The Charles Dickens Christmas Megapack

by Charles Dickens

  ‘You talk of nursing. How long nursing?’

  ‘How long nursing?’ repeated Snitchey, dusting the snuff from his fingers, and making a slow calculation in his mind. ‘For your involved estate, sir? In good hands? S. and C.’s, say? Six or seven years.’

  ‘To starve for six or seven years!’ said the client with a fretful laugh, and an impatient change of his position.

  ‘To starve for six or seven years, Mr. Warden,’ said Snitchey, ‘would be very uncommon indeed. You might get another estate by showing yourself, the while. But, we don’t think you could do it—speaking for Self and Craggs—and consequently don’t advise it.’

  ‘What do you advise?’

  ‘Nursing, I say,’ repeated Snitchey. ‘Some few years of nursing by Self and Craggs would bring it round. But to enable us to make terms, and hold terms, and you to keep terms, you must go away; you must live abroad. As to starvation, we could ensure you some hundreds a-year to starve upon, even in the beginning—I dare say, Mr. Warden.’

  ‘Hundreds,’ said the client. ‘And I have spent thousands!’

  ‘That,’ retorted Mr. Snitchey, putting the papers slowly back into the cast-iron box, ‘there is no doubt about. No doubt about,’ he repeated to himself, as he thoughtfully pursued his occupation.

  The lawyer very likely knew his man; at any rate his dry, shrewd, whimsical manner, had a favourable influence on the client’s moody state, and disposed him to be more free and unreserved. Or, perhaps the client knew his man, and had elicited such encouragement as he had received, to render some purpose he was about to disclose the more defensible in appearance. Gradually raising his head, he sat looking at his immovable adviser with a smile, which presently broke into a laugh.

  ‘After all,’ he said, ‘my iron-headed friend—‘

  Mr. Snitchey pointed out his partner. ‘Self and—excuse me - Craggs.’

  ‘I beg Mr. Craggs’s pardon,’ said the client. ‘After all, my iron- headed friends,’ he leaned forward in his chair, and dropped his voice a little, ‘you don’t know half my ruin yet.’

  Mr. Snitchey stopped and stared at him. Mr. Craggs also stared.

  ‘I am not only deep in debt,’ said the client, ‘but I am deep in—‘

  ‘Not in love!’ cried Snitchey.

  ‘Yes!’ said the client, falling back in his chair, and surveying the Firm with his hands in his pockets. ‘Deep in love.’

  ‘And not with an heiress, sir?’ said Snitchey.

  ‘Not with an heiress.’

  ‘Nor a rich lady?’

  ‘Nor a rich lady that I know of—except in beauty and merit.’

  ‘A single lady, I trust?’ said Mr. Snitchey, with great expression.

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘It’s not one of Dr. Jeddler’s daughters?’ said Snitchey, suddenly squaring his elbows on his knees, and advancing his face at least a yard.

  ‘Yes!’ returned the client.

  ‘Not his younger daughter?’ said Snitchey.

  ‘Yes!’ returned the client.

  ‘Mr. Craggs,’ said Snitchey, much relieved, ‘will you oblige me with another pinch of snuff? Thank you! I am happy to say it don’t signify, Mr. Warden; she’s engaged, sir, she’s bespoke. My partner can corroborate me. We know the fact.’

  ‘We know the fact,’ repeated Craggs.

  ‘Why, so do I perhaps,’ returned the client quietly. ‘What of that! Are you men of the world, and did you never hear of a woman changing her mind?’

  ‘There certainly have been actions for breach,’ said Mr. Snitchey, ‘brought against both spinsters and widows, but, in the majority of cases—‘

  ‘Cases!’ interposed the client, impatiently. ‘Don’t talk to me of cases. The general precedent is in a much larger volume than any of your law books. Besides, do you think I have lived six weeks in the Doctor’s house for nothing?’

  ‘I think, sir,’ observed Mr. Snitchey, gravely addressing himself to his partner, ‘that of all the scrapes Mr. Warden’s horses have brought him into at one time and another—and they have been pretty numerous, and pretty expensive, as none know better than himself, and you, and I—the worst scrape may turn out to be, if he talks in this way, this having ever been left by one of them at the Doctor’s garden wall, with three broken ribs, a snapped collar- bone, and the Lord knows how many bruises. We didn’t think so much of it, at the time when we knew he was going on well under the Doctor’s hands and roof; but it looks bad now, sir. Bad? It looks very bad. Doctor Jeddler too—our client, Mr. Craggs.’

  ‘Mr. Alfred Heathfield too—a sort of client, Mr. Snitchey,’ said Craggs.

  ‘Mr. Michael Warden too, a kind of client,’ said the careless visitor, ‘and no bad one either: having played the fool for ten or twelve years. However, Mr. Michael Warden has sown his wild oats now—there’s their crop, in that box; and he means to repent and be wise. And in proof of it, Mr. Michael Warden means, if he can, to marry Marion, the Doctor’s lovely daughter, and to carry her away with him.’

  ‘Really, Mr. Craggs,’ Snitchey began.

  ‘Really, Mr. Snitchey, and Mr. Craggs, partners both,’ said the client, interrupting him; ‘you know your duty to your clients, and you know well enough, I am sure, that it is no part of it to interfere in a mere love affair, which I am obliged to confide to you. I am not going to carry the young lady off, without her own consent. There’s nothing illegal in it. I never was Mr. Heathfield’s bosom friend. I violate no confidence of his. I love where he loves, and I mean to win where he would win, if I can.’

  ‘He can’t, Mr. Craggs,’ said Snitchey, evidently anxious and discomfited. ‘He can’t do it, sir. She dotes on Mr. Alfred.’

  ‘Does she?’ returned the client.

  ‘Mr. Craggs, she dotes on him, sir,’ persisted Snitchey.

  ‘I didn’t live six weeks, some few months ago, in the Doctor’s house for nothing; and I doubted that soon,’ observed the client. ‘She would have doted on him, if her sister could have brought it about; but I watched them. Marion avoided his name, avoided the subject: shrunk from the least allusion to it, with evident distress.’

  ‘Why should she, Mr. Craggs, you know? Why should she, sir?’ inquired Snitchey.

  ‘I don’t know why she should, though there are many likely reasons,’ said the client, smiling at the attention and perplexity expressed in Mr. Snitchey’s shining eye, and at his cautious way of carrying on the conversation, and making himself informed upon the subject; ‘but I know she does. She was very young when she made the engagement—if it may be called one, I am not even sure of that—and has repented of it, perhaps. Perhaps—it seems a foppish thing to say, but upon my soul I don’t mean it in that light—she may have fallen in love with me, as I have fallen in love with her.’

  ‘He, he! Mr. Alfred, her old playfellow too, you remember, Mr. Craggs,’ said Snitchey, with a disconcerted laugh; ‘knew her almost from a baby!’

  ‘Which makes it the more probable that she may be tired of his idea,’ calmly pursued the client, ‘and not indisposed to exchange it for the newer one of another lover, who presents himself (or is presented by his horse) under romantic circumstances; has the not unfavourable reputation—with a country girl—of having lived thoughtlessly and gaily, without doing much harm to anybody; and who, for his youth and figure, and so forth—this may seem foppish again, but upon my soul I don’t mean it in that light—might perhaps pass muster in a crowd with Mr. Alfred himself.’

  There was no gainsaying the last clause, certainly; and Mr. Snitchey, glancing at him, thought so. There was something naturally graceful and pleasant in the very carelessness of his air. It seemed to suggest, of his comely face and well-knit figure, that they might be greatly better if he chose: and that, once roused and made earnest (but he never had been earnest yet), he could be full of fire and purpose. ‘A dangerous sort of libertine,’ thought the shrewd lawyer, ‘to seem to catch the spark he wants, from a young lady’s eyes.’

  ‘Now
, observe, Snitchey,’ he continued, rising and taking him by the button, ‘and Craggs,’ taking him by the button also, and placing one partner on either side of him, so that neither might evade him. ‘I don’t ask you for any advice. You are right to keep quite aloof from all parties in such a matter, which is not one in which grave men like you could interfere, on any side. I am briefly going to review in half-a-dozen words, my position and intention, and then I shall leave it to you to do the best for me, in money matters, that you can: seeing, that, if I run away with the Doctor’s beautiful daughter (as I hope to do, and to become another man under her bright influence), it will be, for the moment, more chargeable than running away alone. But I shall soon make all that up in an altered life.’

  ‘I think it will be better not to hear this, Mr. Craggs?’ said Snitchey, looking at him across the client.

  ‘I think not,’ said Craggs.—Both listened attentively.

  ‘Well! You needn’t hear it,’ replied their client. ‘I’ll mention it, however. I don’t mean to ask the Doctor’s consent, because he wouldn’t give it me. But I mean to do the Doctor no wrong or harm, because (besides there being nothing serious in such trifles, as he says) I hope to rescue his child, my Marion, from what I see—I know—she dreads, and contemplates with misery: that is, the return of this old lover. If anything in the world is true, it is true that she dreads his return. Nobody is injured so far. I am so harried and worried here just now, that I lead the life of a flying-fish. I skulk about in the dark, I am shut out of my own house, and warned off my own grounds; but, that house, and those grounds, and many an acre besides, will come back to me one day, as you know and say; and Marion will probably be richer—on your showing, who are never sanguine—ten years hence as my wife, than as the wife of Alfred Heathfield, whose return she dreads (remember that), and in whom or in any man, my passion is not surpassed. Who is injured yet? It is a fair case throughout. My right is as good as his, if she decide in my favour; and I will try my right by her alone. You will like to know no more after this, and I will tell you no more. Now you know my purpose, and wants. When must I leave here?’

  ‘In a week,’ said Snitchey. ‘Mr. Craggs?’

  ‘In something less, I should say,’ responded Craggs.

  ‘In a month,’ said the client, after attentively watching the two faces. ‘This day month. To-day is Thursday. Succeed or fail, on this day month I go.’

  ‘It’s too long a delay,’ said Snitchey; ‘much too long. But let it be so. I thought he’d have stipulated for three,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Are you going? Good night, sir!’

  ‘Good night!’ returned the client, shaking hands with the Firm.

  ‘You’ll live to see me making a good use of riches yet. Henceforth the star of my destiny is, Marion!’

  ‘Take care of the stairs, sir,’ replied Snitchey; ‘for she don’t shine there. Good night!’

  ‘Good night!’

  So they both stood at the stair-head with a pair of office-candles, watching him down. When he had gone away, they stood looking at each other.

  ‘What do you think of all this, Mr. Craggs?’ said Snitchey.

  Mr. Craggs shook his head.

  ‘It was our opinion, on the day when that release was executed, that there was something curious in the parting of that pair; I recollect,’ said Snitchey.

  ‘It was,’ said Mr. Craggs.

  ‘Perhaps he deceives himself altogether,’ pursued Mr. Snitchey, locking up the fireproof box, and putting it away; ‘or, if he don’t, a little bit of fickleness and perfidy is not a miracle, Mr. Craggs. And yet I thought that pretty face was very true. I thought,’ said Mr. Snitchey, putting on his great-coat (for the weather was very cold), drawing on his gloves, and snuffing out one candle, ‘that I had even seen her character becoming stronger and more resolved of late. More like her sister’s.’

  ‘Mrs. Craggs was of the same opinion,’ returned Craggs.

  ‘I’d really give a trifle to-night,’ observed Mr. Snitchey, who was a good-natured man, ‘if I could believe that Mr. Warden was reckoning without his host; but, light-headed, capricious, and unballasted as he is, he knows something of the world and its people (he ought to, for he has bought what he does know, dear enough); and I can’t quite think that. We had better not interfere: we can do nothing, Mr. Craggs, but keep quiet.’

  ‘Nothing,’ returned Craggs.

  ‘Our friend the Doctor makes light of such things,’ said Mr. Snitchey, shaking his head. ‘I hope he mayn’t stand in need of his philosophy. Our friend Alfred talks of the battle of life,’ he shook his head again, ‘I hope he mayn’t be cut down early in the day. Have you got your hat, Mr. Craggs? I am going to put the other candle out.’ Mr. Craggs replying in the affirmative, Mr. Snitchey suited the action to the word, and they groped their way out of the council-chamber, now dark as the subject, or the law in general.

  My story passes to a quiet little study, where, on that same night, the sisters and the hale old Doctor sat by a cheerful fireside. Grace was working at her needle. Marion read aloud from a book before her. The Doctor, in his dressing-gown and slippers, with his feet spread out upon the warm rug, leaned back in his easy- chair, and listened to the book, and looked upon his daughters.

  They were very beautiful to look upon. Two better faces for a fireside, never made a fireside bright and sacred. Something of the difference between them had been softened down in three years’ time; and enthroned upon the clear brow of the younger sister, looking through her eyes, and thrilling in her voice, was the same earnest nature that her own motherless youth had ripened in the elder sister long ago. But she still appeared at once the lovelier and weaker of the two; still seemed to rest her head upon her sister’s breast, and put her trust in her, and look into her eyes for counsel and reliance. Those loving eyes, so calm, serene, and cheerful, as of old.

  ‘”And being in her own home,”’ read Marion, from the book; ‘”her home made exquisitely dear by these remembrances, she now began to know that the great trial of her heart must soon come on, and could not be delayed. O Home, our comforter and friend when others fall away, to part with whom, at any step between the cradle and the grave”’-

  ‘Marion, my love!’ said Grace.

  ‘Why, Puss!’ exclaimed her father, ‘what’s the matter?’

  She put her hand upon the hand her sister stretched towards her, and read on; her voice still faltering and trembling, though she made an effort to command it when thus interrupted.

  ‘”To part with whom, at any step between the cradle and the grave, is always sorrowful. O Home, so true to us, so often slighted in return, be lenient to them that turn away from thee, and do not haunt their erring footsteps too reproachfully! Let no kind looks, no well-remembered smiles, be seen upon thy phantom face. Let no ray of affection, welcome, gentleness, forbearance, cordiality, shine from thy white head. Let no old loving word, or tone, rise up in judgment against thy deserter; but if thou canst look harshly and severely, do, in mercy to the Penitent!”’

  ‘Dear Marion, read no more to-night,’ said Grace for she was weeping.

  ‘I cannot,’ she replied, and closed the book. ‘The words seem all on fire!’

  The Doctor was amused at this; and laughed as he patted her on the head.

  ‘What! overcome by a story-book!’ said Doctor Jeddler. ‘Print and paper! Well, well, it’s all one. It’s as rational to make a serious matter of print and paper as of anything else. But, dry your eyes, love, dry your eyes. I dare say the heroine has got home again long ago, and made it up all round—and if she hasn’t, a real home is only four walls; and a fictitious one, mere rags and ink. What’s the matter now?’

  ‘It’s only me, Mister,’ said Clemency, putting in her head at the door.

  ‘And what’s the matter with you?’ said the Doctor.

  ‘Oh, bless you, nothing an’t the matter with me,’ returned Clemency—and truly too, to judge from her well-soaped face, in which there gleamed as usual t
he very soul of good-humour, which, ungainly as she was, made her quite engaging. Abrasions on the elbows are not generally understood, it is true, to range within that class of personal charms called beauty-spots. But, it is better, going through the world, to have the arms chafed in that narrow passage, than the temper: and Clemency’s was sound and whole as any beauty’s in the land.

  ‘Nothing an’t the matter with me,’ said Clemency, entering, ‘but—come a little closer, Mister.’

  The Doctor, in some astonishment, complied with this invitation.

  ‘You said I wasn’t to give you one before them, you know,’ said Clemency.

  A novice in the family might have supposed, from her extraordinary ogling as she said it, as well as from a singular rapture or ecstasy which pervaded her elbows, as if she were embracing herself, that ‘one,’ in its most favourable interpretation, meant a chaste salute. Indeed the Doctor himself seemed alarmed, for the moment; but quickly regained his composure, as Clemency, having had recourse to both her pockets—beginning with the right one, going away to the wrong one, and afterwards coming back to the right one again—produced a letter from the Post-office.

  ‘Britain was riding by on a errand,’ she chuckled, handing it to the Doctor, ‘and see the mail come in, and waited for it. There’s A. H. in the corner. Mr. Alfred’s on his journey home, I bet. We shall have a wedding in the house—there was two spoons in my saucer this morning. Oh Luck, how slow he opens it!’

  All this she delivered, by way of soliloquy, gradually rising higher and higher on tiptoe, in her impatience to hear the news, and making a corkscrew of her apron, and a bottle of her mouth. At last, arriving at a climax of suspense, and seeing the Doctor still engaged in the perusal of the letter, she came down flat upon the soles of her feet again, and cast her apron, as a veil, over her head, in a mute despair, and inability to bear it any longer.

  ‘Here! Girls!’ cried the Doctor. ‘I can’t help it: I never could keep a secret in my life. There are not many secrets, indeed, worth being kept in such a—well! never mind that. Alfred’s coming home, my dears, directly.’