Works of Charles Dickens (200+ Works) The Adventures of Oliver Twist, Great Expectations, A Christmas Carol, A Tale of Two Cities, Bleak House, David Copperfield & more (mobi)

by Charles Dickens

  'You must walk the rest, sir; it's not many yards.' He spoke in the singular number, to the express exclusion of Eugene.

  'This is a confoundedly out-of-the-way place,' said Mortimer, slipping over the stones and refuse on the shore, as the boy turned the corner sharp.

  'Here's my father's, sir; where the light is.'

  The low building had the look of having once been a mill. There was a rotten wart of wood upon its forehead that seemed to indicate where the sails had been, but the whole was very indistinctly seen in the obscurity of the night. The boy lifted the latch of the door, and they passed at once into a low circular room, where a man stood before a red fire, looking down into it, and a girl sat engaged in needlework. The fire was in a rusty brazier, not fitted to the hearth; and a common lamp, shaped like a hyacinth-root, smoked and flared in the neck of a stone bottle on the table. There was a wooden bunk or berth in a corner, and in another corner a wooden stair leading above--so clumsy and steep that it was little better than a ladder. Two or three old sculls and oars stood against the wall, and against another part of the wall was a small dresser, making a spare show of the commonest articles of crockery and cooking-vessels. The roof of the room was not plastered, but was formed of the flooring of the room above. This, being very old, knotted, seamed, and beamed, gave a lowering aspect to the chamber; and roof, and walls, and floor, alike abounding in old smears of flour, red-lead (or some such stain which it had probably acquired in warehousing), and damp, alike had a look of decomposition.

  'The gentleman, father.'

  The figure at the red fire turned, raised its ruffled head, and looked like a bird of prey.

  'You're Mortimer Lightwood Esquire; are you, sir?'

  'Mortimer Lightwood is my name. What you found,' said Mortimer, glancing rather shrinkingly towards the bunk; 'is it here?'

  ''Tain't not to say here, but it's close by. I do everything reg'lar. I've giv' notice of the circumstarnce to the police, and the police have took possession of it. No time ain't been lost, on any hand. The police have put into print already, and here's what the print says of it.'

  Taking up the bottle with the lamp in it, he held it near a paper on the wall, with the police heading, BODY FOUND. The two friends read the handbill as it stuck against the wall, and Gaffer read them as he held the light.

  'Only papers on the unfortunate man, I see,' said Lightwood, glancing from the description of what was found, to the finder.

  'Only papers.'

  Here the girl arose with her work in her hand, and went out at the door.

  'No money,' pursued Mortimer; 'but threepence in one of the skirt-pockets.'

  'Three. Penny. Pieces,' said Gaffer Hexam, in as many sentences.

  'The trousers pockets empty, and turned inside out.'

  Gaffer Hexam nodded. 'But that's common. Whether it's the wash of the tide or no, I can't say. Now, here,' moving the light to another similar placard, 'HIS pockets was found empty, and turned inside out. And here,' moving the light to another, 'HER pocket was found empty, and turned inside out. And so was this one's. And so was that one's. I can't read, nor I don't want to it, for I know 'em by their places on the wall. This one was a sailor, with two anchors and a flag and G. F. T. on his arm. Look and see if he warn't.'

  'Quite right.'

  'This one was the young woman in grey boots, and her linen marked with a cross. Look and see if she warn't.'

  'Quite right.'

  'This is him as had a nasty cut over the eye. This is them two young sisters what tied themselves together with a handkecher. This the drunken old chap, in a pair of list slippers and a nightcap, wot had offered--it afterwards come out--to make a hole in the water for a quartern of rum stood aforehand, and kept to his word for the first and last time in his life. They pretty well papers the room, you see; but I know 'em all. I'm scholar enough!'

  He waved the light over the whole, as if to typify the light of his scholarly intelligence, and then put it down on the table and stood behind it looking intently at his visitors. He had the special peculiarity of some birds of prey, that when he knitted his brow, his ruffled crest stood highest.

  'You did not find all these yourself; did you?' asked Eugene.

  To which the bird of prey slowly rejoined, 'And what might YOUR name be, now?'

  'This is my friend,' Mortimer Lightwood interposed; 'Mr Eugene Wrayburn.'

  'Mr Eugene Wrayburn, is it? And what might Mr Eugene Wrayburn have asked of me?'

  'I asked you, simply, if you found all these yourself?'

  'I answer you, simply, most on 'em.'

  'Do you suppose there has been much violence and robbery, beforehand, among these cases?'

  'I don't suppose at all about it,' returned Gaffer. 'I ain't one of the supposing sort. If you'd got your living to haul out of the river every day of your life, you mightn't be much given to supposing. Am I to show the way?'

  As he opened the door, in pursuance of a nod from Lightwood, an extremely pale and disturbed face appeared in the doorway--the face of a man much agitated.

  'A body missing?' asked Gaffer Hexam, stopping short; 'or a body found? Which?'

  'I am lost!' replied the man, in a hurried and an eager manner.

  'Lost?'

  'I--I--am a stranger, and don't know the way. I--I--want to find the place where I can see what is described here. It is possible I may know it.' He was panting, and could hardly speak; but, he showed a copy of the newly-printed bill that was still wet upon the wall. Perhaps its newness, or perhaps the accuracy of his observation of its general look, guided Gaffer to a ready conclusion.

  'This gentleman, Mr Lightwood, is on that business.'

  'Mr Lightwood?'

  During a pause, Mortimer and the stranger confronted each other. Neither knew the other.

  'I think, sir,' said Mortimer, breaking the awkward silence with his airy self-possession, 'that you did me the honour to mention my name?'

  'I repeated it, after this man.'

  'You said you were a stranger in London?'

  'An utter stranger.'

  'Are you seeking a Mr Harmon?'

  'No.'

  'Then I believe I can assure you that you are on a fruitless errand, and will not find what you fear to find. Will you come with us?'

  A little winding through some muddy alleys that might have been deposited by the last ill-savoured tide, brought them to the wicket-gate and bright lamp of a Police Station; where they found the Night-Inspector, with a pen and ink, and ruler, posting up his books in a whitewashed office, as studiously as if he were in a monastery on top of a mountain, and no howling fury of a drunken woman were banging herself against a cell-door in the back-yard at his elbow. With the same air of a recluse much given to study, he desisted from his books to bestow a distrustful nod of recognition upon Gaffer, plainly importing, 'Ah! we know all about YOU, and you'll overdo it some day;' and to inform Mr Mortimer Lightwood and friends, that he would attend them immediately. Then, he finished ruling the work he had in hand (it might have been illuminating a missal, he was so calm), in a very neat and methodical manner, showing not the slightest consciousness of the woman who was banging herself with increased violence, and shrieking most terrifically for some other woman's liver.

  'A bull's-eye,' said the Night-Inspector, taking up his keys. Which a deferential satellite produced. 'Now, gentlemen.'

  With one of his keys, he opened a cool grot at the end of the yard, and they all went in. They quickly came out again, no one speaking but Eugene: who remarked to Mortimer, in a whisper, 'Not MUCH worse than Lady Tippins.'

  So, back to the whitewashed library of the monastery--with that liver still in shrieking requisition, as it had been loudly, while they looked at the silent sight they came to see--and there through the merits of the case as summed up by the Abbot. No clue to how body came into river. Very often was no clue. Too late to know for certain, whether injuries received before or after death; one excellent surgical opinion said, befor
e; other excellent surgical opinion said, after. Steward of ship in which gentleman came home passenger, had been round to view, and could swear to identity. Likewise could swear to clothes. And then, you see, you had the papers, too. How was it he had totally disappeared on leaving ship, 'till found in river? Well! Probably had been upon some little game. Probably thought it a harmless game, wasn't up to things, and it turned out a fatal game. Inquest to-morrow, and no doubt open verdict.

  'It appears to have knocked your friend over--knocked him completely off his legs,' Mr Inspector remarked, when he had finished his summing up. 'It has given him a bad turn to be sure!' This was said in a very low voice, and with a searching look (not the first he had cast) at the stranger.

  Mr Lightwood explained that it was no friend of his.

  'Indeed?' said Mr Inspector, with an attentive ear; 'where did you pick him up?'

  Mr Lightwood explained further.

  Mr Inspector had delivered his summing up, and had added these words, with his elbows leaning on his desk, and the fingers and thumb of his right hand, fitting themselves to the fingers and thumb of his left. Mr Inspector moved nothing but his eyes, as he now added, raising his voice:

  'Turned you faint, sir! Seems you're not accustomed to this kind of work?'

  The stranger, who was leaning against the chimneypiece with drooping head, looked round and answered, 'No. It's a horrible sight!'

  'You expected to identify, I am told, sir?'

  'Yes.'

  'HAVE you identified?'

  'No. It's a horrible sight. O! a horrible, horrible sight!'

  'Who did you think it might have been?' asked Mr Inspector. 'Give us a description, sir. Perhaps we can help you.'

  'No, no,' said the stranger; 'it would be quite useless. Good-night.'

  Mr Inspector had not moved, and had given no order; but, the satellite slipped his back against the wicket, and laid his left arm along the top of it, and with his right hand turned the bull's-eye he had taken from his chief--in quite a casual manner--towards the stranger.

  'You missed a friend, you know; or you missed a foe, you know; or you wouldn't have come here, you know. Well, then; ain't it reasonable to ask, who was it?' Thus, Mr Inspector.

  'You must excuse my telling you. No class of man can understand better than you, that families may not choose to publish their disagreements and misfortunes, except on the last necessity. I do not dispute that you discharge your duty in asking me the question; you will not dispute my right to withhold the answer. Good-night.'

  Again he turned towards the wicket, where the satellite, with his eye upon his chief, remained a dumb statue.

  'At least,' said Mr Inspector, 'you will not object to leave me your card, sir?'

  'I should not object, if I had one; but I have not.' He reddened and was much confused as he gave the answer.

  'At least,' said Mr Inspector, with no change of voice or manner, 'you will not object to write down your name and address?'

  'Not at all.'

  Mr Inspector dipped a pen in his inkstand, and deftly laid it on a piece of paper close beside him; then resumed his former attitude. The stranger stepped up to the desk, and wrote in a rather tremulous hand--Mr Inspector taking sidelong note of every hair of his head when it was bent down for the purpose--'Mr Julius Handford, Exchequer Coffee House, Palace Yard, Westminster.'

  'Staying there, I presume, sir?'

  'Staying there.'

  'Consequently, from the country?'

  'Eh? Yes--from the country.'

  'Good-night, sir.'

  The satellite removed his arm and opened the wicket, and Mr Julius Handford went out.

  'Reserve!' said Mr Inspector. 'Take care of this piece of paper, keep him in view without giving offence, ascertain that he IS staying there, and find out anything you can about him.'

  The satellite was gone; and Mr Inspector, becoming once again the quiet Abbot of that Monastery, dipped his pen in his ink and resumed his books. The two friends who had watched him, more amused by the professional manner than suspicious of Mr Julius Handford, inquired before taking their departure too whether he believed there was anything that really looked bad here?

  The Abbot replied with reticence, couldn't say. If a murder, anybody might have done it. Burglary or pocket-picking wanted 'prenticeship. Not so, murder. We were all of us up to that. Had seen scores of people come to identify, and never saw one person struck in that particular way. Might, however, have been Stomach and not Mind. If so, rum stomach. But to be sure there were rum everythings. Pity there was not a word of truth in that superstition about bodies bleeding when touched by the hand of the right person; you never got a sign out of bodies. You got row enough out of such as her--she was good for all night now (referring here to the banging demands for the liver), 'but you got nothing out of bodies if it was ever so.'

  There being nothing more to be done until the Inquest was held next day, the friends went away together, and Gaffer Hexam and his son went their separate way. But, arriving at the last corner, Gaffer bade his boy go home while he turned into a red-curtained tavern, that stood dropsically bulging over the causeway, 'for a half-a-pint.'

  The boy lifted the latch he had lifted before, and found his sister again seated before the fire at her work. Who raised her head upon his coming in and asking:

  'Where did you go, Liz?'

  'I went out in the dark.'

  'There was no necessity for that. It was all right enough.'

  'One of the gentlemen, the one who didn't speak while I was there, looked hard at me. And I was afraid he might know what my face meant. But there! Don't mind me, Charley! I was all in a tremble of another sort when you owned to father you could write a little.'

  'Ah! But I made believe I wrote so badly, as that it was odds if any one could read it. And when I wrote slowest and smeared but with my finger most, father was best pleased, as he stood looking over me.'

  The girl put aside her work, and drawing her seat close to his seat by the fire, laid her arm gently on his shoulder.

  'You'll make the most of your time, Charley; won't you?'

  'Won't I? Come! I like that. Don't I?'

  'Yes, Charley, yes. You work hard at your learning, I know. And I work a little, Charley, and plan and contrive a little (wake out of my sleep contriving sometimes), how to get together a shilling now, and a shilling then, that shall make father believe you are beginning to earn a stray living along shore.'

  'You are father's favourite, and can make him believe anything.'

  'I wish I could, Charley! For if I could make him believe that learning was a good thing, and that we might lead better lives, I should be a'most content to die.'

  'Don't talk stuff about dying, Liz.'

  She placed her hands in one another on his shoulder, and laying her rich brown cheek against them as she looked down at the fire, went on thoughtfully:

  'Of an evening, Charley, when you are at the school, and father's--'

  'At the Six Jolly Fellowship Porters,' the boy struck in, with a backward nod of his head towards the public-house.

  'Yes. Then as I sit a-looking at the fire, I seem to see in the burning coal--like where that glow is now--'

  'That's gas, that is,' said the boy, 'coming out of a bit of a forest that's been under the mud that was under the water in the days of Noah's Ark. Look here! When I take the poker--so--and give it a dig--'

  'Don't disturb it, Charley, or it'll be all in a blaze. It's that dull glow near it, coming and going, that I mean. When I look at it of an evening, it comes like pictures to me, Charley.'

  'Show us a picture,' said the boy. 'Tell us where to look.'

  'Ah! It wants my eyes, Charley.'

  'Cut away then, and tell us what your eyes make of it.'

  'Why, there are you and me, Charley, when you were quite a baby that never knew a mother--'

  'Don't go saying I never knew a mother,' interposed the boy, 'for I knew a little sister that was sister and mother
both.'

  The girl laughed delightedly, and here eyes filled with pleasant tears, as he put both his arms round her waist and so held her.

  'There are you and me, Charley, when father was away at work and locked us out, for fear we should set ourselves afire or fall out of window, sitting on the door-sill, sitting on other door-steps, sitting on the bank of the river, wandering about to get through the time. You are rather heavy to carry, Charley, and I am often obliged to rest. Sometimes we are sleepy and fall asleep together in a corner, sometimes we are very hungry, sometimes we are a little frightened, but what is oftenest hard upon us is the cold. You remember, Charley?'

  'I remember,' said the boy, pressing her to him twice or thrice, 'that I snuggled under a little shawl, and it was warm there.'

  'Sometimes it rains, and we creep under a boat or the like of that: sometimes it's dark, and we get among the gaslights, sitting watching the people as they go along the streets. At last, up comes father and takes us home. And home seems such a shelter after out of doors! And father pulls my shoes off, and dries my feet at the fire, and has me to sit by him while he smokes his pipe long after you are abed, and I notice that father's is a large hand but never a heavy one when it touches me, and that father's is a rough voice but never an angry one when it speaks to me. So, I grow up, and little by little father trusts me, and makes me his companion, and, let him be put out as he may, never once strikes me.'

  The listening boy gave a grunt here, as much as to say 'But he strikes ME though!'

  'Those are some of the pictures of what is past, Charley.'

  'Cut away again,' said the boy, 'and give us a fortune-telling one; a future one.'

  'Well! There am I, continuing with father and holding to father, because father loves me and I love father. I can't so much as read a book, because, if I had learned, father would have thought I was deserting him, and I should have lost my influence. I have not the influence I want to have, I cannot stop some dreadful things I try to stop, but I go on in the hope and trust that the time will come. In the meanwhile I know that I am in some things a stay to father, and that if I was not faithful to him he would--in revenge-like, or in disappointment, or both--go wild and bad.'