Chapter Chapter 69 · 第69章

Kit was no sluggard next morning, but, springing from his bed some time

before day, began to prepare for his welcome expedition. The hurry of

spirits consequent upon the events of yesterday, and the unexpected

intelligence he had heard at night, had troubled his sleep through the

long dark hours, and summoned such uneasy dreams about his pillow that

it was best to rise.

But, had it been the beginning of some great labour with the same end

in view--had it been the commencement of a long journey, to be

performed on foot in that inclement season of the year, to be pursued

under very privation and difficulty, and to be achieved only with great

distress, fatigue, and suffering--had it been the dawn of some painful

enterprise, certain to task his utmost powers of resolution and

endurance, and to need his utmost fortitude, but only likely to end, if

happily achieved, in good fortune and delight to Nell--Kit’s cheerful

zeal would have been as highly roused: Kit’s ardour and impatience

would have been, at least, the same.

Nor was he alone excited and eager. Before he had been up a quarter of

an hour the whole house were astir and busy. Everybody hurried to do

something towards facilitating the preparations. The single gentleman,

it is true, could do nothing himself, but he overlooked everybody else

and was more locomotive than anybody. The work of packing and making

ready went briskly on, and by daybreak every preparation for the

journey was completed. Then Kit began to wish they had not been quite

so nimble; for the travelling-carriage which had been hired for the

occasion was not to arrive until nine o’clock, and there was nothing

but breakfast to fill up the intervening blank of one hour and a half.

Yes there was, though. There was Barbara. Barbara was busy, to be

sure, but so much the better--Kit could help her, and that would pass

away the time better than any means that could be devised. Barbara had

no objection to this arrangement, and Kit, tracking out the idea which

had come upon him so suddenly overnight, began to think that surely

Barbara was fond of him, and surely he was fond of Barbara.

Now, Barbara, if the truth must be told--as it must and ought to

be--Barbara seemed, of all the little household, to take least pleasure

in the bustle of the occasion; and when Kit, in the openness of his

heart, told her how glad and overjoyed it made him, Barbara became more

downcast still, and seemed to have even less pleasure in it than before!

‘You have not been home so long, Christopher,’ said Barbara--and it is

impossible to tell how carelessly she said it--‘You have not been home

so long, that you need to be glad to go away again, I should think.’

‘But for such a purpose,’ returned Kit. ‘To bring back Miss Nell! To

see her again! Only think of that! I am so pleased too, to think that

you will see her, Barbara, at last.’

Barbara did not absolutely say that she felt no gratification on this

point, but she expressed the sentiment so plainly by one little toss of

her head, that Kit was quite disconcerted, and wondered, in his

simplicity, why she was so cool about it.

‘You’ll say she has the sweetest and beautifullest face you ever saw, I

know,’ said Kit, rubbing his hands. ‘I’m sure you’ll say that.’

Barbara tossed her head again.

‘What’s the matter, Barbara?’ said Kit.

‘Nothing,’ cried Barbara. And Barbara pouted--not sulkily, or in an

ugly manner, but just enough to make her look more cherry-lipped than

ever.

There is no school in which a pupil gets on so fast, as that in which

Kit became a scholar when he gave Barbara the kiss. He saw what

Barbara meant now--he had his lesson by heart all at once--she was the

book--there it was before him, as plain as print.

‘Barbara,’ said Kit, ‘you’re not cross with me?’

Oh dear no! Why should Barbara be cross? And what right had she to be

cross? And what did it matter whether she was cross or not? Who

minded her!

‘Why, I do,’ said Kit. ‘Of course I do.’

Barbara didn’t see why it was of course, at all.

Kit was sure she must. Would she think again?

Certainly, Barbara would think again. No, she didn’t see why it was of

course. She didn’t understand what Christopher meant. And besides she

was sure they wanted her up stairs by this time, and she must go,

indeed--

‘No, but Barbara,’ said Kit, detaining her gently, ‘let us part

friends. I was always thinking of you, in my troubles. I should have

been a great deal more miserable than I was, if it hadn’t been for you.’

Goodness gracious, how pretty Barbara was when she coloured--and when

she trembled, like a little shrinking bird!

‘I am telling you the truth, Barbara, upon my word, but not half so

strong as I could wish,’ said Kit. ‘When I want you to be pleased to

see Miss Nell, it’s only because I like you to be pleased with what

pleases me--that’s all. As to her, Barbara, I think I could almost die

to do her service, but you would think so too, if you knew her as I do.

I am sure you would.’

Barbara was touched, and sorry to have appeared indifferent.

‘I have been used, you see,’ said Kit, ‘to talk and think of her,

almost as if she was an angel. When I look forward to meeting her

again, I think of her smiling as she used to do, and being glad to see

me, and putting out her hand and saying, “It’s my own old Kit,” or some

such words as those--like what she used to say. I think of seeing her

happy, and with friends about her, and brought up as she deserves, and

as she ought to be. When I think of myself, it’s as her old servant,

and one that loved her dearly, as his kind, good, gentle mistress; and

who would have gone--yes, and still would go--through any harm to serve

her. Once, I couldn’t help being afraid that if she came back with

friends about her she might forget, or be ashamed of having known, a

humble lad like me, and so might speak coldly, which would have cut me,

Barbara, deeper than I can tell. But when I came to think again, I

felt sure that I was doing her wrong in this; and so I went on, as I

did at first, hoping to see her once more, just as she used to be.

Hoping this, and remembering what she was, has made me feel as if I

would always try to please her, and always be what I should like to

seem to her if I was still her servant. If I’m the better for

that--and I don’t think I’m the worse--I am grateful to her for it, and

love and honour her the more. That’s the plain honest truth, dear

Barbara, upon my word it is!’

Little Barbara was not of a wayward or capricious nature, and, being

full of remorse, melted into tears. To what more conversation this

might have led, we need not stop to inquire; for the wheels of the

carriage were heard at that moment, and, being followed by a smart ring

at the garden gate, caused the bustle in the house, which had laid

dormant for a short time, to burst again into tenfold life and vigour.

Simultaneously with the travelling equipage, arrived Mr Chuckster in a

hackney cab, with certain papers and supplies of money for the single

gentleman, into whose hands he delivered them. This duty discharged,

he subsided into the bosom of the family; and, entertaining himself

with a strolling or peripatetic breakfast, watched, with genteel

indifference, the process of loading the carriage.

‘Snobby’s in this, I see, Sir?’ he said to Mr Abel Garland. ‘I thought

he wasn’t in the last trip because it was expected that his presence

wouldn’t be acceptable to the ancient buffalo.’

‘To whom, Sir?’ demanded Mr Abel.

‘To the old gentleman,’ returned Mr Chuckster, slightly abashed.

‘Our client prefers to take him now,’ said Mr Abel, drily. ‘There is

no longer any need for that precaution, as my father’s relationship to

a gentleman in whom the objects of his search have full confidence,

will be a sufficient guarantee for the friendly nature of their errand.’

‘Ah!’ thought Mr Chuckster, looking out of window, ‘anybody but me!

Snobby before me, of course. He didn’t happen to take that particular

five-pound note, but I have not the smallest doubt that he’s always up

to something of that sort. I always said it, long before this came

out. Devilish pretty girl that! ‘Pon my soul, an amazing little

creature!’

Barbara was the subject of Mr Chuckster’s commendations; and as she was

lingering near the carriage (all being now ready for its departure),

that gentleman was suddenly seized with a strong interest in the

proceedings, which impelled him to swagger down the garden, and take up

his position at a convenient ogling distance. Having had great

experience of the sex, and being perfectly acquainted with all those

little artifices which find the readiest road to their hearts, Mr

Chuckster, on taking his ground, planted one hand on his hip, and with

the other adjusted his flowing hair. This is a favourite attitude in

the polite circles, and, accompanied with a graceful whistling, has

been known to do immense execution.

Such, however, is the difference between town and country, that nobody

took the smallest notice of this insinuating figure; the wretches being

wholly engaged in bidding the travellers farewell, in kissing hands to

each other, waving handkerchiefs, and the like tame and vulgar

practices. For now the single gentleman and Mr Garland were in the

carriage, and the post-boy was in the saddle, and Kit, well wrapped and

muffled up, was in the rumble behind; and Mrs Garland was there, and Mr

Abel was there, and Kit’s mother was there, and little Jacob was there,

and Barbara’s mother was visible in remote perspective, nursing the

ever-wakeful baby; and all were nodding, beckoning, curtseying, or

crying out, ‘Good bye!’ with all the energy they could express. In

another minute, the carriage was out of sight; and Mr Chuckster

remained alone on the spot where it had lately been, with a vision of

Kit standing up in the rumble waving his hand to Barbara, and of

Barbara in the full light and lustre of his eyes--his

eyes--Chuckster’s--Chuckster the successful--on whom ladies of quality

had looked with favour from phaetons in the parks on Sundays--waving

hers to Kit!

How Mr Chuckster, entranced by this monstrous fact, stood for some time

rooted to the earth, protesting within himself that Kit was the Prince

of felonious characters, and very Emperor or Great Mogul of Snobs, and

how he clearly traced this revolting circumstance back to that old

villany of the shilling, are matters foreign to our purpose; which is

to track the rolling wheels, and bear the travellers company on their

cold, bleak journey.

It was a bitter day. A keen wind was blowing, and rushed against them

fiercely: bleaching the hard ground, shaking the white frost from the

trees and hedges, and whirling it away like dust. But little cared Kit

for weather. There was a freedom and freshness in the wind, as it came

howling by, which, let it cut never so sharp, was welcome. As it swept

on with its cloud of frost, bearing down the dry twigs and boughs and

withered leaves, and carrying them away pell-mell, it seemed as though

some general sympathy had got abroad, and everything was in a hurry,

like themselves. The harder the gusts, the better progress they

appeared to make. It was a good thing to go struggling and fighting

forward, vanquishing them one by one; to watch them driving up,

gathering strength and fury as they came along; to bend for a moment,

as they whistled past; and then to look back and see them speed away,

their hoarse noise dying in the distance, and the stout trees cowering

down before them.

All day long, it blew without cessation. The night was clear and

starlit, but the wind had not fallen, and the cold was piercing.

Sometimes--towards the end of a long stage--Kit could not help wishing

it were a little warmer: but when they stopped to change horses, and he

had had a good run, and what with that, and the bustle of paying the

old postilion, and rousing the new one, and running to and fro again

until the horses were put to, he was so warm that the blood tingled and

smarted in his fingers’ ends--then, he felt as if to have it one

degree less cold would be to lose half the delight and glory of the

journey: and up he jumped again, right cheerily, singing to the merry

music of the wheels as they rolled away, and, leaving the townspeople

in their warm beds, pursued their course along the lonely road.

Meantime the two gentlemen inside, who were little disposed to sleep,

beguiled the time with conversation. As both were anxious and

expectant, it naturally turned upon the subject of their expedition, on

the manner in which it had been brought about, and on the hopes and

fears they entertained respecting it. Of the former they had many, of

the latter few--none perhaps beyond that indefinable uneasiness which

is inseparable from suddenly awakened hope, and protracted expectation.

In one of the pauses of their discourse, and when half the night had

worn away, the single gentleman, who had gradually become more and more

silent and thoughtful, turned to his companion and said abruptly:

‘Are you a good listener?’

‘Like most other men, I suppose,’ returned Mr Garland, smiling. ‘I can

be, if I am interested; and if not interested, I should still try to

appear so. Why do you ask?’

‘I have a short narrative on my lips,’ rejoined his friend, ‘and will

try you with it. It is very brief.’

Pausing for no reply, he laid his hand on the old gentleman’s sleeve,

and proceeded thus:

‘There were once two brothers, who loved each other dearly. There was

a disparity in their ages--some twelve years. I am not sure but they

may insensibly have loved each other the better for that reason. Wide

as the interval between them was, however, they became rivals too soon.

The deepest and strongest affection of both their hearts settled upon

one object.

‘The youngest--there were reasons for his being sensitive and

watchful--was the first to find this out. I will not tell you what

misery he underwent, what agony of soul he knew, how great his mental

struggle was. He had been a sickly child. His brother, patient and

considerate in the midst of his own high health and strength, had many

and many a day denied himself the sports he loved, to sit beside his

couch, telling him old stories till his pale face lighted up with an

unwonted glow; to carry him in his arms to some green spot, where he

could tend the poor pensive boy as he looked upon the bright summer

day, and saw all nature healthy but himself; to be, in any way, his

fond and faithful nurse. I may not dwell on all he did, to make the

poor, weak creature love him, or my tale would have no end. But when

the time of trial came, the younger brother’s heart was full of those

old days. Heaven strengthened it to repay the sacrifices of

inconsiderate youth by one of thoughtful manhood. He left his brother

to be happy. The truth never passed his lips, and he quitted the

country, hoping to die abroad.

‘The elder brother married her. She was in Heaven before long, and

left him with an infant daughter.

‘If you have seen the picture-gallery of any one old family, you will

remember how the same face and figure--often the fairest and slightest

of them all--come upon you in different generations; and how you trace

the same sweet girl through a long line of portraits--never growing

old or changing--the Good Angel of the race--abiding by them in all

reverses--redeeming all their sins--

‘In this daughter the mother lived again. You may judge with what

devotion he who lost that mother almost in the winning, clung to this

girl, her breathing image. She grew to womanhood, and gave her heart

to one who could not know its worth. Well! Her fond father could not

see her pine and droop. He might be more deserving than he thought

him. He surely might become so, with a wife like her. He joined their

hands, and they were married.

‘Through all the misery that followed this union; through all the cold

neglect and undeserved reproach; through all the poverty he brought

upon her; through all the struggles of their daily life, too mean and

pitiful to tell, but dreadful to endure; she toiled on, in the deep

devotion of her spirit, and in her better nature, as only women can.

Her means and substance wasted; her father nearly beggared by her

husband’s hand, and the hourly witness (for they lived now under one

roof) of her ill-usage and unhappiness,--she never, but for him,

bewailed her fate. Patient, and upheld by strong affection to the

last, she died a widow of some three weeks’ date, leaving to her

father’s care two orphans; one a son of ten or twelve years old; the

other a girl--such another infant child--the same in helplessness, in

age, in form, in feature--as she had been herself when her young mother

died.

‘The elder brother, grandfather to these two children, was now a broken

man; crushed and borne down, less by the weight of years than by the

heavy hand of sorrow. With the wreck of his possessions, he began to

trade--in pictures first, and then in curious ancient things. He had

entertained a fondness for such matters from a boy, and the tastes he

had cultivated were now to yield him an anxious and precarious

subsistence.

‘The boy grew like his father in mind and person; the girl so like her

mother, that when the old man had her on his knee, and looked into her

mild blue eyes, he felt as if awakening from a wretched dream, and his

daughter were a little child again. The wayward boy soon spurned the

shelter of his roof, and sought associates more congenial to his taste.

The old man and the child dwelt alone together.

‘It was then, when the love of two dead people who had been nearest and

dearest to his heart, was all transferred to this slight creature; when

her face, constantly before him, reminded him, from hour to hour, of

the too early change he had seen in such another--of all the

sufferings he had watched and known, and all his child had undergone;

when the young man’s profligate and hardened course drained him of

money as his father’s had, and even sometimes occasioned them temporary

privation and distress; it was then that there began to beset him, and

to be ever in his mind, a gloomy dread of poverty and want. He had no

thought for himself in this. His fear was for the child. It was a

spectre in his house, and haunted him night and day.

‘The younger brother had been a traveller in many countries, and had

made his pilgrimage through life alone. His voluntary banishment had

been misconstrued, and he had borne (not without pain) reproach and

slight for doing that which had wrung his heart, and cast a mournful

shadow on his path. Apart from this, communication between him and the

elder was difficult, and uncertain, and often failed; still, it was not

so wholly broken off but that he learnt--with long blanks and gaps

between each interval of information--all that I have told you now.

‘Then, dreams of their young, happy life--happy to him though laden

with pain and early care--visited his pillow yet oftener than before;

and every night, a boy again, he was at his brother’s side. With the

utmost speed he could exert, he settled his affairs; converted into

money all the goods he had; and, with honourable wealth enough for

both, with open heart and hand, with limbs that trembled as they bore

him on, with emotion such as men can hardly bear and live, arrived one

evening at his brother’s door!’

The narrator, whose voice had faltered lately, stopped.

‘The rest,’ said Mr Garland, pressing his hand after a pause, ‘I know.’

‘Yes,’ rejoined his friend, ‘we may spare ourselves the sequel. You

know the poor result of all my search. Even when by dint of such

inquiries as the utmost vigilance and sagacity could set on foot, we

found they had been seen with two poor travelling showmen--and in time

discovered the men themselves--and in time, the actual place of their

retreat; even then, we were too late. Pray God, we are not too late

again!’

‘We cannot be,’ said Mr Garland. ‘This time we must succeed.’

‘I have believed and hoped so,’ returned the other. ‘I try to believe

and hope so still. But a heavy weight has fallen on my spirits, my

good friend, and the sadness that gathers over me, will yield to

neither hope nor reason.’

‘That does not surprise me,’ said Mr Garland; ‘it is a natural

consequence of the events you have recalled; of this dreary time and

place; and above all, of this wild and dismal night. A dismal night,

indeed! Hark! how the wind is howling!’