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 one two three, My com-pa-nie, And don't mind me.'

  --pointing this impromptu rhyme with three points of her thin fore-finger.

  'I didn't expect a visit from you, Charley,' said his sister. 'I supposed that if you wanted to see me you would have sent to me, appointing me to come somewhere near the school, as I did last time. I saw my brother near the school, sir,' to Bradley Headstone, 'because it's easier for me to go there, than for him to come here. I work about midway between the two places.'

  'You don't see much of one another,' said Bradley, not improving in respect of ease.

  'No.' With a rather sad shake of her head. 'Charley always does well, Mr Headstone?'

  'He could not do better. I regard his course as quite plain before him.'

  'I hoped so. I am so thankful. So well done of you, Charley dear! It is better for me not to come (except when he wants me) between him and his prospects. You think so, Mr Headstone?'

  Conscious that his pupil-teacher was looking for his answer, that he himself had suggested the boy's keeping aloof from this sister, now seen for the first time face to face, Bradley Headstone stammered:

  'Your brother is very much occupied, you know. He has to work hard. One cannot but say that the less his attention is diverted from his work, the better for his future. When he shall have established himself, why then--it will be another thing then.'

  Lizzie shook her head again, and returned, with a quiet smile: 'I always advised him as you advise him. Did I not, Charley?'

  'Well, never mind that now,' said the boy. 'How are you getting on?'

  'Very well, Charley. I want for nothing.'

  'You have your own room here?'

  'Oh yes. Upstairs. And it's quiet, and pleasant, and airy.'

  'And she always has the use of this room for visitors,' said the person of the house, screwing up one of her little bony fists, like an opera-glass, and looking through it, with her eyes and her chin in that quaint accordance. 'Always this room for visitors; haven't you, Lizzie dear?'

  It happened that Bradley Headstone noticed a very slight action of Lizzie Hexam's hand, as though it checked the doll's dressmaker. And it happened that the latter noticed him in the same instant; for she made a double eyeglass of her two hands, looked at him through it, and cried, with a waggish shake of her head: 'Aha! Caught you spying, did I?'

  It might have fallen out so, any way; but Bradley Headstone also noticed that immediately after this, Lizzie, who had not taken off her bonnet, rather hurriedly proposed that as the room was getting dark they should go out into the air. They went out; the visitors saying good-night to the doll's dressmaker, whom they left, leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed, singing to herself in a sweet thoughtful little voice.

  'I'll saunter on by the river,' said Bradley. 'You will be glad to talk together.'

  As his uneasy figure went on before them among the evening shadows, the boy said to his sister, petulantly:

  'When are you going to settle yourself in some Christian sort of place, Liz? I thought you were going to do it before now.'

  'I am very well where I am, Charley.'

  'Very well where you are! I am ashamed to have brought Mr Headstone with me. How came you to get into such company as that little witch's?'

  'By chance at first, as it seemed, Charley. But I think it must have been by something more than chance, for that child--You remember the bills upon the walls at home?'

  'Confound the bills upon the walls at home! I want to forget the bills upon the walls at home, and it would be better for you to do the same,' grumbled the boy. 'Well; what of them?'

  'This child is the grandchild of the old man.'

  'What old man?'

  'The terrible drunken old man, in the list slippers and the night-cap.'

  The boy asked, rubbing his nose in a manner that half expressed vexation at hearing so much, and half curiosity to hear more: 'How came you to make that out? What a girl you are!'

  'The child's father is employed by the house that employs me; that's how I came to know it, Charley. The father is like his own father, a weak wretched trembling creature, falling to pieces, never sober. But a good workman too, at the work he does. The mother is dead. This poor ailing little creature has come to be what she is, surrounded by drunken people from her cradle--if she ever had one, Charley.'

  'I don't see what you have to do with her, for all that,' said the boy.

  'Don't you, Charley?'

  The boy looked doggedly at the river. They were at Millbank, and the river rolled on their left. His sister gently touched him on the shoulder, and pointed to it.

  'Any compensation--restitution--never mind the word, you know my meaning. Father's grave.'

  But he did not respond with any tenderness. After a moody silence he broke out in an ill-used tone:

  'It'll be a very hard thing, Liz, if, when I am trying my best to get up in the world, you pull me back.'

  'I, Charley?'

  'Yes, you, Liz. Why can't you let bygones be bygones? Why can't you, as Mr Headstone said to me this very evening about another matter, leave well alone? What we have got to do, is, to turn our faces full in our new direction, and keep straight on.'

  'And never look back? Not even to try to make some amends?'

  'You are such a dreamer,' said the boy, with his former petulance. 'It was all very well when we sat before the fire--when we looked into the hollow down by the flare--but we are looking into the real world, now.'

  'Ah, we were looking into the real world then, Charley!'

  'I understand what you mean by that, but you are not justified in it. I don't want, as I raise myself to shake you off, Liz. I want to carry you up with me. That's what I want to do, and mean to do. I know what I owe you. I said to Mr Headstone this very evening, "After all, my sister got me here." Well, then. Don't pull me back, and hold me down. That's all I ask, and surely that's not unconscionable.'

  She had kept a steadfast look upon him, and she answered with composure:

  'I am not here selfishly, Charley. To please myself I could not be too far from that river.'

  'Nor could you be too far from it to please me. Let us get quit of it equally. Why should you linger about it any more than I? I give it a wide berth.'

  'I can't get away from it, I think,' said Lizzie, passing her hand across her forehead. 'It's no purpose of mine that I live by it still.'

  'There you go, Liz! Dreaming again! You lodge yourself of your own accord in a house with a drunken--tailor, I suppose--or something of the sort, and a little crooked antic of a child, or old person, or whatever it is, and then you talk as if you were drawn or driven there. Now, do be more practical.'

  She had been practical enough with him, in suffering and striving for him; but she only laid her hand upon his shoulder--not reproachfully--and tapped it twice or thrice. She had been used to do so, to soothe him when she carried him about, a child as heavy as herself. Tears started to his eyes.

  'Upon my word, Liz,' drawing the back of his hand across them, 'I mean to be a good brother to you, and to prove that I know what I owe you. All I say is, that I hope you'll control your fancies a little, on my account. I'll get a school, and then you must come and live with me, and you'll have to control your fancies then, so why not now? Now, say I haven't vexed you.'

  'You haven't, Charley, you haven't.'

  'And say I haven't hurt you.'

  'You haven't, Charley.' But this answer was less ready.

  'Say you are sure I didn't mean to. Come! There's Mr Headstone stopping and looking over the wall at the tide, to hint that it's time to go. Kiss me, and tell me that you know I didn't mean to hurt you.'

  She told him so, and they embraced, and walked on and came up with the schoolmaster.

  'But we go your sister's way,' he remarked, when the boy told him he was ready. And with his cumbrous and uneasy action he stiffly offered her his arm. Her hand was just within it, when she drew it back. He looked round with a star
t, as if he thought she had detected something that repelled her, in the momentary touch.

  'I will not go in just yet,' said Lizzie. 'And you have a distance before you, and will walk faster without me.'

  Being by this time close to Vauxhall Bridge, they resolved, in consequence, to take that way over the Thames, and they left her; Bradley Headstone giving her his hand at parting, and she thanking him for his care of her brother.

  The master and the pupil walked on, rapidly and silently. They had nearly crossed the bridge, when a gentleman came coolly sauntering towards them, with a cigar in his mouth, his coat thrown back, and his hands behind him. Something in the careless manner of this person, and in a certain lazily arrogant air with which he approached, holding possession of twice as much pavement as another would have claimed, instantly caught the boy's attention. As the gentleman passed the boy looked at him narrowly, and then stood still, looking after him.

  'Who is it that you stare after?' asked Bradley.

  'Why!' said the boy, with a confused and pondering frown upon his face, 'It IS that Wrayburn one!'

  Bradley Headstone scrutinized the boy as closely as the boy had scrutinized the gentleman.

  'I beg your pardon, Mr Headstone, but I couldn't help wondering what in the world brought HIM here!'

  Though he said it as if his wonder were past--at the same time resuming the walk--it was not lost upon the master that he looked over his shoulder after speaking, and that the same perplexed and pondering frown was heavy on his face.

  'You don't appear to like your friend, Hexam?'

  'I DON'T like him,' said the boy.

  'Why not?'

  'He took hold of me by the chin in a precious impertinent way, the first time I ever saw him,' said the boy.

  'Again, why?'

  'For nothing. Or--it's much the same--because something I happened to say about my sister didn't happen to please him.'

  'Then he knows your sister?'

  'He didn't at that time,' said the boy, still moodily pondering.

  'Does now?'

  The boy had so lost himself that he looked at Mr Bradley Headstone as they walked on side by side, without attempting to reply until the question had been repeated; then he nodded and answered, 'Yes, sir.'

  'Going to see her, I dare say.'

  'It can't be!' said the boy, quickly. 'He doesn't know her well enough. I should like to catch him at it!'

  When they had walked on for a time, more rapidly than before, the master said, clasping the pupil's arm between the elbow and the shoulder with his hand:

  'You were going to tell me something about that person. What did you say his name was?'

  'Wrayburn. Mr Eugene Wrayburn. He is what they call a barrister, with nothing to do. The first time he came to our old place was when my father was alive. He came on business; not that it was HIS business--HE never had any business--he was brought by a friend of his.'

  'And the other times?'

  'There was only one other time that I know of. When my father was killed by accident, he chanced to be one of the finders. He was mooning about, I suppose, taking liberties with people's chins; but there he was, somehow. He brought the news home to my sister early in the morning, and brought Miss Abbey Potterson, a neighbour, to help break it to her. He was mooning about the house when I was fetched home in the afternoon--they didn't know where to find me till my sister could be brought round sufficiently to tell them--and then he mooned away.'

  'And is that all?'

  'That's all, sir.'

  Bradley Headstone gradually released the boy's arm, as if he were thoughtful, and they walked on side by side as before. After a long silence between them, Bradley resumed the talk.

  'I suppose--your sister--' with a curious break both before and after the words, 'has received hardly any teaching, Hexam?'

  'Hardly any, sir.'

  'Sacrificed, no doubt, to her father's objections. I remember them in your case. Yet--your sister--scarcely looks or speaks like an ignorant person.'

  'Lizzie has as much thought as the best, Mr Headstone. Too much, perhaps, without teaching. I used to call the fire at home, her books, for she was always full of fancies--sometimes quite wise fancies, considering--when she sat looking at it.'

  'I don't like that,' said Bradley Headstone.

  His pupil was a little surprised by this striking in with so sudden and decided and emotional an objection, but took it as a proof of the master's interest in himself. It emboldened him to say:

  'I have never brought myself to mention it openly to you, Mr Headstone, and you're my witness that I couldn't even make up my mind to take it from you before we came out to-night; but it's a painful thing to think that if I get on as well as you hope, I shall be--I won't say disgraced, because I don't mean disgraced-but--rather put to the blush if it was known--by a sister who has been very good to me.'

  'Yes,' said Bradley Headstone in a slurring way, for his mind scarcely seemed to touch that point, so smoothly did it glide to another, 'and there is this possibility to consider. Some man who had worked his way might come to admire--your sister--and might even in time bring himself to think of marrying--your sister--and it would be a sad drawback and a heavy penalty upon him, if; overcoming in his mind other inequalities of condition and other considerations against it, this inequality and this consideration remained in full force.'

  'That's much my own meaning, sir.'

  'Ay, ay,' said Bradley Headstone, 'but you spoke of a mere brother. Now, the case I have supposed would be a much stronger case; because an admirer, a husband, would form the connexion voluntarily, besides being obliged to proclaim it: which a brother is not. After all, you know, it must be said of you that you couldn't help yourself: while it would be said of him, with equal reason, that he could.'

  'That's true, sir. Sometimes since Lizzie was left free by father's death, I have thought that such a young woman might soon acquire more than enough to pass muster. And sometimes I have even thought that perhaps Miss Peecher--'

  'For the purpose, I would advise Not Miss Peecher,' Bradley Headstone struck in with a recurrence of his late decision of manner.

  'Would you be so kind as to think of it for me, Mr Headstone?'

  'Yes, Hexam, yes. I'll think of it. I'll think maturely of it. I'll think well of it.'

  Their walk was almost a silent one afterwards, until it ended at the school-house. There, one of neat Miss Peecher's little windows, like the eyes in needles, was illuminated, and in a corner near it sat Mary Anne watching, while Miss Peecher at the table stitched at the neat little body she was making up by brown paper pattern for her own wearing. N.B. Miss Peecher and Miss Peecher's pupils were not much encouraged in the unscholastic art of needlework, by Government.

  Mary Anne with her face to the window, held her arm up.

  'Well, Mary Anne?'

  'Mr Headstone coming home, ma'am.'

  In about a minute, Mary Anne again hailed.

  'Yes, Mary Anne?'

  'Gone in and locked his door, ma'am.'

  Miss Peecher repressed a sigh as she gathered her work together for bed, and transfixed that part of her dress where her heart would have been if she had had the dress on, with a sharp, sharp needle.

  Chapter 2

  STILL EDUCATIONAL

  The person of the house, doll's dressmaker and manufacturer of ornamental pincushions and pen-wipers, sat in her quaint little low arm-chair, singing in the dark, until Lizzie came back. The person of the house had attained that dignity while yet of very tender years indeed, through being the only trustworthy person IN the house.

  'Well Lizzie-Mizzie-Wizzie,' said she, breaking off in her song, 'what's the news out of doors?'

  'What's the news in doors?' returned Lizzie, playfully smoothing the bright long fair hair which grew very luxuriant and beautiful on the head of the doll's dressmaker.

  'Let me see, said the blind man. Why the last news is, that I don't mean to marry your brother.'

 
; 'No?'

  'No-o,' shaking her head and her chin. 'Don't like the boy.'

  'What do you say to his master?'

  'I say that I think he's bespoke.'

  Lizzie finished putting the hair carefully back over the misshapen shoulders, and then lighted a candle. It showed the little parlour to be dingy, but orderly and clean. She stood it on the mantelshelf, remote from the dressmaker's eyes, and then put the room door open, and the house door open, and turned the little low chair and its occupant towards the outer air. It was a sultry night, and this was a fine-weather arrangement when the day's work was done. To complete it, she seated herself in a chair by the side of the little chair, and protectingly drew under her arm the spare hand that crept up to her.

  'This is what your loving Jenny Wren calls the best time in the day and night,' said the person of the house. Her real name was Fanny Cleaver; but she had long ago chosen to bestow upon herself the appellation of Miss Jenny Wren.

  'I have been thinking,' Jenny went on, 'as I sat at work to-day, what a thing it would be, if I should be able to have your company till I am married, or at least courted. Because when I am courted, I shall make Him do some of the things that you do for me. He couldn't brush my hair like you do, or help me up and down stairs like you do, and he couldn't do anything like you do; but he could take my work home, and he could call for orders in his clumsy way. And he shall too. I'LL trot him about, I can tell him!'

  Jenny Wren had her personal vanities--happily for her--and no intentions were stronger in her breast than the various trials and torments that were, in the fulness of time, to be inflicted upon 'him.'

  'Wherever he may happen to be just at present, or whoever he may happen to be,' said Miss Wren, 'I know his tricks and his manners, and I give him warning to look out.'

  'Don't you think you are rather hard upon him?' asked her friend, smiling, and smoothing her hair.

  'Not a bit,' replied the sage Miss Wren, with an air of vast experience. 'My dear, they don't care for you, those fellows, if you're NOT hard upon 'em. But I was saying If I should be able to have your company. Ah! What a large If! Ain't it?'