.

Used, already, to be worried and hunted like a beast, the boy crouched down as he was looked at, and looked back again, and interposed his arm to ward off the expected blow.

“I’ll bite,” he said, “if you hit me!”

The time had been, and not many minutes since, when such a sight as this would have wrung the Chemist’s heart. He looked upon it now, coldly; but with a heavy effort to remember something—he did not know what—he asked the boy what he did there, and whence he came.

“Where’s the woman?” he replied. “I want to find the woman.”

“Who?”

“The woman. Her that brought me here, and set me by the large fire. She was so long gone, that I went to look for her, and lost myself. I don’t want you. I want the woman.”

He made a spring, so suddenly, to get away, that the dull sound of his naked feet upon the floor was near the curtain, when Redlaw caught him by his rags.

“Come! you let me go!” muttered the boy, struggling, and clenching his teeth. “I’ve done nothing to you. Let me go, will you, to the woman!”

“That is not the way. There is a nearer one,” said Redlaw, detaining him, in the same blank effort to remember some association that ought, of right, to bear upon this monstrous object. “What is your name?”

“Got none.”

“Where do you live?

“Live! What’s that?”

The boy shook his hair from his eyes to look at him for a moment, and then, twisting round his legs and wrestling with him, broke again into his repetition of “You let me go, will you? I want to find the woman.”

The Chemist led him to the door. “This way,” he said, looking at him still confusedly, but with repugnance and avoidance, growing out of his coldness. “I’ll take you to her.”

The sharp eyes in the child’s head, wandering round the room, lighted on the table where the remnants of the dinner were.

“Give me some of that!” he said, covetously.

“Has she not fed you?”

“I shall be hungry again to-morrow, sha’n’t I? Ain’t I hungry every day?”

Finding himself released, he bounded at the table like some small animal of prey, and hugging to his breast bread and meat, and his own rags, all together, said:

“There! Now take me to the woman!”

As the Chemist, with a new-born dislike to touch him, sternly motioned him to follow, and was going out of the door, he trembled and stopped.

“The gift that I have given, you shall give again, go where you will!”

The Phantom’s words were blowing in the wind, and the wind blew chill upon him.

“I’ll not go there, to-night,” he murmured faintly. “I’ll go nowhere to-night. Boy! straight down this long-arched passage, and past the great dark door into the yard,—you see the fire shining on the window there.”

“The woman’s fire?” inquired the boy.

He nodded, and the naked feet had sprung away. He came back with his lamp, locked his door hastily, and sat down in his chair, covering his face like one who was frightened at himself.

For now he was, indeed, alone. Alone, alone.

«Resta!» gridò l’uomo ossessionato, fermando con un gesto terrorizzato la mano alzata. «Tremo di sfiducia e dubbio verso di te; e il vago timore che mi ispiri si approfondisce in un orrore senza nome che a malapena riesco a sopportare.—Non vorrei privarmi di alcun ricordo gentile, o di qualsiasi simpatia che sia buona per me, o per gli altri. Cosa perderò se acconsento? Cosa d’altro svanirà dal mio ricordo?»

“Nessuna conoscenza; nessun risultato di studio; nient’altro che la catena intrecciata dei sentimenti e delle associazioni, ciascuno a sua volta dipendente da e nutrito dai ricordi banditi. Quelli se ne andranno.”

«Sono così tanti?», disse l’uomo ossessionato, riflettendo con allarme.

«Sono soliti mostrarsi nel fuoco, nella musica, nel vento, nella mortale immobilità della notte, negli anni che si susseguono», rispose lo Spettro con disprezzo.

“In nient’altro?”

Lo spettro mantenne il silenzio.

Ma dopo essere rimasto in piedi davanti a lui, in silenzio, per un po’, si diresse verso il fuoco; poi si fermò.

“Decidi!” disse, “prima che l’occasione se ne vada!”

“Un momento! Chiamo il Cielo a testimone”, disse l’uomo agitato, “che non sono mai stato un uomo che odia qualcosa o chiunque — mai moroso, indifferente o duro verso ciò che mi circonda. Se vivendo qui solo ho dato troppo peso a tutto ciò che è stato e avrebbe potuto essere, e troppo poco a ciò che è, credo che il male sia ricaduto su di me e non sugli altri. Ma se ci fosse del veleno nel mio corpo, non dovrei forse, possedendo antidoti e conoscenza sul loro uso, usarli? Se c’è del veleno nella mia mente, e attraverso questa terribile ombra posso eliminarlo, non lo eliminerò?”

“È fatto?”, disse lo Spettro.

“Un momento ancora!” rispose in fretta. “Lo dimenticherei se potessi! Ho pensato io, solo, o è stato il pensiero di migliaia e migliaia, generazione dopo generazione? Tutta la memoria umana è carica di dolore e affanno. La mia memoria è come la memoria degli altri uomini, ma gli altri uomini non hanno questa scelta. Sì, accetto l’affare. Sì! DIMITERÒ il mio dolore, torto e affanno!”

“È fatto?”, disse lo Spettro.

“It is!”

«È COSÌ. E portatevi dietro questo, uomo che qui rinnego! Il dono che ho dato, lo darete ancora, dovunque andiate. Senza riprendere voi stesso il potere che avete ceduto, da ora in poi distruggerete la sua similitudine in tutti coloro che vi si accostano. La vostra saggezza ha scoperto che il ricordo del dolore, dell’ingiustizia e dei guai è la sorte di tutta l’umanità, e che l’umanità sarebbe più felice, nei suoi altri ricordi, senza di esso. Andate! Siate il suo benefattore! Liberato da tale ricordo, da quest’ora portate involontariamente la benedizione di tale libertà con voi. La sua diffusione è inseparabile e inalienabile da voi. Andate! Siate felici del bene che avete vinto, e del bene che fate!»

Il Fantasma, che aveva tenuto la sua mano senza sangue sopra di lui mentre parlava, come se fosse in qualche invocazione sacrilega o maledizione; e che aveva gradualmente avvicinato i suoi occhi così tanto a quelli di lui, che poteva vedere come non partecipassero al terribile sorriso sul suo volto, ma erano un orrore fisso, immutabile, costante; si sciolse davanti a lui e scomparve.

Mentre rimaneva immobile sul posto, dominato dalla paura e dal meraviglia, e immaginava di sentire ripetute in echi malinconici, che svanivano sempre più deboli, le parole: «Distruggi il suo simile in tutti coloro a cui ti avvicini!», un grido acuto gli giunse alle orecchie. Non proveniva dai corridoi oltre la porta, ma da un’altra parte dell’antico edificio, e sembrava il grido di qualcuno nel buio che aveva perso la strada.

Guardò confusamente le sue mani e i suoi arti, come per assicurarsi della sua identità, e poi gridò in risposta, forte e selvaggiamente; perché c’era su di lui una stranezza e un terrore, come se anche lui fosse smarrito.

La risposta al grido si avvicinò e lui afferrò la lampada e sollevò una pesante tenda nel muro, attraverso cui era solito entrare ed uscire dal teatro dove teneva le sue conferenze, che confinava con la sua stanza. Associato alla giovinezza e all’animazione, e ad un alto anfiteatro di volti che il suo ingresso incantava in un attimo, era un luogo spettrale quando tutta quella vita svaniva da esso, e lo fissava come un simbolo della morte.

«Ehi!» gridò «Ehi! Da questa parte! Venite verso la luce!». Mentre con una mano teneva la tenda e con l’altra alzava la lampada cercando di penetrare il buio che riempiva il luogo, qualcosa gli sfrecciò accanto nella stanza come un gatto selvatico e si accucciò in un angolo.

«Che cosa è?», disse in fretta.

Avrebbe potuto chiedere “Cos’è?” anche se l’avesse visto bene, come fece poco dopo, quando rimase a guardarlo raggomitolato nel suo angolo.

Un fascio di stracci, tenuti insieme da una mano che per dimensioni e forma era quasi quella di un bambino, ma nella sua avida, disperata stretta era quella di un vecchio malvagio. Un viso arrotondato e levigato da qualche anno, ma segnato e contorto dalle esperienze di una vita. Occhi luminosi, ma non giovanili. Piedi nudi, belli nella loro delicatezza infantile, brutti nel sangue e sporco che li incrostava. Un selvaggio bambino, un giovane mostro, un bambino che non era mai stato un bambino, una creatura che avrebbe potuto vivere fino a prendere l’aspetto esteriore di un uomo, ma che dentro sarebbe vissuta e morta come una mera bestia.

Il ragazzo, già abituato ad essere preoccupato e perseguitato come una bestia, si accucciò mentre veniva osservato, guardò di nuovo indietro e sollevò il braccio per parare il colpo atteso.

“Accetto la sfida,” disse, “se mi colpisci!”

C’era stato un tempo, e non molti minuti prima, in cui una scena come questa avrebbe lacerato il cuore del Chimico. Ora la guardava con freddezza; ma con uno sforzo enorme per ricordare qualcosa - non sapeva cosa - chiese al ragazzo che ci facesse lì e da dove venisse.

“Dov’è la donna?” rispose lui. “Voglio trovare la donna.”

“Chi?”

«La donna. Quella che mi ha portato qui e mi ha messo vicino al grande fuoco. È sparita da così tanto tempo che sono andato a cercarla, ma mi sono perso. Non voglio te. Voglio la donna».

Fece un balzo così improvviso per scappare che il sordo rumore dei suoi piedi nudi sul pavimento era vicino alla tenda quando Redlaw lo afferrò per i suoi stracci.

«Eh? Mi lasciate andare!» mormorò il ragazzo, dibattendosi e serrando i denti. «Non vi ho fatto nulla. Lasciatemi andare dalla donna, volete?»

«Non è questa la strada. Ce n’è una più vicina», disse Redlaw trattenendolo, nello stesso vano sforzo di ricordare qualche associazione che avrebbe dovuto, per diritto, riguardare questo mostruoso oggetto. «Come vi chiamate?»

“Non ne ho.”

«Dove abitate?

“Vivere! Che cos’è?”

Il ragazzo scosse i capelli dagli occhi per guardarlo un momento e poi, torcendosi intorno alle gambe del signore e lottando con lui, riprese a dire: “Mi lasci andare, mi sente? Voglio trovare la donna.”

Il chimico lo condusse alla porta. «Da questa parte», disse guardandolo ancora confuso ma con ripugnanza e distacco che nascevano dal suo freddo atteggiamento. «La accompagnerò da lei».

Gli occhi acuti nella testa del bambino, vagando per la stanza, si posarono sul tavolo dove erano i resti della cena.

«Dammi un po’ di quello!» disse con avidità.

“Non ti ha dato da mangiare?”

“Domani avrò di nuovo fame, vero? Non ho sempre fame ogni giorno?”

Trovandosi libero, si scagliò sul tavolo come un piccolo animale da preda e abbracciando al suo petto pane e carne insieme ai suoi stracci disse:

“Ecco! Ora portatemi dalla donna!”

Mentre il farmacista, con un nuovo e improvviso disgusto nel toccarlo, gli faceva segno di seguirlo in modo severo ed era sul punto di uscire dalla porta, egli tremò e si fermò.

“Il dono che ti ho dato, lo darai di nuovo, vada dove vuoi!”

Le parole del fantasma si disperdevano nel vento, e il vento soffiava gelido su di lui.

“Non ci andrò stasera”, mormorò debolmente. “Stasera non vado da nessuna parte. Ragazzo! dritto giù per questo lungo passaggio ad arco, e oltre la grande porta scura nel cortile: — vedete il fuoco che brilla sulla finestra là.”

“Fuoco della donna?” chiese il ragazzo.

Annuì e i piedi nudi erano già fuggiti via. Tornò con la sua lampada, chiuse di fretta la porta a chiave e si sedette sulla sedia, coprendosi il volto come se avesse paura di sé stesso.

Per ora era davvero solo. Solo, solo.

CHAPTER II The Gift Diffused

A small man sat in a small parlour, partitioned off from a small shop by a small screen, pasted all over with small scraps of newspapers. In company with the small man, was almost any amount of small children you may please to name—at least it seemed so; they made, in that very limited sphere of action, such an imposing effect, in point of numbers.

Of these small fry, two had, by some strong machinery, been got into bed in a corner, where they might have reposed snugly enough in the sleep of innocence, but for a constitutional propensity to keep awake, and also to scuffle in and out of bed. The immediate occasion of these predatory dashes at the waking world, was the construction of an oyster-shell wall in a corner, by two other youths of tender age; on which fortification the two in bed made harassing descents (like those accursed Picts and Scots who beleaguer the early historical studies of most young Britons), and then withdrew to their own territory.

In addition to the stir attendant on these inroads, and the retorts of the invaded, who pursued hotly, and made lunges at the bed-clothes under which the marauders took refuge, another little boy, in another little bed, contributed his mite of confusion to the family stock, by casting his boots upon the waters; in other words, by launching these and several small objects, inoffensive in themselves, though of a hard substance considered as missiles, at the disturbers of his repose,—who were not slow to return these compliments.

Besides which, another little boy—the biggest there, but still little—was tottering to and fro, bent on one side, and considerably affected in his knees by the weight of a large baby, which he was supposed by a fiction that obtains sometimes in sanguine families, to be hushing to sleep. But oh! the inexhaustible regions of contemplation and watchfulness into which this baby’s eyes were then only beginning to compose themselves to stare, over his unconscious shoulder!

It was a very Moloch of a baby, on whose insatiate altar the whole existence of this particular young brother was offered up a daily sacrifice. Its personality may be said to have consisted in its never being quiet, in any one place, for five consecutive minutes, and never going to sleep when required. “Tetterby’s baby” was as well known in the neighbourhood as the postman or the pot-boy. It roved from door-step to door-step, in the arms of little Johnny Tetterby, and lagged heavily at the rear of troops of juveniles who followed the Tumblers or the Monkey, and came up, all on one side, a little too late for everything that was attractive, from Monday morning until Saturday night. Wherever childhood congregated to play, there was little Moloch making Johnny fag and toil. Wherever Johnny desired to stay, little Moloch became fractious, and would not remain. Whenever Johnny wanted to go out, Moloch was asleep, and must be watched. Whenever Johnny wanted to stay at home, Moloch was awake, and must be taken out. Yet Johnny was verily persuaded that it was a faultless baby, without its peer in the realm of England, and was quite content to catch meek glimpses of things in general from behind its skirts, or over its limp flapping bonnet, and to go staggering about with it like a very little porter with a very large parcel, which was not directed to anybody, and could never be delivered anywhere.

The small man who sat in the small parlour, making fruitless attempts to read his newspaper peaceably in the midst of this disturbance, was the father of the family, and the chief of the firm described in the inscription over the little shop front, by the name and title of A. TETTERBY AND CO., NEWSMEN. Indeed, strictly speaking, he was the only personage answering to that designation, as Co. was a mere poetical abstraction, altogether baseless and impersonal.

Tetterby’s was the corner shop in Jerusalem Buildings. There was a good show of literature in the window, chiefly consisting of picture-newspapers out of date, and serial pirates, and footpads. Walking-sticks, likewise, and marbles, were included in the stock in trade. It had once extended into the light confectionery line; but it would seem that those elegancies of life were not in demand about Jerusalem Buildings, for nothing connected with that branch of commerce remained in the window, except a sort of small glass lantern containing a languishing mass of bull’s-eyes, which had melted in the summer and congealed in the winter until all hope of ever getting them out, or of eating them without eating the lantern too, was gone for ever. Tetterby’s had tried its hand at several things. It had once made a feeble little dart at the toy business; for, in another lantern, there was a heap of minute wax dolls, all sticking together upside down, in the direst confusion, with their feet on one another’s heads, and a precipitate of broken arms and legs at the bottom. It had made a move in the millinery direction, which a few dry, wiry bonnet-shapes remained in a corner of the window to attest. It had fancied that a living might lie hidden in the tobacco trade, and had stuck up a representation of a native of each of the three integral portions of the British Empire, in the act of consuming that fragrant weed; with a poetic legend attached, importing that united in one cause they sat and joked, one chewed tobacco, one took snuff, one smoked: but nothing seemed to have come of it—except flies. Time had been when it had put a forlorn trust in imitative jewellery, for in one pane of glass there was a card of cheap seals, and another of pencil-cases, and a mysterious black amulet of inscrutable intention, labelled ninepence. But, to that hour, Jerusalem Buildings had bought none of them. In short, Tetterby’s had tried so hard to get a livelihood out of Jerusalem Buildings in one way or other, and appeared to have done so indifferently in all, that the best position in the firm was too evidently Co.’s; Co., as a bodiless creation, being untroubled with the vulgar inconveniences of hunger and thirst, being chargeable neither to the poor’s-rates nor the assessed taxes, and having no young family to provide for.

CAPITOLO II Il Dono Diffuso

Un uomo di piccola statura sedeva in un salottino, separato da una bottega dalle dimensioni ridotte mediante uno schermo di piccole proporzioni, ricoperto interamente con ritagli di giornali di piccolo formato. In compagnia dell’uomo di piccola statura c’erano quasi tutti i bambini di piccola età che si possa immaginare — almeno così sembrava; essi producevano in quel ristretto ambito d’azione un effetto davvero imponente, per quanto riguarda il numero.

Di questi piccoli mascalzoni, due erano stati messi a letto con l’ausilio di qualche robusto marchingegno in un angolo dove avrebbero potuto riposare abbastanza comodamente nel sonno della innocenza, se non fosse stato per una propensione costituzionale a rimanere svegli e anche a lottare entrando ed uscendo dal letto. L’occasione immediata di queste incursioni predatrici nel mondo dei veggenti era la costruzione di un muro di gusci d’ostrica in un angolo, da parte di altri due giovani di tenera età; su questa fortificazione i due a letto compivano discese molesti (come quei dannati Pitti e Scozzesi che assediano gli studi storici dei primordi della maggior parte dei giovani britannici), per poi ritirarsi nel proprio territorio.

Oltre al trambusto che accompagnava queste incursioni e alle risposte degli invasi, i quali inseguivano con ardore e si scagliavano contro le coperte sotto cui i predatori cercavano rifugio, un altro bambino in un altro lettino contribuiva alla confusione familiare lanciando le sue scarpe sull’acqua; in altre parole, scagliando queste e diversi piccoli oggetti, innocui di per sé ma considerati proiettili piuttosto duri, contro i disturbatori del suo riposo — che non tardavano a restituire questi complimenti.

Inoltre, un altro bambino - il più grande del gruppo, ma comunque piccolo - vacillava avanti e indietro, piegato da una parte, con le ginocchia notevolmente indebolite dal peso di un grosso bebè che, secondo la finzione che talvolta si incontra nelle famiglie ottimiste, era chiamato a cullare per farlo addormentare. Ma oh! Le inesauribili regioni della contemplazione e dell’osservazione verso cui gli occhi di quel bebè stavano allora appena cominciando a orientarsi per fissarle oltre la sua spalla ignara!

Era un bambino proprio come Moloch, il cui altare insaziabile era quello su cui l’intera esistenza di quel particolare fratellino veniva offerta in sacrificio ogni giorno. La sua personalità si può dire che consistesse nel non stare mai fermo nello stesso posto per cinque minuti consecutivi e nel non voler mai andare a dormire quando era l’ora. Il “bambino dei Tetterby” era conosciuto in quartiere quanto il postino o il ragazzo delle birre. Girava da un gradino all’altro, tra le braccia del piccolo Johnny Tetterby, e si trascinava pesantemente dietro a gruppi di ragazzini che seguivano gli Acrobati o la Scimmietta, arrivando sempre in ritardo per tutto ciò che era attraente, da lunedì mattina fino al sabato sera. Ovunque si riunisse l’infanzia per giocare, c’era il piccolo Moloch a far fare a Johnny fatica e sudore. Ogni volta che Johnny voleva restare in un posto, il piccolo Moloch diventava irrequieto e non voleva rimanere. Quando Johnny voleva uscire, Moloch dormiva e bisognava sorvegliarlo. Quando Johnny voleva stare a casa, Moloch era sveglio e andava portato fuori. Eppure Johnny era sinceramente convinto che fosse un bambino perfetto, senza pari in tutto il regno d’Inghilterra, e si accontentava di dare timidi sguardi alle cose del mondo da dietro le sue gonne o sopra al suo cappellino floscio e sbattente, e di andarsene barcollando con lui come un piccolissimo facchino con un pacco enorme che non era indirizzato a nessuno e che non si sarebbe mai potuto consegnare da nessuna parte.

L’uomo piccolo che sedeva nel salottino, facendo tentativi infruttuosi di leggere il suo giornale in pace in mezzo a quel trambusto, era il padre della famiglia e il capo dell’azienda descritta nell’iscrizione sopra la vetrina del negozio con il nome e il titolo di A. TETTERBY E C., GIORNAIOLI. In effetti, a dir la verità, era l’unica persona che corrispondeva a quella designazione, poiché il “C.” era una mera astrazione poetica, del tutto priva di fondamento e impersonale.

Il negozio di Tetterby era l’edicola all’angolo in Jerusalem Buildings. C’era una bella esposizione di letteratura nella vitrina, composta principalmente da giornali illustrati ormai vecchi, e da romanzi a puntate pirata e storie di briganti. Erano inclusi nello stock anche bastoni da passeggio e biglie. Una volta si era esteso alla vendita di dolciumi; ma sembrava che quelle eleganze della vita non fossero richieste nei paraggi di Jerusalem Buildings, perché nulla rimaneva nella vitrina in relazione a quel ramo del commercio, tranne una sorta di piccola lanterna di vetro contenente un ammasso languido di caramelle a forma di occhio di bue, che si erano sciolte durante l’estate e rapprese in inverno, fino a quando ogni speranza di riuscire mai a tirarle fuori o di mangiarle senza mangiare anche la lanterna era svanita per sempre. Il negozio di Tetterby aveva provato diverse cose. Una volta aveva fatto un timido tentativo nel settore dei giocattoli; infatti, in un’altra lanterna, c’era un mucchio di piccole bambole di cera tutte attaccate insieme a testa in giù, nella più terribile confusione, con i piedi sulle teste degli altri, e una precipitazione di braccia e gambe rotte sul fondo. Aveva fatto un tentativo nel settore della modisteria, che alcune forme secche e rigide di cappelli rimaste in un angolo della vitrina attestavano. Aveva pensato che si potesse vivere nascosto nel commercio del tabacco, ed aveva messo su una rappresentazione di un nativo di ciascuna delle tre parti integrali dell’Impero Britannico, nell’atto di consumare quell’erba profumata; con una leggenda poetica che affermava che uniti in una causa sedevano e scherzavano, uno masticava tabacco, uno prendeva rapè, uno fumava: ma non sembrava che ne fosse venuto fuori nulla—tranne mosche. C’era stato un tempo in cui aveva riposto una speranza disperata nella gioielleria imitativa, perché in un riquadro di vetro c’era un cartoncino con sigilli economici e un altro con portamatite, e un misterioso amuleto nero di intenzione inscrutabile, etichettato nove pence. Ma fino a quel momento, a Jerusalem Buildings non ne avevano comprati. Insomma, il negozio di Tetterby si era sforzato così tanto di tirare fuori da Jerusalem Buildings un modo per vivere in un modo o nell’altro, e sembrava averlo fatto indifferentemente in tutti i modi, che la migliore posizione nella ditta era troppo evidentemente quella della Co.; la Co., come creazione senza corpo, non essendo disturbata dalle volgari incombenze della fame e della sete, non essendo imputabile né alle tasse dei poveri né a quelle valutate, e non avendo una giovane famiglia da mantenere.

Tetterby himself, however, in his little parlour, as already mentioned, having the presence of a young family impressed upon his mind in a manner too clamorous to be disregarded, or to comport with the quiet perusal of a newspaper, laid down his paper, wheeled, in his distraction, a few times round the parlour, like an undecided carrier-pigeon, made an ineffectual rush at one or two flying little figures in bed-gowns that skimmed past him, and then, bearing suddenly down upon the only unoffending member of the family, boxed the ears of little Moloch’s nurse.

“You bad boy!” said Mr. Tetterby, “haven’t you any feeling for your poor father after the fatigues and anxieties of a hard winter’s day, since five o’clock in the morning, but must you wither his rest, and corrode his latest intelligence, with your wicious tricks? Isn’t it enough, sir, that your brother ’Dolphus is toiling and moiling in the fog and cold, and you rolling in the lap of luxury with a—with a baby, and everything you can wish for,” said Mr. Tetterby, heaping this up as a great climax of blessings, “but must you make a wilderness of home, and maniacs of your parents? Must you, Johnny? Hey?” At each interrogation, Mr. Tetterby made a feint of boxing his ears again, but thought better of it, and held his hand.

“Oh, father!” whimpered Johnny, “when I wasn’t doing anything, I’m sure, but taking such care of Sally, and getting her to sleep. Oh, father!”

“I wish my little woman would come home!” said Mr. Tetterby, relenting and repenting, “I only wish my little woman would come home! I ain’t fit to deal with ’em. They make my head go round, and get the better of me. Oh, Johnny! Isn’t it enough that your dear mother has provided you with that sweet sister?” indicating Moloch; “isn’t it enough that you were seven boys before without a ray of gal, and that your dear mother went through what she did go through, on purpose that you might all of you have a little sister, but must you so behave yourself as to make my head swim?”

Softening more and more, as his own tender feelings and those of his injured son were worked on, Mr. Tetterby concluded by embracing him, and immediately breaking away to catch one of the real delinquents. A reasonably good start occurring, he succeeded, after a short but smart run, and some rather severe cross-country work under and over the bedsteads, and in and out among the intricacies of the chairs, in capturing this infant, whom he condignly punished, and bore to bed. This example had a powerful, and apparently, mesmeric influence on him of the boots, who instantly fell into a deep sleep, though he had been, but a moment before, broad awake, and in the highest possible feather. Nor was it lost upon the two young architects, who retired to bed, in an adjoining closet, with great privacy and speed. The comrade of the Intercepted One also shrinking into his nest with similar discretion, Mr. Tetterby, when he paused for breath, found himself unexpectedly in a scene of peace.

“My little woman herself,” said Mr. Tetterby, wiping his flushed face, “could hardly have done it better! I only wish my little woman had had it to do, I do indeed!”

Mr. Tetterby sought upon his screen for a passage appropriate to be impressed upon his children’s minds on the occasion, and read the following.

“‘It is an undoubted fact that all remarkable men have had remarkable mothers, and have respected them in after life as their best friends.’ Think of your own remarkable mother, my boys,” said Mr. Tetterby, “and know her value while she is still among you!”

He sat down again in his chair by the fire, and composed himself, cross-legged, over his newspaper.

“Let anybody, I don’t care who it is, get out of bed again,” said Tetterby, as a general proclamation, delivered in a very soft-hearted manner, “and astonishment will be the portion of that respected contemporary!”—which expression Mr. Tetterby selected from his screen. “Johnny, my child, take care of your only sister, Sally; for she’s the brightest gem that ever sparkled on your early brow.”

Johnny sat down on a little stool, and devotedly crushed himself beneath the weight of Moloch.

“Ah, what a gift that baby is to you, Johnny!” said his father, “and how thankful you ought to be! ‘It is not generally known, Johnny,’” he was now referring to the screen again, “‘but it is a fact ascertained, by accurate calculations, that the following immense percentage of babies never attain to two years old; that is to say—’”

“Oh, don’t, father, please!” cried Johnny. “I can’t bear it, when I think of Sally.”

Mr. Tetterby desisting, Johnny, with a profound sense of his trust, wiped his eyes, and hushed his sister.

“Your brother ’Dolphus,” said his father, poking the fire, “is late to-night, Johnny, and will come home like a lump of ice. What’s got your precious mother?”

“Here’s mother, and ’Dolphus too, father!” exclaimed Johnny, “I think.”

“You’re right!” returned his father, listening. “Yes, that’s the footstep of my little woman.”

The process of induction, by which Mr. Tetterby had come to the conclusion that his wife was a little woman, was his own secret. She would have made two editions of himself, very easily. Considered as an individual, she was rather remarkable for being robust and portly; but considered with reference to her husband, her dimensions became magnificent. Nor did they assume a less imposing proportion, when studied with reference to the size of her seven sons, who were but diminutive. In the case of Sally, however, Mrs. Tetterby had asserted herself, at last; as nobody knew better than the victim Johnny, who weighed and measured that exacting idol every hour in the day.

Mrs. Tetterby, who had been marketing, and carried a basket, threw back her bonnet and shawl, and sitting down, fatigued, commanded Johnny to bring his sweet charge to her straightway, for a kiss. Johnny having complied, and gone back to his stool, and again crushed himself, Master Adolphus Tetterby, who had by this time unwound his torso out of a prismatic comforter, apparently interminable, requested the same favour. Johnny having again complied, and again gone back to his stool, and again crushed himself, Mr. Tetterby, struck by a sudden thought, preferred the same claim on his own parental part. The satisfaction of this third desire completely exhausted the sacrifice, who had hardly breath enough left to get back to his stool, crush himself again, and pant at his relations.

Tetterby stesso, tuttavia, nel suo piccolo salotto, come già accennato, avendo la presenza di una giovane famiglia impressa nella mente in un modo troppo clamoroso per essere ignorata o compatibile con la tranquilla lettura di un giornale, posò il suo giornale, girò, nella sua distrazione, alcune volte intorno al salotto, come un piccione viaggiatore indeciso, fece una corsa inefficace verso uno o due piccoli personaggi in volo in camicia da notte che gli sfrecciavano accanto e poi, abbattendosi improvvisamente sull’unico membro innocuo della famiglia, diede uno schiaffo alle orecchie della bambinaia di piccolo Moloch.

«Vile ragazzo!» disse il signor Tetterby «Non hai alcun sentimento per tuo povero padre dopo le fatiche e le ansie di una dura inverno’s day, dalle cinque o’clock del mattino in poi, ma devi tu appassire il suo riposo e corroderne l’intelligenza più recente con i tuoi vizi? Non ti basta, signore, che tuo fratello ‘Dolphus si affanni nella nebbia e nel freddo, mentre tu rotoli sulle ginocchia del lusso con un—con un bambino, e tutto ciò che puoi desiderare», disse il signor Tetterby, accumulando questo come un grande climax di benedizioni «ma devi trasformare la casa in una landa desolata e i tuoi genitori in maniaci? Devi farlo, Johnny? Ehi?» Ad ogni interrogazione, il signor Tetterby fece finta di dargli un altro pugno alle orecchie, ma ci ripensò e si trattenne.

“Ah, papà!”, singhiozzò Johnny, “non stavo facendo niente di male, ve lo giuro, anzi mi prendevo cura di Sally e cercavo di farla dormire. Ah, papà!”

“Vorrei che la mia piccola donna tornasse a casa!” disse il signor Tetterby, cedendo e pentendosi. “Vorrei solo che la mia piccola donna tornasse a casa! Non sono in grado di gestirli. Mi fanno girare la testa, e mi sopraffanno. Oh, Johnny! Non è sufficiente che tua madre ti abbia fornito quella dolce sorella?” indicando Moloch; “non è sufficiente che foste sette ragazzi prima senza un raggio di femmina, e che tua cara madre sia passata attraverso quello che ha davvero passato, apposta perché tutti voi poteste avere una sorellina, ma devi comportarti così da farmi girare la testa?”

Sempre più ammorbidito dal lavoro compiuto sui suoi teneri sentimenti e su quelli del figlio offeso, il signor Tetterby concluse abbracciandolo e subito staccandosi per catturare uno dei veri delinquenti. Dato che le premesse erano ragionevolmente buone, ci riuscì dopo una breve ma vivace corsa e un po’ di piuttosto duro lavoro di cross-country sopra e sotto i letti, dentro e fuori tra gli intricati mobili, catturando quel bambino che punì come meritava e portò a letto. Questo esempio ebbe una potente influenza mesmerica sul ragazzo delle scarpe, che cadde immediatamente in un profondo sonno, sebbene fino a poco prima fosse sveglio e nel massimo fermento. Non passò inosservato nemmeno ai due giovani architetti, che si ritirarono a letto in uno stanzino attiguo con grande discrezione e velocità. Anche il compagno del Ragazzo Interrotto si rintanò nel suo nido con altrettanta discrezione. Quando il signor Tetterby si fermò per riprendere fiato, si trovò inaspettatamente immerso nella pace.

«La mia piccola donna stessa», disse il signor Tetterby asciugandosi la faccia arrossata, «non avrebbe potuto farlo meglio! Vorrei solo che fosse stata la mia piccola donna a farlo, è proprio così!»

Il signor Tetterby cercò sul suo schermo un passaggio appropriato da imprimere nella mente dei suoi figli in quell’occasione e lesse quanto segue.

«È un fatto innegabile che tutti gli uomini straordinari abbiano avuto madri straordinarie e le abbiano rispettate per tutta la vita come i loro migliori amici». Pensate a vostra madre, così straordinaria, miei cari ragazzi», disse il signor Tetterby, «e apprezzatela finché è ancora tra voi!»

Si sedette di nuovo sulla sua sedia accanto al fuoco e si sistemò con le gambe accavallate sul giornale.

«Che chiunque, non mi interessa chi sia, si alzi di nuovo dal letto», disse Tetterby come proclama generale, pronunciato in modo molto cordiale, «e la sorpresa sarà la parte di quel rispettato contemporaneo!» — che espressione il signor Tetterby scelse sul suo schermo. «Johnny, mio figlio, prenditi cura della tua unica sorella, Sally; perché è il gioiello più luminoso che abbia mai brillato sulla tua giovane fronte».

Johnny si sedette su uno sgabello e si schiacciò devotamente sotto il peso di Moloch.

«Ah, che dono è per te quel bambino, Johnny!» disse suo padre «e quanto dovresti essere grato! “Non è generalmente noto, Johnny,”» ora stava di nuovo riferendosi allo schermo «“ma è un fatto accertato da calcoli accurati che la seguente immensa percentuale di bambini non raggiunge mai i due anni; vale a dire—”»

“Oh, no, papà, ti prego!” gridò Johnny. “Non riesco a sopportarlo, quando penso a Sally.”

Il signor Tetterby si fermò e Johnny, con un profondo senso del suo compito, si asciugò gli occhi e fece tacere la sorella.

«Tuo fratello ‘Dolphus», disse suo padre, pungolando il fuoco, «è in ritardo stasera, Johnny, e tornerà a casa come un blocco di ghiaccio. Cosa ha preso tua madre?»

“Ecco mamma e anche ‘Dolphus, papà!” esclamò Johnny, “credo.”

«Avete ragione!» rispose suo padre, ascoltando. «Sì, quello è il passo della mia piccola donna.»

Il processo di induzione attraverso il quale il signor Tetterby era arrivato alla conclusione che sua moglie fosse una donnina era un segreto suo personale. Lei avrebbe potuto fare due edizioni di lui, molto facilmente. Considerata come individuo, lei era piuttosto notevole per essere robusta e paffuta; ma considerata in relazione a suo marito, le sue dimensioni diventavano magnifiche. E non assumevano una proporzione meno imponente quando studiate con riferimento alle dimensioni dei suoi sette figli maschi, che erano invece di statura esigua. Nel caso di Sally, tuttavia, la signora Tetterby si era affermata, alla fine; come nessuno sapeva meglio della vittima Johnny, che pesava e misurava quell’idolo esigente ogni ora del giorno.

La signora Tetterby, che era stata al mercato e portava un cesto, si tolse il cappello e lo scialle, e sedendosi, stanca com’era, ordinò a Johnny di portarle subito la sua dolce piccola protetta per darle un bacio. Johnny eseguì l’ordine, tornò al suo sgabello e si strinse di nuovo; il piccolo Adolfo Tetterby, che nel frattempo aveva srotolato il suo busto da una coperta a prismi apparentemente interminabile, chiese lo stesso favore. Johnny eseguì ancora l’ordine, tornò al suo sgabello e si strinse di nuovo; il signor Tetterby, colpito da un pensiero improvviso, avanzò la stessa richiesta in quanto padre. La soddisfazione di questo terzo desiderio esaurì completamente il sacrificio, che a malapena aveva fiato sufficiente per tornare al suo sgabello, stringersi ancora una volta e ansimare verso i suoi parenti.

“Whatever you do, Johnny,” said Mrs. Tetterby, shaking her head, “take care of her, or never look your mother in the face again.”

“Nor your brother,” said Adolphus.

“Nor your father, Johnny,” added Mr. Tetterby.

Johnny, much affected by this conditional renunciation of him, looked down at Moloch’s eyes to see that they were all right, so far, and skilfully patted her back (which was uppermost), and rocked her with his foot.

“Are you wet, ’Dolphus, my boy?” said his father. “Come and take my chair, and dry yourself.”

“No, father, thank’ee,” said Adolphus, smoothing himself down with his hands. “I an’t very wet, I don’t think. Does my face shine much, father?”

“Well, it does look waxy, my boy,” returned Mr. Tetterby.

“It’s the weather, father,” said Adolphus, polishing his cheeks on the worn sleeve of his jacket. “What with rain, and sleet, and wind, and snow, and fog, my face gets quite brought out into a rash sometimes. And shines, it does—oh, don’t it, though!”

Master Adolphus was also in the newspaper line of life, being employed, by a more thriving firm than his father and Co., to vend newspapers at a railway station, where his chubby little person, like a shabbily-disguised Cupid, and his shrill little voice (he was not much more than ten years old), were as well known as the hoarse panting of the locomotives, running in and out. His juvenility might have been at some loss for a harmless outlet, in this early application to traffic, but for a fortunate discovery he made of a means of entertaining himself, and of dividing the long day into stages of interest, without neglecting business. This ingenious invention, remarkable, like many great discoveries, for its simplicity, consisted in varying the first vowel in the word “paper,” and substituting, in its stead, at different periods of the day, all the other vowels in grammatical succession. Thus, before daylight in the winter-time, he went to and fro, in his little oilskin cap and cape, and his big comforter, piercing the heavy air with his cry of “Morn-ing Pa-per!” which, about an hour before noon, changed to “Morn-ing Pepper!” which, at about two, changed to “Morn-ing Pip-per!” which in a couple of hours changed to “Morn-ing Pop-per!” and so declined with the sun into “Eve-ning Pup-per!” to the great relief and comfort of this young gentleman’s spirits.

Mrs. Tetterby, his lady-mother, who had been sitting with her bonnet and shawl thrown back, as aforesaid, thoughtfully turning her wedding-ring round and round upon her finger, now rose, and divesting herself of her out-of-door attire, began to lay the cloth for supper.

“Ah, dear me, dear me, dear me!” said Mrs. Tetterby. “That’s the way the world goes!”

“Which is the way the world goes, my dear?” asked Mr. Tetterby, looking round.

“Oh, nothing,” said Mrs. Tetterby.

Mr. Tetterby elevated his eyebrows, folded his newspaper afresh, and carried his eyes up it, and down it, and across it, but was wandering in his attention, and not reading it.

Mrs. Tetterby, at the same time, laid the cloth, but rather as if she were punishing the table than preparing the family supper; hitting it unnecessarily hard with the knives and forks, slapping it with the plates, dinting it with the salt-cellar, and coming heavily down upon it with the loaf.

“Ah, dear me, dear me, dear me!” said Mrs. Tetterby. “That’s the way the world goes!”

“My duck,” returned her husband, looking round again, “you said that before. Which is the way the world goes?”

“Oh, nothing!” said Mrs. Tetterby.

“Sophia!” remonstrated her husband, “you said that before, too.”

“Well, I’ll say it again if you like,” returned Mrs. Tetterby. “Oh nothing—there! And again if you like, oh nothing—there! And again if you like, oh nothing—now then!”

Mr. Tetterby brought his eye to bear upon the partner of his bosom, and said, in mild astonishment:

“My little woman, what has put you out?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” she retorted. “Don’t ask me. Who said I was put out at all? I never did.”

Mr. Tetterby gave up the perusal of his newspaper as a bad job, and, taking a slow walk across the room, with his hands behind him, and his shoulders raised—his gait according perfectly with the resignation of his manner—addressed himself to his two eldest offspring.

“Your supper will be ready in a minute, ’Dolphus,” said Mr. Tetterby. “Your mother has been out in the wet, to the cook’s shop, to buy it. It was very good of your mother so to do. You shall get some supper too, very soon, Johnny. Your mother’s pleased with you, my man, for being so attentive to your precious sister.”

Mrs. Tetterby, without any remark, but with a decided subsidence of her animosity towards the table, finished her preparations, and took, from her ample basket, a substantial slab of hot pease pudding wrapped in paper, and a basin covered with a saucer, which, on being uncovered, sent forth an odour so agreeable, that the three pair of eyes in the two beds opened wide and fixed themselves upon the banquet. Mr. Tetterby, without regarding this tacit invitation to be seated, stood repeating slowly, “Yes, yes, your supper will be ready in a minute, ’Dolphus—your mother went out in the wet, to the cook’s shop, to buy it. It was very good of your mother so to do”—until Mrs. Tetterby, who had been exhibiting sundry tokens of contrition behind him, caught him round the neck, and wept.

“Oh, Dolphus!” said Mrs. Tetterby, “how could I go and behave so?”

This reconciliation affected Adolphus the younger and Johnny to that degree, that they both, as with one accord, raised a dismal cry, which had the effect of immediately shutting up the round eyes in the beds, and utterly routing the two remaining little Tetterbys, just then stealing in from the adjoining closet to see what was going on in the eating way.

“I am sure, ’Dolphus,” sobbed Mrs. Tetterby, “coming home, I had no more idea than a child unborn—”

«Qualunque cosa tu faccia, Johnny», disse la signora Tetterby scuotendo il capo, «prenditi cura di lei o non guardare mai più tua madre negli occhi.»

«Nemmeno tuo fratello», disse Adolfo.

«Né tuo padre, Johnny», aggiunse il signor Tetterby.

Johnny, molto colpito da questa rinuncia condizionale a lui, guardò negli occhi di Moloch per vedere che erano ancora a posto, e le accarezzò abilmente la schiena (che era in alto) e la dondolò con il piede.

«Sei bagnato, ‘Dolfino, mio ragazzo?» disse suo padre. «Vieni a prendere la mia sedia e asciugati».

«No, padre, grazie», disse Adolfo, lisciandosi con le mani. «Non sono molto bagnato, credo. Il mio viso brilla molto, padre?»

«Beh, sembra proprio di cera, ragazzo mio», rispose il signor Tetterby.

«È il tempo, padre», disse Adolphus strofinando le guance sulla manica consumata della giacca. «Tra pioggia, nevischio, vento, neve e nebbia, a volte la mia faccia si copre di eruzioni cutanee. E brilla, sì—oh, non è vero che brilla!»

Il maestro Adolphus era anche lui nel settore dei giornali, essendo impiegato, da un’azienda più fiorente di quella di suo padre e soci, a vendere giornali in una stazione ferroviaria, dove la sua piccola persona paffuta, come un Cupido malamente travestito, e la sua vocina acuta (non aveva più di dieci anni), erano conosciute quanto il respiro rauco delle locomotive che entravano ed uscivano. La sua giovinezza avrebbe potuto essere in difficoltà per trovare un innocuo sfogo, in questa precoce applicazione al commercio, se non fosse stato per una fortunata scoperta che fece di un modo per intrattenersi e dividere la lunga giornata in tappe interessanti, senza trascurare gli affari. Questo ingegnoso invento, notevole come molte grandi scoperte per la sua semplicità, consisteva nel variare la prima vocale della parola “giornale”, e sostituirla, a diverse ore del giorno, con tutte le altre vocali in successione grammaticale. Così, prima dell’alba in inverno-tempo, andava avanti e indietro, nel suo piccolo cappello di oiled silk e mantellina, e il suo grande scialle, squarciando l’aria pesante con la sua grida “Mattino Gi-ornale!” che, circa un’ora prima di mezzogiorno, cambiava in “Mattino Pep-per!” che, alle due circa, cambiava in “Mattino Pip-per!” che dopo un paio d’ore cambiava in “Mattino Pop-per!” e così declinava con il sole fino a “Sera Pup-per!” con grande sollievo e conforto per lo spirito di questo giovane gentiluomo.

La signora Tetterby, sua madre, che era stata seduta con il cappello e lo scialle gettati all’indietro, come sopra detto, girando pensierosa l’anello nuziale sul dito, ora si alzò, si tolse gli abiti da strada e cominciò a apparecchiare la tavola per la cena.

“Ah, mio Dio, mio Dio, mio Dio!” disse la signora Tetterby. “Così va il mondo!”

«Quale è la direzione in cui va il mondo, mia cara?» chiese il signor Tetterby guardandosi intorno.

«Oh, niente», disse la signora Tetterby.

Il signor Tetterby alzò le sopracciglia, ripiegò nuovamente il giornale e lo percorse con gli occhi dall’alto verso il basso e da una parte all’altra, ma la sua attenzione vagava e non stava leggendo.

La signora Tetterby, nello stesso tempo, apparecchiò la tavola, ma piuttosto come se stesse punendo il tavolo anziché preparare la cena di famiglia; lo colpiva inutilmente forte con i coltelli e le forchette, lo schiaffeggiava con i piatti, lo ammaccava con il saleiera e vi si abbatté pesantemente sopra con il pane.

“Ah, mio Dio, mio Dio, mio Dio!” disse la signora Tetterby. “Così va il mondo!”

«La mia cara», rispose il marito, guardandosi di nuovo intorno, «lo hai già detto prima. Quale è la direzione in cui va il mondo?»

«Oh, niente!» disse la signora Tetterby.

“Sophia!” la rimproverò suo marito, “anche prima hai detto così.”

«Bene, lo ripeterò se volete», rispose la signora Tetterby. «Oh niente — ecco fatto! E ancora una volta se volete, oh niente — ecco fatto! E ancora una volta se volete, oh niente — ora sì!»

Il signor Tetterby rivolse il suo sguardo alla compagna del suo cuore e disse con mite stupore:

“Piccola donna mia, cosa ti ha turbato?”

«Sono sicura che non lo so», ribatté lei. «Non chiedetemelo. Chi ha detto che fossi arrabbiata? Io no di certo».

Il signor Tetterby rinunciò alla lettura del suo giornale come un’impresa fallita e, facendo un lento giro per la stanza con le mani dietro la schiena e le spalle alzate — il suo passo corrispondeva perfettamente alla rassegnazione della sua maniera — si rivolse ai suoi due figli maggiori.

«La tua cena sarà pronta fra un minuto, ‘Dolphus», disse il signor Tetterby. «Tua madre è uscita sotto la pioggia fino al negozio del cuoco per comprarla. È stato molto gentile da parte di tua madre farlo. Anche tu avrai presto qualcosa da mangiare, Johnny. Tua madre è contenta di te, ragazzo mio, perché sei così attento alla tua preziosa sorella».

La signora Tetterby, senza fare commenti ma con un netto calo della sua ostilità verso il tavolo, terminò i preparativi e prese dal suo ampio cesto una generosa porzione di budino di piselli caldo avvolta nella carta e una ciotola coperta da un piattino che, quando fu scoperta, emanò un odore così gradevole che le tre paia d’occhi nei due letti si spalancarono e si fissarono sul banchetto. Il signor Tetterby, senza badare a questo invito silenzioso ad accomodarsi, continuava a ripetere lentamente: “Sì, sì, la tua cena sarà pronta tra un minuto, ‘Dolphus - tua madre è uscita sotto la pioggia fino al negozio di cucina per comprarla. È stato molto gentile da parte di tua madre farlo” - finché la signora Tetterby, che aveva mostrato vari segni di pentimento alle sue spalle, lo abbracciò e pianse.

“Oh, Dolphus!” disse la signora Tetterby, “come ho potuto comportarmi così?”

Questa riconciliazione colpì Adolphus il minore e Johnny a tal punto che entrambi, come se fossero d’accordo, alzarono un lamento lugubre, che ebbe l’effetto di far immediatamente chiudere gli occhi rotondi nei letti e di mettere in fuga i due piccoli Tetterby rimanenti, che stavano proprio allora entrando di nascosto dall’armadio adiacente per vedere cosa stava succedendo dal punto di vista del cibo.

“Ne sono sicura, ‘Dolphus”, singhiozzò la signora Tetterby, “tornando a casa, non avevo più idea di un bambino non ancora nato—”

Mr. Tetterby seemed to dislike this figure of speech, and observed, “Say than the baby, my dear.”

“—Had no more idea than the baby,” said Mrs. Tetterby.—“Johnny, don’t look at me, but look at her, or she’ll fall out of your lap and be killed, and then you’ll die in agonies of a broken heart, and serve you right.—No more idea I hadn’t than that darling, of being cross when I came home; but somehow, ’Dolphus—” Mrs. Tetterby paused, and again turned her wedding-ring round and round upon her finger.

“I see!” said Mr. Tetterby. “I understand! My little woman was put out. Hard times, and hard weather, and hard work, make it trying now and then. I see, bless your soul! No wonder! Dolf, my man,” continued Mr. Tetterby, exploring the basin with a fork, “here’s your mother been and bought, at the cook’s shop, besides pease pudding, a whole knuckle of a lovely roast leg of pork, with lots of crackling left upon it, and with seasoning gravy and mustard quite unlimited. Hand in your plate, my boy, and begin while it’s simmering.”

Master Adolphus, needing no second summons, received his portion with eyes rendered moist by appetite, and withdrawing to his particular stool, fell upon his supper tooth and nail. Johnny was not forgotten, but received his rations on bread, lest he should, in a flush of gravy, trickle any on the baby. He was required, for similar reasons, to keep his pudding, when not on active service, in his pocket.

There might have been more pork on the knucklebone,—which knucklebone the carver at the cook’s shop had assuredly not forgotten in carving for previous customers—but there was no stint of seasoning, and that is an accessory dreamily suggesting pork, and pleasantly cheating the sense of taste. The pease pudding, too, the gravy and mustard, like the Eastern rose in respect of the nightingale, if they were not absolutely pork, had lived near it; so, upon the whole, there was the flavour of a middle-sized pig. It was irresistible to the Tetterbys in bed, who, though professing to slumber peacefully, crawled out when unseen by their parents, and silently appealed to their brothers for any gastronomic token of fraternal affection. They, not hard of heart, presenting scraps in return, it resulted that a party of light skirmishers in nightgowns were careering about the parlour all through supper, which harassed Mr. Tetterby exceedingly, and once or twice imposed upon him the necessity of a charge, before which these guerilla troops retired in all directions and in great confusion.

Mrs. Tetterby did not enjoy her supper. There seemed to be something on Mrs. Tetterby’s mind. At one time she laughed without reason, and at another time she cried without reason, and at last she laughed and cried together in a manner so very unreasonable that her husband was confounded.

“My little woman,” said Mr. Tetterby, “if the world goes that way, it appears to go the wrong way, and to choke you.”

“Give me a drop of water,” said Mrs. Tetterby, struggling with herself, “and don’t speak to me for the present, or take any notice of me. Don’t do it!”

Mr. Tetterby having administered the water, turned suddenly on the unlucky Johnny (who was full of sympathy), and demanded why he was wallowing there, in gluttony and idleness, instead of coming forward with the baby, that the sight of her might revive his mother. Johnny immediately approached, borne down by its weight; but Mrs. Tetterby holding out her hand to signify that she was not in a condition to bear that trying appeal to her feelings, he was interdicted from advancing another inch, on pain of perpetual hatred from all his dearest connections; and accordingly retired to his stool again, and crushed himself as before.

After a pause, Mrs. Tetterby said she was better now, and began to laugh.

“My little woman,” said her husband, dubiously, “are you quite sure you’re better? Or are you, Sophia, about to break out in a fresh direction?”

“No, ’Dolphus, no,” replied his wife. “I’m quite myself.” With that, settling her hair, and pressing the palms of her hands upon her eyes, she laughed again.

“What a wicked fool I was, to think so for a moment!” said Mrs. Tetterby. “Come nearer, ’Dolphus, and let me ease my mind, and tell you what I mean. Let me tell you all about it.”

Mr. Tetterby bringing his chair closer, Mrs. Tetterby laughed again, gave him a hug, and wiped her eyes.

“You know, Dolphus, my dear,” said Mrs. Tetterby, “that when I was single, I might have given myself away in several directions. At one time, four after me at once; two of them were sons of Mars.”

“We’re all sons of Ma’s, my dear,” said Mr. Tetterby, “jointly with Pa’s.”

“I don’t mean that,” replied his wife, “I mean soldiers—serjeants.”

“Oh!” said Mr. Tetterby.

“Well, ’Dolphus, I’m sure I never think of such things now, to regret them; and I’m sure I’ve got as good a husband, and would do as much to prove that I was fond of him, as—”

“As any little woman in the world,” said Mr. Tetterby. “Very good. Very good.”

If Mr. Tetterby had been ten feet high, he could not have expressed a gentler consideration for Mrs. Tetterby’s fairy-like stature; and if Mrs. Tetterby had been two feet high, she could not have felt it more appropriately her due.

“But you see, ’Dolphus,” said Mrs. Tetterby, “this being Christmas-time, when all people who can, make holiday, and when all people who have got money, like to spend some, I did, somehow, get a little out of sorts when I was in the streets just now. There were so many things to be sold—such delicious things to eat, such fine things to look at, such delightful things to have—and there was so much calculating and calculating necessary, before I durst lay out a sixpence for the commonest thing; and the basket was so large, and wanted so much in it; and my stock of money was so small, and would go such a little way;—you hate me, don’t you, ’Dolphus?”

Il signor Tetterby sembrò non gradire questa figura retorica e osservò: «Diciamo più del bambino, mia cara».

«Non ne avevo più idea di un bambino», disse la signora Tetterby.—«Johnny, non guardarmi, ma guarda lei, o cadrà dalle tue ginocchia e morirà, e allora tu morirai in agonia per un cuore spezzato, e te lo sarai meritato.—Non avevo più idea di quel tesoro di essere irritabile quando sono tornata a casa; ma in qualche modo, ‘Dolphus—» La signora Tetterby fece una pausa e girò ancora il suo anello nuziale avanti e indietro sul dito.

“Capisco!” disse il signor Tetterby. “Ho capito! La mia povera moglie era contrariata. Tempi duri e brutto tempo e duro lavoro rendono tutto difficile di tanto in tanto. Capisco, benedetta la tua anima! Non c’è da meravigliarsi! Dolf, ragazzo mio,” continuò il signor Tetterby, esplorando la bacinella con una forchetta, “tua madre è andata dal macellaio e ha comprato, oltre al budino di ceci, un intero osso della deliziosa arrosto di prosciutto, con ancora tanta croccantezza sopra e con salsa aromatizzata e senape in quantità illimitata. Porta il tuo piatto, ragazzo mio, e comincia mentre è ancora caldo.”

Il piccolo Adolfo, che non aveva bisogno di essere chiamato due volte, ricevette la sua porzione con gli occhi resi umidi dall’appetito e si ritirò sul suo sgabello personale per gettarsi sulla cena a denti stretti. Johnny non fu dimenticato, ma ricevette le sue razioni su un pezzo di pane, nel timore che in un impeto di entusiasmo potesse far colare qualche goccia di sugo sul bambino. Per simili ragioni gli era stato chiesto di tenere il suo budino, quando non lo stava mangiando, in tasca.

Forse c’era più carne di maiale sul pezzo di zampa,—che il tagliatore del negozio di cucina non aveva certamente dimenticato quando aveva preparato i pezzi per i clienti precedenti—, ma la quantità di condimento non era avara, e questo è un accessorio che evoca sognantemente il maiale, ingannando piacevolmente il senso del gusto. Anche il pudding di piselli, la salsa e la senape, come la rosa orientale rispetto al usignolo, se non erano assolutamente di maiale, avevano vissuto vicino ad esso; quindi, nel complesso, c’era il sapore di un maiale di medie dimensioni. Era irresistibile per i Tetterby a letto, che, pur fingendo di dormire tranquillamente, si arrampicavano fuori quando non erano visti dai loro genitori e facevano silenziosamente appello ai loro fratelli per qualsiasi segno gastronomico di affetto fraterno. Essi, non avendo il cuore duro, presentando in cambio dei pezzi avanzati, ne risultò che un gruppo di leggeri combattenti in camicia da notte si aggirava per la sala da pranzo durante tutta la cena, il che disturbava molto il signor Tetterby e una o due volte gli impose la necessità di lanciare un attacco, davanti al quale queste truppe di guerriglia si ritiravano in tutte le direzioni e nel massimo disordine.

La signora Tetterby non si godette la cena. Sembrava che ci fosse qualcosa che preoccupasse la signora Tetterby. In un momento rise senza motivo, e in un altro momento pianse senza motivo, e infine rise e piangeva insieme in modo così irragionevole che suo marito ne rimase confuso.

«La mia piccola donna», disse il signor Tetterby, «se il mondo va in quel modo, sembra che vada nel verso sbagliato e ti soffochi.»

«Datemi una goccia di acqua», disse la signora Tetterby, lottando con se stessa, «e non parlatemi per il momento né fate caso a me. Non fatelo!»

Il signor Tetterby avendo somministrato l’acqua, si voltò improvvisamente verso il povero Johnny (che era pieno di simpatia) e gli chiese perché se ne stesse lì a rimpinzarsi e a non fare niente, invece di portare avanti la bambina, affinché la vista di lei potesse far rinvenire sua madre. Johnny si avvicinò subito, oppresso dal suo peso; ma la signora Tetterby tendendo la mano per segnalare che non era in grado di sopportare quell’arduo appello ai suoi sentimenti, gli fu impedito di avanzare di un altro centimetro, pena l’odio perpetuo da parte di tutte le sue più care parentele; e così si ritirò nuovamente sul suo sgabello, schiacciandosi come prima.

Dopo una pausa, la signora Tetterby disse che ora stava meglio e cominciò a ridere.

«La mia piccola donna», disse suo marito con dubbio, «sei proprio sicura di stare meglio? O stai per scoppiare, Sophia, in una nuova direzione?»

«No, ‘Dolphus, no», rispose sua moglie. «Sono perfettamente me stessa». Detto ciò, sistemandosi i capelli e premendo le palme delle mani sugli occhi, rise di nuovo.

«Che sciocca sciocca sono stata a pensare una cosa del genere anche solo per un momento!» disse la signora Tetterby. «Avvicinati, ‘Dolphus, e lascia che mi sfoghi dicendoti quello che penso. Lascia che ti racconti tutto nei dettagli».

Avvicinando la sedia il signor Tetterby, la signora Tetterby rise di nuovo, lo abbracciò e si asciugò gli occhi.

“Sai bene, Dolphus mio caro”, disse la signora Tetterby, “che quando ero nubile avrei potuto dare via me stessa in diverse direzioni. In un periodo, quattro mi corteggiavano contemporaneamente; due di loro erano figli di Marte.”

“Siamo tutti figli di mamma, mia cara,” disse il signor Tetterby, “insieme a papà.”

“Non intendo questo,” rispose sua moglie, “intendo soldati - sergenti.”

«Oh!» disse il signor Tetterby.

«Beh, ‘Dolphus, sono sicura di non pensare mai più a queste cose per rimpiangerle; e sono sicura di avere un marito altrettanto buono, e che farei qualsiasi cosa per dimostrargli il mio affetto, come—»

“Come qualsiasi piccola donna del mondo”, disse il signor Tetterby. “Molto bene. Molto bene.”

Se il signor Tetterby fosse stato alto dieci piedi non avrebbe potuto esprimere una considerazione più gentile per la statura da fata della signora Tetterby; e se la signora Tetterby fosse stata alta due piedi, non avrebbe potuto sentirsi più giustamente in diritto di riceverla.

«Ma vedi, ‘Dolfo», disse la signora Tetterby, «questo essendo il periodo di Natale, quando tutte le persone che possono fanno festa e quando tutti quelli che hanno denaro ne vogliono spendere un po’, io mi sono in qualche modo sentita un po’ fuori posto mentre ero per strada poco fa. C’erano così tante cose da vendere: cose deliziose da mangiare, oggetti belli da guardare, cose incantevoli da possedere; e c’era bisogno di fare così tanti calcoli prima che mi sentissi di spendere anche solo sei pence per la cosa più comune; e il cesto era così grande e mancava ancora tanto da metterci dentro; e i miei soldi erano così pochi, e sarebbero bastati a malapena; — mi odi, vero, ‘Dolfo?»

“Not quite,” said Mr. Tetterby, “as yet.”

“Well! I’ll tell you the whole truth,” pursued his wife, penitently, “and then perhaps you will. I felt all this, so much, when I was trudging about in the cold, and when I saw a lot of other calculating faces and large baskets trudging about, too, that I began to think whether I mightn’t have done better, and been happier, if—I—hadn’t—” the wedding-ring went round again, and Mrs. Tetterby shook her downcast head as she turned it.

“I see,” said her husband quietly; “if you hadn’t married at all, or if you had married somebody else?”

“Yes,” sobbed Mrs. Tetterby. “That’s really what I thought. Do you hate me now, ’Dolphus?”

“Why no,” said Mr. Tetterby. “I don’t find that I do, as yet.”

Mrs. Tetterby gave him a thankful kiss, and went on.

“I begin to hope you won’t, now, ’Dolphus, though I’m afraid I haven’t told you the worst. I can’t think what came over me. I don’t know whether I was ill, or mad, or what I was, but I couldn’t call up anything that seemed to bind us to each other, or to reconcile me to my fortune. All the pleasures and enjoyments we had ever had—they seemed so poor and insignificant, I hated them. I could have trodden on them. And I could think of nothing else, except our being poor, and the number of mouths there were at home.”

“Well, well, my dear,” said Mr. Tetterby, shaking her hand encouragingly, “that’s truth, after all. We are poor, and there are a number of mouths at home here.”

“Ah! but, Dolf, Dolf!” cried his wife, laying her hands upon his neck, “my good, kind, patient fellow, when I had been at home a very little while—how different! Oh, Dolf, dear, how different it was! I felt as if there was a rush of recollection on me, all at once, that softened my hard heart, and filled it up till it was bursting. All our struggles for a livelihood, all our cares and wants since we have been married, all the times of sickness, all the hours of watching, we have ever had, by one another, or by the children, seemed to speak to me, and say that they had made us one, and that I never might have been, or could have been, or would have been, any other than the wife and mother I am. Then, the cheap enjoyments that I could have trodden on so cruelly, got to be so precious to me—Oh so priceless, and dear!—that I couldn’t bear to think how much I had wronged them; and I said, and say again a hundred times, how could I ever behave so, ’Dolphus, how could I ever have the heart to do it!”

The good woman, quite carried away by her honest tenderness and remorse, was weeping with all her heart, when she started up with a scream, and ran behind her husband. Her cry was so terrified, that the children started from their sleep and from their beds, and clung about her. Nor did her gaze belie her voice, as she pointed to a pale man in a black cloak who had come into the room.

“Look at that man! Look there! What does he want?”

“My dear,” returned her husband, “I’ll ask him if you’ll let me go. What’s the matter! How you shake!”

“I saw him in the street, when I was out just now. He looked at me, and stood near me. I am afraid of him.”

“Afraid of him! Why?”

“I don’t know why—I—stop! husband!” for he was going towards the stranger.

She had one hand pressed upon her forehead, and one upon her breast; and there was a peculiar fluttering all over her, and a hurried unsteady motion of her eyes, as if she had lost something.

“Are you ill, my dear?”

“What is it that is going from me again?” she muttered, in a low voice. “What is this that is going away?”

Then she abruptly answered: “Ill? No, I am quite well,” and stood looking vacantly at the floor.

Her husband, who had not been altogether free from the infection of her fear at first, and whom the present strangeness of her manner did not tend to reassure, addressed himself to the pale visitor in the black cloak, who stood still, and whose eyes were bent upon the ground.

“What may be your pleasure, sir,” he asked, “with us?”

“I fear that my coming in unperceived,” returned the visitor, “has alarmed you; but you were talking and did not hear me.”

“My little woman says—perhaps you heard her say it,” returned Mr. Tetterby, “that it’s not the first time you have alarmed her to-night.”

“I am sorry for it. I remember to have observed her, for a few moments only, in the street. I had no intention of frightening her.”

As he raised his eyes in speaking, she raised hers. It was extraordinary to see what dread she had of him, and with what dread he observed it—and yet how narrowly and closely.

“My name,” he said, “is Redlaw. I come from the old college hard by. A young gentleman who is a student there, lodges in your house, does he not?”

“Mr. Denham?” said Tetterby.

“Yes.”

It was a natural action, and so slight as to be hardly noticeable; but the little man, before speaking again, passed his hand across his forehead, and looked quickly round the room, as though he were sensible of some change in its atmosphere. The Chemist, instantly transferring to him the look of dread he had directed towards the wife, stepped back, and his face turned paler.

“The gentleman’s room,” said Tetterby, “is upstairs, sir. There’s a more convenient private entrance; but as you have come in here, it will save your going out into the cold, if you’ll take this little staircase,” showing one communicating directly with the parlour, “and go up to him that way, if you wish to see him.”

“Yes, I wish to see him,” said the Chemist. “Can you spare a light?”

The watchfulness of his haggard look, and the inexplicable distrust that darkened it, seemed to trouble Mr. Tetterby. He paused; and looking fixedly at him in return, stood for a minute or so, like a man stupefied, or fascinated.

At length he said, “I’ll light you, sir, if you’ll follow me.”

“No,” replied the Chemist, “I don’t wish to be attended, or announced to him. He does not expect me. I would rather go alone. Please to give me the light, if you can spare it, and I’ll find the way.”

“Non proprio,” disse il signor Tetterby, “per ora.”

“Bene! Vi dirò tutta la verità,” proseguì sua moglie, pentita, “e forse allora lo farete anche voi. Ho provato tutto questo così intensamente quando mi trovavo là fuori al freddo e quando ho visto tanti altri volti calcolatori e grandi cesti che si trascinavano anch’essi in giro, che ho cominciato a pensare se non avrei fatto meglio e sarei stata più felice se—io—non fossi—” l’anello nuziale girò di nuovo intorno al dito e la signora Tetterby scosse il capo abbassato mentre lo voltava.

«Capisco», disse tranquillamente il marito «se non vi foste sposata affatto o se aveste sposato qualcun altro?»

“Sì,” singhiozzò la signora Tetterby. “Questo è davvero ciò che pensavo. Mi odi ora, ‘Dolphus?”

“Perché no”, disse il signor Tetterby. “Non mi sembra di farlo ancora.”

La signora Tetterby gli diede un bacio di ringraziamento e proseguì.

“Comincio a sperare che tu non lo faccia, Dolphus, anche se temo di non averti ancora detto la cosa peggiore. Non riesco a capire cosa mi sia preso. Non so se fossi malato o pazzo, ma non riuscivo a evocare nulla che sembrasse legarci l’uno all’altra, o che mi facesse accettare il mio destino. Tutti i piaceri e le gioie che avevamo mai avuto — loro sembravano così miseri e insignificanti da farmeli detestare. Avrei potuto calpestarli. E non riuscivo a pensare ad altro, se non al fatto di essere poveri, e alla quantità di bocche che c’erano in casa.”

«Beh, beh, mia cara», disse il signor Tetterby stringendole la mano con fare incoraggiante, «è pur sempre una verità. Siamo poveri, e qui a casa ci sono un bel po’ di bocche da sfamare.»

“Ah! ma Dolf, Dolf!” esclamò sua moglie, posandogli le mani sul collo, “mio buono, gentile e paziente compagno, quando ero a casa da poco tempo — che differenza! Oh, Dolf, caro mio, come era diverso! Mi sentivo come se un’ondata di ricordi mi avesse sommersa all’improvviso, ammorbidendo il mio cuore duro e riempiendolo fino a farlo scoppiare. Tutte le nostre lotte per guadagnarci da vivere, tutte le nostre preoccupazioni e necessità da quando siamo sposati, tutti i momenti di malattia, tutte le ore di veglia che abbiamo trascorso l’uno accanto all’altra o con i bambini, sembravano parlarmi e dirmi che ci avevano reso una cosa sola, e che non sarei mai potuta essere, né avrei potuto essere, né vorrei essere altro che la moglie e madre che sono. Poi, le piccole gioie che avrei potuto calpestare con tanta crudeltà divennero così preziose per me — Oh, così inestimabili e care! — che non riuscivo a sopportare il pensiero di quanto le avessi offese; e dissi, e ripeto cento volte, come ho potuto comportarmi così, ‘Dolfus, come ho mai potuto avere il coraggio di farlo!”

La buona donna, completamente travolta dalla sua onesta tenerezza e dal rimorso, stava piangendo con tutto il cuore quando si alzò di scatto urlando e corse dietro suo marito. Il suo grido era così terrorizzato che i bambini si svegliarono dal loro sonno e dai loro letti, e si aggrapparono a lei. E il suo sguardo non tradì la sua voce mentre indicava un uomo pallido in un mantello nero che era entrato nella stanza.

“Guardate quell’uomo! Guardate lì! Cosa vuole?”

«Mia cara», rispose il marito, «glielo chiederò se mi lascerai andare.
Che succede? Come tremi!»

«L’ho visto per strada quando sono uscito poco fa. Mi ha guardato e si è fermato vicino a me. Ho paura di lui».

“Spaventata di lui! Perché?”

«Non so perché, io, fermati! marito!» poiché egli stava andando verso lo sconosciuto.

Aveva una mano premuta sulla fronte e l’altra sul petto; c’era in lei uno strano tremito generale e un movimento rapido e incerto degli occhi, come se avesse perso qualcosa.

“Sei malata, mia cara?”

«Che cosa è che sta andando via di nuovo?» mormorò con voce bassa. «Che cosa è questa che se ne va?»

Poi rispose bruscamente: «Malata? No, sto benissimo», e rimase in piedi a fissare il pavimento con aria assente.

Il marito, che non era stato del tutto immune dall’infezione della sua paura all’inizio e a cui la stranezza attuale dei suoi modi non tendeva certo a rassicurarlo, si rivolse al pallido visitatore nel mantello nero, che rimaneva immobile e i cui occhi erano fissi sul terreno.

“Qual è il suo desiderio, signore?” chiese.

«Temo che il mio arrivo inosservato» rispose il visitatore «vi abbia allarmata; ma voi stavate parlando e non mi avete sentito.»

“La mia piccola donna dice — forse l’avete sentita dire”, rispose il signor Tetterby, “che non è la prima volta che l’avete allarmata stasera.”

«Mi dispiace. Ricordo di averla osservata per pochi istanti soltanto, in strada. Non avevo alcuna intenzione di spaventarla».

Mentre alzava gli occhi parlando, lei alzò i suoi. Era straordinario vedere la paura che aveva di lui e con quale timore egli osservasse ciò — eppure quanto attentamente e da vicino.

«Il mio nome», disse, «è Redlaw. Vengo dal vecchio collegio qui vicino. Un giovane gentiluomo che è uno studente lì, alloggia nella tua casa, non è così?»

«Signor Denham?» disse Tetterby.

“Sì, davvero.”

Fu un gesto naturale e così lieve da passare quasi inosservato; ma il piccoletto, prima di riprendere a parlare, si passò una mano sulla fronte e diede uno sguardo rapido intorno alla stanza, come se avesse percepito un cambiamento nell’atmosfera. Il farmacista, trasferendo subito su di lui lo sguardo spaventato che aveva rivolto verso la moglie, fece un passo indietro, e il suo volto impallidì.

«La stanza del signore», disse Tetterby, «è di sopra, signore. C’è un ingresso privato più comodo; ma poiché è entrato qui, le eviterà di uscire nel freddo se vuole prendere questa piccola scala», mostrandone una che comunicava direttamente con il salotto, «e salire da lui in quel modo, se desidera vederlo.»

“Sì, voglio vederlo”, disse il chimico. “Puoi darmi un fiammifero?”

La vigilanza del suo sguardo emaciato e l’incomprensibile diffidenza che lo oscurava sembravano turbare il signor Tetterby. Egli si fermò; e guardandolo fissamente a sua volta, rimase per un minuto o giù di lì come un uomo stupito o affascinato.

Alla fine disse: “La accompagnerò io, signore, se vuole seguirmi.”

“No,” rispose il chimico, “non voglio essere accompagnato né annunciato. Non mi aspetta. Preferisco andare da solo. Per favore, se può darmi la luce, troverò da me la strada.”

In the quickness of his expression of this desire, and in taking the candle from the newsman, he touched him on the breast. Withdrawing his hand hastily, almost as though he had wounded him by accident (for he did not know in what part of himself his new power resided, or how it was communicated, or how the manner of its reception varied in different persons), he turned and ascended the stair.

But when he reached the top, he stopped and looked down. The wife was standing in the same place, twisting her ring round and round upon her finger. The husband, with his head bent forward on his breast, was musing heavily and sullenly. The children, still clustering about the mother, gazed timidly after the visitor, and nestled together when they saw him looking down.

“Come!” said the father, roughly. “There’s enough of this. Get to bed here!”

“The place is inconvenient and small enough,” the mother added, “without you. Get to bed!”

The whole brood, scared and sad, crept away; little Johnny and the baby lagging last. The mother, glancing contemptuously round the sordid room, and tossing from her the fragments of their meal, stopped on the threshold of her task of clearing the table, and sat down, pondering idly and dejectedly. The father betook himself to the chimney-corner, and impatiently raking the small fire together, bent over it as if he would monopolise it all. They did not interchange a word.

The Chemist, paler than before, stole upward like a thief; looking back upon the change below, and dreading equally to go on or return.

“What have I done!” he said, confusedly. “What am I going to do!”

“To be the benefactor of mankind,” he thought he heard a voice reply.

He looked round, but there was nothing there; and a passage now shutting out the little parlour from his view, he went on, directing his eyes before him at the way he went.

“It is only since last night,” he muttered gloomily, “that I have remained shut up, and yet all things are strange to me. I am strange to myself. I am here, as in a dream. What interest have I in this place, or in any place that I can bring to my remembrance? My mind is going blind!”

There was a door before him, and he knocked at it. Being invited, by a voice within, to enter, he complied.

“Is that my kind nurse?” said the voice. “But I need not ask her. There is no one else to come here.”

It spoke cheerfully, though in a languid tone, and attracted his attention to a young man lying on a couch, drawn before the chimney-piece, with the back towards the door. A meagre scanty stove, pinched and hollowed like a sick man’s cheeks, and bricked into the centre of a hearth that it could scarcely warm, contained the fire, to which his face was turned. Being so near the windy house-top, it wasted quickly, and with a busy sound, and the burning ashes dropped down fast.

“They chink when they shoot out here,” said the student, smiling, “so, according to the gossips, they are not coffins, but purses. I shall be well and rich yet, some day, if it please God, and shall live perhaps to love a daughter Milly, in remembrance of the kindest nature and the gentlest heart in the world.”

He put up his hand as if expecting her to take it, but, being weakened, he lay still, with his face resting on his other hand, and did not turn round.

The Chemist glanced about the room;—at the student’s books and papers, piled upon a table in a corner, where they, and his extinguished reading-lamp, now prohibited and put away, told of the attentive hours that had gone before this illness, and perhaps caused it;—at such signs of his old health and freedom, as the out-of-door attire that hung idle on the wall;—at those remembrances of other and less solitary scenes, the little miniatures upon the chimney-piece, and the drawing of home;—at that token of his emulation, perhaps, in some sort, of his personal attachment too, the framed engraving of himself, the looker-on. The time had been, only yesterday, when not one of these objects, in its remotest association of interest with the living figure before him, would have been lost on Redlaw. Now, they were but objects; or, if any gleam of such connexion shot upon him, it perplexed, and not enlightened him, as he stood looking round with a dull wonder.

The student, recalling the thin hand which had remained so long untouched, raised himself on the couch, and turned his head.

“Mr. Redlaw!” he exclaimed, and started up.

Redlaw put out his arm.

“Don’t come nearer to me. I will sit here. Remain you, where you are!”

He sat down on a chair near the door, and having glanced at the young man standing leaning with his hand upon the couch, spoke with his eyes averted towards the ground.

“I heard, by an accident, by what accident is no matter, that one of my class was ill and solitary. I received no other description of him, than that he lived in this street. Beginning my inquiries at the first house in it, I have found him.”

“I have been ill, sir,” returned the student, not merely with a modest hesitation, but with a kind of awe of him, “but am greatly better. An attack of fever—of the brain, I believe—has weakened me, but I am much better. I cannot say I have been solitary, in my illness, or I should forget the ministering hand that has been near me.”

“You are speaking of the keeper’s wife,” said Redlaw.

“Yes.” The student bent his head, as if he rendered her some silent homage.

The Chemist, in whom there was a cold, monotonous apathy, which rendered him more like a marble image on the tomb of the man who had started from his dinner yesterday at the first mention of this student’s case, than the breathing man himself, glanced again at the student leaning with his hand upon the couch, and looked upon the ground, and in the air, as if for light for his blinded mind.

“I remembered your name,” he said, “when it was mentioned to me down stairs, just now; and I recollect your face. We have held but very little personal communication together?”

Nella rapidità con cui esprimeva questo desiderio e nel prendere la candela dal venditore di giornali, lo toccò sul petto. Ritrasse la mano velocemente, quasi come se l’avesse ferito per caso (perché non sapeva in quale parte del suo corpo risiedesse il nuovo potere, o come venisse trasmesso, o come variasse il modo di riceverlo nelle diverse persone), si voltò e salì le scale.

Ma quando raggiunse la cima si fermò e guardò giù. La moglie era ancora nello stesso posto, girando il suo anello su e giù sul dito. Il marito, con la testa china in avanti sul petto, stava pensieroso e cupo. I bambini, sempre raggruppati intorno alla madre, guardavano timidamente l’ospite e si stringevano insieme quando lo videro che li osservava dall’alto.

“Vieni!” disse il padre in tono brusco. “Basta così. A letto qui!”

“Questo posto è abbastanza scomodo e piccolo,” aggiunse la madre, “senza di te. Vai a letto!”

Tutta la prole, spaventata e triste, si ritirò; il piccolo Johnny e il bambino rimasero indietro. La madre, guardando con disprezzo intorno alla stanza squallida, e scagliando via i resti del loro pasto, si fermò sulla soglia del suo compito di sparecchiare la tavola, e si sedette, riflettendo oziosamente e abbattutamente. Il padre si ritirò nell’angolo del camino, e impazientemente rastrellando insieme il piccolo fuoco, si chinò su di esso come se volesse monopolizzarlo tutto. Non scambiarono una parola.

Il chimico, più pallido di prima, si arrampicò furtivamente come un ladro; guardando indietro al cambiamento sotto di lui e temendo allo stesso modo di continuare o tornare indietro.

“Cosa ho fatto!” disse confuso. “Cosa farò ora!”

«Essere il benefattore dell’umanità», pensò di sentire una voce rispondere.

Si guardò intorno, ma non c’era nulla; e un passaggio che ora nascondeva il piccolo salotto alla sua vista, proseguì, dirigendo i suoi occhi davanti a sé sulla strada che percorreva.

«È solo da ieri sera», borbottò cupamente, «che sono rimasto rinchiuso, eppure tutto mi è estraneo. Sono estraneo a me stesso. Mi trovo qui come in un sogno. Che interesse posso avere per questo posto o per qualsiasi altro che riesco a ricordare? La mia mente sta diventando cieca!»

C’era una porta davanti a lui e bussò. Dopo essere stato invitato da una voce dall’interno ad entrare, acconsentì.

«È la mia cara infermiera?» disse la voce. «Ma non ho bisogno di chiedere a lei. Non c’è nessun altro che possa venire qui.»

Parlò allegramente, sebbene con un tono languido, e attirò la sua attenzione su un giovane disteso su un divano, spinto davanti al camino, con lo schienale rivolto verso la porta. Un misero caminetto esiguo, stretto e scavato come le guance di un uomo malato, e murato nel centro di un focolare che a stento poteva riscaldare, conteneva il fuoco, verso cui era rivolto il suo viso. Essendo così vicino alla ventosa sommità della casa, si consumava rapidamente e con un suono incessante, e le ceneri ardenti cadevano giù velocemente.

«Fanno cink quando li sparano qui fuori», disse lo studente sorridendo, «quindi, secondo i pettegoli, non sono bare ma borse. Un giorno sarò bene e ricco, se Dio vorrà, e forse vivrò abbastanza a lungo da amare una figlia Milly, in memoria della più gentile natura e del cuore più tenero al mondo.»

Alzò la mano come se si aspettasse che lei gliela prendesse, ma essendo indebolito giacque immobile con il viso appoggiato all’altra mano e non si voltò.

Il Chimico diede un’occhiata in giro per la stanza: ai libri e agli appunti dello studente, ammucchiati su un tavolo nell’angolo, dove essi, insieme alla sua lampada da lettura spenta, ora proibita e riposta, raccontavano delle ore di attenzione che erano passate prima di questa malattia e forse l’avevano causata;—ai segni del suo vecchio benessere e libertà, come gli abiti da esterno appesi inerti al muro;—a quei ricordi di altre scene meno solitarie, le piccole miniature sul caminetto e il disegno della casa;—al segnale della sua emulazione, forse anche del suo attaccamento personale, la stampa incorniciata di lui stesso, lo spettatore. Era stato un tempo, solo ieri, in cui nessuno di questi oggetti, nella più remota associazione d’interesse con la figura vivente davanti a lui, sarebbe andato perduto per Redlaw. Ora erano solo oggetti; o se qualche barlume di tale connessione gli balenava, lo confondeva e non lo illuminava mentre stava lì a guardarsi intorno con una stupida meraviglia.

Lo studente, ricordando la mano esile che era rimasta così a lungo intatta, si sollevò sul divano e girò il capo.

«Signor Redlaw!» esclamò e si alzò di scatto.

Redlaw tese il braccio.

“Non avvicinarti! Io rimarrò qui seduto, tu resta dove sei!”

Si sedette su una sedia vicino alla porta e, dopo aver lanciato un’occhiata al giovane che stava in piedi appoggiandosi con la mano sul divano, parlò tenendo gli occhi rivolti verso terra.

«Ho saputo per caso, e non importa quale fosse il caso, che uno dei miei compagni di classe era malato e solo. Non ho ricevuto altre informazioni su di lui se non che viveva in questa strada. Ho cominciato a fare domande alla prima casa della via ed ecco che l’ho trovato».

«Sono stato malato, signore», rispose lo studente non solo con modesta esitazione ma anche con una sorta di timoroso rispetto nei suoi confronti «ma sto molto meglio. Un attacco di febbre — al cervello, credo — mi ha indebolito, ma sono molto migliorato. Non posso dire che nella mia malattia sia stato solo o dimenticherei la mano premurosa che è stata vicino a me».

«State parlando della moglie del custode», disse Redlaw.

«Sì». Lo studente chinò il capo, come se le rendesse un omaggio silenzioso.

Il chimico, che aveva un’apatia fredda e monotona che lo rendeva più simile a una statua di marmo sulla tomba dell’uomo che si era alzato da cena ieri alla prima menzione del caso dello studente, che all’uomo stesso in carne e ossa, lanciò un’altra occhiata allo studente appoggiato con la mano sul divano, guardò a terra e poi verso il cielo, come se cercasse una luce per la sua mente accecata.

«Mi è tornato in mente il suo nome», disse, «quando mi è stato appena menzionato al piano di sotto; e ricordo anche la sua faccia. Abbiamo avuto pochissimi contatti personali tra noi?»

“Very little.”

“You have retired and withdrawn from me, more than any of the rest, I think?”

The student signified assent.

“And why?” said the Chemist; not with the least expression of interest, but with a moody, wayward kind of curiosity. “Why? How comes it that you have sought to keep especially from me, the knowledge of your remaining here, at this season, when all the rest have dispersed, and of your being ill? I want to know why this is?”

The young man, who had heard him with increasing agitation, raised his downcast eyes to his face, and clasping his hands together, cried with sudden earnestness and with trembling lips:

“Mr. Redlaw! You have discovered me. You know my secret!”

“Secret?” said the Chemist, harshly. “I know?”

“Yes! Your manner, so different from the interest and sympathy which endear you to so many hearts, your altered voice, the constraint there is in everything you say, and in your looks,” replied the student, “warn me that you know me. That you would conceal it, even now, is but a proof to me (God knows I need none!) of your natural kindness and of the bar there is between us.”

A vacant and contemptuous laugh, was all his answer.

“But, Mr. Redlaw,” said the student, “as a just man, and a good man, think how innocent I am, except in name and descent, of participation in any wrong inflicted on you or in any sorrow you have borne.”

“Sorrow!” said Redlaw, laughing. “Wrong! What are those to me?”

“For Heaven’s sake,” entreated the shrinking student, “do not let the mere interchange of a few words with me change you like this, sir! Let me pass again from your knowledge and notice. Let me occupy my old reserved and distant place among those whom you instruct. Know me only by the name I have assumed, and not by that of Longford—”

“Longford!” exclaimed the other.

He clasped his head with both his hands, and for a moment turned upon the young man his own intelligent and thoughtful face. But the light passed from it, like the sun-beam of an instant, and it clouded as before.

“The name my mother bears, sir,” faltered the young man, “the name she took, when she might, perhaps, have taken one more honoured. Mr. Redlaw,” hesitating, “I believe I know that history. Where my information halts, my guesses at what is wanting may supply something not remote from the truth. I am the child of a marriage that has not proved itself a well-assorted or a happy one. From infancy, I have heard you spoken of with honour and respect—with something that was almost reverence. I have heard of such devotion, of such fortitude and tenderness, of such rising up against the obstacles which press men down, that my fancy, since I learnt my little lesson from my mother, has shed a lustre on your name. At last, a poor student myself, from whom could I learn but you?”

Redlaw, unmoved, unchanged, and looking at him with a staring frown, answered by no word or sign.

“I cannot say,” pursued the other, “I should try in vain to say, how much it has impressed me, and affected me, to find the gracious traces of the past, in that certain power of winning gratitude and confidence which is associated among us students (among the humblest of us, most) with Mr. Redlaw’s generous name. Our ages and positions are so different, sir, and I am so accustomed to regard you from a distance, that I wonder at my own presumption when I touch, however lightly, on that theme. But to one who—I may say, who felt no common interest in my mother once—it may be something to hear, now that all is past, with what indescribable feelings of affection I have, in my obscurity, regarded him; with what pain and reluctance I have kept aloof from his encouragement, when a word of it would have made me rich; yet how I have felt it fit that I should hold my course, content to know him, and to be unknown. Mr. Redlaw,” said the student, faintly, “what I would have said, I have said ill, for my strength is strange to me as yet; but for anything unworthy in this fraud of mine, forgive me, and for all the rest forget me!”

The staring frown remained on Redlaw’s face, and yielded to no other expression until the student, with these words, advanced towards him, as if to touch his hand, when he drew back and cried to him:

“Don’t come nearer to me!”

The young man stopped, shocked by the eagerness of his recoil, and by the sternness of his repulsion; and he passed his hand, thoughtfully, across his forehead.

“The past is past,” said the Chemist. “It dies like the brutes. Who talks to me of its traces in my life? He raves or lies! What have I to do with your distempered dreams? If you want money, here it is. I came to offer it; and that is all I came for. There can be nothing else that brings me here,” he muttered, holding his head again, with both his hands. “There can be nothing else, and yet—”

He had tossed his purse upon the table. As he fell into this dim cogitation with himself, the student took it up, and held it out to him.

“Take it back, sir,” he said proudly, though not angrily. “I wish you could take from me, with it, the remembrance of your words and offer.”

“You do?” he retorted, with a wild light in his eyes. “You do?”

“I do!”

The Chemist went close to him, for the first time, and took the purse, and turned him by the arm, and looked him in the face.

“There is sorrow and trouble in sickness, is there not?” he demanded, with a laugh.

The wondering student answered, “Yes.”

“In its unrest, in its anxiety, in its suspense, in all its train of physical and mental miseries?” said the Chemist, with a wild unearthly exultation. “All best forgotten, are they not?”

The student did not answer, but again passed his hand, confusedly, across his forehead. Redlaw still held him by the sleeve, when Milly’s voice was heard outside.

“I can see very well now,” she said, “thank you, Dolf. Don’t cry, dear. Father and mother will be comfortable again, to-morrow, and home will be comfortable too. A gentleman with him, is there!”

“Poco.”

“Ti sei ritirato e allontanato da me più di tutti gli altri, credo?”

Lo studente diede il suo assenso.

«E perché?» disse il chimico; non con la minima espressione di interesse, ma con una curiosità malinconica e capricciosa. «Perché? Come mai hai cercato di nascondere specialmente a me, la notizia del tuo rimanere qui in questa stagione, quando tutti gli altri si sono dispersi, e che sei ammalato? Voglio sapere perché è così?»

Il giovane, che lo aveva ascoltato con crescente agitazione, alzò i suoi occhi abbassati verso il suo volto e, stringendo le mani l’una contro l’altra, esclamò con improvvisa serietà e labbra tremanti:

“Signor Redlaw! Mi ha scoperto. Conosce il mio segreto!”

“Segreto?” disse il chimico in tono aspro. “Io so?”

«Sì! Il vostro contegno, così diverso dall’interesse e dalla simpatia che vi rendono caro a tanti cuori, la vostra voce alterata, il vincolo che si avverte in tutto ciò che dite e nel vostro sguardo», rispose lo studente, «mi fanno capire che mi conoscete. Che vogliate nasconderlo anche ora è solo una prova (Dio sa se ne ho bisogno!) della vostra naturale gentilezza e dell’ostacolo che c’è tra noi».

Una risata vacua e sprezzante fu la sua unica risposta.

«Ma, signor Redlaw», disse lo studente, «come uomo giusto e buono, pensi a quanto io sia innocente, salvo per nome e discendenza, di partecipazione a qualsiasi torto inflitto a voi o a qualsiasi dolore che abbiate sopportato.»

“Tristezza!” disse Redlaw ridendo. “Errato! Cosa sono per me?”

«Per amor del cielo», implorò lo studente ritraendosi, «non lasciate che il semplice scambio di poche parole con me vi cambi così, signore! Lasciatemi tornare a passare inosservato ai vostri occhi. Lasciatemi riprendere il mio vecchio posto riservato e distante tra coloro che istruite. Conoscetemi solo col nome che ho assunto, e non con quello di Longford—»

«Longford!» esclamò l’altro.

Si strinse la testa con entrambe le mani e per un momento rivolse al giovane il suo volto intelligente e pensieroso. Ma la luce svanì da esso come un raggio di sole fugace, e si oscurò nuovamente come prima.

«Il nome che mia madre porta, signore», balbettò il giovane uomo, «il nome che ha scelto, quando avrebbe potuto forse sceglierne uno più onorato. Signor Redlaw», esitando, «credo di conoscere quella storia. Dove le mie informazioni si fermano, i miei tentativi di indovinare ciò che manca possono fornire qualcosa non lontano dalla verità. Sono il figlio di un matrimonio che non si è dimostrato ben assortito o felice. Fin dall’infanzia, ho sentito parlare di lei con onore e rispetto—con qualcosa che era quasi riverenza. Ho sentito parlare di tale devozione, di tale forza d’animo e tenerezza, di tale lotta contro gli ostacoli che opprimono gli uomini, che la mia fantasia, da quando ho imparato la mia piccola lezione da mia madre, ha gettato un bagliore sul suo nome. Alla fine, essendo io stesso uno studente povero, da chi avrei potuto imparare se non da lei?»

Redlaw, impassibile e immutato, lo guardò con un cipiglio fisso senza rispondere né con una parola né con un cenno.

«Non posso dire», continuò l’altro, «proverei invano a dire quanto mi abbia colpito e commosso trovare le graziose tracce del passato in quel certo potere di conquistare gratitudine e fiducia che è associato tra noi studenti (tra i più umili di noi, per lo più) al generoso nome del signor Redlaw. Le nostre età e posizioni sono così diverse, signore, e io sono così abituato a considerarla da lontano, che mi meraviglio della mia stessa presunzione quando tocco, anche se solo leggermente, quell’argomento. Ma per uno che—posso dire, che una volta provò un interesse non comune per mia madre—può essere qualcosa sentire, ora che tutto è passato, con quali sentimenti indescrivibili di affetto io l’ho guardato dalla mia oscurità; con quale dolore e riluttanza mi sono tenuto lontano dal suo incoraggiamento, quando una sua parola mi avrebbe reso ricco; eppure come ho sentito che era giusto che io seguissi la mia strada, contento di conoscerlo e di rimanere sconosciuto. Signor Redlaw», disse lo studente debolmente, «quello che volevo dire l’ho detto male, perché le mie forze mi sono ancora estranee; ma per tutto ciò che è indegno in questa mia frode, mi perdoni, e per il resto dimentichi me!»

La fissità della smorfia rimase sul volto di Redlaw e non lasciò spazio ad altre espressioni finché lo studente, con queste parole, si avvicinò a lui come per prendergli la mano; allora egli indietreggiò e gli gridò:

“Non avvicinarti a me!”

Il giovane si fermò, colpito dall’impeto del suo gesto e dalla severità della sua ripulsione; e passò la mano sulla fronte pensieroso.

«Il passato è passato», disse il Chimico. «Muore come le bestie. Chi mi parla delle sue tracce nella mia vita? Delira o mente! Che c’entro io con i tuoi sogni febbrili? Se vuoi dei soldi, eccoli qui. Sono venuto a offrirli; e questo è l’unico motivo per cui sono venuto. Non può esserci altro che mi porti qui», borbottò, tenendosi di nuovo la testa con entrambe le mani. «Non può esserci altro, eppure—»

Aveva gettato il portafoglio sul tavolo. Mentre cadeva in questa vaga riflessione, lo studente lo prese e glielo porse.

«Riprendetelo, signore», disse con orgoglio, ma senza rabbia. «Vorrei che poteste riprendermi insieme a lui il ricordo delle vostre parole e della vostra offerta».

“Lo fai?” ribatté con una luce selvaggia negli occhi. “Lo fai?”

“I do!”

Il chimico si avvicinò a lui per la prima volta, prese il portafoglio e lo girò per un braccio, guardandolo in faccia.

«C’è dolore e affanno nella malattia, non è vero?» chiese ridendo.

Lo studente perplesso rispose: “Sì.”

«Nel suo turbamento, nella sua ansia, nel suo stato di sospensione, in tutta la serie delle sue sofferenze fisiche e morali?» disse il Chimico con una selvaggia ed ultraterrena esultanza. «Tutto meglio dimenticato, non è vero?»

Lo studente non rispose, ma di nuovo passò la mano, confusamente, sulla fronte. Redlaw lo teneva ancora per il polso quando si udì fuori la voce di Milly.

“Ora vedo molto bene,” disse lei, “grazie Dolf. Non piangere, tesoro. Domani papà e mamma staranno di nuovo bene, e anche la casa sarà confortevole. C’è un signore con lui!”

Redlaw released his hold, as he listened.

“I have feared, from the first moment,” he murmured to himself, “to meet her. There is a steady quality of goodness in her, that I dread to influence. I may be the murderer of what is tenderest and best within her bosom.”

She was knocking at the door.

“Shall I dismiss it as an idle foreboding, or still avoid her?” he muttered, looking uneasily around.

She was knocking at the door again.

“Of all the visitors who could come here,” he said, in a hoarse alarmed voice, turning to his companion, “this is the one I should desire most to avoid. Hide me!”

The student opened a frail door in the wall, communicating where the garret-roof began to slope towards the floor, with a small inner room. Redlaw passed in hastily, and shut it after him.

The student then resumed his place upon the couch, and called to her to enter.

“Dear Mr. Edmund,” said Milly, looking round, “they told me there was a gentleman here.”

“There is no one here but I.”

“There has been some one?”

“Yes, yes, there has been some one.”

She put her little basket on the table, and went up to the back of the couch, as if to take the extended hand—but it was not there. A little surprised, in her quiet way, she leaned over to look at his face, and gently touched him on the brow.

“Are you quite as well to-night? Your head is not so cool as in the afternoon.”

“Tut!” said the student, petulantly, “very little ails me.”

A little more surprise, but no reproach, was expressed in her face, as she withdrew to the other side of the table, and took a small packet of needlework from her basket. But she laid it down again, on second thoughts, and going noiselessly about the room, set everything exactly in its place, and in the neatest order; even to the cushions on the couch, which she touched with so light a hand, that he hardly seemed to know it, as he lay looking at the fire. When all this was done, and she had swept the hearth, she sat down, in her modest little bonnet, to her work, and was quietly busy on it directly.

“It’s the new muslin curtain for the window, Mr. Edmund,” said Milly, stitching away as she talked. “It will look very clean and nice, though it costs very little, and will save your eyes, too, from the light. My William says the room should not be too light just now, when you are recovering so well, or the glare might make you giddy.”

He said nothing; but there was something so fretful and impatient in his change of position, that her quick fingers stopped, and she looked at him anxiously.

“The pillows are not comfortable,” she said, laying down her work and rising. “I will soon put them right.”

“They are very well,” he answered. “Leave them alone, pray. You make so much of everything.”

He raised his head to say this, and looked at her so thanklessly, that, after he had thrown himself down again, she stood timidly pausing. However, she resumed her seat, and her needle, without having directed even a murmuring look towards him, and was soon as busy as before.

“I have been thinking, Mr. Edmund, that you have been often thinking of late, when I have been sitting by, how true the saying is, that adversity is a good teacher. Health will be more precious to you, after this illness, than it has ever been. And years hence, when this time of year comes round, and you remember the days when you lay here sick, alone, that the knowledge of your illness might not afflict those who are dearest to you, your home will be doubly dear and doubly blest. Now, isn’t that a good, true thing?”

She was too intent upon her work, and too earnest in what she said, and too composed and quiet altogether, to be on the watch for any look he might direct towards her in reply; so the shaft of his ungrateful glance fell harmless, and did not wound her.

“Ah!” said Milly, with her pretty head inclining thoughtfully on one side, as she looked down, following her busy fingers with her eyes. “Even on me—and I am very different from you, Mr. Edmund, for I have no learning, and don’t know how to think properly—this view of such things has made a great impression, since you have been lying ill. When I have seen you so touched by the kindness and attention of the poor people down stairs, I have felt that you thought even that experience some repayment for the loss of health, and I have read in your face, as plain as if it was a book, that but for some trouble and sorrow we should never know half the good there is about us.”

His getting up from the couch, interrupted her, or she was going on to say more.

“We needn’t magnify the merit, Mrs. William,” he rejoined slightingly. “The people down stairs will be paid in good time I dare say, for any little extra service they may have rendered me; and perhaps they anticipate no less. I am much obliged to you, too.”

Her fingers stopped, and she looked at him.

“I can’t be made to feel the more obliged by your exaggerating the case,” he said. “I am sensible that you have been interested in me, and I say I am much obliged to you. What more would you have?”

Her work fell on her lap, as she still looked at him walking to and fro with an intolerant air, and stopping now and then.

“I say again, I am much obliged to you. Why weaken my sense of what is your due in obligation, by preferring enormous claims upon me? Trouble, sorrow, affliction, adversity! One might suppose I had been dying a score of deaths here!”

“Do you believe, Mr. Edmund,” she asked, rising and going nearer to him, “that I spoke of the poor people of the house, with any reference to myself? To me?” laying her hand upon her bosom with a simple and innocent smile of astonishment.

“Oh! I think nothing about it, my good creature,” he returned. “I have had an indisposition, which your solicitude—observe! I say solicitude—makes a great deal more of, than it merits; and it’s over, and we can’t perpetuate it.”

Redlaw lasciò la presa mentre ascoltava.

«Ho temuto fin dal primo momento» mormorò tra sé «di incontrarla. C’è una qualità di bontà costante in lei, che temo possa influenzarmi. Potrei essere l’assassino di ciò che è più tenero e migliore nel suo cuore».

Bussava alla porta.

«La scaccerò come un presentimento infondato o continuerò a evitarla?» borbottò guardandosi intorno con inquietudine.

Bussava di nuovo alla porta.

«Di tutti i visitatori che potrebbero venire qui», disse con voce rauca e allarmata, rivolgendosi al suo compagno, «questo è quello che vorrei evitare più di ogni altro. Nascondetemi!»

Lo studente aprì una fragile porta nel muro che comunicava con un piccolo vano interno dove il tetto della soffitta cominciava ad inclinarsi verso il pavimento. Redlaw entrò frettolosamente e la richiuse dietro di sé.

Lo studente riprese quindi il suo posto sul divano e la chiamò ad entrare.

«Caro signor Edmund», disse Milly guardandosi intorno, «mi hanno detto che c’era un gentiluomo qui.»

“Qui non c’è nessuno tranne me.”

“C’era qualcuno?”

“Sì, sì, c’è stato qualcuno.”

Mise il suo piccolo cestino sul tavolo e si avvicinò al retro del divano, come se volesse prendere la mano tesa—ma non era lì. Un po’ sorpresa, nella sua tranquilla maniera, si chinò per guardargli il viso e lo toccò delicatamente sulla fronte.

«Siete altrettanto bene stasera? La vostra fronte non è così fresca come nel pomeriggio.»

“Boh!” disse lo studente, con tono scontento, “non mi succede quasi nulla.”

Un po’ più sorpresa, ma senza rimprovero alcuno, apparve sul suo volto mentre si ritirava dall’altra parte del tavolo e prendeva un piccolo pacchetto di lavori all’uncinetto dal cestino. Ma lo ripose subito dopo averci pensato su ancora una volta, e girando silenziosamente per la stanza mise ogni cosa esattamente al suo posto, in perfetto ordine; persino i cuscini sul divano, che toccò con mano così leggera da far sembrare che lui non se ne accorgesse nemmeno mentre giaceva a guardare il fuoco. Quando ebbe finito e spazzato la mensola del caminetto, si sedette col suo modesto cappellino e si mise al lavoro, occupandosi tranquillamente di esso subito dopo.

“È la nuova tenda di mussola per la finestra, signor Edmund”, disse Milly, cucendo mentre parlava. “Sarà molto pulita e carina, anche se costa poco, e proteggerà anche i suoi occhi dalla luce. Il mio William dice che la stanza non dovrebbe essere troppo luminosa in questo momento, visto che sta recuperando così bene, altrimenti il riverbero potrebbe farla girare.”

Non disse nulla; ma c’era qualcosa di così irrequieto e impaziente nel suo cambiamento di posizione che le sue dita veloci si fermarono e lo guardò con ansia.

«I cuscini non sono comodi», disse posando il lavoro e alzandosi. «Li sistemerò subito».

“Stanno molto bene,” rispose lui. “Li lasci in pace, la prego. Lei fa tanto di cappello per tutto.”

Alzò la testa per dirle questo e la guardò così ingrato che, dopo essersi lasciato ricadere, lei rimase timorosa in attesa. Tuttavia riprese posto e ago senza avergli rivolto neppure uno sguardo di rimprovero e presto fu di nuovo impegnata come prima.

«Stavo pensando, signor Edmund, che lei ha spesso pensato di recente, mentre ero seduta qui accanto, quanto sia vero il detto che l’avversità è un buon maestro. La salute le sarà più preziosa dopo questa malattia di quanto non lo sia mai stata. E tra qualche anno, quando tornerà questo periodo dell’anno e ricorderà i giorni in cui giaceva qui ammalato, solo, affinché la notizia della sua malattia non addolorasse coloro che le sono più cari, la sua casa le sarà doppia nella stima e nel benessere. Ora, non è questa una cosa buona e vera?»

Era troppo concentrata sul suo lavoro e troppo seria nel parlare, troppo composta e tranquilla per osservare qualsiasi sguardo che lui le rivolgesse in risposta; così la freccia del suo ingrato sguardo cadde innocua, senza ferirla.

“Ah!” disse Milly, inclinando pensierosa la sua graziosa testa da un lato, mentre guardava in basso, seguendo con gli occhi le sue dita indaffarate. “Anche su di me — e io sono molto diversa da voi, signor Edmund, perché non ho istruzione e non so come pensare correttamente — questa visione delle cose ha fatto una grande impressione, da quando siete stato malato. Quando vi ho visto così commosso dalla gentilezza e dall’attenzione della gente povera al piano di sotto, ho sentito che consideravate anche quella esperienza un qualche ripiego per la perdita di salute, e ho letto sul vostro volto, chiaro come se fosse un libro, che senza alcune preoccupazioni e dolori non sapremmo mai riconoscere metà del bene che ci circonda.”

Il suo alzarsi dal divano la interruppe o lei stava per dire di più.

“Non c’è bisogno di esagerare il merito, signora William,” replicò con sufficienza. “Le persone al piano terra verranno pagate in buon tempo ne sono certo, per qualsiasi piccolo servizio extra che mi abbiano reso; e forse non si aspettano nulla di meno. Sono molto obbligato anche a voi.”

Le sue dita si fermarono e lei lo guardò.

«Non posso sentirmi più obbligato perché voi esagerate la cosa», disse. «Sono consapevole che vi siete interessati a me e dico di essere molto grato. Cosa vorreste di più?»

Il lavoro le cadde in grembo mentre continuava a guardarlo camminare avanti e indietro con aria intollerante, fermandosi di tanto in tanto.

«Lo ripeto, le sono molto obbligato. Perché ridurre il mio senso di ciò che le devo in termini di gratitudine, preferendo enormi pretese nei miei confronti? Difficoltà, dolore, afflizione, avversità! Si potrebbe pensare che qui io sia morto una ventina di volte!»

«Credete, signor Edmund,» chiese lei alzandosi e avvicinandosi a lui, «che io abbia parlato dei poveri inquilini della casa con qualche riferimento a me stessa? A me?» posando la mano sul petto con un semplice e innocente sorriso di stupore.

“Oh! Non ci penso affatto, mia buona creatura”, rispose. “Ho avuto un malessere che la sua sollecitudine — noti bene! dico sollecitudine — fa sembrare molto più grave di quanto meriti; e comunque è passato, non possiamo perpetuarlo.”

He coldly took a book, and sat down at the table.

She watched him for a little while, until her smile was quite gone, and then, returning to where her basket was, said gently:

“Mr. Edmund, would you rather be alone?”

“There is no reason why I should detain you here,” he replied.

“Except—” said Milly, hesitating, and showing her work.

“Oh! the curtain,” he answered, with a supercilious laugh. “That’s not worth staying for.”

She made up the little packet again, and put it in her basket. Then, standing before him with such an air of patient entreaty that he could not choose but look at her, she said:

“If you should want me, I will come back willingly. When you did want me, I was quite happy to come; there was no merit in it. I think you must be afraid, that, now you are getting well, I may be troublesome to you; but I should not have been, indeed. I should have come no longer than your weakness and confinement lasted. You owe me nothing; but it is right that you should deal as justly by me as if I was a lady—even the very lady that you love; and if you suspect me of meanly making much of the little I have tried to do to comfort your sick room, you do yourself more wrong than ever you can do me. That is why I am sorry. That is why I am very sorry.”

If she had been as passionate as she was quiet, as indignant as she was calm, as angry in her look as she was gentle, as loud of tone as she was low and clear, she might have left no sense of her departure in the room, compared with that which fell upon the lonely student when she went away.

He was gazing drearily upon the place where she had been, when Redlaw came out of his concealment, and came to the door.

“When sickness lays its hand on you again,” he said, looking fiercely back at him, “—may it be soon!—Die here! Rot here!”

“What have you done?” returned the other, catching at his cloak. “What change have you wrought in me? What curse have you brought upon me? Give me back _my_self!”

“Give me back myself!” exclaimed Redlaw like a madman. “I am infected! I am infectious! I am charged with poison for my own mind, and the minds of all mankind. Where I felt interest, compassion, sympathy, I am turning into stone. Selfishness and ingratitude spring up in my blighting footsteps. I am only so much less base than the wretches whom I make so, that in the moment of their transformation I can hate them.”

As he spoke—the young man still holding to his cloak—he cast him off, and struck him: then, wildly hurried out into the night air where the wind was blowing, the snow falling, the cloud-drift sweeping on, the moon dimly shining; and where, blowing in the wind, falling with the snow, drifting with the clouds, shining in the moonlight, and heavily looming in the darkness, were the Phantom’s words, “The gift that I have given, you shall give again, go where you will!”

Whither he went, he neither knew nor cared, so that he avoided company. The change he felt within him made the busy streets a desert, and himself a desert, and the multitude around him, in their manifold endurances and ways of life, a mighty waste of sand, which the winds tossed into unintelligible heaps and made a ruinous confusion of. Those traces in his breast which the Phantom had told him would “die out soon,” were not, as yet, so far upon their way to death, but that he understood enough of what he was, and what he made of others, to desire to be alone.

This put it in his mind—he suddenly bethought himself, as he was going along, of the boy who had rushed into his room. And then he recollected, that of those with whom he had communicated since the Phantom’s disappearance, that boy alone had shown no sign of being changed.

Monstrous and odious as the wild thing was to him, he determined to seek it out, and prove if this were really so; and also to seek it with another intention, which came into his thoughts at the same time.

So, resolving with some difficulty where he was, he directed his steps back to the old college, and to that part of it where the general porch was, and where, alone, the pavement was worn by the tread of the students’ feet.

The keeper’s house stood just within the iron gates, forming a part of the chief quadrangle. There was a little cloister outside, and from that sheltered place he knew he could look in at the window of their ordinary room, and see who was within. The iron gates were shut, but his hand was familiar with the fastening, and drawing it back by thrusting in his wrist between the bars, he passed through softly, shut it again, and crept up to the window, crumbling the thin crust of snow with his feet.

The fire, to which he had directed the boy last night, shining brightly through the glass, made an illuminated place upon the ground. Instinctively avoiding this, and going round it, he looked in at the window. At first, he thought that there was no one there, and that the blaze was reddening only the old beams in the ceiling and the dark walls; but peering in more narrowly, he saw the object of his search coiled asleep before it on the floor. He passed quickly to the door, opened it, and went in.

The creature lay in such a fiery heat, that, as the Chemist stooped to rouse him, it scorched his head. So soon as he was touched, the boy, not half awake, clutching his rags together with the instinct of flight upon him, half rolled and half ran into a distant corner of the room, where, heaped upon the ground, he struck his foot out to defend himself.

“Get up!” said the Chemist. “You have not forgotten me?”

“You let me alone!” returned the boy. “This is the woman’s house—not yours.”

The Chemist’s steady eye controlled him somewhat, or inspired him with enough submission to be raised upon his feet, and looked at.

Egli prese freddamente un libro e si sedette al tavolo.

Lo osservò per un po’, finché il suo sorriso svanì del tutto, e poi, tornando dove aveva lasciato la sua cesta, disse dolcemente:

«Signor Edmondo, preferirebbe essere solo?»

«Non c’è motivo per cui dovrei trattenerla qui», rispose lui.

«Fatta eccezione per —» disse Milly esitando e mostrando il suo lavoro.

“Oh! La tenda,” rispose con una risata arrogante. “Non vale la pena restare per quello.”

Riavvolse il pacchetto e lo mise nel suo cesto. Poi si fermò davanti a lui con un’aria di supplica così paziente che non poté fare altro che guardarla, e disse:

«Se mai mi vorrete, tornerò volentieri. Quando mi volevate, ero felice di venire; non c’era merito in questo. Penso che dovete aver paura che, ora che vi state rimettendo bene, io possa essere un peso per voi; ma non lo sarei stata davvero. Sarei venuta solo finché la vostra debolezza e il vostro isolamento fossero durati. Non mi dovete nulla; ma è giusto che vi comportiate con me in modo equo come se fossi una signora — anche la stessa signora che voi amate; e se sospettate che io faccia tanto conto, meschinamente, del poco che ho cercato di fare per consolare la vostra stanza da malato, vi fate più torto di quanto mai potreste farne a me. Ecco perché mi dispiace. Ecco perché mi dispiace molto».

Se fosse stata tanto appassionata quanto era tranquilla, tanto indignata quanto era calma, tanto arrabbiata nel suo sguardo quanto era gentile, tanto alta di tono quanto era bassa e chiara, non avrebbe lasciato alcuna sensazione della sua partenza nella stanza, paragonata a quella che cadde sullo studente solitario quando se ne andò.

Stava fissando tristemente il posto dove lei era stata quando Redlaw uscì dal suo nascondiglio e si avvicinò alla porta.

«Quando la malattia ti colpirà di nuovo», disse, guardandolo con ferocia, «—spero che sia presto!—Muori qui! Marcisci qui!»

«Cosa avete fatto?» rispose l’altro, afferrandolo per il mantello. «Che cambiamento mi avete procurato? Che maledizione mi avete portato addosso? Restituitemi a ME STESSO!»

«Ridammi me stesso!» esclamò Redlaw come un pazzo. «Sono infetto! Sono contagioso! Sono carico di veleno per la mia stessa mente e le menti di tutta l’umanità. Dove provavo interesse, compassione, simpatia, mi sto trasformando in pietra. L’egoismo e l’ingratitudine nascono sulle mie orme sterili. Non sono che un po’ meno vile dei miserabili che rendo tali, tanto da poterli odiare nel momento della loro trasformazione».

Mentre parlava — il giovane ancora aggrappato al suo mantello — lo scacciò e lo colpì; poi uscì precipitosamente nella notte in cui soffiava il vento, cadeva la neve, si spostavano le nuvole, splendeva debolmente la luna; e dove, portate dal vento, cadendo con la neve, trasportate dalle nuvole, risplendenti alla luce della luna e pesantemente minacciose nell’oscurità, c’erano le parole dello Spettro: «Il dono che ti ho dato, lo darai di nuovo, vada dove vuoi!»

Non sapeva né gli importava dove stesse andando, purché evitasse la compagnia. Il cambiamento che sentiva dentro di sé trasformava le strade affollate in un deserto, e lui stesso in un deserto, e la moltitudine intorno a lui, con le loro molteplici sofferenze e modi di vivere, in una vasta distesa di sabbia che i venti trasformavano in cumuli incomprensibili e rendevano un caotico disastro. Quelle tracce nel suo petto che lo Spettro gli aveva detto sarebbero “scomparse presto”, non erano ancora così vicine alla loro fine da impedirgli di capire abbastanza di ciò che era e di ciò che faceva agli altri, tanto da desiderare di essere solo.

Questo gli fece venire in mente—gli tornò improvvisamente alla memoria, mentre camminava, il ragazzo che era irruento nella sua stanza. E poi si ricordò che di tutti coloro con cui aveva parlato dopo la scomparsa del Fantasma, quel ragazzo solo non aveva mostrato alcun segno di essere cambiato.

Per quanto mostruosa e odiosa fosse la bestia per lui, decise di cercarla, e verificare se le cose stavano davvero così; e anche di cercarla con un’altra intenzione, che gli venne in mente nello stesso momento.

Così, riuscendo con qualche difficoltà a capire dove si trovasse, diresse i suoi passi verso il vecchio collegio e quella parte in cui c’era il portico generale e dove, solo, l’asfalto era consumato dal passo dei piedi degli studenti.

La casa del custode si trovava appena dentro i cancelli di ferro, facendo parte del quadrilatero principale. C’era un piccolo chiostro all’esterno, e da quel luogo riparato sapeva che poteva guardare dalla finestra della loro stanza ordinaria, e vedere chi c’era dentro. I cancelli di ferro erano chiusi, ma la sua mano era abituata al fermaglio, e tirandolo indietro spingendo il polso tra le sbarre, passò attraverso dolcemente, lo richiuse e si avvicinò in punta di piedi alla finestra, sgretolando la sottile crosta di neve con i suoi piedi.

Il fuoco, verso il quale aveva diretto il ragazzo la scorsa notte, brillava luminoso attraverso il vetro e proiettava una zona illuminata sul pavimento. Evitando istintivamente questa, aggirandola, guardò dentro dalla finestra. All’inizio pensò che non ci fosse nessuno e che le fiamme stessero arrossando solo i vecchi travi del soffitto e le pareti scure; ma scrutando più attentamente, vide l’oggetto della sua ricerca avvolto nel sonno davanti ad esso sul pavimento. Passò rapidamente alla porta, la aprì ed entrò.

La creatura giaceva in un calore così ardente che, quando il chimico si chinò per svegliarlo, gli bruciò la testa. Non appena fu toccato, il ragazzo, non ancora del tutto sveglio, afferrando i suoi stracci insieme con l’istinto di fuga addosso, rotolò e corse in un angolo remoto della stanza, dove, ammucchiato a terra, allungò il piede per difendersi.

“Alzati!” disse il chimico. “Non mi hai dimenticato?”

«Mi lasci in pace!» rispose il ragazzo. «Questa è la casa della donna, non la tua».

L’occhio fermo del chimico lo controllò un po’, o gli ispirò abbastanza sottomissione da essere sollevato in piedi e guardato.

“Who washed them, and put those bandages where they were bruised and cracked?” asked the Chemist, pointing to their altered state.

“The woman did.”

“And is it she who has made you cleaner in the face, too?”

“Yes, the woman.”

Redlaw asked these questions to attract his eyes towards himself, and with the same intent now held him by the chin, and threw his wild hair back, though he loathed to touch him. The boy watched his eyes keenly, as if he thought it needful to his own defence, not knowing what he might do next; and Redlaw could see well that no change came over him.

“Where are they?” he inquired.

“The woman’s out.”

“I know she is. Where is the old man with the white hair, and his son?”

“The woman’s husband, d’ye mean?” inquired the boy.

“Ay. Where are those two?”

“Out. Something’s the matter, somewhere. They were fetched out in a hurry, and told me to stop here.”

“Come with me,” said the Chemist, “and I’ll give you money.”

“Come where? and how much will you give?”

“I’ll give you more shillings than you ever saw, and bring you back soon. Do you know your way to where you came from?”

“You let me go,” returned the boy, suddenly twisting out of his grasp. “I’m not a going to take you there. Let me be, or I’ll heave some fire at you!”

He was down before it, and ready, with his savage little hand, to pluck the burning coals out.

What the Chemist had felt, in observing the effect of his charmed influence stealing over those with whom he came in contact, was not nearly equal to the cold vague terror with which he saw this baby-monster put it at defiance. It chilled his blood to look on the immovable impenetrable thing, in the likeness of a child, with its sharp malignant face turned up to his, and its almost infant hand, ready at the bars.

“Listen, boy!” he said. “You shall take me where you please, so that you take me where the people are very miserable or very wicked. I want to do them good, and not to harm them. You shall have money, as I have told you, and I will bring you back. Get up! Come quickly!” He made a hasty step towards the door, afraid of her returning.

“Will you let me walk by myself, and never hold me, nor yet touch me?” said the boy, slowly withdrawing the hand with which he threatened, and beginning to get up.

“I will!”

“And let me go, before, behind, or anyways I like?”

“I will!”

“Give me some money first, then, and go.”

The Chemist laid a few shillings, one by one, in his extended hand. To count them was beyond the boy’s knowledge, but he said “one,” every time, and avariciously looked at each as it was given, and at the donor. He had nowhere to put them, out of his hand, but in his mouth; and he put them there.

Redlaw then wrote with his pencil on a leaf of his pocket-book, that the boy was with him; and laying it on the table, signed to him to follow. Keeping his rags together, as usual, the boy complied, and went out with his bare head and naked feet into the winter night.

Preferring not to depart by the iron gate by which he had entered, where they were in danger of meeting her whom he so anxiously avoided, the Chemist led the way, through some of those passages among which the boy had lost himself, and by that portion of the building where he lived, to a small door of which he had the key. When they got into the street, he stopped to ask his guide—who instantly retreated from him—if he knew where they were.

The savage thing looked here and there, and at length, nodding his head, pointed in the direction he designed to take. Redlaw going on at once, he followed, something less suspiciously; shifting his money from his mouth into his hand, and back again into his mouth, and stealthily rubbing it bright upon his shreds of dress, as he went along.

Three times, in their progress, they were side by side. Three times they stopped, being side by side. Three times the Chemist glanced down at his face, and shuddered as it forced upon him one reflection.

The first occasion was when they were crossing an old churchyard, and Redlaw stopped among the graves, utterly at a loss how to connect them with any tender, softening, or consolatory thought.

The second was, when the breaking forth of the moon induced him to look up at the Heavens, where he saw her in her glory, surrounded by a host of stars he still knew by the names and histories which human science has appended to them; but where he saw nothing else he had been wont to see, felt nothing he had been wont to feel, in looking up there, on a bright night.

The third was when he stopped to listen to a plaintive strain of music, but could only hear a tune, made manifest to him by the dry mechanism of the instruments and his own ears, with no address to any mystery within him, without a whisper in it of the past, or of the future, powerless upon him as the sound of last year’s running water, or the rushing of last year’s wind.

At each of these three times, he saw with horror that, in spite of the vast intellectual distance between them, and their being unlike each other in all physical respects, the expression on the boy’s face was the expression on his own.

They journeyed on for some time—now through such crowded places, that he often looked over his shoulder thinking he had lost his guide, but generally finding him within his shadow on his other side; now by ways so quiet, that he could have counted his short, quick, naked footsteps coming on behind—until they arrived at a ruinous collection of houses, and the boy touched him and stopped.

“In there!” he said, pointing out one house where there were scattered lights in the windows, and a dim lantern in the doorway, with “Lodgings for Travellers” painted on it.

Redlaw looked about him; from the houses to the waste piece of ground on which the houses stood, or rather did not altogether tumble down, unfenced, undrained, unlighted, and bordered by a sluggish ditch; from that, to the sloping line of arches, part of some neighbouring viaduct or bridge with which it was surrounded, and which lessened gradually towards them, until the last but one was a mere kennel for a dog, the last a plundered little heap of bricks; from that, to the child, close to him, cowering and trembling with the cold, and limping on one little foot, while he coiled the other round his leg to warm it, yet staring at all these things with that frightful likeness of expression so apparent in his face, that Redlaw started from him.

«Chi li ha lavati e messo quei cerotti dove erano contusi e screpolati?» chiese il chimico, indicando il loro stato alterato.

La donna lo fece.

“E’ lei che ti ha reso anche più pulito nel viso?”

“Sì, la donna.”

Redlaw fece queste domande per attirare i suoi occhi su di sé e, con la stessa intenzione, ora lo teneva per il mento e gli scostava indietro i capelli arruffati, anche se provava ribrezzo a toccarlo. Il ragazzo osservava attentamente i suoi occhi, come se pensasse che fosse necessario per la sua difesa, non sapendo cosa avrebbe potuto fare dopo; e Redlaw poteva vedere bene che in lui non c’era alcun cambiamento.

«Dov’è che sono?» chiese lui.

“La donna è uscita.”

“So che lo è. Dov’è il vecchio dai capelli bianchi e suo figlio?”

«Il marito della donna, volete dire?» chiese il ragazzo.

“Eh sì. E quei due dove sono?”

«Fuori. C’è qualcosa che non va da qualche parte. Sono stati chiamati di corsa e mi hanno detto di fermarmi qui».

“Vieni con me,” disse il chimico, “e ti darò dei soldi.”

“Dove? E quanto offrite?”

«Ti darò più scellini di quanti ne abbia mai visti e ti riporterò presto indietro.
Sai come tornare da dove sei venuto?»

«Mi lasci andare», rispose il ragazzo, liberandosi improvvisamente dalla sua presa. «Non ho intenzione di portarti lì. Lasciami stare o ti scaglierò addosso un po’ di fuoco!»

Era già in ginocchio davanti ad essa e pronto a tirare fuori con la sua piccola mano selvaggia i carboni ardenti.

Ciò che il chimico aveva provato osservando l’effetto della sua influenza incantata diffondersi su coloro con cui entrava in contatto non era nemmeno paragonabile al freddo terrore vago con cui vide questo mostro-bambino sfidarlo. Gli gelò il sangue guardare quella cosa immobile e impenetrabile, simile a un bambino, con il suo viso acuto e maligno rivolto verso di lui e la sua mano quasi infantile pronta alle sbarre.

«Ascolta ragazzo» disse «mi porterai dove vuoi tu, purché sia un posto in cui la gente è molto infelice o molto malvagia. Voglio fare loro del bene e non nuocere. Avrai i soldi come ti ho detto io e ti riporterò indietro. Alzati! Vieni subito!» Fece un passo rapido verso la porta, temendo che lei tornasse.

«Mi lascerai camminare da solo e non mi terrai mai né mi toccherai?» disse il ragazzo ritirando lentamente la mano con cui aveva minacciato e cominciando a rialzarsi.

“Lo farò!”

“E lasciami andare, davanti, dietro o comunque mi piace?”

“Lo farò!”

“Dammi prima dei soldi, poi vattene.”

Il chimico depose alcune monete da scellino, una alla volta, nella mano tesa del ragazzo. Contarle era al di là delle capacità del ragazzo, ma lui diceva “uno”, ogni volta, e guardava avidamente ciascuna mentre gli veniva data e il donatore. Non aveva nessun posto dove metterle, fuori dalla mano, se non in bocca; e le mise lì.

Redlaw scrisse quindi con la sua matita su una pagina del suo taccuino che il ragazzo era con lui; e posandola sul tavolo, gli fece cenno di seguirlo. Il ragazzo acconsentì, tenendo addosso i suoi stracci come al solito, e uscì con la testa scoperta e i piedi nudi nella notte invernale.

Preferendo non uscire dal cancello di ferro da cui era entrato, dove c’era il pericolo di incontrare proprio lei che lui cercava così ansiosamente di evitare, il farmacista prese la guida attraverso alcuni di quei passaggi tra i quali il ragazzo si era perso e da quella parte dell’edificio in cui viveva, fino a una piccola porta della quale aveva le chiavi. Quando furono per strada, si fermò per chiedere al suo accompagnatore — che subito si ritrasse — se sapeva dove fossero.

La bestia selvaggia guardò da una parte e dall’altra, e infine, annuendo col capo, indicò la direzione che intendeva prendere. Redlaw si incamminò subito, ed egli lo seguì con meno sospetto; trasferiva il denaro dalla bocca alla mano, e di nuovo dalla mano alla bocca, strofinandolo furtivamente sul suo straccione mentre camminava.

Tre volte, nel loro cammino, furono fianco a fianco. Tre volte si fermarono, stando fianco a fianco. Tre volte il farmacista gettò uno sguardo sul suo volto e rabbrividì mentre lo costringeva ad una riflessione.

La prima occasione fu quando stavano attraversando un vecchio cimitero e Redlaw si fermò tra le tombe, completamente incapace di associarle a pensieri teneri, addolcenti o consolatori.

Il secondo fu quando l’apparizione della luna lo indusse ad alzare gli occhi verso il Cielo, dove la vide nella sua gloria, circondata da un esercito di stelle che ancora conosceva per i nomi e le storie che la scienza umana ha attribuito loro; ma non vi vide nulla altro che era solito vedere, né provò nulla di ciò che era solito provare guardando in alto, in una luminosa notte.

Il terzo fu quando si fermò ad ascoltare una melodia di musica lagnosa, ma non poté udire altro che un motivo, reso manifesto a lui dal meccanismo secco degli strumenti e delle sue orecchie, senza alcun richiamo verso alcun mistero in lui, senza un sussurro del passato né dell’avvenire, impotente su di lui come il rumore dell’acqua che scorreva l’anno prima, o lo scorrere della brezza dello stesso anno.

In ciascuna di queste tre occasioni vide con orrore che, nonostante la vasta distanza intellettuale tra loro e il fatto che erano diversissimi sotto ogni aspetto fisico, l’espressione del volto del ragazzo era identica alla sua.

Viaggiarono per un po’ di tempo — ora attraverso luoghi così affollati che lui spesso guardava indietro pensando di aver perso la sua guida, ma generalmente la trovava all’interno della sua ombra sul lato opposto; ora per vie così tranquille che avrebbe potuto contare i suoi brevi passi veloci e nudi che lo seguivano — finché non arrivarono a un insieme di case in rovina, e il ragazzo lo toccò e si fermò.

«Là dentro!», disse indicando una casa dove le finestre erano illuminate da luci sparse e sulla porta c’era una lanterna fioca con la scritta «Alloggi per viaggiatori».

Redlaw guardò intorno; dalle case al pezzo di terreno abbandonato su cui le case si trovavano, o meglio non cadevano del tutto, senza recinzioni, senza scarichi, senza illuminazione e confinante con un fosso lento; da quello, alla linea inclinata degli archi, parte di qualche viadotto o ponte vicino che lo circondava e si assottigliava gradualmente verso di loro, fino a quando il penultimo era una semplice cuccia per un cane, l’ultimo un mucchietto di mattoni saccheggiato; da quello, al bambino, vicino a lui, che si accucciava e tremava dal freddo, zoppicando su un piccolo piede, mentre avvolgeva l’altro intorno alla gamba per scaldarlo, ma fissando tutte queste cose con quella spaventosa somiglianza di espressione così evidente sul suo volto, che Redlaw si ritrasse da lui.

“In there!” said the boy, pointing out the house again. “I’ll wait.”

“Will they let me in?” asked Redlaw.

“Say you’re a doctor,” he answered with a nod. “There’s plenty ill here.”

Looking back on his way to the house-door, Redlaw saw him trail himself upon the dust and crawl within the shelter of the smallest arch, as if he were a rat. He had no pity for the thing, but he was afraid of it; and when it looked out of its den at him, he hurried to the house as a retreat.

“Sorrow, wrong, and trouble,” said the Chemist, with a painful effort at some more distinct remembrance, “at least haunt this place darkly. He can do no harm, who brings forgetfulness of such things here!”

With these words, he pushed the yielding door, and went in.

There was a woman sitting on the stairs, either asleep or forlorn, whose head was bent down on her hands and knees. As it was not easy to pass without treading on her, and as she was perfectly regardless of his near approach, he stopped, and touched her on the shoulder. Looking up, she showed him quite a young face, but one whose bloom and promise were all swept away, as if the haggard winter should unnaturally kill the spring.

With little or no show of concern on his account, she moved nearer to the wall to leave him a wider passage.

“What are you?” said Redlaw, pausing, with his hand upon the broken stair-rail.

“What do you think I am?” she answered, showing him her face again.

He looked upon the ruined Temple of God, so lately made, so soon disfigured; and something, which was not compassion—for the springs in which a true compassion for such miseries has its rise, were dried up in his breast—but which was nearer to it, for the moment, than any feeling that had lately struggled into the darkening, but not yet wholly darkened, night of his mind—mingled a touch of softness with his next words.

“I am come here to give relief, if I can,” he said. “Are you thinking of any wrong?”

She frowned at him, and then laughed; and then her laugh prolonged itself into a shivering sigh, as she dropped her head again, and hid her fingers in her hair.

“Are you thinking of a wrong?” he asked once more.

“I am thinking of my life,” she said, with a momentary look at him.

He had a perception that she was one of many, and that he saw the type of thousands, when he saw her, drooping at his feet.

“What are your parents?” he demanded.

“I had a good home once. My father was a gardener, far away, in the country.”

“Is he dead?”

“He’s dead to me. All such things are dead to me. You a gentleman, and not know that!” She raised her eyes again, and laughed at him.

“Girl!” said Redlaw, sternly, “before this death, of all such things, was brought about, was there no wrong done to you? In spite of all that you can do, does no remembrance of wrong cleave to you? Are there not times upon times when it is misery to you?”

So little of what was womanly was left in her appearance, that now, when she burst into tears, he stood amazed. But he was more amazed, and much disquieted, to note that in her awakened recollection of this wrong, the first trace of her old humanity and frozen tenderness appeared to show itself.

He drew a little off, and in doing so, observed that her arms were black, her face cut, and her bosom bruised.

“What brutal hand has hurt you so?” he asked.

“My own. I did it myself!” she answered quickly.

“It is impossible.”

“I’ll swear I did! He didn’t touch me. I did it to myself in a passion, and threw myself down here. He wasn’t near me. He never laid a hand upon me!”

In the white determination of her face, confronting him with this untruth, he saw enough of the last perversion and distortion of good surviving in that miserable breast, to be stricken with remorse that he had ever come near her.

“Sorrow, wrong, and trouble!” he muttered, turning his fearful gaze away. “All that connects her with the state from which she has fallen, has those roots! In the name of God, let me go by!”

Afraid to look at her again, afraid to touch her, afraid to think of having sundered the last thread by which she held upon the mercy of Heaven, he gathered his cloak about him, and glided swiftly up the stairs.

Opposite to him, on the landing, was a door, which stood partly open, and which, as he ascended, a man with a candle in his hand, came forward from within to shut. But this man, on seeing him, drew back, with much emotion in his manner, and, as if by a sudden impulse, mentioned his name aloud.

In the surprise of such a recognition there, he stopped, endeavouring to recollect the wan and startled face. He had no time to consider it, for, to his yet greater amazement, old Philip came out of the room, and took him by the hand.

“Mr. Redlaw,” said the old man, “this is like you, this is like you, sir! you have heard of it, and have come after us to render any help you can. Ah, too late, too late!”

Redlaw, with a bewildered look, submitted to be led into the room. A man lay there, on a truckle-bed, and William Swidger stood at the bedside.

“Too late!” murmured the old man, looking wistfully into the Chemist’s face; and the tears stole down his cheeks.

“That’s what I say, father,” interposed his son in a low voice. “That’s where it is, exactly. To keep as quiet as ever we can while he’s a dozing, is the only thing to do. You’re right, father!”

Redlaw paused at the bedside, and looked down on the figure that was stretched upon the mattress. It was that of a man, who should have been in the vigour of his life, but on whom it was not likely the sun would ever shine again. The vices of his forty or fifty years’ career had so branded him, that, in comparison with their effects upon his face, the heavy hand of Time upon the old man’s face who watched him had been merciful and beautifying.

“Who is this?” asked the Chemist, looking round.

“My son George, Mr. Redlaw,” said the old man, wringing his hands. “My eldest son, George, who was more his mother’s pride than all the rest!”

«Là dentro!» disse il ragazzo, indicando di nuovo la casa. «Aspetto io».

«Mi lasceranno entrare?» chiese Redlaw.

“Di’ che sei un dottore,” rispose con un cenno. “Qui ci sono molti malati.”

Ripensando al suo cammino verso la porta della casa, Redlaw lo vide trascinarsi sulla polvere e strisciare sotto il riparo dell’arco più piccolo, come se fosse un ratto. Non provava pietà per quella creatura, ma ne aveva paura; e quando essa lo guardò fuori dalla sua tana, si affrettò a rifugiarsi nella casa.

«Dolore, torto e tribolazione», disse il chimico con uno sforzo doloroso per ricordare più distintamente, «almeno infestano questo luogo in modo oscuro. Non può fare alcun male chi porta l’oblio di tali cose qui!»

Con queste parole spinse la porta cedevole ed entrò.

C’era una donna seduta sulle scale, addormentata o disperata, con la testa piegata sulle mani e sulle ginocchia. Non essendo facile passare senza calpestarla, e dato che lei non si accorgeva affatto del suo avvicinarsi, lui si fermò e le toccò una spalla. Alzando lo sguardo, gli mostrò un volto molto giovane, ma in cui il fiore e la promessa erano stati completamente spazzati via, come se l’inverno macilento uccidesse in modo innaturale la primavera.

Senza mostrare alcuna preoccupazione per lui, si spostò più vicino al muro per lasciargli un passaggio più ampio.

«Cosa sei?» disse Redlaw, fermandosi con la mano sul corrimano rotto della scala.

«Cosa credete che io sia?» rispose lei, mostrandogli di nuovo il suo volto.

Egli contemplò il tempio di Dio in rovina, appena costruito e già così presto sfigurato; e qualcosa che non era compassione — poiché le fonti da cui scaturisce una vera compassione per tali miserie erano prosciugate nel suo petto — ma che vi si avvicinava più di ogni altro sentimento che ultimamente aveva lottato per emergere nella notte che oscurava la sua mente, ancora non del tutto buia — mescolò un tocco di dolcezza alle sue prossime parole.

“Sono venuto qui per portare sollievo, se posso,” disse. “State pensando a qualche torto?”

Lo guardò torva e poi rise; la risata si prolungò in un sospiro tremante mentre abbassava di nuovo il capo e nascondeva le dita tra i capelli.

«State pensando a un torto?» chiese ancora una volta.

«Sto pensando alla mia vita», disse lei, con uno sguardo fugace verso di lui.

Aveva la percezione che lei fosse una di tante e che vedesse il tipo di migliaia quando la vide accasciata ai suoi piedi.

«Qual è la vostra condizione sociale?» chiese.

“Una volta avevo una buona casa. Mio padre era un giardiniere, lontano, in campagna.”

“È morto?”

«È morto per me. Tutte queste cose sono morte per me. Lei è un gentiluomo e non lo sa!» Alzò di nuovo gli occhi e rise di lui.

«Ragazza!» disse Redlaw con severità «prima che questa morte, di tutte le cose simili, fosse portata a compimento, non ti è stato fatto alcun torto? Nonostante tutto ciò che puoi fare, nessun ricordo di ingiustizia ti perseguita? Non ci sono momenti in cui questo è una sofferenza per te?»

Era rimasto così poco di femminile nel suo aspetto che ora, quando scoppiò a piangere, lui rimase stupito. Ma fu ancora più sorpreso e molto turbato nell’osservare che in quel risveglio del ricordo dell’affronto subito sembrava apparire il primo segno della sua vecchia umanità e della tenerezza congelata.

Si ritrasse un poco e, facendolo, notò che le sue braccia erano nere, il suo viso sfigurato e il seno livido.

«Che mano brutale ti ha fatto tanto male?» chiese lui.

«La mia! L’ho fatto io stessa!» rispose in fretta.

“È impossibile.”

«Lo giuro che l’ho fatto! Non mi ha toccato. L’ho fatto da solo per la rabbia e mi sono buttato qui. Non era vicino a me. Non mi ha mai messo le mani addosso!»

Nella determinazione bianca del suo volto che lo fronteggiava con questa menzogna, egli vide abbastanza dell’ultima perversione e distorsione di ogni benevolezza sopravvissuta in quel petto miserabile da sentirsi colpito dal rimorso per essere mai venuto vicino a lei.

«Dolore, torto e tribolazione!» mormorò, distogliendo il suo sguardo spaventato. «Tutto ciò che la collega allo stato da cui è caduta ha quelle radici! Per amor di Dio, lasciatemi passare!»

Aveva paura di guardarla ancora, aveva paura di toccarla, aveva paura di pensare di aver spezzato l’ultimo filo che la legava alla pietà del Cielo; si avvolse nel mantello e salì rapidamente le scale.

Di fronte a lui, sul pianerottolo, c’era una porta che era parzialmente aperta e dalla quale, mentre saliva, un uomo con una candela in mano uscì per chiuderla. Ma quest’uomo, vedendolo, indietreggiò, mostrando grande emozione nel suo comportamento e, come se fosse spinto da un impulso improvviso, pronunciò ad alta voce il suo nome.

Nello stupore di un tale riconoscimento lì, si fermò, sforzandosi di ricordare il volto pallido e spaventato. Non aveva tempo per pensarci, perché, con suo ancora maggiore stupore, il vecchio Philip uscì dalla stanza e lo prese per mano.

«Signor Redlaw», disse il vecchio, «questo è proprio da voi, questo è proprio da voi, signore! Avete sentito parlare di questa cosa e siete venuto a cercarci per offrirci ogni possibile aiuto. Ah, troppo tardi, troppo tardi!»

Redlaw, con uno sguardo disorientato, si lasciò condurre nella stanza. Un uomo giaceva lì su un letto basso e William Swidger stava in piedi accanto al letto.

“Troppo tardi!” mormorò il vecchio, guardando con malinconia in volto il farmacista; e le lacrime gli sgorgarono lungo le guance.

«È quello che dico io, padre», intervenne suo figlio con voce bassa. «È proprio lì il punto. L’unica cosa da fare è stare più tranquilli possibile mentre lui sta sonnecchiando. Avete ragione, padre!»

Redlaw si fermò al capezzale e guardò giù sulla figura distesa sul materasso. Era quella di un uomo che avrebbe dovuto essere nel fiore della vita, ma su cui non era probabile che il sole sarebbe mai più risplenduto. I vizi dei suoi quaranta o cinquant’anni di carriera lo avevano così marchiato che, in confronto ai loro effetti sul suo volto, la pesante mano del Tempo sul viso dell’anziano che lo vegliava era stata misericordiosa e abbellente.

«Chi è questo?» chiese il chimico guardandosi intorno.

“Mio figlio Giorgio, signor Redlaw”, disse il vecchio, strizzando le mani, “mio figlio maggiore, Giorgio, che era più l’orgoglio di sua madre di tutti gli altri!”

Redlaw’s eyes wandered from the old man’s grey head, as he laid it down upon the bed, to the person who had recognised him, and who had kept aloof, in the remotest corner of the room. He seemed to be about his own age; and although he knew no such hopeless decay and broken man as he appeared to be, there was something in the turn of his figure, as he stood with his back towards him, and now went out at the door, that made him pass his hand uneasily across his brow.

“William,” he said in a gloomy whisper, “who is that man?”

“Why you see, sir,” returned Mr. William, “that’s what I say, myself. Why should a man ever go and gamble, and the like of that, and let himself down inch by inch till he can’t let himself down any lower!”

“Has he done so?” asked Redlaw, glancing after him with the same uneasy action as before.

“Just exactly that, sir,” returned William Swidger, “as I’m told. He knows a little about medicine, sir, it seems; and having been wayfaring towards London with my unhappy brother that you see here,” Mr. William passed his coat-sleeve across his eyes, “and being lodging up stairs for the night—what I say, you see, is that strange companions come together here sometimes—he looked in to attend upon him, and came for us at his request. What a mournful spectacle, sir! But that’s where it is. It’s enough to kill my father!”

Redlaw looked up, at these words, and, recalling where he was and with whom, and the spell he carried with him—which his surprise had obscured—retired a little, hurriedly, debating with himself whether to shun the house that moment, or remain.

Yielding to a certain sullen doggedness, which it seemed to be a part of his condition to struggle with, he argued for remaining.

“Was it only yesterday,” he said, “when I observed the memory of this old man to be a tissue of sorrow and trouble, and shall I be afraid, to-night, to shake it? Are such remembrances as I can drive away, so precious to this dying man that I need fear for him? No! I’ll stay here.”

But he stayed in fear and trembling none the less for these words; and, shrouded in his black cloak with his face turned from them, stood away from the bedside, listening to what they said, as if he felt himself a demon in the place.

“Father!” murmured the sick man, rallying a little from stupor.

“My boy! My son George!” said old Philip.

“You spoke, just now, of my being mother’s favourite, long ago. It’s a dreadful thing to think now, of long ago!”

“No, no, no;” returned the old man. “Think of it. Don’t say it’s dreadful. It’s not dreadful to me, my son.”

“It cuts you to the heart, father.” For the old man’s tears were falling on him.

“Yes, yes,” said Philip, “so it does; but it does me good. It’s a heavy sorrow to think of that time, but it does me good, George. Oh, think of it too, think of it too, and your heart will be softened more and more! Where’s my son William? William, my boy, your mother loved him dearly to the last, and with her latest breath said, ‘Tell him I forgave him, blessed him, and prayed for him.’ Those were her words to me. I have never forgotten them, and I’m eighty-seven!”

“Father!” said the man upon the bed, “I am dying, I know. I am so far gone, that I can hardly speak, even of what my mind most runs on. Is there any hope for me beyond this bed?”

“There is hope,” returned the old man, “for all who are softened and penitent. There is hope for all such. Oh!” he exclaimed, clasping his hands and looking up, “I was thankful, only yesterday, that I could remember this unhappy son when he was an innocent child. But what a comfort it is, now, to think that even God himself has that remembrance of him!”

Redlaw spread his hands upon his face, and shrank, like a murderer.

“Ah!” feebly moaned the man upon the bed. “The waste since then, the waste of life since then!”

“But he was a child once,” said the old man. “He played with children. Before he lay down on his bed at night, and fell into his guiltless rest, he said his prayers at his poor mother’s knee. I have seen him do it, many a time; and seen her lay his head upon her breast, and kiss him. Sorrowful as it was to her and me, to think of this, when he went so wrong, and when our hopes and plans for him were all broken, this gave him still a hold upon us, that nothing else could have given. Oh, Father, so much better than the fathers upon earth! Oh, Father, so much more afflicted by the errors of Thy children! take this wanderer back! Not as he is, but as he was then, let him cry to Thee, as he has so often seemed to cry to us!”

As the old man lifted up his trembling hands, the son, for whom he made the supplication, laid his sinking head against him for support and comfort, as if he were indeed the child of whom he spoke.

When did man ever tremble, as Redlaw trembled, in the silence that ensued! He knew it must come upon them, knew that it was coming fast.

“My time is very short, my breath is shorter,” said the sick man, supporting himself on one arm, and with the other groping in the air, “and I remember there is something on my mind concerning the man who was here just now, Father and William—wait!—is there really anything in black, out there?”

“Yes, yes, it is real,” said his aged father.

“Is it a man?”

“What I say myself, George,” interposed his brother, bending kindly over him. “It’s Mr. Redlaw.”

“I thought I had dreamed of him. Ask him to come here.”

The Chemist, whiter than the dying man, appeared before him. Obedient to the motion of his hand, he sat upon the bed.

“It has been so ripped up, to-night, sir,” said the sick man, laying his hand upon his heart, with a look in which the mute, imploring agony of his condition was concentrated, “by the sight of my poor old father, and the thought of all the trouble I have been the cause of, and all the wrong and sorrow lying at my door, that—”

Gli occhi di Redlaw si spostarono dalla testa grigia del vecchio, mentre la posava sul letto, alla persona che lo aveva riconosciuto e che era rimasta in disparte, nell’angolo più lontano della stanza. Sembrava avere circa la sua età; e sebbene non conoscesse un uomo così disperatamente decaduto e spezzato come sembrava essere lui, c’era qualcosa nel modo in cui si era girato, mentre stava con le spalle rivolte verso di lui, e ora usciva dalla porta, che lo spinse a passarsi la mano sulla fronte con disagio.

“William”, disse con un sussurro cupo, “chi è quell’uomo?”

«Vede, signore», rispose il signor William, «è quello che dico io stesso. Perché mai un uomo dovrebbe mettersi a giocare e cose del genere, e lasciarsi andare poco per volta finché non può più cadere più in basso!»

«L’ha fatto lui?» chiese Redlaw, guardandolo con la stessa inquieta espressione di prima.

«Proprio così, signore», rispose William Swidger, «come mi è stato detto. Pare che sappia qualcosa di medicina, signore; e avendo fatto strada verso Londra con mio fratello disgraziato che vedete qui» — il signor William si passò la manica della giacca sugli occhi — «e alloggiando lassù per la notte — quello che voglio dire, come vedete, è che a volte strani compagni si ritrovano insieme qui — ha fatto un salto a prendersi cura di lui e ci ha mandato a chiamare su sua richiesta. Che spettacolo triste, signore! Ma così stanno le cose. Basta a uccidere mio padre!»

Redlaw alzò lo sguardo, a queste parole, e, ricordando dove si trovava e con chi, e il sortilegio che portava con sé — che la sua sorpresa aveva offuscato — indietreggiò un po’, in fretta, chiedendosi se fuggire da quella casa all’istante o rimanere.

Cedendo a una certa cocciutaggine cupa che sembrava parte integrante della sua condizione e contro la quale lottava, insistette per rimanere.

«Era solo ieri», disse, «quando ho notato che il ricordo di questo vecchio era un tessuto di dolore e affanno, e dovrei avere paura, stasera, di scuoterlo? Sono tali ricordi come quelli che posso allontanare così preziosi per quest’uomo morente da farmi temere per lui? No! Rimarrò qui.»

Ma rimase comunque avvolto nel terrore e tremante per quelle parole; e, avvolto nel suo mantello nero con il volto rivolto lontano da loro, si tenne lontano dal letto, ascoltando ciò che dicevano, come se si sentisse un demone in quel luogo.

«Padre!» mormorò l’uomo malato, riprendendosi un po’ dallo stupore.

«Mio ragazzo! Mio figlio Giorgio!» disse il vecchio Filippo.

«Avete parlato poco fa del fatto che ero il preferito di mia madre tanto tempo fa. È una cosa terribile pensarci ora, al passato!»

«No, no, no», rispose il vecchio. «Pensaci. Non dire che è terribile. Per me non lo è, figlio mio».

“Vi ferisce il cuore, padre”. Perché le lacrime del vecchio cadevano su di lui.

«Sì, sì», disse Filippo, «è così; ma mi fa bene. È un dolore profondo pensare a quel tempo, ma mi fa bene, Giorgio. Oh, pensaci anche tu, pensaci anche tu, e il tuo cuore si ammorbidirà sempre di più! Dov’è mio figlio Guglielmo? Guglielmo, ragazzo mio, tua madre lo ha amato teneramente fino all’ultimo, e con il suo ultimo respiro ha detto: «Digli che gli ho perdonato, l’ho benedetto e pregato per lui». Queste furono le sue parole a me. Non le ho mai dimenticate, e io ho ottantasette anni!»

«Padre!» disse l’uomo sul letto «Sto morendo, lo so. Sono così prossimo alla fine che riesco a malapena a parlare, anche di ciò che più occupa la mia mente. C’è ancora qualche speranza per me oltre questo letto?»

“C’è speranza,” rispose il vecchio, “per tutti coloro che sono pentiti e addolciti. C’è speranza per tutti loro. Oh!” esclamò, stringendosi le mani e alzando lo sguardo, “ero grato solo ieri di poter ricordare questo figlio infelice quando era un innocente bambino. Ma che conforto è ora pensare che anche Dio stesso ha quel ricordo di lui!”

Redlaw si coprì il volto con le mani e si ritrasse come un assassino.

«Ah!» gemette debolmente l’uomo sul letto «lo spreco da allora in poi, lo spreco di vita da allora in poi!»

«Ma lui una volta era un bambino», disse il vecchio. «Giocava con i bambini. Prima di coricarsi sul suo letto la sera, e addormentarsi nel suo innocente riposo, recitava le preghiere in ginocchio accanto alla sua povera madre. L’ho visto fare tante volte; e l’ho vista posargli la testa sul seno, e baciarlo. Per quanto fosse doloroso per lei e per me pensarci, quando lui si era così allontanato dalla retta via, e le nostre speranze e i piani che avevamo per lui erano tutti infranti, questo gli ha comunque dato un legame con noi, che nulla altro avrebbe potuto dare. Oh, Padre, tanto migliore dei padri sulla terra! Oh, Padre, tanto più afflitto dagli errori dei Tuoi figli! riprenditi questo errante! Non come è ora, ma com’era allora, lascia che ti gridi il suo cuore, come ci ha così spesso sembrato di gridare a noi!»

Quando il vecchio alzò le sue tremanti mani, il figlio, per cui faceva la supplica, appoggiò contro di lui la sua testa che si abbassava in cerca di sostegno e conforto, come se fosse davvero il bambino di cui parlava.

Quando mai l’uomo ha tremato, come tremava Redlaw, nel silenzio che seguì! Sapeva che doveva piombare su di loro, sapeva che stava arrivando in fretta.

«Il mio tempo è molto breve, il mio respiro ancora più corto», disse l’uomo malato, sostenendosi su un braccio e con l’altro tastando nell’aria, «e ricordo che c’è qualcosa che mi preoccupa riguardo all’uomo che era qui poco fa, Padre e William — aspettate! — c’è davvero qualcuno vestito di nero là fuori?»

«Sì, sì, è reale», disse il suo vecchio padre.

“È un uomo?”

«Quello che dico io stesso, Giorgio», intervenne suo fratello, chinandosi gentilmente su di lui «è il signor Redlaw».

“Pensavo di averlo sognato. Chiedigli di venire qui.”

Il chimico, più bianco dell’uomo morente, gli apparve davanti. Obbediente al gesto della sua mano, si sedette sul letto.

«È stato così sconvolto, stasera, signore», disse l’uomo malato, ponendo la mano sul cuore con uno sguardo in cui si concentrava il muto, implorante tormento della sua condizione, «dalla vista del mio povero vecchio padre e dal pensiero di tutti i guai che ho causato e di tutto il male e il dolore che gravano su di me, che—»

Was it the extremity to which he had come, or was it the dawning of another change, that made him stop?

“—that what I can do right, with my mind running on so much, so fast, I’ll try to do. There was another man here. Did you see him?”

Redlaw could not reply by any word; for when he saw that fatal sign he knew so well now, of the wandering hand upon the forehead, his voice died at his lips. But he made some indication of assent.

“He is penniless, hungry, and destitute. He is completely beaten down, and has no resource at all. Look after him! Lose no time! I know he has it in his mind to kill himself.”

It was working. It was on his face. His face was changing, hardening, deepening in all its shades, and losing all its sorrow.

“Don’t you remember? Don’t you know him?” he pursued.

He shut his face out for a moment, with the hand that again wandered over his forehead, and then it lowered on Redlaw, reckless, ruffianly, and callous.

“Why, d-n you!” he said, scowling round, “what have you been doing to me here! I have lived bold, and I mean to die bold. To the Devil with you!”

And so lay down upon his bed, and put his arms up, over his head and ears, as resolute from that time to keep out all access, and to die in his indifference.

If Redlaw had been struck by lightning, it could not have struck him from the bedside with a more tremendous shock. But the old man, who had left the bed while his son was speaking to him, now returning, avoided it quickly likewise, and with abhorrence.

“Where’s my boy William?” said the old man hurriedly. “William, come away from here. We’ll go home.”

“Home, father!” returned William. “Are you going to leave your own son?”

“Where’s my own son?” replied the old man.

“Where? why, there!”

“That’s no son of mine,” said Philip, trembling with resentment. “No such wretch as that, has any claim on me. My children are pleasant to look at, and they wait upon me, and get my meat and drink ready, and are useful to me. I’ve a right to it! I’m eighty-seven!”

“You’re old enough to be no older,” muttered William, looking at him grudgingly, with his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know what good you are, myself. We could have a deal more pleasure without you.”

“My son, Mr. Redlaw!” said the old man. “My son, too! The boy talking to me of my son! Why, what has he ever done to give me any pleasure, I should like to know?”

“I don’t know what you have ever done to give me any pleasure,” said William, sulkily.

“Let me think,” said the old man. “For how many Christmas times running, have I sat in my warm place, and never had to come out in the cold night air; and have made good cheer, without being disturbed by any such uncomfortable, wretched sight as him there? Is it twenty, William?”

“Nigher forty, it seems,” he muttered. “Why, when I look at my father, sir, and come to think of it,” addressing Redlaw, with an impatience and irritation that were quite new, “I’m whipped if I can see anything in him but a calendar of ever so many years of eating and drinking, and making himself comfortable, over and over again.”

“I—I’m eighty-seven,” said the old man, rambling on, childishly and weakly, “and I don’t know as I ever was much put out by anything. I’m not going to begin now, because of what he calls my son. He’s not my son. I’ve had a power of pleasant times. I recollect once—no I don’t—no, it’s broken off. It was something about a game of cricket and a friend of mine, but it’s somehow broken off. I wonder who he was—I suppose I liked him? And I wonder what became of him—I suppose he died? But I don’t know. And I don’t care, neither; I don’t care a bit.”

In his drowsy chuckling, and the shaking of his head, he put his hands into his waistcoat pockets. In one of them he found a bit of holly (left there, probably last night), which he now took out, and looked at.

“Berries, eh?” said the old man. “Ah! It’s a pity they’re not good to eat. I recollect, when I was a little chap about as high as that, and out a walking with—let me see—who was I out a walking with?—no, I don’t remember how that was. I don’t remember as I ever walked with any one particular, or cared for any one, or any one for me. Berries, eh? There’s good cheer when there’s berries. Well; I ought to have my share of it, and to be waited on, and kept warm and comfortable; for I’m eighty-seven, and a poor old man. I’m eigh-ty-seven. Eigh-ty-seven!”

The drivelling, pitiable manner in which, as he repeated this, he nibbled at the leaves, and spat the morsels out; the cold, uninterested eye with which his youngest son (so changed) regarded him; the determined apathy with which his eldest son lay hardened in his sin; impressed themselves no more on Redlaw’s observation,—for he broke his way from the spot to which his feet seemed to have been fixed, and ran out of the house.

His guide came crawling forth from his place of refuge, and was ready for him before he reached the arches.

“Back to the woman’s?” he inquired.

“Back, quickly!” answered Redlaw. “Stop nowhere on the way!”

For a short distance the boy went on before; but their return was more like a flight than a walk, and it was as much as his bare feet could do, to keep pace with the Chemist’s rapid strides. Shrinking from all who passed, shrouded in his cloak, and keeping it drawn closely about him, as though there were mortal contagion in any fluttering touch of his garments, he made no pause until they reached the door by which they had come out. He unlocked it with his key, went in, accompanied by the boy, and hastened through the dark passages to his own chamber.

The boy watched him as he made the door fast, and withdrew behind the table, when he looked round.

“Come!” he said. “Don’t you touch me! You’ve not brought me here to take my money away.”

Redlaw threw some more upon the ground. He flung his body on it immediately, as if to hide it from him, lest the sight of it should tempt him to reclaim it; and not until he saw him seated by his lamp, with his face hidden in his hands, began furtively to pick it up. When he had done so, he crept near the fire, and, sitting down in a great chair before it, took from his breast some broken scraps of food, and fell to munching, and to staring at the blaze, and now and then to glancing at his shillings, which he kept clenched up in a bunch, in one hand.

Fu l’estremo limite che aveva raggiunto o fu il sorgere di un altro cambiamento a farlo fermare?

«Quello che posso fare bene, con la mente che lavora tanto e così in fretta, cercherò di farlo. C’era un altro uomo qui. L’avete visto?»

Redlaw non poteva rispondere con alcuna parola; perché quando vide quel segno fatale che ormai conosceva così bene, della mano errante sulla fronte, la sua voce gli morì sulle labbra. Ma fece un cenno di assenso.

“È senza un soldo, affamato e indigente. È completamente abbattuto, e non ha alcuna risorsa. Prendetevi cura di lui! Non perdete tempo! So che ha in mente di uccidersi.”

Stava funzionando. Lo si vedeva dal suo volto. Il suo viso stava cambiando, indurendosi e approfondendosi in tutte le sue sfumature, perdendo ogni traccia di dolore.

«Non ti ricordi? Non lo conosci?» continuò lui.

Si coprì il volto per un momento con la mano che di nuovo gli vagava sulla fronte e poi lo abbassò su Redlaw in modo spietato, da delinquente e insensibile.

«Perbacco, dannazione a voi!» disse, aggrottando la fronte «che cosa mi avete fatto qui? Ho vissuto con audacia e voglio morire con audacia. Andate al diavolo!»

E così si sdraiò sul suo letto e alzò le braccia sopra la testa e le orecchie, deciso da quel momento a non lasciar entrare nulla e a morire nella sua indifferenza.

Se Redlaw fosse stato colpito da fulmine, non avrebbe potuto ricevere un colpo più tremendo mentre si trovava accanto al letto. Ma l’anziano, che aveva lasciato il letto mentre suo figlio gli parlava, ora tornando indietro lo evitò rapidamente anche lui e con orrore.

«Dov’è mio figlio William?» disse l’uomo anziano in fretta. «William, vieni via da qui. Torneremo a casa.»

«Casa, padre!» rispose William. «Hai intenzione di abbandonare tuo figlio?»

«Dov’è mio figlio?» rispose il vecchio.

“Dove? Proprio lì!”

«Questo non è mio figlio», disse Philip, tremando di risentimento. «Un disgraziato del genere non ha alcun diritto su di me. I miei bambini sono piacevoli da guardare e mi servono, preparano il cibo e la bevanda per me ed essi mi sono utili. Ho il diritto! Ho ottantasette anni!»

«Sei abbastanza vecchio per non esserlo», borbottò William guardandolo con riluttanza, le mani nelle tasche. «Non so proprio che cosa ti renda utile. Potremmo divertirci molto di più senza di te».

«Il mio figlio, signor Redlaw!» disse il vecchio. «Anche lui è mio figlio! Questo ragazzo che mi parla del mio figlio! Ma ditemi un po’, che cosa ha mai fatto per darmi qualche piacere?»

«Non so cosa tu abbia mai fatto per darmi qualche piacere», disse William con aria malcontenta.

«Fammi pensare», disse il vecchio. «Per quanti Natali consecutivi sono rimasto seduto al caldo nel mio posto e non ho dovuto uscire nell’aria fredda della notte; e mi sono divertito senza essere disturbato da una vista così sgradevole, così miserabile come quella di quel ragazzo? Sono venti, William?»

«Quasi quaranta, sembra», borbottò. «Eppure, quando guardo mio padre, signore, e ci penso bene» disse rivolto a Redlaw con un’impazienza e una irritazione del tutto nuove, «mi batto il pugno sulla fronte se riesco a vedere in lui altro che un calendario di tanti anni passati a mangiare e bere, e a sentirsi comodo, ancora e ancora.»

“Io—io ho ottantasette anni”, disse il vecchio, continuando a parlare in modo infantile e debole, “e non credo di essere mai stato molto turbato da qualcosa. Non intendo cominciare ora per colpa di quello che lui chiama mio figlio. Non è mio figlio. Ho avuto tanti bei momenti. Ricordo una volta—no, non ricordo—no, mi sfugge. Aveva a che fare con una partita di cricket e un amico mio, ma in qualche modo mi sfugge. Mi domando chi fosse—immagino che mi piacesse? E mi domando cosa ne è stato di lui—immagino sia morto? Ma non lo so. E non me ne importa, anzi; non me ne importa niente.”

Nel suo ridacchiare assonnato e nel muovere la testa, infilò le mani nelle tasche del panciotto. In una di esse trovò un pezzetto d’agrifoglio (probabilmente lasciato lì sera), che ora tirò fuori e guardò.

“Frutti di bosco, eh?” disse il vecchio. “Ah! È un peccato che non siano commestibili. Ricordo quando ero un ragazzino alto così, e uscivo a passeggiare con, fammi pensare, con chi uscivo a passeggiare? No, non ricordo come andava la cosa. Non ricordo di essere mai uscito a passeggio con qualcuno in particolare, o di aver voluto bene a qualcuno, o che qualcuno ne volesse a me. Frutti di bosco, eh? C’è da stare allegri quando ci sono i frutti di bosco. Bene; dovrei avere la mia parte e farmi servire, tenere al caldo e in comodità; perché ho ottantasette anni ed è un povero vecchio. Ho ot-tan-ta-set-te anni. Ot-tan-ta-set-te!”

Il modo sconclusionato e pietoso con cui, mentre ripeteva questo, lui masticava le foglie e sputava i bocconi; l’occhio freddo e disinteressato con cui il figlio più giovane (così cambiato) lo guardava; la determinata apatia con cui il figlio maggiore giaceva indurito nel suo peccato; non si impressero più nell’osservazione di Redlaw, che si liberò dal punto in cui i suoi piedi sembravano essere stati fissati e corse fuori dalla casa.

La sua guida strisciò fuori dal suo nascondiglio e gli si fece incontro prima che raggiungesse le arcate.

«Tornare dalla donna?» chiese.

“Torna indietro in fretta!” rispose Redlaw. “Non fermarti per strada!”

Per un breve tratto il ragazzo andò avanti; ma il loro ritorno fu più simile a una fuga che a una passeggiata e i suoi piedi nudi facevano appena in tempo a tenere il passo con le rapide falcate del farmacista. Ritraendosi da tutti quelli che incontrava, avvolto nel suo mantello e stringendoselo addosso come se ogni sfioramento dei suoi abiti fosse mortalmente contagioso, non si fermò finché non arrivarono alla porta da cui erano usciti. La aprì con la sua chiave, entrò accompagnato dal ragazzo e si affrettò attraverso i corridoi bui fino alla propria camera.

Il ragazzo lo osservò mentre chiudeva la porta e si ritirava dietro il tavolo quando guardò intorno a sé.

“Avanti!” disse lui. “Non mi toccare! Non mi hai portato qui per rubarmi i soldi.”

Redlaw ne gettò ancora un po’ sul pavimento. Si buttò immediatamente il suo corpo sopra di esso, come se volesse nasconderlo a sé stesso, per paura che la vista di quel denaro lo tentasse a riprenderlo; e solo quando vide l’uomo seduto accanto alla sua lampada con il viso nascosto tra le mani, cominciò furtivamente a raccoglierli. Quando ebbe finito, si avvicinò strisciando al fuoco e, sedendosi in una grande poltrona davanti ad esso, tirò fuori dal petto alcuni pezzi di cibo spezzati e cominciò a masticare mentre fissava le fiamme, lanciando ogni tanto un’occhiata alle sue monete da scellino che teneva strette in un mucchietto nella mano.

“And this,” said Redlaw, gazing on him with increased repugnance and fear, “is the only one companion I have left on earth!”

How long it was before he was aroused from his contemplation of this creature, whom he dreaded so—whether half-an-hour, or half the night—he knew not. But the stillness of the room was broken by the boy (whom he had seen listening) starting up, and running towards the door.

“Here’s the woman coming!” he exclaimed.

The Chemist stopped him on his way, at the moment when she knocked.

“Let me go to her, will you?” said the boy.

“Not now,” returned the Chemist. “Stay here. Nobody must pass in or out of the room now. Who’s that?”

“It’s I, sir,” cried Milly. “Pray, sir, let me in!”

“No! not for the world!” he said.

“Mr. Redlaw, Mr. Redlaw, pray, sir, let me in.”

“What is the matter?” he said, holding the boy.

“The miserable man you saw, is worse, and nothing I can say will wake him from his terrible infatuation. William’s father has turned childish in a moment, William himself is changed. The shock has been too sudden for him; I cannot understand him; he is not like himself. Oh, Mr. Redlaw, pray advise me, help me!”

“No! No! No!” he answered.

“Mr. Redlaw! Dear sir! George has been muttering, in his doze, about the man you saw there, who, he fears, will kill himself.”

“Better he should do it, than come near me!”

“He says, in his wandering, that you know him; that he was your friend once, long ago; that he is the ruined father of a student here—my mind misgives me, of the young gentleman who has been ill. What is to be done? How is he to be followed? How is he to be saved? Mr. Redlaw, pray, oh, pray, advise me! Help me!”

All this time he held the boy, who was half-mad to pass him, and let her in.

“Phantoms! Punishers of impious thoughts!” cried Redlaw, gazing round in anguish, “look upon me! From the darkness of my mind, let the glimmering of contrition that I know is there, shine up and show my misery! In the material world as I have long taught, nothing can be spared; no step or atom in the wondrous structure could be lost, without a blank being made in the great universe. I know, now, that it is the same with good and evil, happiness and sorrow, in the memories of men. Pity me! Relieve me!”

There was no response, but her “Help me, help me, let me in!” and the boy’s struggling to get to her.

“Shadow of myself! Spirit of my darker hours!” cried Redlaw, in distraction, “come back, and haunt me day and night, but take this gift away! Or, if it must still rest with me, deprive me of the dreadful power of giving it to others. Undo what I have done. Leave me benighted, but restore the day to those whom I have cursed. As I have spared this woman from the first, and as I never will go forth again, but will die here, with no hand to tend me, save this creature’s who is proof against me,—hear me!”

The only reply still was, the boy struggling to get to her, while he held him back; and the cry, increasing in its energy, “Help! let me in. He was your friend once, how shall he be followed, how shall he be saved? They are all changed, there is no one else to help me, pray, pray, let me in!”

«E questo», disse Redlaw, fissandolo con crescente ripugnanza e paura, «è l’unico compagno che mi è rimasto sulla terra!»

Non sapeva quanto tempo fosse passato prima che venisse risvegliato dalla contemplazione di quella creatura, da lui tanto temuta — se mezz’ora o metà della notte — ma la quiete della stanza fu interrotta dal ragazzo (che aveva visto ascoltare) che si alzò di scatto e corse verso la porta.

«Ecco che arriva la donna!» esclamò.

La chimica la fermò mentre stava per andarsene, nel momento in cui lei bussò.

«Lasciatemi andare da lei, volete?» disse il ragazzo.

«Non ora», rispose il chimico. «Rimanete qui. Nessuno deve entrare o uscire dalla stanza adesso. Chi è quello?»

“Sono io, signore,” gridò Milly. “La prego, signore, faccia entrare!”

«No! Non per tutto l’oro del mondo!» disse.

“Signor Redlaw, Signor Redlaw, la prego, signore, faccia entrare.”

«Che cosa c’è?» disse, tenendo il ragazzo.

«L’uomo miserabile che avete visto è peggiorato e nulla di ciò che posso dire lo risveglierà dalla sua terribile infatuazione. Il padre di William è diventato improvvisamente infantile, William stesso è cambiato. Lo shock per lui è stato troppo repentino; non riesco a capirlo; non è più se stesso. Oh, signor Redlaw, la prego, mi consigli, mi aiuti!»

«No! No! No!» rispose lui.

«Signor Redlaw! Caro signore! George ha mormorato nel suo sonno che l’uomo che lei ha visto là teme di uccidersi.»

“È meglio che lo faccia lui piuttosto che avvicinarsi a me!”

«Dice, nel suo vagare, che voi lo conoscete; che una volta fu vostro amico, molto tempo fa; che è il padre rovinato di uno studente qui — mi sembra di capire, del giovane signore che è stato malato. Cosa si deve fare? Come seguirlo? Come salvarlo? Signor Redlaw, vi prego, oh, vi prego, consigliatemi! Aiutatemi!»

Tutto questo tempo lui tenne il ragazzo, che era mezzo pazzo dal desiderio di superarlo e farla entrare.

«Fantasmi! Punitori dei pensieri empi!», gridò Redlaw guardandosi intorno angosciato, «guardatemi! Dal buio della mia mente fate risplendere la luce del pentimento che so essere là e mostrate la mia miseria! Nel mondo materiale come ho a lungo insegnato nulla può essere risparmiato; nessun passo o atomo nella meravigliosa struttura potrebbe andare perduto senza lasciare un vuoto nel grande universo. Ora so che è lo stesso con il bene e il male, la felicità e il dolore, nei ricordi degli uomini. Abbiatemi pietà! Liberatemi!»

Non ci fu risposta, ma lei continuava a gridare: «Aiutatemi, aiutatemi, fatemi entrare!», e il ragazzo si sforzava di raggiungerla.

“Ombra di me stesso! Spirito delle mie ore più buie!” gridò Redlaw, distrattamente, “torna indietro e perseguitami giorno e notte, ma portati via questo dono! O se deve ancora rimanere con me, privami del terribile potere di concederlo ad altri. Annulla ciò che ho fatto. Lasciami nelle tenebre, ma riporta la luce a coloro che ho maledetto. Come ho risparmiato questa donna fin dall’inizio e come non uscirò mai più, ma morirò qui, senza una mano che mi assista se non quella di questa creatura che è immune al mio influsso,—ascoltami!”

L’unica risposta fu ancora quella del ragazzo che si sforzava di raggiungerla mentre lui lo tratteneva; e il grido, sempre più energico: «Aiuto! Fatemi entrare. Fu una volta vostro amico, come potrà essere seguito, come potrà essere salvato? Tutti sono cambiati, non c’è nessun altro che mi aiuti, vi prego, vi prego, fatemi entrare!»

CHAPTER III The Gift Reversed

Night was still heavy in the sky. On open plains, from hill-tops, and from the decks of solitary ships at sea, a distant low-lying line, that promised by-and-by to change to light, was visible in the dim horizon; but its promise was remote and doubtful, and the moon was striving with the night-clouds busily.

The shadows upon Redlaw’s mind succeeded thick and fast to one another, and obscured its light as the night-clouds hovered between the moon and earth, and kept the latter veiled in darkness. Fitful and uncertain as the shadows which the night-clouds cast, were their concealments from him, and imperfect revelations to him; and, like the night-clouds still, if the clear light broke forth for a moment, it was only that they might sweep over it, and make the darkness deeper than before.

Without, there was a profound and solemn hush upon the ancient pile of building, and its buttresses and angles made dark shapes of mystery upon the ground, which now seemed to retire into the smooth white snow and now seemed to come out of it, as the moon’s path was more or less beset. Within, the Chemist’s room was indistinct and murky, by the light of the expiring lamp; a ghostly silence had succeeded to the knocking and the voice outside; nothing was audible but, now and then, a low sound among the whitened ashes of the fire, as of its yielding up its last breath. Before it on the ground the boy lay fast asleep. In his chair, the Chemist sat, as he had sat there since the calling at his door had ceased—like a man turned to stone.

At such a time, the Christmas music he had heard before, began to play. He listened to it at first, as he had listened in the church-yard; but presently—it playing still, and being borne towards him on the night air, in a low, sweet, melancholy strain—he rose, and stood stretching his hands about him, as if there were some friend approaching within his reach, on whom his desolate touch might rest, yet do no harm. As he did this, his face became less fixed and wondering; a gentle trembling came upon him; and at last his eyes filled with tears, and he put his hands before them, and bowed down his head.

His memory of sorrow, wrong, and trouble, had not come back to him; he knew that it was not restored; he had no passing belief or hope that it was. But some dumb stir within him made him capable, again, of being moved by what was hidden, afar off, in the music. If it were only that it told him sorrowfully the value of what he had lost, he thanked Heaven for it with a fervent gratitude.

As the last chord died upon his ear, he raised his head to listen to its lingering vibration. Beyond the boy, so that his sleeping figure lay at its feet, the Phantom stood, immovable and silent, with its eyes upon him.

Ghastly it was, as it had ever been, but not so cruel and relentless in its aspect—or he thought or hoped so, as he looked upon it trembling. It was not alone, but in its shadowy hand it held another hand.

And whose was that? Was the form that stood beside it indeed Milly’s, or but her shade and picture? The quiet head was bent a little, as her manner was, and her eyes were looking down, as if in pity, on the sleeping child. A radiant light fell on her face, but did not touch the Phantom; for, though close beside her, it was dark and colourless as ever.

“Spectre!” said the Chemist, newly troubled as he looked, “I have not been stubborn or presumptuous in respect of her. Oh, do not bring her here. Spare me that!”

“This is but a shadow,” said the Phantom; “when the morning shines seek out the reality whose image I present before you.”

“Is it my inexorable doom to do so?” cried the Chemist.

“It is,” replied the Phantom.

“To destroy her peace, her goodness; to make her what I am myself, and what I have made of others!”

“I have said seek her out,” returned the Phantom. “I have said no more.”

“Oh, tell me,” exclaimed Redlaw, catching at the hope which he fancied might lie hidden in the words. “Can I undo what I have done?”

“No,” returned the Phantom.

“I do not ask for restoration to myself,” said Redlaw. “What I abandoned, I abandoned of my own free will, and have justly lost. But for those to whom I have transferred the fatal gift; who never sought it; who unknowingly received a curse of which they had no warning, and which they had no power to shun; can I do nothing?”

“Nothing,” said the Phantom.

“If I cannot, can any one?”

The Phantom, standing like a statue, kept its gaze upon him for a while; then turned its head suddenly, and looked upon the shadow at its side.

“Ah! Can she?” cried Redlaw, still looking upon the shade.

The Phantom released the hand it had retained till now, and softly raised its own with a gesture of dismissal. Upon that, her shadow, still preserving the same attitude, began to move or melt away.

“Stay,” cried Redlaw with an earnestness to which he could not give enough expression. “For a moment! As an act of mercy! I know that some change fell upon me, when those sounds were in the air just now. Tell me, have I lost the power of harming her? May I go near her without dread? Oh, let her give me any sign of hope!”

The Phantom looked upon the shade as he did—not at him—and gave no answer.

“At least, say this—has she, henceforth, the consciousness of any power to set right what I have done?”

“She has not,” the Phantom answered.

“Has she the power bestowed on her without the consciousness?”

The phantom answered: “Seek her out.”

And her shadow slowly vanished.

They were face to face again, and looking on each other, as intently and awfully as at the time of the bestowal of the gift, across the boy who still lay on the ground between them, at the Phantom’s feet.

CAPITOLO III Il Dono Invertito

La notte era ancora fitta nel cielo. Sulle pianure aperte, dalle cime dei colli, e dai ponti di navi solitarie in mare, una lontana linea bassa che prometteva presto di trasformarsi in luce era visibile nell’orizzonte incerto; ma la sua promessa era remota e dubbia, e la luna si sforzava con le nuvole della notte con grande impegno.

Le ombre nella mente di Redlaw si susseguivano spesse e veloci l’una dopo l’altra, e oscuravano la sua luce come le nubi notturne che si addensavano tra la luna e la terra, mantenendola avvolta nelle tenebre. Incerte e intermittenti come le ombre proiettate dalle nubi notturne erano le loro occultazioni da lui, e le rivelazioni incomplete a lui; e, come le nubi notturne ancora, se la luce chiara si faceva strada per un momento, era solo perché potessero spazzarla via, rendendo il buio più profondo di prima.

Fuori c’era un profondo e solenne silenzio sull’antico edificio, e i suoi contrafforti e angoli disegnavano forme misteriose sul terreno, che ora sembravano ritirarsi nella liscia bianca neve e ora sembravano emergere da essa, a seconda che il cammino della luna fosse più o meno impedito. Dentro, la stanza del chimico era indistinta e buia alla luce della lampada morente; un fantasma di silenzio aveva preso il posto dei colpi e delle voci all’esterno; non si udiva nulla se non, di tanto in tanto, un suono sommesso tra le ceneri imbiancate del fuoco, come se stesse esalando l’ultimo respiro. Davanti ad esso, a terra, il ragazzo dormiva profondamente. Nella sua poltrona, il chimico sedeva immobile da quando i colpi alla porta erano cessati, come un uomo trasformato in pietra.

A un ora del genere, la musica di Natale che aveva già sentito prima iniziò a suonare. All’inizio l’ascoltava come l’aveva ascoltata nel cimitero; ma presto — mentre continuava a suonare e veniva portata verso di lui dall’aria della notte, in una dolce, bassa melodia malinconica — si alzò in piedi e rimase lì con le mani tese, come se ci fosse un amico che gli veniva incontro a portata di mano e il suo tocco desolato potesse posarsi su di lui senza fargli male. Mentre faceva questo, la sua faccia divenne meno rigida e stupita; ebbe un lieve tremito; e infine i suoi occhi si riempirono di lacrime e si coprì il viso con le mani e chinò il capo.

Il suo ricordo di dolore, torto e tribolazione non gli era tornato; sapeva che non era stato ripristinato; non aveva alcuna fugace convinzione o speranza che lo fosse. Ma un qualche muto fremito interiore lo rendeva nuovamente capace di essere commosso da ciò che, lontano e nascosto, si celava nella musica. Se anche gli avesse solo rivelato tristemente il valore di quanto aveva perduto, ne ringraziava il Cielo con fervida gratitudine.

Quando l’ultimo accordo svanì alle sue orecchie, alzò la testa per ascoltare le vibrazioni che ancora ne persistevano. Oltre il ragazzo, in modo tale che la sua figura addormentata giacesse ai suoi piedi, lo Spettro stava immobile e silenzioso, con gli occhi fissi su di lui.

Era spaventoso come sempre era stato, ma non così crudele e implacabile nel suo aspetto — o almeno lui lo pensava o sperava mentre lo guardava tremante. Non era solo, ma nella sua mano ombrosa teneva un’altra mano.

E di chi era? La figura che stava accanto a essa era davvero quella di Milly o solo la sua ombra e immagine? Il capo tranquillo era un po’ inclinato, come era suo costume, e i suoi occhi guardavano in basso, quasi con pietà, sul bambino addormentato. Una luce radiosa cadeva sul suo volto, ma non toccava il Fantasma; poiché, sebbene fosse vicinissimo a lei, era scuro e privo di colore come sempre.

«Spettro!» disse il chimico, turbato nel guardarlo «Non sono stato testardo o presuntuoso nei suoi confronti. Oh, non portarla qui. Risparmiami questo!»

«Questo è solo un’ombra», disse lo spettro; «quando la mattina risplenderà, cerca la realtà di cui ti mostro l’immagine.»

«È il mio destino inesorabile farlo?» esclamò il Chimico.

«È così», rispose lo Spettro.

«Distruggere la sua pace e la sua bontà; renderla come sono io stesso, e come ho reso gli altri!»

«Ho detto di cercarla», rispose lo spettro, «non ho aggiunto altro.»

“Ditemi”, esclamò Redlaw, afferrando la speranza che immaginava potesse nascondersi nelle parole, “posso rimediare a ciò che ho fatto?”.

“No”, rispose lo Spettro.

«Non chiedo di essere restituito a me stesso», disse Redlaw. «Quello che ho abbandonato l’ho fatto liberamente e giustamente lo ho perso. Ma per coloro ai quali ho trasferito il fatale dono; che non lo hanno mai cercato; che inconsapevolmente hanno ricevuto una maledizione di cui non avevano avvertimenti, e da cui non potevano difendersi; non posso fare nulla?»

«Nulla», disse lo spettro.

“Se io non posso, può qualcun altro?”

Lo spettro, immobile come una statua, lo tenne sotto il suo sguardo per un po’; poi girò la testa di scatto e guardò l’ombra al suo fianco.

«Ah! Può farlo?» esclamò Redlaw, continuando a guardare l’ombra.

Il fantasma lasciò la mano che aveva trattenuto fino ad allora e sollevò dolcemente la propria con un gesto di congedo. A quel punto, la sua ombra, mantenendo ancora lo stesso atteggiamento, iniziò a muoversi o dissolversi.

«Resta», gridò Redlaw con un’earnestness a cui non poteva dare abbastanza espressione. «Per un momento! Come atto di misericordia! So che qualche cambiamento è sopraggiunto in me, quando quei suoni erano nell’aria poco fa. Dimmi, ho perso il potere di farle del male? Posso avvicinarmi a lei senza timore? Oh, lascia che mi dia un qualsiasi segno di speranza!»

Lo spettro guardò l’ombra come lui fece, non verso di lui, e non diede risposta.

«Almeno dite questo: ha lei da ora in poi la consapevolezza di avere il potere di rimettere a posto ciò che ho fatto io?»

«Non l’ha fatto», rispose lo spettro.

“Le è stato donato questo potere senza che se ne renda conto?”

Il fantasma rispose: «Cercala».

E la sua ombra svanì lentamente.

Si trovarono di nuovo faccia a faccia e si guardarono l’un l’altro con la stessa intensità e terribilità del momento in cui il dono era stato conferito, attraverso il ragazzo che giaceva ancora a terra tra loro ai piedi del Fantasma.

“Terrible instructor,” said the Chemist, sinking on his knee before it, in an attitude of supplication, “by whom I was renounced, but by whom I am revisited (in which, and in whose milder aspect, I would fain believe I have a gleam of hope), I will obey without inquiry, praying that the cry I have sent up in the anguish of my soul has been, or will be, heard, in behalf of those whom I have injured beyond human reparation. But there is one thing—”

“You speak to me of what is lying here,” the phantom interposed, and pointed with its finger to the boy.

“I do,” returned the Chemist. “You know what I would ask. Why has this child alone been proof against my influence, and why, why, have I detected in its thoughts a terrible companionship with mine?”

“This,” said the Phantom, pointing to the boy, “is the last, completest illustration of a human creature, utterly bereft of such remembrances as you have yielded up. No softening memory of sorrow, wrong, or trouble enters here, because this wretched mortal from his birth has been abandoned to a worse condition than the beasts, and has, within his knowledge, no one contrast, no humanising touch, to make a grain of such a memory spring up in his hardened breast. All within this desolate creature is barren wilderness. All within the man bereft of what you have resigned, is the same barren wilderness. Woe to such a man! Woe, tenfold, to the nation that shall count its monsters such as this, lying here, by hundreds and by thousands!”

Redlaw shrank, appalled, from what he heard.

“There is not,” said the Phantom, “one of these—not one—but sows a harvest that mankind MUST reap. From every seed of evil in this boy, a field of ruin is grown that shall be gathered in, and garnered up, and sown again in many places in the world, until regions are overspread with wickedness enough to raise the waters of another Deluge. Open and unpunished murder in a city’s streets would be less guilty in its daily toleration, than one such spectacle as this.”

It seemed to look down upon the boy in his sleep. Redlaw, too, looked down upon him with a new emotion.

“There is not a father,” said the Phantom, “by whose side in his daily or his nightly walk, these creatures pass; there is not a mother among all the ranks of loving mothers in this land; there is no one risen from the state of childhood, but shall be responsible in his or her degree for this enormity. There is not a country throughout the earth on which it would not bring a curse. There is no religion upon earth that it would not deny; there is no people upon earth it would not put to shame.”

The Chemist clasped his hands, and looked, with trembling fear and pity, from the sleeping boy to the Phantom, standing above him with his finger pointing down.

“Behold, I say,” pursued the Spectre, “the perfect type of what it was your choice to be. Your influence is powerless here, because from this child’s bosom you can banish nothing. His thoughts have been in ‘terrible companionship’ with yours, because you have gone down to his unnatural level. He is the growth of man’s indifference; you are the growth of man’s presumption. The beneficent design of Heaven is, in each case, overthrown, and from the two poles of the immaterial world you come together.”

The Chemist stooped upon the ground beside the boy, and, with the same kind of compassion for him that he now felt for himself, covered him as he slept, and no longer shrank from him with abhorrence or indifference.

Soon, now, the distant line on the horizon brightened, the darkness faded, the sun rose red and glorious, and the chimney stacks and gables of the ancient building gleamed in the clear air, which turned the smoke and vapour of the city into a cloud of gold. The very sun-dial in his shady corner, where the wind was used to spin with such unwindy constancy, shook off the finer particles of snow that had accumulated on his dull old face in the night, and looked out at the little white wreaths eddying round and round him. Doubtless some blind groping of the morning made its way down into the forgotten crypt so cold and earthy, where the Norman arches were half buried in the ground, and stirred the dull sap in the lazy vegetation hanging to the walls, and quickened the slow principle of life within the little world of wonderful and delicate creation which existed there, with some faint knowledge that the sun was up.

The Tetterbys were up, and doing. Mr. Tetterby took down the shutters of the shop, and, strip by strip, revealed the treasures of the window to the eyes, so proof against their seductions, of Jerusalem Buildings. Adolphus had been out so long already, that he was halfway on to “Morning Pepper.” Five small Tetterbys, whose ten round eyes were much inflamed by soap and friction, were in the tortures of a cool wash in the back kitchen; Mrs. Tetterby presiding. Johnny, who was pushed and hustled through his toilet with great rapidity when Moloch chanced to be in an exacting frame of mind (which was always the case), staggered up and down with his charge before the shop door, under greater difficulties than usual; the weight of Moloch being much increased by a complication of defences against the cold, composed of knitted worsted-work, and forming a complete suit of chain-armour, with a head-piece and blue gaiters.

It was a peculiarity of this baby to be always cutting teeth. Whether they never came, or whether they came and went away again, is not in evidence; but it had certainly cut enough, on the showing of Mrs. Tetterby, to make a handsome dental provision for the sign of the Bull and Mouth. All sorts of objects were impressed for the rubbing of its gums, notwithstanding that it always carried, dangling at its waist (which was immediately under its chin), a bone ring, large enough to have represented the rosary of a young nun. Knife-handles, umbrella-tops, the heads of walking-sticks selected from the stock, the fingers of the family in general, but especially of Johnny, nutmeg-graters, crusts, the handles of doors, and the cool knobs on the tops of pokers, were among the commonest instruments indiscriminately applied for this baby’s relief. The amount of electricity that must have been rubbed out of it in a week, is not to be calculated. Still Mrs. Tetterby always said “it was coming through, and then the child would be herself;” and still it never did come through, and the child continued to be somebody else.

«Terribile maestro», disse il chimico, inginocchiandosi davanti a lui in atteggiamento supplichevole, «che mi ha rinnegato, ma che mi visita di nuovo (in cui e nel cui aspetto più mite vorrei credere di avere un barlume di speranza), obbedirò senza chiedere nulla, pregando che il grido lanciato nell’angoscia della mia anima sia stato o sarà udito in favore di coloro a cui ho inflitto un danno irrimediabile. Ma c’è una cosa, »

«Mi parlate di ciò che giace qui», intervenne lo spettro, e con il dito indicò il ragazzo.

«Lo so», rispose il Chimico. «Sapete cosa vorrei chiedere. Perché questo bambino solo è rimasto immune alla mia influenza, e perché, perché ho scoperto nei suoi pensieri una terribile affinità con i miei?»

«Questo», disse lo Spettro, indicando il ragazzo, «è l’ultimo e più completo esempio di una creatura umana completamente priva dei ricordi che tu hai ceduto. Nessun dolce ricordo di dolore, ingiustizia o tribolazione penetra qui, perché questo povero mortale dalla sua nascita è stato abbandonato a una condizione peggiore di quella delle bestie e non ha, nella sua conoscenza, alcun contrasto, nessun tocco umanizzante che possa far germogliare un granello di tale ricordo nel suo petto indurito. Tutto in questa creatura desolata è una terra arida e selvaggia. Tutto nell’uomo privato di ciò che tu hai rinunciato, è la stessa terra arida e selvaggia. Guai a un tale uomo! Guai, decuplicati, alla nazione che conterà i suoi mostri come questo, giacenti qui, a centinaia e migliaia!»

Redlaw si ritrasse, atterrito, da ciò che aveva udito.

«Non ce n’è» disse lo Spettro, «neppure uno che non semini una messa che l’umanità DEVE raccogliere. Da ogni seme di male in questo ragazzo, cresce un campo di rovina che verrà raccolto e immagazzinato e nuovamente seminato in molti luoghi del mondo, finché regioni non saranno ricoperte da una malvagità sufficiente a far salire le acque di un altro Diluvio. Un omicidio aperto e impunito nelle strade di una città sarebbe meno colpevole nella sua tolleranza quotidiana, che uno spettacolo come questo.»

Sembrava guardare giù verso il ragazzo nel suo sonno. Anche Redlaw lo guardò con un’emozione nuova.

«Non c’è un padre», disse lo spettro, «accanto al quale, nel suo cammino quotidiano o notturno, passino queste creature; non c’è una madre tra tutte le schiere di amorevoli madri in questo paese; non c’è nessuno che sia uscito dall’età dell’infanzia che non sarà responsabile, a suo grado, per questa enormità. Non c’è un paese sulla terra su cui essa non porterebbe una maledizione. Non c’è religione sulla terra che essa non negherebbe; non c’è popolo sulla terra che essa non metterebbe in vergogna».

Il chimico si strinse le mani e guardò con trepidante paura e pietà dal ragazzo addormentato al Fantasma che stava sopra di lui, puntando il dito verso il basso.

«Ecco, dico io», proseguì lo Spettro, «il perfetto esempio di ciò che hai scelto di essere. La tua influenza qui è impotente, perché dal petto di questo bambino non puoi bandire nulla. I suoi pensieri sono stati in ‘terribile compagnia’ con i tuoi, perché sei sceso al suo livello innaturale. È il frutto dell’indifferenza umana; tu sei il frutto della presunzione umana. Il benefico disegno del Cielo è, in entrambi i casi, rovesciato, e dai due poli del mondo immateriale voi vi unite».

Il chimico si chinò a terra accanto al ragazzo e, con lo stesso tipo di compassione che ora provava per se stesso, lo coprì mentre dormiva, senza più ritrarre da lui con orrore o indifferenza.

Ben presto, ora, la lontana linea all’orizzonte si illuminò, le tenebre svanirono, il sole sorse rosso e glorioso, e i camini e gli spioventi dell’antico edificio brillarono nell’aria limpida, che trasformava il fumo e il vapore della città in una nuvola d’oro. Anche l’orologio solare nel suo angolo ombroso, dove il vento era solito girare con tale costanza non ventosa, si liberò delle fini particelle di neve che si erano accumulate sul suo vecchio volto spento durante la notte, e osservò i piccoli ghirigori bianchi vorticare tutto intorno a lui. Senza dubbio qualche cieco tentativo del mattino trovava la strada fino alla cripta dimenticata, così fredda e terrosa, dove gli archi normanni erano mezzo sepolti nel terreno, e stimolava il lento succo nella pigrissima vegetazione appesa alle pareti, e ravvivava il lento principio di vita all’interno del piccolo mondo di meravigliosa e delicata creazione che esisteva là dentro, con un vago sentore che il sole fosse sorto.

I Tetterby erano già in piedi e all’opera. Il signor Tetterby aprì le serrande del negozio e, striscia dopo striscia, rivelò i tesori della vitrina agli occhi così insensibili alle loro lusinghe degli abitanti di Jerusalem Buildings. Adolphus era già uscito da tanto tempo che si trovava a metà strada verso il “Peperoncino del Mattino”. Cinque piccoli Tetterby, i cui dieci occhi rotondi erano molto arrossati dal sapone e dall’attrito, stavano subendo le torture di una fredda abluzione nella cucina sul retro; la signora Tetterby faceva da presidente. Johnny, che veniva spinto e affrettato nel suo toilette con grande rapidità quando Moloch capitava ad essere in un umore esigente (il che era sempre il caso), barcollava su e giù con il suo carico davanti alla porta del negozio, con difficoltà maggiori del solito; il peso di Moloch era molto aumentato da una complicazione di difese contro il freddo, composte da lavori a maglia in lana, che formavano un completo abito di armatura a catene, con un elmetto e ghette blu.

Era una peculiarità di questo bambino quella di avere sempre i denti che gli spuntavano. Che non fossero mai venuti o che fossero venuti e poi se ne fossero andati, non è provato; ma aveva certamente fatto spuntare abbastanza, stando a quanto diceva la signora Tetterby, da fornire un’ottima dentatura per l’insegna del Toro e Bocca. Tutti i tipi di oggetti venivano usati per strofinare le sue gengive, nonostante che portasse sempre appeso alla vita (che era subito sotto il mento) un anello d’osso abbastanza grande da poter rappresentare il rosario di una giovane suora. Manici di coltelli, punte di ombrelli, i pomoli dei bastoni scelti dallo scaffale, le dita della famiglia in generale ma specialmente quelle di Johnny, grattugie per la noce moscata, croste di pane, maniglie delle porte e i freddi pomelli sulle cime dei poker erano tra gli strumenti più comuni usati indiscriminatamente per alleviare il dolore del bambino. La quantità di elettricità che doveva essere stata strofinata via da esso in una settimana non è calcolabile. Eppure la signora Tetterby continuava a dire “stanno per spuntare, e allora la bambina sarà se stessa”; e ancora i denti non sono mai venuti fuori, e la bambina ha continuato ad essere qualcun’altra.

The tempers of the little Tetterbys had sadly changed with a few hours. Mr. and Mrs. Tetterby themselves were not more altered than their offspring. Usually they were an unselfish, good-natured, yielding little race, sharing short commons when it happened (which was pretty often) contentedly and even generously, and taking a great deal of enjoyment out of a very little meat. But they were fighting now, not only for the soap and water, but even for the breakfast which was yet in perspective. The hand of every little Tetterby was against the other little Tetterbys; and even Johnny’s hand—the patient, much-enduring, and devoted Johnny—rose against the baby! Yes, Mrs. Tetterby, going to the door by mere accident, saw him viciously pick out a weak place in the suit of armour where a slap would tell, and slap that blessed child.

Mrs. Tetterby had him into the parlour by the collar, in that same flash of time, and repaid him the assault with usury thereto.

“You brute, you murdering little boy,” said Mrs. Tetterby. “Had you the heart to do it?”

“Why don’t her teeth come through, then,” retorted Johnny, in a loud rebellious voice, “instead of bothering me? How would you like it yourself?”

“Like it, sir!” said Mrs. Tetterby, relieving him of his dishonoured load.

“Yes, like it,” said Johnny. “How would you? Not at all. If you was me, you’d go for a soldier. I will, too. There an’t no babies in the Army.”

Mr. Tetterby, who had arrived upon the scene of action, rubbed his chin thoughtfully, instead of correcting the rebel, and seemed rather struck by this view of a military life.

“I wish I was in the Army myself, if the child’s in the right,” said Mrs. Tetterby, looking at her husband, “for I have no peace of my life here. I’m a slave—a Virginia slave:” some indistinct association with their weak descent on the tobacco trade perhaps suggested this aggravated expression to Mrs. Tetterby. “I never have a holiday, or any pleasure at all, from year’s end to year’s end! Why, Lord bless and save the child,” said Mrs. Tetterby, shaking the baby with an irritability hardly suited to so pious an aspiration, “what’s the matter with her now?”

Not being able to discover, and not rendering the subject much clearer by shaking it, Mrs. Tetterby put the baby away in a cradle, and, folding her arms, sat rocking it angrily with her foot.

“How you stand there, ’Dolphus,” said Mrs. Tetterby to her husband. “Why don’t you do something?”

“Because I don’t care about doing anything,” Mr. Tetterby replied.

“I am sure I don’t,” said Mrs. Tetterby.

“I’ll take my oath I don’t,” said Mr. Tetterby.

A diversion arose here among Johnny and his five younger brothers, who, in preparing the family breakfast table, had fallen to skirmishing for the temporary possession of the loaf, and were buffeting one another with great heartiness; the smallest boy of all, with precocious discretion, hovering outside the knot of combatants, and harassing their legs. Into the midst of this fray, Mr. and Mrs. Tetterby both precipitated themselves with great ardour, as if such ground were the only ground on which they could now agree; and having, with no visible remains of their late soft-heartedness, laid about them without any lenity, and done much execution, resumed their former relative positions.

“You had better read your paper than do nothing at all,” said Mrs. Tetterby.

“What’s there to read in a paper?” returned Mr. Tetterby, with excessive discontent.

“What?” said Mrs. Tetterby. “Police.”

“It’s nothing to me,” said Tetterby. “What do I care what people do, or are done to?”

“Suicides,” suggested Mrs. Tetterby.

“No business of mine,” replied her husband.

“Births, deaths, and marriages, are those nothing to you?” said Mrs. Tetterby.

“If the births were all over for good, and all to-day; and the deaths were all to begin to come off to-morrow; I don’t see why it should interest me, till I thought it was a coming to my turn,” grumbled Tetterby. “As to marriages, I’ve done it myself. I know quite enough about them.”

To judge from the dissatisfied expression of her face and manner, Mrs. Tetterby appeared to entertain the same opinions as her husband; but she opposed him, nevertheless, for the gratification of quarrelling with him.

“Oh, you’re a consistent man,” said Mrs. Tetterby, “an’t you? You, with the screen of your own making there, made of nothing else but bits of newspapers, which you sit and read to the children by the half-hour together!”

“Say used to, if you please,” returned her husband. “You won’t find me doing so any more. I’m wiser now.”

“Bah! wiser, indeed!” said Mrs. Tetterby. “Are you better?”

The question sounded some discordant note in Mr. Tetterby’s breast. He ruminated dejectedly, and passed his hand across and across his forehead.

“Better!” murmured Mr. Tetterby. “I don’t know as any of us are better, or happier either. Better, is it?”

He turned to the screen, and traced about it with his finger, until he found a certain paragraph of which he was in quest.

“This used to be one of the family favourites, I recollect,” said Tetterby, in a forlorn and stupid way, “and used to draw tears from the children, and make ’em good, if there was any little bickering or discontent among ’em, next to the story of the robin redbreasts in the wood. ‘Melancholy case of destitution. Yesterday a small man, with a baby in his arms, and surrounded by half-a-dozen ragged little ones, of various ages between ten and two, the whole of whom were evidently in a famishing condition, appeared before the worthy magistrate, and made the following recital:’—Ha! I don’t understand it, I’m sure,” said Tetterby; “I don’t see what it has got to do with us.”

“How old and shabby he looks,” said Mrs. Tetterby, watching him. “I never saw such a change in a man. Ah! dear me, dear me, dear me, it was a sacrifice!”

“What was a sacrifice?” her husband sourly inquired.

Gli umori dei piccoli Tetterbys erano tristemente cambiati nel giro di poche ore. Il signor e la signora Tetterby non erano più alterati dei loro figli. Di solito erano una razza piccola, altruista, buona e accomodante che condivideva le scarse risorse quando capitava (il che accadeva abbastanza spesso) contenta e persino generosamente, e traeva grande piacere da pochissima carne. Ma ora si stavano azzuffando non solo per il sapone e l’acqua, ma anche per la colazione che era ancora in prospettiva. La mano di ogni piccolo Tetterby era contro gli altri piccoli Tetterbys; e persino la mano di Johnny, il paziente, molto tollerante e devoto Johnny, si alzò contro il bambino! Sì, la signora Tetterby, andando alla porta per puro caso, lo vide scegliere con cattiveria un punto debole nell’armatura dove uno schiaffo avrebbe fatto male e colpire quel benedetto bambino.

La signora Tetterby lo trascinò nel salotto per il colletto nello stesso istante di tempo e gli restituì l’assalto con gli interessi.

“Bruto, piccolo assassino”, disse la signora Tetterby. “Hai avuto il coraggio di farlo?”

«Allora perché non le spuntano i denti», ribatté Johnny con voce alta e ribelle, «invece di darmi noia? Come la prenderebbe lei?»

«Gradirlo, signore!» disse la signora Tetterby liberandolo del suo carico disonorato.

«Sì, mi piace», disse Johnny. «E a voi come vi andrebbe? Niente affatto. Se foste me, fareste il soldato. E io lo farò. Non ci sono bambini nell’esercito».

Il signor Tetterby, che era arrivato sul luogo dell’azione, si strofinò il mento pensieroso invece di rimproverare il ribelle e sembrava piuttosto colpito da questa visione della vita militare.

“Vorrei essere io stessa nell’esercito, se il bambino ha ragione”, disse la signora Tetterby guardando suo marito, “perché qui non ho un attimo di pace. Sono una schiava, una schiava della Virginia”: forse qualche vaga associazione con i loro deboli legami col commercio del tabacco suggerì a Mrs. Tetterby questa espressione aggravata. “Non ho mai vacanze né alcun piacere da un capo all’altro dell’anno! Perché, Signore benedetto e salvaci il bambino”, disse la signora Tetterby scuotendo il neonato con un’irritabilità poco adatta a una così pia aspirazione, “cosa le succede ora?”

Non riuscendo a scoprire nulla e non rendendo l’argomento molto più chiaro scuotendolo, la signora Tetterby mise il bambino nella culla e, incrociando le braccia, se ne stette seduta dondolandola con il piede in modo scontroso.

«Come stai lì, ‘Dolfus», disse la signora Tetterby al marito «Perché non fai qualcosa?»

«Perché non mi interessa fare nulla», rispose il signor Tetterby.

«Sono sicura che io non lo faccio», disse la signora Tetterby.

«Giuro che non lo faccio io», disse il signor Tetterby.

Qui scoppiò una rissa tra Johnny e i suoi cinque fratelli minori che, mentre apparecchiavano la tavola della colazione di famiglia, si erano messi a litigare per il possesso temporaneo del pane e ora si picchiavano con grande entusiasmo; il più piccolo dei ragazzi, con una discrezione precoce, stava fuori dal gruppo degli antagonisti e li molestava alle gambe. In mezzo a questa zuffa, il signor e la signora Tetterby si lanciarono con grande ardore come se fosse l’unico terreno su cui potessero ora mettersi d’accordo; e avendo, senza alcun visibile resto della loro recente dolcezza di cuore, colpito intorno a sé senza alcuna indulgenza e fatto molta strage, ripresero le loro precedenti posizioni relative.

«È meglio che tu legga il giornale piuttosto che non fare nulla», disse la signora Tetterby.

«Che cosa c’è da leggere in un giornale?» rispose il signor Tetterby con eccessivo disappunto.

“Cosa?” disse la signora Tetterby. “La polizia.”

“Non è niente per me,” disse Tetterby. “Che mi importa di quello che la gente fa o subisce?”

«Suicidi», suggerì la signora Tetterby.

«Non è affar mio», rispose il marito.

«Le nascite, le morti e i matrimoni non sono nulla per voi?» disse la signora Tetterby.

«Se tutte le nascite fossero terminate per sempre e oggi; e se tutte le morti dovessero iniziare domani; non vedo perché dovrei interessarmene finché non pensassi che è il mio turno», brontolò Tetterby. «Per quanto riguarda i matrimoni, l’ho fatto io stesso. Ne so abbastanza su quelli.»

A giudicare dall’espressione insoddisfatta del suo volto e dal suo comportamento, la signora Tetterby sembrava condividere le stesse opinioni di suo marito; ma lo contraddiceva, nonostante tutto, per il gusto di litigare con lui.

“Oh, sei un uomo coerente”, disse la signora Tetterby, “non è vero? Tu, con lo schermo che hai fatto da te lì, fatto di nient’altro che pezzi di giornali, davanti al quale ti siedi e leggi ai bambini per mezz’ora di fila!”

«Dite che ero solito, se preferite», rispose il marito. «Non mi vedrete più fare così. Ora sono più saggio».

«Bah! Sì, più saggio davvero!» disse la signora Tetterby «Ti senti meglio?»

La domanda fece vibrare una nota dissonante nel petto di Mr. Tetterby. Egli rimuginò con aria abbattuta e passò più volte la mano sulla fronte.

«Meglio!» mormorò il signor Tetterby. «Non so se qualcuno di noi sia meglio o più felice. Meglio?»

Si voltò verso lo schermo e lo percorse con il dito finché non trovò un certo paragrafo che stava cercando.

«Questo era uno dei racconti preferiti dalla famiglia, se ben ricordo» disse Tetterby in tono sconsolato e ottuso «e faceva piangere i bambini e li rendeva buoni, quando tra loro c’era qualche piccola disputa o dissenso, subito dopo la storia dei pettirossi nel bosco. ‘Melancolico caso di indigenza. Ieri un uomo basso, con un bambino in braccio e circondato da mezza dozzina di ragazzini stracciati di varie età tra i due e i dieci anni, tutti chiaramente in condizioni di fame, si è presentato davanti al rispettabile magistrato e ha fatto la seguente dichiarazione:’—Ah! Non capisco proprio» disse Tetterby «non vedo che cosa c’entri con noi.»

«Com’è diventato vecchio e trasandato», disse la signora Tetterby osservandolo. «Non ho mai visto un uomo cambiare così tanto. Ah! poverina di me, poverina di me, poverina di me, è stato davvero un sacrificio!»

«Che cos’era un sacrificio?» chiese asciutto suo marito.

Mrs. Tetterby shook her head; and without replying in words, raised a complete sea-storm about the baby, by her violent agitation of the cradle.

“If you mean your marriage was a sacrifice, my good woman—” said her husband.

“I do mean it,” said his wife.

“Why, then I mean to say,” pursued Mr. Tetterby, as sulkily and surlily as she, “that there are two sides to that affair; and that I was the sacrifice; and that I wish the sacrifice hadn’t been accepted.”

“I wish it hadn’t, Tetterby, with all my heart and soul I do assure you,” said his wife. “You can’t wish it more than I do, Tetterby.”

“I don’t know what I saw in her,” muttered the newsman, “I’m sure;—certainly, if I saw anything, it’s not there now. I was thinking so, last night, after supper, by the fire. She’s fat, she’s ageing, she won’t bear comparison with most other women.”

“He’s common-looking, he has no air with him, he’s small, he’s beginning to stoop and he’s getting bald,” muttered Mrs. Tetterby.

“I must have been half out of my mind when I did it,” muttered Mr. Tetterby.

“My senses must have forsook me. That’s the only way in which I can explain it to myself,” said Mrs. Tetterby with elaboration.

In this mood they sat down to breakfast. The little Tetterbys were not habituated to regard that meal in the light of a sedentary occupation, but discussed it as a dance or trot; rather resembling a savage ceremony, in the occasionally shrill whoops, and brandishings of bread and butter, with which it was accompanied, as well as in the intricate filings off into the street and back again, and the hoppings up and down the door-steps, which were incidental to the performance. In the present instance, the contentions between these Tetterby children for the milk-and-water jug, common to all, which stood upon the table, presented so lamentable an instance of angry passions risen very high indeed, that it was an outrage on the memory of Dr. Watts. It was not until Mr. Tetterby had driven the whole herd out at the front door, that a moment’s peace was secured; and even that was broken by the discovery that Johnny had surreptitiously come back, and was at that instant choking in the jug like a ventriloquist, in his indecent and rapacious haste.

“These children will be the death of me at last!” said Mrs. Tetterby, after banishing the culprit. “And the sooner the better, I think.”

“Poor people,” said Mr. Tetterby, “ought not to have children at all. They give us no pleasure.”

He was at that moment taking up the cup which Mrs. Tetterby had rudely pushed towards him, and Mrs. Tetterby was lifting her own cup to her lips, when they both stopped, as if they were transfixed.

“Here! Mother! Father!” cried Johnny, running into the room. “Here’s Mrs. William coming down the street!”

And if ever, since the world began, a young boy took a baby from a cradle with the care of an old nurse, and hushed and soothed it tenderly, and tottered away with it cheerfully, Johnny was that boy, and Moloch was that baby, as they went out together!

Mr. Tetterby put down his cup; Mrs. Tetterby put down her cup. Mr. Tetterby rubbed his forehead; Mrs. Tetterby rubbed hers. Mr. Tetterby’s face began to smooth and brighten; Mrs. Tetterby’s began to smooth and brighten.

“Why, Lord forgive me,” said Mr. Tetterby to himself, “what evil tempers have I been giving way to? What has been the matter here!”

“How could I ever treat him ill again, after all I said and felt last night!” sobbed Mrs. Tetterby, with her apron to her eyes.

“Am I a brute,” said Mr. Tetterby, “or is there any good in me at all? Sophia! My little woman!”

“’Dolphus dear,” returned his wife.

“I—I’ve been in a state of mind,” said Mr. Tetterby, “that I can’t abear to think of, Sophy.”

“Oh! It’s nothing to what I’ve been in, Dolf,” cried his wife in a great burst of grief.

“My Sophia,” said Mr. Tetterby, “don’t take on. I never shall forgive myself. I must have nearly broke your heart, I know.”

“No, Dolf, no. It was me! Me!” cried Mrs. Tetterby.

“My little woman,” said her husband, “don’t. You make me reproach myself dreadful, when you show such a noble spirit. Sophia, my dear, you don’t know what I thought. I showed it bad enough, no doubt; but what I thought, my little woman!—”

“Oh, dear Dolf, don’t! Don’t!” cried his wife.

“Sophia,” said Mr. Tetterby, “I must reveal it. I couldn’t rest in my conscience unless I mentioned it. My little woman—”

“Mrs. William’s very nearly here!” screamed Johnny at the door.

“My little woman, I wondered how,” gasped Mr. Tetterby, supporting himself by his chair, “I wondered how I had ever admired you—I forgot the precious children you have brought about me, and thought you didn’t look as slim as I could wish. I—I never gave a recollection,” said Mr. Tetterby, with severe self-accusation, “to the cares you’ve had as my wife, and along of me and mine, when you might have had hardly any with another man, who got on better and was luckier than me (anybody might have found such a man easily I am sure); and I quarrelled with you for having aged a little in the rough years you have lightened for me. Can you believe it, my little woman? I hardly can myself.”

Mrs. Tetterby, in a whirlwind of laughing and crying, caught his face within her hands, and held it there.

“Oh, Dolf!” she cried. “I am so happy that you thought so; I am so grateful that you thought so! For I thought that you were common-looking, Dolf; and so you are, my dear, and may you be the commonest of all sights in my eyes, till you close them with your own good hands. I thought that you were small; and so you are, and I’ll make much of you because you are, and more of you because I love my husband. I thought that you began to stoop; and so you do, and you shall lean on me, and I’ll do all I can to keep you up. I thought there was no air about you; but there is, and it’s the air of home, and that’s the purest and the best there is, and God bless home once more, and all belonging to it, Dolf!”

La signora Tetterby scosse la testa e senza rispondere con le parole sollevò una vera tempesta in mare intorno al bambino, agitando furiosamente la culla.

“Se intendete dire che il vostro matrimonio è stato un sacrificio, mia buona donna —” disse suo marito.

«Lo dico sul serio», disse sua moglie.

«Ebbene, voglio dire», proseguì il signor Tetterby, con la stessa aria burbera e scontrosa di lei, «che ci sono due facce in quella faccenda; e che io ero il sacrificio; e che vorrei che quel sacrificio non fosse stato accettato.»

“Lo vorrei anch’io che non fosse successo, Tetterby, ve lo assicuro con tutto il mio cuore e anima”, disse sua moglie. “Non potete desiderarlo più di me, Tetterby”.

“Non so cosa mi abbia attratto in lei”, borbottò il venditore di giornali, “ne sono sicuro; — certamente, se ho visto qualcosa, ora non c’è più. Ci pensavo ieri sera, dopo cena, davanti al fuoco. È grassa, sta invecchiando, non reggerebbe il confronto con la maggior parte delle altre donne.”

«Ha un aspetto comune, non ha alcuna distinzione, è piccolo, sta iniziando a curvarsi ed è calvo», mormorò la signora Tetterby.

«Dov’ero a metà fuori di testa quando l’ho fatto», borbottò il signor Tetterby.

«I miei sensi devono avermi abbandonata. Questa è l’unica spiegazione che riesco a darmi», disse la signora Tetterby con enfasi.

In questo umore si sedettero a colazione. I piccoli Tetterby non erano abituati a considerare quel pasto come un’occupazione sedentaria, ma lo discutevano come una danza o un trotto; assomigliava piuttosto a una cerimonia selvaggia, per le occasionali urla acute e i brandeggiamenti di pane e burro che l’accompagnavano, così come per i complessi movimenti fuori in strada e poi di ritorno, e i saltelli su e giù dai gradini della porta, che erano incidentali alla performance. In questo caso specifico, le contese tra questi bambini Tetterby per la brocca del latte-e-acqua, comune a tutti, che stava sul tavolo, presentavano un esempio così deplorevole di passioni irate salite molto in alto, che era un oltraggio alla memoria del Dr. Watts. Non fu fino a quando il signor Tetterby non ebbe cacciato l’intero gregge dalla porta d’ingresso che si ottenne un momento di pace; e anche quello fu interrotto dalla scoperta che Johnny era tornato di nascosto ed in quel preciso istante stava soffocando nella brocca come un ventriloquo, nella sua indecente e rapace fretta.

“Questi bambini alla fine saranno la mia morte!”, disse la signora Tetterby dopo aver cacciato il colpevole. “E prima succede meglio è, credo”.

«La gente povera», disse il signor Tetterby, «non dovrebbe avere figli affatto, perché non ci danno alcun piacere».

In quel momento stava prendendo la tazza che la signora Tetterby gli aveva bruscamente spinto davanti e la signora Tetterby si portava alla bocca la propria tazza quando tutti due si fermarono, come se fossero stati inchiodati al suolo.

«Ecco! Mamma! Papà!» gridò Johnny entrando nella stanza. «La signora William sta venendo per la strada!»

E se mai, da quando il mondo è mondo, un giovane ragazzo ha preso un bambino dalla culla con la cura di una vecchia balia, e lo ha calmato e consolato teneramente, e si è allontanato vacillando ma felice, Johnny era quel ragazzo, e Moloch era quel bambino, mentre uscivano insieme!

Il signor Tetterby posò la tazza; la signora Tetterby posò la sua tazza. Il signor Tetterby si strofinò la fronte; la signora Tetterby si strofinò la sua. La faccia del signor Tetterby cominciò a distendersi e illuminarsi; quella della signora Tetterby cominciò a distendersi e illuminarsi.

«Perbacco, Signore, perdonatemi», disse il signor Tetterby tra sé e sé «a quali cattivi umori mi sono abbandonato? Che cosa è successo qui!»

“Come potrei mai trattarlo male di nuovo, dopo tutto quello che ho detto e provato ieri sera!”, singhiozzò la signora Tetterby con il grembiule sugli occhi.

«Sono un bruto?», disse il signor Tetterby «o c’è qualcosa di buono in me? Sophia! La mia piccola donna!»

«Caro Dolphus», rispose sua moglie.

«Io—io sono stato in uno stato d’animo», disse il signor Tetterby, «che non posso sopportare di ricordare, Sophy».

«Oh! Non è niente rispetto a dove sono stata, Dolf», esclamò sua moglie con un grande sfogo di dolore.

«La mia Sofia», disse il signor Tetterby, «non ti agitare. Non mi perdonerò mai. Devo aver quasi spezzato il tuo cuore, lo so».

«No, Dolf, no. Sono stata io! Io!» gridò la signora Tetterby.

«La mia piccola donna», disse suo marito, «non farlo. Mi fai rimproverare me stesso in modo terribile quando dimostri uno spirito così nobile. Sophia, tesoro mio, non sai cosa ho pensato. L’ho mostrato abbastanza male, senza dubbio; ma quello che ho pensato, mia piccola donna!—»

«Oh, caro Dolf, non farlo! Non farlo!» gridò sua moglie.

«Sofia», disse il signor Tetterby, «devo rivelarlo. Non potrei stare tranquillo nella mia coscienza se non lo dicessi. La mia piccola donna, »

«La signora Williams è quasi arrivata!» gridò Johnny alla porta.

“Mia piccola donna,” ansimò il signor Tetterby, sostenendosi con la sua sedia, “mi chiedevo come mai avessi mai ammirato te: dimenticavo i preziosi bambini che mi hai portato intorno e pensavo che non sembrassi così snella come desideravo. Io, io non ho mai ricordato,” disse il signor Tetterby, con severa auto-accusa, “le cure che hai avuto da mia moglie, e a causa di me e dei miei, quando ne avresti potute avere pochissime con un altro uomo, che andava meglio e aveva più fortuna di me (chiunque avrebbe potuto trovare facilmente un tale uomo, sono sicuro); e mi sono litigato con te per essere invecchiata un po’ negli anni duri che hai reso più leggeri per me. Puoi crederci, mia piccola donna? A malapena ci credo io stesso.”

La signora Tetterby, tra risate e lacrime, gli prese il viso tra le mani e lo tenne stretto.

“Oh, Dolf!” esclamò. “Sono così felice che tu abbia pensato così; sono così grata che tu abbia pensato così! Perché ho pensato che tu fossi di aspetto comune, Dolf; e lo sei, mio caro, e possa essere la cosa più comune che io veda con i miei occhi, finché non li chiuderai con le tue buone mani. Ho pensato che tu fossi piccolo; ed è così, e farò molto di te perché lo sei, e ancora di più perché amo mio marito. Ho pensato che tu iniziassi ad incurvarti; ed è vero, e ti appoggerai a me, e farò tutto il possibile per sostenerti. Ho pensato che non ci fosse aria intorno a te; ma c’è, ed è l’aria di casa, e quella è la più pura e la migliore che esista, e Dio benedica ancora una volta la casa e tutto ciò che le appartiene, Dolf!”

“Hurrah! Here’s Mrs. William!” cried Johnny.

So she was, and all the children with her; and so she came in, they kissed her, and kissed one another, and kissed the baby, and kissed their father and mother, and then ran back and flocked and danced about her, trooping on with her in triumph.

Mr. and Mrs. Tetterby were not a bit behind-hand in the warmth of their reception. They were as much attracted to her as the children were; they ran towards her, kissed her hands, pressed round her, could not receive her ardently or enthusiastically enough. She came among them like the spirit of all goodness, affection, gentle consideration, love, and domesticity.

“What! are you all so glad to see me, too, this bright Christmas morning?” said Milly, clapping her hands in a pleasant wonder. “Oh dear, how delightful this is!”

More shouting from the children, more kissing, more trooping round her, more happiness, more love, more joy, more honour, on all sides, than she could bear.

“Oh dear!” said Milly, “what delicious tears you make me shed. How can I ever have deserved this! What have I done to be so loved?”

“Who can help it!” cried Mr. Tetterby.

“Who can help it!” cried Mrs. Tetterby.

“Who can help it!” echoed the children, in a joyful chorus. And they danced and trooped about her again, and clung to her, and laid their rosy faces against her dress, and kissed and fondled it, and could not fondle it, or her, enough.

“I never was so moved,” said Milly, drying her eyes, “as I have been this morning. I must tell you, as soon as I can speak.—Mr. Redlaw came to me at sunrise, and with a tenderness in his manner, more as if I had been his darling daughter than myself, implored me to go with him to where William’s brother George is lying ill. We went together, and all the way along he was so kind, and so subdued, and seemed to put such trust and hope in me, that I could not help crying with pleasure. When we got to the house, we met a woman at the door (somebody had bruised and hurt her, I am afraid), who caught me by the hand, and blessed me as I passed.”

“She was right!” said Mr. Tetterby. Mrs. Tetterby said she was right. All the children cried out that she was right.

“Ah, but there’s more than that,” said Milly. “When we got up stairs, into the room, the sick man who had lain for hours in a state from which no effort could rouse him, rose up in his bed, and, bursting into tears, stretched out his arms to me, and said that he had led a mis-spent life, but that he was truly repentant now, in his sorrow for the past, which was all as plain to him as a great prospect, from which a dense black cloud had cleared away, and that he entreated me to ask his poor old father for his pardon and his blessing, and to say a prayer beside his bed. And when I did so, Mr. Redlaw joined in it so fervently, and then so thanked and thanked me, and thanked Heaven, that my heart quite overflowed, and I could have done nothing but sob and cry, if the sick man had not begged me to sit down by him,—which made me quiet of course. As I sat there, he held my hand in his until he sank in a doze; and even then, when I withdrew my hand to leave him to come here (which Mr. Redlaw was very earnest indeed in wishing me to do), his hand felt for mine, so that some one else was obliged to take my place and make believe to give him my hand back. Oh dear, oh dear,” said Milly, sobbing. “How thankful and how happy I should feel, and do feel, for all this!”

While she was speaking, Redlaw had come in, and, after pausing for a moment to observe the group of which she was the centre, had silently ascended the stairs. Upon those stairs he now appeared again; remaining there, while the young student passed him, and came running down.

“Kind nurse, gentlest, best of creatures,” he said, falling on his knee to her, and catching at her hand, “forgive my cruel ingratitude!”

“Oh dear, oh dear!” cried Milly innocently, “here’s another of them! Oh dear, here’s somebody else who likes me. What shall I ever do!”

The guileless, simple way in which she said it, and in which she put her hands before her eyes and wept for very happiness, was as touching as it was delightful.

“I was not myself,” he said. “I don’t know what it was—it was some consequence of my disorder perhaps—I was mad. But I am so no longer. Almost as I speak, I am restored. I heard the children crying out your name, and the shade passed from me at the very sound of it. Oh, don’t weep! Dear Milly, if you could read my heart, and only knew with what affection and what grateful homage it is glowing, you would not let me see you weep. It is such deep reproach.”

“No, no,” said Milly, “it’s not that. It’s not indeed. It’s joy. It’s wonder that you should think it necessary to ask me to forgive so little, and yet it’s pleasure that you do.”

“And will you come again? and will you finish the little curtain?”

“No,” said Milly, drying her eyes, and shaking her head. “You won’t care for my needlework now.”

“Is it forgiving me, to say that?”

She beckoned him aside, and whispered in his ear.

“There is news from your home, Mr. Edmund.”

“News? How?”

“Either your not writing when you were very ill, or the change in your handwriting when you began to be better, created some suspicion of the truth; however that is—but you’re sure you’ll not be the worse for any news, if it’s not bad news?”

“Sure.”

“Then there’s some one come!” said Milly.

“My mother?” asked the student, glancing round involuntarily towards Redlaw, who had come down from the stairs.

“Hush! No,” said Milly.

“It can be no one else.”

“Indeed?” said Milly, “are you sure?”

“It is not—” Before he could say more, she put her hand upon his mouth.

“Yes it is!” said Milly. “The young lady (she is very like the miniature, Mr. Edmund, but she is prettier) was too unhappy to rest without satisfying her doubts, and came up, last night, with a little servant-maid. As you always dated your letters from the college, she came there; and before I saw Mr. Redlaw this morning, I saw her. She likes me too!” said Milly. “Oh dear, that’s another!”

«Evviva! Ecco la signora William!» gridò Johnny.

E così fu, e tutti i bambini con lei; ed eccola che entrava, loro la baciavano, si baciavano tra di loro, baciavano il bebè, baciavano il padre e la madre, e poi correvano indietro e si accalcavano e danzavano intorno a lei, seguendola in trionfo.

Il signor e la signora Tetterby non erano affatto indietro nella calore della loro accoglienza. Erano attratti da lei quanto lo erano i bambini; correvano verso di lei, le baciavano le mani, si stringevano intorno a lei, non potevano riceverla abbastanza ardentemente o con entusiasmo sufficiente. Lei arrivava tra loro come lo spirito di ogni bontà, affetto, gentile considerazione, amore e domesticità.

“Che cosa? Anche voi siete tutti così contenti di vedermi questa luminosa mattina di Natale?” disse Milly, battendo le mani con piacevole meraviglia. “Oh, che delizia!”

Altri gridi dei bambini, altri baci, altre corse intorno a lei, più felicità, più amore, più gioia, più onore, da ogni parte, di quanti ne potesse sopportare.

“Oh, cara!” disse Milly, “che deliziose lacrime mi fai versare. Come ho potuto meritarmi tutto questo? Cosa ho fatto per essere tanto amata?”

«Chi può evitarlo!» esclamò il signor Tetterby.

«Chi può evitarlo!» esclamò la signora Tetterby.

«Chi può evitarlo!» fecero eco i bambini in un gioioso coro. E danzarono e si affollarono di nuovo intorno a lei, la abbracciarono, appoggiarono le loro rosee guance contro il suo vestito, lo baciarono e lo accarezzarono, e non riuscivano ad accarezzarlo, né lei, abbastanza.

«Non sono mai stata così commossa», disse Milly, asciugandosi gli occhi, «come lo sono stata questa mattina. Devo raccontarvelo appena riesco a parlare.—Il signor Redlaw è venuto da me all’alba e con una tenerezza nel modo di fare più come se fossi stata la sua adorata figlia che non io stessa, mi ha pregato di andare con lui dove il fratello di William, George, giace malato. Siamo andati insieme e per tutto il tragitto è stato così gentile e così mite, e sembrava riporre in me tanta fiducia e speranza, che non potevo fare a meno di piangere dal piacere. Quando siamo arrivati alla casa, abbiamo incontrato una donna sulla porta (qualcuno l’aveva ferita, temo), che mi ha afferrato la mano e mi ha benedetta mentre passavo».

«Aveva ragione!» disse il signor Tetterby. La signora Tetterby disse che aveva ragione. Tutti i bambini gridarono che aveva ragione.

«Ah, ma c’è di più», disse Milly. «Quando siamo saliti al piano superiore, nella stanza, l’uomo malato che era rimasto per ore in uno stato da cui nessuno sforzo poteva risvegliarlo, si sollevò nel suo letto e, scoppiando in lacrime, mi tese le braccia e disse di aver condotto una vita dissipata, ma che ora era veramente pentito, nel suo dolore per il passato, che gli appariva tutto chiaro come un vasto panorama, da cui si era allontanata una fitta nube nera, e mi pregò di chiedere a suo povero vecchio padre perdono e benedizione, e di dire una preghiera accanto al suo letto. E quando lo feci, il signor Redlaw partecipò con tanto fervore alla preghiera, e poi mi ringraziò così tanto, e ringraziò il Cielo, che il mio cuore traboccò completamente, e non avrei potuto fare altro che singhiozzare e piangere, se l’uomo malato non mi avesse pregata di sedermi accanto a lui,—il che naturalmente mi calmò. Mentre ero lì seduta, lui teneva la mia mano nella sua fino a quando non si addormentò; e anche allora, quando ritirai la mia mano per lasciarlo venire qui (cosa che il signor Redlaw desiderava molto), la sua mano cercò la mia, così che qualcun altro fu costretto a prendere il mio posto e fingere di restituirgli la mia mano. Oh, cara, oh, cara», disse Milly singhiozzando. «Quanto dovrei sentirmi grata e felice per tutto questo!»

Mentre parlava, Redlaw era entrato e, dopo essersi fermato un momento a osservare il gruppo di cui lei era al centro, era salito silenziosamente le scale. Su quelle scale apparve nuovamente; rimase lì mentre lo studente passava accanto a lui e scendeva correndo.

«Gentile infermiera, la più dolce e migliore delle creature», disse cadendo in ginocchio davanti a lei e afferrandole la mano, «perdonami la mia crudele ingratitudine!»

«Oh, poverina a me, oh, poverina a me!» esclamò Milli ingenuamente «Ecco un altro di loro! Oh, poverina a me, ecco qualcun’altro che mi vuole bene. Che cosa mai farò?»

Il modo ingenuo e semplice con cui lo disse, e con cui si coprì gli occhi con le mani e pianse di pura felicità, era commovente quanto delizioso.

«Non ero io», disse. «Non so cosa fosse: forse una conseguenza del mio disturbo; ero pazzo. Ma non lo sono più. Mentre parlo mi sto già riprendendo. Ho sentito i bambini gridare il tuo nome, e l’ombra è svanita in quel preciso istante. Oh, non piangere! Cara Milly, se potessi leggere nel mio cuore e sapessi con quale affetto e riconoscente omaggio sta ardendo, non mi faresti vedere che piangi. È un rimprovero così profondo».

“No, no”, disse Milly, “non è questo. Non lo è davvero. È gioia. È meraviglia che tu pensi sia necessario chiedermi di perdonare così poco eppure è piacere che tu lo faccia.”

“E tornerai di nuovo? E finirai la piccola tenda?”

«No», disse Milly asciugandosi gli occhi e scuotendo la testa «adesso non vi interesserà più il mio lavoro a maglia».

“Mi sta perdonando dicendomi questo?”

Gli fece cenno di avvicinarsi e gli sussurrò all’orecchio.

«Ci sono notizie dalla tua casa, signor Edmund.»

“Novità? Come?”

«O non scrivevi quando eri molto malato, o il cambiamento nella tua scrittura quando hai cominciato a stare meglio ha suscitato qualche sospetto sulla verità; ma questo è un altro discorso - sei sicuro che nessuna notizia ti farà star peggio, se non sono cattive notizie?»

“Certo.”

«Allora è venuto qualcuno!» disse Milly.

“Mia madre?”, chiese lo studente, guardandosi intorno suo malgrado verso Redlaw che era sceso dalle scale.

«Ssst! No», disse Milly.

“Non può essere nessun altro.”

“Ah sì?” disse Milly “ne sei sicuro?”

«Non è, » Prima che potesse dire altro, lei gli mise una mano sulla bocca.

«Sì!» disse Milly «La giovane signora (assomiglia molto al ritratto in miniatura, signor Edmund, ma è più carina) era troppo infelice per riposare senza aver chiarito i suoi dubbi e così è venuta qui la scorsa notte con una piccola cameriera. Poiché lei ha sempre datato le sue lettere dal collegio, si è recata lì; e prima che io vedessi il signor Redlaw questa mattina, ho visto lei. Lei mi piace anche!» disse Milly «Oh cara, ne è un’altra!»

“This morning! Where is she now?”

“Why, she is now,” said Milly, advancing her lips to his ear, “in my little parlour in the Lodge, and waiting to see you.”

He pressed her hand, and was darting off, but she detained him.

“Mr. Redlaw is much altered, and has told me this morning that his memory is impaired. Be very considerate to him, Mr. Edmund; he needs that from us all.”

The young man assured her, by a look, that her caution was not ill-bestowed; and as he passed the Chemist on his way out, bent respectfully and with an obvious interest before him.

Redlaw returned the salutation courteously and even humbly, and looked after him as he passed on. He drooped his head upon his hand too, as trying to reawaken something he had lost. But it was gone.

The abiding change that had come upon him since the influence of the music, and the Phantom’s reappearance, was, that now he truly felt how much he had lost, and could compassionate his own condition, and contrast it, clearly, with the natural state of those who were around him. In this, an interest in those who were around him was revived, and a meek, submissive sense of his calamity was bred, resembling that which sometimes obtains in age, when its mental powers are weakened, without insensibility or sullenness being added to the list of its infirmities.

He was conscious that, as he redeemed, through Milly, more and more of the evil he had done, and as he was more and more with her, this change ripened itself within him. Therefore, and because of the attachment she inspired him with (but without other hope), he felt that he was quite dependent on her, and that she was his staff in his affliction.

So, when she asked him whether they should go home now, to where the old man and her husband were, and he readily replied “yes”—being anxious in that regard—he put his arm through hers, and walked beside her; not as if he were the wise and learned man to whom the wonders of Nature were an open book, and hers were the uninstructed mind, but as if their two positions were reversed, and he knew nothing, and she all.

He saw the children throng about her, and caress her, as he and she went away together thus, out of the house; he heard the ringing of their laughter, and their merry voices; he saw their bright faces, clustering around him like flowers; he witnessed the renewed contentment and affection of their parents; he breathed the simple air of their poor home, restored to its tranquillity; he thought of the unwholesome blight he had shed upon it, and might, but for her, have been diffusing then; and perhaps it is no wonder that he walked submissively beside her, and drew her gentle bosom nearer to his own.

When they arrived at the Lodge, the old man was sitting in his chair in the chimney-corner, with his eyes fixed on the ground, and his son was leaning against the opposite side of the fire-place, looking at him. As she came in at the door, both started, and turned round towards her, and a radiant change came upon their faces.

“Oh dear, dear, dear, they are all pleased to see me like the rest!” cried Milly, clapping her hands in an ecstasy, and stopping short. “Here are two more!”

Pleased to see her! Pleasure was no word for it. She ran into her husband’s arms, thrown wide open to receive her, and he would have been glad to have her there, with her head lying on his shoulder, through the short winter’s day. But the old man couldn’t spare her. He had arms for her too, and he locked her in them.

“Why, where has my quiet Mouse been all this time?” said the old man. “She has been a long while away. I find that it’s impossible for me to get on without Mouse. I—where’s my son William?—I fancy I have been dreaming, William.”

“That’s what I say myself, father,” returned his son. “I have been in an ugly sort of dream, I think.—How are you, father? Are you pretty well?”

“Strong and brave, my boy,” returned the old man.

It was quite a sight to see Mr. William shaking hands with his father, and patting him on the back, and rubbing him gently down with his hand, as if he could not possibly do enough to show an interest in him.

“What a wonderful man you are, father!—How are you, father? Are you really pretty hearty, though?” said William, shaking hands with him again, and patting him again, and rubbing him gently down again.

“I never was fresher or stouter in my life, my boy.”

“What a wonderful man you are, father! But that’s exactly where it is,” said Mr. William, with enthusiasm. “When I think of all that my father’s gone through, and all the chances and changes, and sorrows and troubles, that have happened to him in the course of his long life, and under which his head has grown grey, and years upon years have gathered on it, I feel as if we couldn’t do enough to honour the old gentleman, and make his old age easy.—How are you, father? Are you really pretty well, though?”

Mr. William might never have left off repeating this inquiry, and shaking hands with him again, and patting him again, and rubbing him down again, if the old man had not espied the Chemist, whom until now he had not seen.

“I ask your pardon, Mr. Redlaw,” said Philip, “but didn’t know you were here, sir, or should have made less free. It reminds me, Mr. Redlaw, seeing you here on a Christmas morning, of the time when you was a student yourself, and worked so hard that you were backwards and forwards in our Library even at Christmas time. Ha! ha! I’m old enough to remember that; and I remember it right well, I do, though I am eighty-seven. It was after you left here that my poor wife died. You remember my poor wife, Mr. Redlaw?”

The Chemist answered yes.

“Yes,” said the old man. “She was a dear creetur.—I recollect you come here one Christmas morning with a young lady—I ask your pardon, Mr. Redlaw, but I think it was a sister you was very much attached to?”

“Questa mattina! Dove è ora?”

«Perché lei è ora», disse Milly avvicinando le labbra all’orecchio di lui, «nel mio piccolo salotto nella Casa del Guardiano e sta aspettando di vedervi.»

Le strinse la mano e stava per scappare via, ma lei lo trattenne.

«Il signor Redlaw è molto cambiato e questa mattina mi ha detto che la sua memoria è compromessa. Siate molto premurosi con lui, signor Edmund; ne abbiamo tutti bisogno».

Il giovane le assicurò con uno sguardo che la sua cautela non era stata vana e mentre passava dal farmacista sulla via di uscita si chinò rispettosamente davanti a lui, dimostrando un evidente interesse.

Redlaw rispose al saluto con cortesia e persino umiltà, e lo guardò mentre proseguiva per la sua strada. Anche lui appoggiò il capo sulla mano, come se cercasse di riattivare qualcosa che aveva perso. Ma era sparito.

Il cambiamento duraturo che era sopraggiunto in lui dall’influenza della musica e dalla ricomparsa del Fantasma era che ora egli sentiva veramente quanto aveva perduto, poteva compatire la propria condizione e confrontarla chiaramente con lo stato naturale di coloro che gli stavano intorno. In questo modo si ravvivò in lui un interesse per le persone che lo circondavano e nacque in lui una sensazione mite, sottomessa della sua calamità, simile a quella che talvolta si manifesta nella vecchiaia quando i poteri mentali sono indeboliti senza che all’elenco delle sue infermità vengano aggiunti insensibilità o malumore.

Egli era consapevole che, man mano che riscattava attraverso Milly sempre più del male che aveva fatto e passava con lei sempre più tempo, questo cambiamento maturava dentro di lui. Per questo motivo, e a causa dell’attaccamento che gli ispirava (ma senza altre speranze), sentiva di dipendere completamente da lei e che ella fosse il suo sostegno nelle sue sofferenze.

Così, quando lei gli chiese se non fosse ora di tornare a casa, dove si trovavano il vecchio e suo marito, e lui rispose prontamente “sì” — essendo ansioso al riguardo — le mise il braccio intorno alla vita e camminò accanto a lei; non come se fosse l’uomo saggio e colto per cui i misteri della Natura erano un libro aperto, mentre lei era la mente incolta, ma come se le loro due posizioni si fossero invertite, e lui non ne sapesse nulla, e lei tutto.

Vide i bambini accalcarsi intorno a lei e accarezzarla mentre lui e lei si allontanavano insieme così, dalla casa; udì il suono delle loro risate e le loro voci allegre; vide i loro volti luminosi che gli si stringevano attorno come fiori; fu testimone del rinnovato contento e dell’affetto dei genitori; respirò l’aria semplice della loro povera casa, tornata alla sua tranquillità; pensò al malsano flagello che aveva diffuso su di essa, e che forse stava ancora diffondendo se non fosse stato per lei; e forse non è un miracolo che camminasse sottomesso accanto a lei, e le attirasse il suo dolce seno più vicino al proprio.

Quando arrivarono alla casa colonica, il vecchio era seduto sulla sua sedia nell’angolo del camino, con gli occhi fissi a terra e suo figlio appoggiato al lato opposto della caminata, che lo guardava. Quando lei entrò dalla porta, entrambi si scossero e si voltarono verso di lei e un cambiamento radioso apparve sui loro volti.

«Oh caro, caro, caro, sono tutti contenti di vedermi come gli altri!» esclamò Milly, battendo le mani in estasi e fermandosi bruscamente. «Eccoli altri due!»

Felice di vederla! Felicità non era la parola giusta. Corse tra le braccia del marito, spalancate per accoglierla, e lui sarebbe stato felice di averla lì, con la testa appoggiata sulla sua spalla, per tutto il breve inverno’s day. Ma il vecchio non poteva rinunciare a lei. Anche lui aveva braccia per lei e la strinse tra di esse.

«Ebbene, dove è stata la mia tranquilla topolina tutto questo tempo?» disse il vecchio. «È rimasta lontana a lungo. Scopro che non posso andare avanti senza Topolina. Io, dov’è mio figlio William?, credo di aver sognato, William.»

«È quello che dico io stesso, padre», rispose suo figlio. «Penso di aver fatto un sogno sgradevole.—Come state, padre? Vi sentite abbastanza bene?»

«Forte e coraggioso, ragazzo mio», rispose il vecchio.

Fu uno spettacolo veder il signor William stringere la mano a suo padre, dargli pacche sulla schiena e strofinarlo delicatamente con la sua mano, come se non potesse fare abbastanza per dimostrare interesse verso di lui.

«Che uomo meraviglioso sei, padre! — Come stai, padre? Sei davvero in gran forma, non è vero?» disse William, stringendogli di nuovo la mano e dandogli un’altra pacca sulla spalla, strofinandolo delicatamente ancora una volta.

“Non sono mai stato più fresco e robusto in vita mia, ragazzo mio.”

«Che uomo meraviglioso sei, padre! Ma è proprio qui il punto», disse William con entusiasmo. «Quando penso a tutto ciò che mio padre ha passato, e a tutte le occasioni e i cambiamenti, e alle pene e ai problemi, che gli sono capitati nel corso della sua lunga vita, e sotto cui la sua testa è diventata grigia, e gli anni su anni si sono accumulati sopra di essa, mi sento come se non potessimo mai fare abbastanza per onorare il vecchio signore, e rendere facile la sua vecchiaia. — Come stai, padre? Sei davvero piuttosto bene, però?»

Il signor William non avrebbe mai smesso di ripetere questa domanda e di stringergli la mano ancora una volta, e di dargli pacche sulle spalle ancora una volta, e di strofinarlo ancora una volta, se il vecchio non avesse scorto il farmacista, che fino a quel momento non aveva visto.

“Chiedo scusa, signor Redlaw,” disse Filippo, “ma non sapevo che lei fosse qui, signore, altrimenti mi sarei comportato con più riserva. Mi fa venire in mente, signor Redlaw, vederla qui una mattina di Natale, il tempo quando era uno studente anche lei e lavorava così sodo che andava avanti e indietro nella nostra biblioteca persino a Natale. Ha! ha! Sono abbastanza vecchio da ricordarmene; e me lo ricordo proprio bene, sì, anche se ho ottantasette anni. È dopo che lei è partito di qui che mia moglie poveretta è morta. Si ricorda della mia povera moglie, signor Redlaw?”

Il chimico rispose di sì.

«Sì», disse il vecchio. «Era una creatura cara.—Mi ricordo che veniste qui un mattino di Natale con una giovane signora—vi chiedo scusa, signor Redlaw, ma credo fosse una sorella a cui eravate molto affezionato?»

The Chemist looked at him, and shook his head. “I had a sister,” he said vacantly. He knew no more.

“One Christmas morning,” pursued the old man, “that you come here with her—and it began to snow, and my wife invited the lady to walk in, and sit by the fire that is always a burning on Christmas Day in what used to be, before our ten poor gentlemen commuted, our great Dinner Hall. I was there; and I recollect, as I was stirring up the blaze for the young lady to warm her pretty feet by, she read the scroll out loud, that is underneath that pictur, ‘Lord, keep my memory green!’ She and my poor wife fell a talking about it; and it’s a strange thing to think of, now, that they both said (both being so unlike to die) that it was a good prayer, and that it was one they would put up very earnestly, if they were called away young, with reference to those who were dearest to them. ‘My brother,’ says the young lady—‘My husband,’ says my poor wife.—‘Lord, keep his memory of me, green, and do not let me be forgotten!’”

Tears more painful, and more bitter than he had ever shed in all his life, coursed down Redlaw’s face. Philip, fully occupied in recalling his story, had not observed him until now, nor Milly’s anxiety that he should not proceed.

“Philip!” said Redlaw, laying his hand upon his arm, “I am a stricken man, on whom the hand of Providence has fallen heavily, although deservedly. You speak to me, my friend, of what I cannot follow; my memory is gone.”

“Merciful power!” cried the old man.

“I have lost my memory of sorrow, wrong, and trouble,” said the Chemist, “and with that I have lost all man would remember!”

To see old Philip’s pity for him, to see him wheel his own great chair for him to rest in, and look down upon him with a solemn sense of his bereavement, was to know, in some degree, how precious to old age such recollections are.

The boy came running in, and ran to Milly.

“Here’s the man,” he said, “in the other room. I don’t want him.”

“What man does he mean?” asked Mr. William.

“Hush!” said Milly.

Obedient to a sign from her, he and his old father softly withdrew. As they went out, unnoticed, Redlaw beckoned to the boy to come to him.

“I like the woman best,” he answered, holding to her skirts.

“You are right,” said Redlaw, with a faint smile. “But you needn’t fear to come to me. I am gentler than I was. Of all the world, to you, poor child!”

The boy still held back at first, but yielding little by little to her urging, he consented to approach, and even to sit down at his feet. As Redlaw laid his hand upon the shoulder of the child, looking on him with compassion and a fellow-feeling, he put out his other hand to Milly. She stooped down on that side of him, so that she could look into his face, and after silence, said:

“Mr. Redlaw, may I speak to you?”

“Yes,” he answered, fixing his eyes upon her. “Your voice and music are the same to me.”

“May I ask you something?”

“What you will.”

“Do you remember what I said, when I knocked at your door last night? About one who was your friend once, and who stood on the verge of destruction?”

“Yes. I remember,” he said, with some hesitation.

“Do you understand it?”

He smoothed the boy’s hair—looking at her fixedly the while, and shook his head.

“This person,” said Milly, in her clear, soft voice, which her mild eyes, looking at him, made clearer and softer, “I found soon afterwards. I went back to the house, and, with Heaven’s help, traced him. I was not too soon. A very little and I should have been too late.”

He took his hand from the boy, and laying it on the back of that hand of hers, whose timid and yet earnest touch addressed him no less appealingly than her voice and eyes, looked more intently on her.

“He is the father of Mr. Edmund, the young gentleman we saw just now. His real name is Longford.—You recollect the name?”

“I recollect the name.”

“And the man?”

“No, not the man. Did he ever wrong me?”

“Yes!”

“Ah! Then it’s hopeless—hopeless.”

He shook his head, and softly beat upon the hand he held, as though mutely asking her commiseration.

“I did not go to Mr. Edmund last night,” said Milly,—“You will listen to me just the same as if you did remember all?”

“To every syllable you say.”

“Both, because I did not know, then, that this really was his father, and because I was fearful of the effect of such intelligence upon him, after his illness, if it should be. Since I have known who this person is, I have not gone either; but that is for another reason. He has long been separated from his wife and son—has been a stranger to his home almost from this son’s infancy, I learn from him—and has abandoned and deserted what he should have held most dear. In all that time he has been falling from the state of a gentleman, more and more, until—” she rose up, hastily, and going out for a moment, returned, accompanied by the wreck that Redlaw had beheld last night.

“Do you know me?” asked the Chemist.

“I should be glad,” returned the other, “and that is an unwonted word for me to use, if I could answer no.”

The Chemist looked at the man, standing in self-abasement and degradation before him, and would have looked longer, in an ineffectual struggle for enlightenment, but that Milly resumed her late position by his side, and attracted his attentive gaze to her own face.

“See how low he is sunk, how lost he is!” she whispered, stretching out her arm towards him, without looking from the Chemist’s face. “If you could remember all that is connected with him, do you not think it would move your pity to reflect that one you ever loved (do not let us mind how long ago, or in what belief that he has forfeited), should come to this?”

“I hope it would,” he answered. “I believe it would.”

His eyes wandered to the figure standing near the door, but came back speedily to her, on whom he gazed intently, as if he strove to learn some lesson from every tone of her voice, and every beam of her eyes.

Il chimico lo guardò e scosse la testa. «Avevo una sorella», disse con aria assente. Non ne sapeva di più.

«Una mattina di Natale», continuò il vecchio, «veniste qui con lei e cominciò a nevicare, e mia moglie invitò la signora ad entrare e sedersi accanto al fuoco che arde sempre nella nostra grande Sala da Pranzo in cui si riunivano i nostri dieci poveri gentiluomini prima che decidessero di trasferirsi altrove. Ero lì; e ricordo, mentre ravvivavo le fiamme perché la giovane signora potesse scaldarvi i suoi graziosi piedini, lei lesse ad alta voce il rotolo sotto quel quadro: ‘Signore, mantieni verde la mia memoria!’ Lei e mia povera moglie cominciarono a parlare di questo; ed è strano pensare che entrambe dissero (nonostante fosse improbabile che morissero presto) che era una buona preghiera, e che l’avrebbero recitata con grande fervore, se fossero state chiamate a lasciare questo mondo giovani, pensando a coloro che erano loro più cari. ‘Mio fratello’, disse la giovane signora—‘Mio marito’, disse mia povera moglie.—‘Signore, mantieni verde il suo ricordo di me e non permettere che io sia dimenticata!’»

Lacrime più dolorose e amare di quante ne avesse mai versate in tutta la sua vita scorrevano lungo il volto di Redlaw. Philip, completamente preso dal ricordo della sua storia, non lo aveva notato fino a quel momento, né l’ansia di Milly che lui non continuasse.

«Filippo!» disse Redlaw, posandogli la mano sul braccio «Sono un uomo colpito dalla sventura, su cui è ricaduta pesantemente la mano della Provvidenza, sebbene meritatamente. Mi parlate di cose che non riesco a comprendere; ho perso il mio ricordo.»

«Potenza misericordiosa!» gridò il vecchio.

«Ho perso il mio ricordo di dolore, torto e guai», disse lo Scienziato, «e con questo ho perso tutto ciò che un uomo vorrebbe ricordare!»

Vedere la pietà di vecchio Philip per lui, vederlo spingere la sua grande sedia a rotelle perché potesse riposarvi e guardarlo dall’alto con un senso solenne della sua perdita, era in qualche modo capire quanto preziosi sono tali ricordi nella vecchiaia.

Il ragazzo entrò correndo e si diresse verso Milly.

“Ecco l’uomo,” disse, “nell’altra stanza. Non lo voglio.”

«A quale uomo si riferisce?» chiese il signor William.

«Ssst!» disse Milly.

Obbedendo ad un cenno di lei, lui e il suo vecchio padre si ritirarono silenziosamente. Mentre uscivano inosservati, Redlaw fece segno al ragazzo di avvicinarsi a lui.

“Mi piace di più la donna”, rispose lui, aggrappandosi alla sua gonna.

«Avete ragione», disse Redlaw con un debole sorriso. «Ma non dovete temere di venire da me. Sono più mite di prima. Di tutto il mondo, a voi, povera bambina!»

Il ragazzo si trattenne ancora un po’ all’inizio, ma cedendo poco a poco alle sue insistenze, acconsentì ad avvicinarsi e persino a sedersi ai suoi piedi. Mentre Redlaw posava la mano sulla spalla del bambino, guardandolo con compassione e partecipazione, allungò l’altra mano verso Milly. Lei si chinò da quel lato di lui, in modo da poterlo guardare in faccia, e dopo un silenzio, disse:

“Signor Redlaw, posso parlarle?”

“Sì,” rispose lui, fissandola con gli occhi. “La tua voce e la musica sono per me le stesse cose.”

Posso chiederti una cosa?

“Come ti pare.”

«Ti ricordi cosa ti ho detto quando ho bussato alla tua porta la scorsa notte? A proposito di uno che fu tuo amico e che si trovava sull’orlo della distruzione?»

«Sì. Ricordo», disse con qualche esitazione.

“Lo capisci?”

Lei lisciò i capelli del ragazzo - guardandola fissamente nel frattempo e scuotendo la testa.

“Questa persona”, disse Milly con la sua voce chiara e dolce che i suoi occhi miti, fissandolo, rendevano ancora più chiara e dolce, “l’ho ritrovata poco dopo. Sono tornata alla casa e, con l’aiuto del Cielo, ho rintracciato lui. Non sono arrivata troppo tardi. Poco altro e sarei stata in ritardo.”

Le tolse la mano dal ragazzo e posandola sul dorso di quella sua mano il cui timido ma sincero tocco lo aveva raggiunto non meno efficacemente della voce e degli occhi, la guardò più intensamente.

“È il padre del signor Edmund, il giovane gentiluomo che abbiamo appena visto. Il suo vero nome è Longford. — Vi ricordate il nome?”

Ricordo il nome.

“E l’uomo?”

“No, non l’uomo. Mi ha mai fatto del male?”

“Sì, davvero!”

“Ah! Allora è senza speranza - senza speranza.”

Scosse la testa e batté dolcemente sulla mano che teneva, come se le chiedesse silenziosamente compassione.

«Non sono andata da signor Edmund ieri sera», disse Milly, «mi ascolterai lo stesso come se ti ricordassi tutto?»

“A ogni sillaba che dici.”

«Entrambe le cose, perché allora non sapevo che questo fosse davvero suo padre e perché temevo l’effetto di una tale notizia su di lui dopo la sua malattia, se mai fosse venuta a galla. Da quando ho saputo chi è questa persona, non ci sono più andata; ma ciò per un altro motivo. È da tempo separato dalla moglie e dal figlio - mi ha detto che è quasi uno sconosciuto nella sua casa fin dall’infanzia di questo figlio - ed ha abbandonato e disertato ciò che avrebbe dovuto considerare più caro. In tutto quel tempo è decaduto sempre più dallo stato di gentiluomo, fino a quando, » si alzò in piedi, frettolosamente, e uscendo per un momento, tornò accompagnata dalla rovina che Redlaw aveva visto la scorsa notte.

«Mi conoscete?» chiese il chimico.

«Sarei felice», rispose l’altro, «e questa è una parola insolita per me da usare, se potessi rispondere di no.»

Il chimico guardò l’uomo, che stava in auto-umiliazione e degradazione davanti a lui, e avrebbe continuato a guardarlo più a lungo, in una lotta inefficace per ottenere una spiegazione, se Milly non fosse tornata alla sua posizione precedente al suo fianco, attirando il suo sguardo attento sul proprio volto.

«Guardate quanto è caduto in basso, quanto è perduto!» sussurrò, tendendo il braccio verso di lui senza staccare gli occhi dal volto del farmacista. «Se poteste ricordare tutto ciò che lo riguarda, non pensate che vi commuoverebbe riflettere che colui che avete amato (non importa da quanto tempo o in base a quale convinzione abbia perso il vostro amore) sia arrivato a questo?»

“Spero che lo farebbe”, rispose lui. “Credo che lo farebbe”.

I suoi occhi si spostarono sulla figura che stava vicino alla porta, ma tornarono presto su di lei, che fissò con intensità, come se cercasse di imparare qualche lezione da ogni tono della sua voce e da ogni luce dei suoi occhi.

“I have no learning, and you have much,” said Milly; “I am not used to think, and you are always thinking. May I tell you why it seems to me a good thing for us, to remember wrong that has been done us?”

“Yes.”

“That we may forgive it.”

“Pardon me, great Heaven!” said Redlaw, lifting up his eyes, “for having thrown away thine own high attribute!”

“And if,” said Milly, “if your memory should one day be restored, as we will hope and pray it may be, would it not be a blessing to you to recall at once a wrong and its forgiveness?”

He looked at the figure by the door, and fastened his attentive eyes on her again; a ray of clearer light appeared to him to shine into his mind, from her bright face.

“He cannot go to his abandoned home. He does not seek to go there. He knows that he could only carry shame and trouble to those he has so cruelly neglected; and that the best reparation he can make them now, is to avoid them. A very little money carefully bestowed, would remove him to some distant place, where he might live and do no wrong, and make such atonement as is left within his power for the wrong he has done. To the unfortunate lady who is his wife, and to his son, this would be the best and kindest boon that their best friend could give them—one too that they need never know of; and to him, shattered in reputation, mind, and body, it might be salvation.”

He took her head between her hands, and kissed it, and said: “It shall be done. I trust to you to do it for me, now and secretly; and to tell him that I would forgive him, if I were so happy as to know for what.”

As she rose, and turned her beaming face towards the fallen man, implying that her mediation had been successful, he advanced a step, and without raising his eyes, addressed himself to Redlaw.

“You are so generous,” he said, “—you ever were—that you will try to banish your rising sense of retribution in the spectacle that is before you. I do not try to banish it from myself, Redlaw. If you can, believe me.”

The Chemist entreated Milly, by a gesture, to come nearer to him; and, as he listened looked in her face, as if to find in it the clue to what he heard.

“I am too decayed a wretch to make professions; I recollect my own career too well, to array any such before you. But from the day on which I made my first step downward, in dealing falsely by you, I have gone down with a certain, steady, doomed progression. That, I say.”

Redlaw, keeping her close at his side, turned his face towards the speaker, and there was sorrow in it. Something like mournful recognition too.

“I might have been another man, my life might have been another life, if I had avoided that first fatal step. I don’t know that it would have been. I claim nothing for the possibility. Your sister is at rest, and better than she could have been with me, if I had continued even what you thought me: even what I once supposed myself to be.”

Redlaw made a hasty motion with his hand, as if he would have put that subject on one side.

“I speak,” the other went on, “like a man taken from the grave. I should have made my own grave, last night, had it not been for this blessed hand.”

“Oh dear, he likes me too!” sobbed Milly, under her breath. “That’s another!”

“I could not have put myself in your way, last night, even for bread. But, to-day, my recollection of what has been is so strongly stirred, and is presented to me, I don’t know how, so vividly, that I have dared to come at her suggestion, and to take your bounty, and to thank you for it, and to beg you, Redlaw, in your dying hour, to be as merciful to me in your thoughts, as you are in your deeds.”

He turned towards the door, and stopped a moment on his way forth.

“I hope my son may interest you, for his mother’s sake. I hope he may deserve to do so. Unless my life should be preserved a long time, and I should know that I have not misused your aid, I shall never look upon him more.”

Going out, he raised his eyes to Redlaw for the first time. Redlaw, whose steadfast gaze was fixed upon him, dreamily held out his hand. He returned and touched it—little more—with both his own; and bending down his head, went slowly out.

In the few moments that elapsed, while Milly silently took him to the gate, the Chemist dropped into his chair, and covered his face with his hands. Seeing him thus, when she came back, accompanied by her husband and his father (who were both greatly concerned for him), she avoided disturbing him, or permitting him to be disturbed; and kneeled down near the chair to put some warm clothing on the boy.

“That’s exactly where it is. That’s what I always say, father!” exclaimed her admiring husband. “There’s a motherly feeling in Mrs. William’s breast that must and will have went!”

“Ay, ay,” said the old man; “you’re right. My son William’s right!”

“It happens all for the best, Milly dear, no doubt,” said Mr. William, tenderly, “that we have no children of our own; and yet I sometimes wish you had one to love and cherish. Our little dead child that you built such hopes upon, and that never breathed the breath of life—it has made you quiet-like, Milly.”

“I am very happy in the recollection of it, William dear,” she answered. “I think of it every day.”

“I was afraid you thought of it a good deal.”

“Don’t say, afraid; it is a comfort to me; it speaks to me in so many ways. The innocent thing that never lived on earth, is like an angel to me, William.”

“You are like an angel to father and me,” said Mr. William, softly. “I know that.”

“When I think of all those hopes I built upon it, and the many times I sat and pictured to myself the little smiling face upon my bosom that never lay there, and the sweet eyes turned up to mine that never opened to the light,” said Milly, “I can feel a greater tenderness, I think, for all the disappointed hopes in which there is no harm. When I see a beautiful child in its fond mother’s arms, I love it all the better, thinking that my child might have been like that, and might have made my heart as proud and happy.”

«Non ho istruzione e voi ne avete molta», disse Milly; «non sono abituata a pensare e voi pensate sempre. Posso dirvi perché mi sembra una cosa buona per noi ricordare il torto che ci è stato fatto?»

“Sì, davvero.”

“Per poterlo perdonare.”

«Perdono a me, grande Cielo!» disse Redlaw, alzando gli occhi «per aver gettato via il tuo più alto attributo!»

«E se», disse Milly, «se un giorno la tua memoria dovesse tornare, come speriamo e preghiamo che accada, non sarebbe una benedizione per te ricordare in una volta sola un torto e il suo perdono?»

Guardò la figura vicino alla porta e fissò di nuovo su di lei i suoi occhi attenti; un raggio di luce più chiara sembrò brillare nella sua mente, dal suo viso luminoso.

“Non può tornare nella sua casa abbandonata. Non cerca di farlo. Sa che potrebbe solo portare vergogna e problemi a coloro che ha così crudelmente trascurato; e che la migliore riparazione che possa fare loro ora, è evitarli. Un po’ di denaro distribuito con cura lo allontanerebbe in qualche luogo lontano, dove potrebbe vivere senza fare del male, e compiere quella riparazione che gli rimane possibile per il torto che ha fatto. Per la sfortunata signora che è sua moglie, e per suo figlio, questo sarebbe il miglior dono e più gentile che il loro migliore amico potrebbe dargli—uno che non dovrebbero mai conoscere; e per lui, distrutto nella reputazione, nello spirito e nel corpo, potrebbe essere la salvezza.”

Le prese la testa tra le mani e la baciò dicendo: «Sarà fatto. Mi affido a te per farlo per me subito e in segreto; e per dirgli che lo perdonerei, se fossi così felice da sapere per cosa».

Mentre si alzava e rivolgeva il suo viso raggiante verso l’uomo caduto, facendo capire che la sua mediazione era stata coronata da successo, lui fece un passo avanti e senza alzare gli occhi si rivolse a Redlaw.

«Siete così generoso», disse «- lo siete sempre stato - che cercherete di scacciare il senso di vendetta che vi sta nascendo dentro alla vista dello spettacolo che avete davanti. Io non cerco di scacciarlo in me, Redlaw. Se ci riuscite, credetemi».

Il chimico fece cenno a Milly di avvicinarsi e mentre ascoltava la scrutò il volto, quasi volesse trovare lì un indizio per interpretare ciò che udiva.

“Sono troppo un misero decaduto per fare professioni; ricordo la mia carriera troppo bene, per metterne in mostra qualcuna davanti a voi. Ma dal giorno in cui ho fatto il mio primo passo verso il basso, ingannandovi, sono sceso con una certa progressione costante e maledetta. Questo è ciò che dico.”

Redlaw, tenendola vicina al suo fianco, volse il viso verso chi parlava e vi era dolore nel suo sguardo. Qualcosa di simile a un riconoscimento malinconico.

«Avrei potuto essere un altro uomo, la mia vita avrebbe potuto essere diversa, se fossi riuscito a evitare quel primo passo fatale. Non so se sarebbe stato così. Non rivendico nulla per questa possibilità. Tua sorella riposa in pace e è meglio di come sarebbe stata con me, anche se avessi continuato ad essere quello che tu credevi fossi: anche solo quello che una volta credevo io stesso di essere».

Redlaw fece un rapido gesto con la mano, come se volesse mettere da parte quell’argomento.

«Parlo», continuò l’altro, «come un uomo risuscitato dalla tomba. Avrei fatto la mia stessa tomba ieri sera, se non fosse stato per questa benedetta mano.»

“Oh mio Dio, gli piaccio troppo!” singhiozzò Milly tra sé e sé. “Un altro!”

«Non avrei potuto mettermi sulla tua strada, la scorsa notte, nemmeno per un pezzo di pane. Ma oggi il ricordo di quanto è accaduto mi ha così profondamente turbato, e si presenta a me, non so come, in modo così vivido, che ho osato venire su sua suggerimento, e accettare la tua generosità, e ringraziarti per essa, e pregarti, Redlaw, nell’ora della tua morte, di essere nei tuoi pensieri altrettanto misericordioso con me, come lo sei nelle tue azioni.»

Si voltò verso la porta e si fermò un momento sulla via d’uscita.

“Spero che mio figlio possa interessarvi per amore di sua madre. Spero che possa meritarselo. A meno che la mia vita non venga preservata ancora a lungo, e io sappia di non aver abusato del vostro aiuto, non lo rivedrò mai più.”

Uscendo, alzò gli occhi su Redlaw per la prima volta. Redlaw, il cui sguardo fermo era fisso su di lui, tese distrattamente la mano. Lui tornò indietro e la toccò - poco più - con entrambe le sue; e chinando il capo, uscì lentamente.

Nei pochi istanti che trascorsero mentre Milly lo accompagnava in silenzio al cancello, il farmacista si lasciò cadere sulla sedia e si coprì il volto con le mani. Vedendolo così quando tornò, accompagnata dal marito e dal padre di lui (che erano entrambi molto preoccupati per lui), evitò di disturbarlo o di permettere che fosse disturbato; e si inginocchiò vicino alla sedia per mettere addosso al ragazzo degli indumenti caldi.

«È esattamente così! È quello che dico sempre io, padre!» esclamò il marito ammirato. «C’è un sentimento materno nel cuore della signora William che deve e vuole essere espresso!»

“Sì, sì,” disse il vecchio uomo; “hai ragione. Mio figlio William ha ragione!”

“Tutto accade per il meglio, mia cara Milly, senza alcun dubbio,” disse William con dolcezza, “che non abbiamo figli nostri; eppure a volte desidero che tu ne avessi uno da amare e accudire. Il nostro piccolo bambino morto, su cui hai costruito tante speranze, e che non ha mai respirato il respiro della vita, ti ha resa così tranquilla, Milly.”

«Ne sono molto felice nel ricordarlo, caro William», rispose lei. «Ci penso ogni giorno.»

“Pensavo che ci pensassi molto.”

«Non dire che hai paura; è un conforto per me; mi parla in tanti modi. La cosa innocente che non ha mai vissuto sulla terra è come un angelo per me, William.»

“Sei come un angelo per papà e per me”, disse dolcemente il signor William. “Lo so.”

«Quando penso a tutte le speranze che ho costruito su di essa e alle tante volte in cui mi sono seduta immaginandomi il piccolo viso sorridente sul mio seno, un viso che non vi è mai stato, e gli occhi dolci rivolti verso i miei che non si sono mai aperti alla luce», disse Milly, «posso sentire una tenerezza maggiore, credo, per tutte le speranze deluse in cui non c’è alcun male. Quando vedo un bel bambino tra le braccia della sua affettuosa madre, lo amo ancora di più, pensando che il mio bambino avrebbe potuto essere così e avrebbe reso il mio cuore altrettanto orgoglioso e felice.»

Redlaw raised his head, and looked towards her.

“All through life, it seems by me,” she continued, “to tell me something. For poor neglected children, my little child pleads as if it were alive, and had a voice I knew, with which to speak to me. When I hear of youth in suffering or shame, I think that my child might have come to that, perhaps, and that God took it from me in His mercy. Even in age and grey hair, such as father’s, it is present: saying that it too might have lived to be old, long and long after you and I were gone, and to have needed the respect and love of younger people.”

Her quiet voice was quieter than ever, as she took her husband’s arm, and laid her head against it.

“Children love me so, that sometimes I half fancy—it’s a silly fancy, William—they have some way I don’t know of, of feeling for my little child, and me, and understanding why their love is precious to me. If I have been quiet since, I have been more happy, William, in a hundred ways. Not least happy, dear, in this—that even when my little child was born and dead but a few days, and I was weak and sorrowful, and could not help grieving a little, the thought arose, that if I tried to lead a good life, I should meet in Heaven a bright creature, who would call me, Mother!”

Redlaw fell upon his knees, with a loud cry.

“O Thou,” he said, “who through the teaching of pure love, hast graciously restored me to the memory which was the memory of Christ upon the Cross, and of all the good who perished in His cause, receive my thanks, and bless her!”

Then, he folded her to his heart; and Milly, sobbing more than ever, cried, as she laughed, “He is come back to himself! He likes me very much indeed, too! Oh, dear, dear, dear me, here’s another!”

Then, the student entered, leading by the hand a lovely girl, who was afraid to come. And Redlaw so changed towards him, seeing in him and his youthful choice, the softened shadow of that chastening passage in his own life, to which, as to a shady tree, the dove so long imprisoned in his solitary ark might fly for rest and company, fell upon his neck, entreating them to be his children.

Then, as Christmas is a time in which, of all times in the year, the memory of every remediable sorrow, wrong, and trouble in the world around us, should be active with us, not less than our own experiences, for all good, he laid his hand upon the boy, and, silently calling Him to witness who laid His hand on children in old time, rebuking, in the majesty of His prophetic knowledge, those who kept them from Him, vowed to protect him, teach him, and reclaim him.

Then, he gave his right hand cheerily to Philip, and said that they would that day hold a Christmas dinner in what used to be, before the ten poor gentlemen commuted, their great Dinner Hall; and that they would bid to it as many of that Swidger family, who, his son had told him, were so numerous that they might join hands and make a ring round England, as could be brought together on so short a notice.

And it was that day done. There were so many Swidgers there, grown up and children, that an attempt to state them in round numbers might engender doubts, in the distrustful, of the veracity of this history. Therefore the attempt shall not be made. But there they were, by dozens and scores—and there was good news and good hope there, ready for them, of George, who had been visited again by his father and brother, and by Milly, and again left in a quiet sleep. There, present at the dinner, too, were the Tetterbys, including young Adolphus, who arrived in his prismatic comforter, in good time for the beef. Johnny and the baby were too late, of course, and came in all on one side, the one exhausted, the other in a supposed state of double-tooth; but that was customary, and not alarming.

It was sad to see the child who had no name or lineage, watching the other children as they played, not knowing how to talk with them, or sport with them, and more strange to the ways of childhood than a rough dog. It was sad, though in a different way, to see what an instinctive knowledge the youngest children there had of his being different from all the rest, and how they made timid approaches to him with soft words and touches, and with little presents, that he might not be unhappy. But he kept by Milly, and began to love her—that was another, as she said!—and, as they all liked her dearly, they were glad of that, and when they saw him peeping at them from behind her chair, they were pleased that he was so close to it.

All this, the Chemist, sitting with the student and his bride that was to be, Philip, and the rest, saw.

Some people have said since, that he only thought what has been herein set down; others, that he read it in the fire, one winter night about the twilight time; others, that the Ghost was but the representation of his gloomy thoughts, and Milly the embodiment of his better wisdom. I say nothing.

—Except this. That as they were assembled in the old Hall, by no other light than that of a great fire (having dined early), the shadows once more stole out of their hiding-places, and danced about the room, showing the children marvellous shapes and faces on the walls, and gradually changing what was real and familiar there, to what was wild and magical. But that there was one thing in the Hall, to which the eyes of Redlaw, and of Milly and her husband, and of the old man, and of the student, and his bride that was to be, were often turned, which the shadows did not obscure or change. Deepened in its gravity by the fire-light, and gazing from the darkness of the panelled wall like life, the sedate face in the portrait, with the beard and ruff, looked down at them from under its verdant wreath of holly, as they looked up at it; and, clear and plain below, as if a voice had uttered them, were the words.

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Lord keep my Memory green.

Redlaw alzò la testa e guardò verso di lei.

«Tutta la vita sembra parlarmi», continuò, «di qualcosa. Per i poveri bambini trascurati, il mio piccolo bambino implora come se fosse vivo, e avesse una voce che conosco, con cui parlare a me. Quando sento parlare di giovani in sofferenza o vergogna, penso che il mio bambino potrebbe essere arrivato a quel punto, forse, e che Dio lo ha tolto da me nella Sua misericordia. Anche nell’età avanzata e nei capelli grigi come quelli di papà, è presente: dicendo che anche lui avrebbe potuto vivere fino a diventare vecchio, molto tempo dopo che tu ed io saremmo scomparsi, e aver bisogno del rispetto e dell’amore dei più giovani.»

La sua voce calma era più calma che mai mentre prendeva il braccio del marito e vi appoggiava la testa contro.

“I bambini mi amano così tanto che talvolta penso—è un pensiero sciocco, William—che abbiano qualche modo di cui non sono a conoscenza per provare affetto per il mio piccolo bambino, e me, e capire perché il loro amore sia così prezioso per me. Se da allora sono stata più tranquilla, William, è anche perché ho trovato la felicità in cento modi diversi. Non meno felice, caro mio, per questo: che anche quando il mio piccolo bambino nacque e morì dopo pochi giorni, e io ero debole e addolorata, e non potevo fare a meno di soffrire un poco, mi venne in mente che se avessi cercato di vivere una vita buona, avrei incontrato in Paradiso una creatura luminosa che mi avrebbe chiamata Mamma!”

Redlaw cadde in ginocchio con un forte grido.

«O Tu», disse, «che attraverso l’insegnamento del puro amore, mi hai graziosamente restituito la memoria che era la memoria di Cristo sulla Croce, e di tutti i buoni che perirono nella Sua causa, accogli il mio ringraziamento e benedici lei!»

Poi la strinse al cuore e Milly, singhiozzando più che mai, esclamò ridendo: «È tornato in sé! Mi vuole molto bene anche lui! Oh, caro, caro, caro me, ecco un altro!»

Poi entrò lo studente, conducendo per mano una ragazza incantevole che aveva paura di venire. E Redlaw cambiò così tanto nei suoi confronti, vedendo in lui e nella sua scelta giovanile l’ombra addolcita di quel passaggio castigatore della propria vita, a cui, come a un albero ombroso, la colomba imprigionata per così tanto tempo nell’arca solitaria avrebbe potuto volare in cerca di riposo e compagnia; si gettò al suo collo, pregandoli di essere i suoi figli.

Poi, poiché il Natale è un periodo nel quale, tra tutti i periodi dell’anno, il ricordo di ogni dolore, torto e problema risolvibile nel mondo che ci circonda dovrebbe essere vivo in noi non meno delle nostre esperienze personali, per il bene di tutti, pose la mano sul ragazzo e, invocando silenziosamente come testimone Colui che poneva la Sua mano sui bambini nei vecchi tempi, rimproverando con la maestà della Sua conoscenza profetica coloro che li tenevano lontani da Lui, giurò di proteggerlo, istruirlo e riabilitarlo.

Poi gli porse la mano destra con entusiasmo e disse che quel giorno avrebbero tenuto una cena di Natale in quello che era stato, prima che i dieci poveri gentiluomini si fossero trasferiti, il loro grande Salone da Pranzo; e che vi avrebbero invitato quante più persone della famiglia Swidger, la quale, gli aveva detto suo figlio, era così numerosa che avrebbe potuto unire le mani e formare un cerchio intorno all’Inghilterra, potevano essere riunite con così breve preavviso.

E così quel giorno finì. C’erano così tanti Swidger lì, adulti e bambini, che un tentativo di contarli approssimativamente potrebbe suscitare dubbi, nei più diffidenti, sulla veridicità di questa storia. Perciò non si farà il tentativo. Ma eccoli lì, a dozzine e a decine — e c’era buona notizia e buona speranza per loro, riguardo a George, che era stato nuovamente visitato da suo padre, da suo fratello e da Milly, ed era stato lasciato di nuovo in un tranquillo sonno. Anche i Tetterby erano presenti alla cena, incluso il giovane Adolphus, arrivato con la sua sciarpa prismaticamente confortevole, in buona ora per la carne di manzo. Johnny e il bambino arrivarono troppo tardi, naturalmente, e entrarono tutti da un lato, uno esausto, l’altro in quello che si supponeva fosse uno stato di doppia dentizione; ma era una cosa abituale e non allarmante.

Era triste vedere il bambino senza nome né lignaggio osservare gli altri bambini mentre giocavano, non sapendo come parlare con loro o divertirsi insieme a loro, e più estraneo ai modi dell’infanzia di un cane randagio. Era triste, sebbene in modo diverso, vedere quale istintiva consapevolezza avessero i bambini più piccoli del fatto che lui era diverso da tutti gli altri e come facessero timide avances verso di lui con parole dolci e carezze, e con piccoli doni affinché non fosse infelice. Ma lui rimaneva vicino a Milly e cominciò ad amare lei — un’altra cosa, come diceva lei! — e poiché tutti la amavano profondamente, ne furono contenti, e quando lo vedevano sbirciarli da dietro la sua sedia, erano felici che fosse così vicino a essa.

Tutto questo il farmacista lo vide mentre sedeva con lo studente e la sua futura sposa, Filippo e gli altri.

Alcuni hanno detto da allora che lui pensò solo a ciò che è stato qui riportato; altri, che lo lesse nel fuoco, una sera d’inverno verso l’imbrunire; altri ancora, che il fantasma non era altro che la rappresentazione dei suoi pensieri cupi e Milly l’incarnazione della sua saggezza migliore. Io non dico nulla.

—Tranne questo: che mentre erano riuniti nella vecchia Sala, illuminata solo dalla luce di un grande fuoco (avendo cenato presto), le ombre uscirono nuovamente dai loro nascondigli e danzarono per la stanza, mostrando ai bambini straordinarie forme e volti sulle pareti, trasformando gradualmente ciò che era reale e familiare in qualcosa di selvaggio e magico. Ma c’era una cosa nella Sala a cui gli occhi di Redlaw, di Milly e del suo marito, dell’uomo anziano, dello studente e della sua futura sposa si rivolgevano spesso, che le ombre non oscuravano né cambiavano. Approfondita nella sua gravità dalla luce del fuoco, e fissando dall’oscurità della parete pannellata come se fosse viva, la faccia serena nel ritratto, con la barba e il colletto, li guardava dall’alto sotto la sua corona verde di agrifoglio mentre loro lo guardavano in su; e, chiare e distinte sotto, come se una voce le avesse pronunciate, c’erano le parole.

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Signore, mantieni la mia memoria verde.