Book the Second – The
Golden Thread
1: Five Years Later
Tellson's
Bank by Temple Bar was an old-fashioned place, even in the year one thousand
seven hundred and eighty. It was very small, very dark, very ugly, very incommodious. It was an old-fashioned place, moreover,
in the moral attribute that the partners in the House were proud of its
smallness, proud of its darkness, proud of its ugliness, proud of its
incommodiousness. They were even boastful of its eminence in those particulars,
and were fired by an express conviction that, if it were less objectionable, it
would be less respectable. This was no passive belief, but an active weapon
which they flashed at more convenient places of business. Tellson's (they said)
wanted no elbow-room, Tellson's wanted no light, Tellson's wanted no
embellishment. Noakes and Co.'s might, or Snooks Brothers' might; but Tellson's,
thank Heaven!--
Any one
of these partners would have disinherited his son on the question of rebuilding
Tellson's. In this respect the House was much on a par with the Country; which
did very often disinherit its sons for suggesting improvements in laws and
customs that had long been highly objectionable, but were only the more
respectable.
Thus it
had come to pass, that Tellson's was the triumphant perfection of
inconvenience. After bursting open a door of idiotic obstinacy with a weak
rattle in its throat, you fell into Tellson's down two steps, and came to your
senses in a miserable little shop, with two little counters, where the oldest
of men made your cheque shake as if the wind rustled it, while they examined
the signature by the dingiest of windows, which were always under a shower-bath
of mud from Fleet-street, and which were made the dingier by their own iron
bars proper, and the heavy shadow of Temple Bar. If your business necessitated
your seeing "the House," you were put into a species of Condemned
Hold at the back, where you meditated on a misspent life, until the House came
with its hands in its pockets, and you could hardly blink at it in the dismal
twilight. Your money came out of, or went into, wormy old wooden drawers,
particles of which flew up your nose and down your throat when they were opened
and shut. Your bank-notes had a musty odour, as if they were fast decomposing
into rags again. Your plate was stowed away among the neighbouring cesspools,
and evil communications corrupted its good polish in a day or two. Your deeds
got into extemporised strong-rooms made of kitchens and sculleries, and fretted
all the fat out of their parchments into the banking-house air. Your lighter
boxes of family papers went up-stairs into a Barmecide room, that always had a
great dining-table in it and never had a dinner, and where, even in the year
one thousand seven hundred and eighty, the first letters written to you by your
old love, or by your little children, were but newly released from the horror
of being ogled through the windows, by the heads exposed on Temple Bar with an
insensate brutality and ferocity worthy of Abyssinia or Ashantee.
But
indeed, at that time, putting to death was a recipe much in vogue with all
trades and professions, and not least of all with Tellson's. Death is Nature's
remedy for all things, and why not Legislation's? Accordingly, the forger was
put to Death; the utterer of a bad note was put to Death; the unlawful opener
of a letter was put to Death; the purloiner of forty shillings and sixpence was
put to Death; the holder of a horse at Tellson's door, who made off with it,
was put to Death; the coiner of a bad shilling was put to Death; the sounders
of three-fourths of the notes in the whole gamut of Crime, were put to Death.
Not that it did the least good in the way of prevention--it might almost have
been worth remarking that the fact was exactly the reverse--but, it cleared off
(as to this world) the trouble of each particular case, and left nothing else
connected with it to be looked after. Thus, Tellson's, in its day, like greater
places of business, its contemporaries, had taken so many lives, that, if the
heads laid low before it had been ranged on Temple Bar instead of being
privately disposed of, they would probably have excluded what little light the
ground floor had, in a rather significant manner.
Cramped
in all kinds of dun cupboards and hutches at Tellson's, the oldest of men
carried on the business gravely. When they took a young man into Tellson's
Outside
Tellson's--never by any means in it, unless called in--was an odd-job-man, an
occasional porter and messenger, who served as the live sign of the house. He was never absent during business hours,
unless upon an errand, and then he was represented by his son: a grisly urchin
of twelve, who was his express image. People understood that Tellson's, in a
stately way, tolerated the odd-job-man. The house had always tolerated some
person in that capacity, and time and tide had drifted this person to the post.
His surname was Cruncher, and on the youthful occasion of his renouncing by
proxy the works of darkness, in the easterly parish
The
scene was Mr. Cruncher's private lodging in Hanging-sword-alley, Whitefriars:
the time, half-past seven of the clock on a windy March morning, Anno Domini
seventeen hundred and eighty. (Mr. Cruncher himself always spoke of the year of
our Lord as Anna Dominoes: apparently under the impression that the Christian
era dated from the invention of a popular game, by a lady who had bestowed her
name upon it.)
Mr.
Cruncher's apartments were not in a savoury neighbourhood, and were but two in
number, even if a closet with a single pane of glass in it might be counted as
one. But they were very decently kept. Early as it was, on the windy March
morning, the room in which he lay abed was already scrubbed throughout; and
between the cups and saucers arranged for breakfast, and the lumbering deal
table, a very clean white cloth was spread.
Mr.
Cruncher reposed under a patchwork counterpane, like a Harlequin at home. At
first, he slept heavily, but, by degrees, began to roll and surge in bed, until
he rose above the surface, with his spiky hair looking as if it must tear the
sheets to ribbons. At which juncture, he exclaimed, in a voice of dire
exasperation:
"Bust
me, if she ain't at it agin!"
A woman
of orderly and industrious appearance rose from her knees in a corner, with
sufficient haste and trepidation to show that she was the person referred to.
"What!"
said Mr. Cruncher, looking out of bed for a boot. "You're at it agin, are
you?"
After
hailing the mom with this second salutation, he threw a boot at the woman as a
third. It was a very muddy boot, and may introduce the odd circumstance
connected with Mr. Cruncher's domestic economy, that, whereas he often came
home after banking hours with clean boots, he often got up next morning to find
the same boots covered with clay.
"What,"
said Mr. Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after missing his mark--"what
are you up to, Aggerawayter?"
"I
was only saying my prayers."
"Saying
your prayers! You're a nice woman! What do you mean by flopping yourself down and
praying agin me?"
"I
was not praying against you; I was praying for you."
"You
weren't. And if you were, I won't be took the liberty with. Here! your mother's
a nice woman, young Jerry, going a praying agin your father's prosperity.
You've got a dutiful mother, you have, my son. You've got a religious mother,
you have, my boy: going and flopping herself down, and praying that the
bread-and-butter may be snatched out of the mouth of her only child."
Master
Cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, and, turning to his mother,
strongly deprecated any praying away of his personal board.
"And
what do you suppose, you conceited female," said Mr. Cruncher, with
unconscious inconsistency, "that the worth of your prayers may be? Name the price that you put
your prayers at!"
"They
only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth no more than that."
"Worth
no more than that," repeated Mr. Cruncher. "They ain't worth much,
then. Whether or no, I won't be prayed agin, I tell you. I can't afford it. I'm
not a going to be made unlucky by your
sneaking. If you must go flopping yourself down, flop in favour of your husband
and child, and not in opposition to 'em. If I had had any but a unnat'ral wife,
and this poor boy had had any but a unnat'ral mother, I might have made some
money last week instead of being counter-prayed and countermined and
religiously circumwented into the worst of luck. B-u-u-ust me!" said Mr.
Cruncher, who all this time had been putting on his clothes, "if I ain't,
what with piety and one blowed thing and another, been choused this last week
into as bad luck as ever a poor devil of a honest tradesman met with! Young
Jerry, dress yourself, my boy, and while I clean my boots keep a eye upon your
mother now and then, and if you see any signs of more flopping, give me a call.
For, I tell you," here he addressed his wife once more, "I won't be
gone agin, in this manner. I am as rickety as a hackney-coach, I'm as sleepy as
laudanum, my lines is strained to that degree that I shouldn't know, if it wasn't
for the pain in 'em, which was me and which somebody else, yet I'm none the
better for it in pocket; and it's my suspicion that you've been at it from
morning to night to prevent me from being the better for it in pocket, and I
won't put up with it, Aggerawayter, and what do you say now!"
Growling,
in addition, such phrases as "Ah! yes! You're religious, too. You wouldn't
put yourself in opposition to the interests of your husband and child, would
you? Not you!" and throwing off other sarcastic sparks from the whirling
grindstone of his indignation, Mr. Cruncher betook himself to his boot-cleaning
and his general preparation for business. In the meantime, his son, whose head
was garnished with tenderer spikes, and whose young eyes stood close by one another,
as his father's did, kept the required watch upon his mother. He greatly
disturbed that poor woman at intervals, by darting out of his sleeping closet,
where he made his toilet, with a suppressed cry of "You are going to flop,
mother. --Halloa, father!" and, after raising this fictitious alarm,
darting in again with an undutiful grin.
Mr.
Cruncher's temper was not at all improved when he came to his breakfast. He
resented Mrs. Cruncher's saying grace with particular animosity.
"Now,
Aggerawayter! What are you up to? At it again?"
His
wife explained that she had merely "asked a blessing."
"Don't
do it!" said Mr. Crunches looking about, as if he rather expected to see
the loaf disappear under the efficacy of his wife's petitions. "I ain't a
going to be blest out of house and home. I won't have my wittles blest off my
table. Keep still!"
Exceedingly
red-eyed and grim, as if he had been up all night at a party which had taken
anything but a convivial turn, Jerry Cruncher worried his breakfast rather than
ate it, growling over it like any four-footed inmate of a menagerie. Towards
It
could scarcely be called a trade, in spite of his favourite description of
himself as "a honest tradesman." His stock
consisted of a wooden stool, made out of a broken-backed chair cut down, which
stool, young Jerry, walking at his father's side, carried every morning to
beneath the banking-house window that was nearest Temple Bar: where, with the
addition of the first handful of straw that could be gleaned from any passing
vehicle to keep the cold and wet from the odd-job-man's feet, it formed the
encampment for the day. On this post of his, Mr. Cruncher was as well known to
Fleet-street and the
Encamped
at a quarter before nine, in good time to touch his threecornered hat to the
oldest of men as they passed in to Tellson's, Jerry took up his station on this
windy March morning, with young Jerry standing by him, when not engaged in
making forays through the Bar, to inflict bodily and mental injuries of an
acute description on passing boys who were small enough for his amiable
purpose. Father and son, extremely like each other, looking silently on at the
morning traffic in Fleet-street, with their two heads as near to one another as
the two eyes of each were, bore a considerable resemblance to a pair of
monkeys. The resemblance was not lessened by the accidental circumstance, that
the mature Jerry bit and spat out straw, while the twinkling eyes of the
youthful Jerry were as restlessly watchful of him as of everything else in
Fleet-street.
The
head of one of the regular indoor messengers attached to Tellson's
establishment was put through the door, and the word was given:
"Porter
wanted!"
"Hooray,
father! Here's an early job to begin with!"
Having
thus given his parent God speed, young Jerry seated himself on the stool,
entered on his reversionary interest in the straw his father had been chewing,
and cogitated.
"Al-ways
rusty! His fingers is al-ways rusty!" muttered young Jerry. "Where
does my father get all that iron rust from? He don't get no iron rust
here!"
2: A Sight
"You
know the Old Bailey, well, no doubt?" said one of the oldest of clerks to
Jerry the messenger.
"Ye-es,
sir," returned Jerry, in something of a dogged manner. "I do know the Bailey."
"Just
so. And you know Mr. Lorry."
"I
know Mr. Lorry, sir, much better than I know the Bailey. Much better,"
said Jerry, not unlike a reluctant witness at the establishment in question,
"than I, as a honest tradesman, wish to know the Bailey."
"Very
well. Find the door where the witnesses go in, and show the door-keeper this
note for Mr. Lorry. He will then let you in."
"Into
the court, sir?"
"Into
the court."
Mr.
Cruncher's eyes seemed to get a little closer to one another, and to
interchange the inquiry, "What do you think of this?"
"Am
I to wait in the court, sir?" he asked, as the result of that conference.
"I
am going to tell you. The door-keeper will pass the note to Mr. Lorry, and do
you make any gesture that will attract Mr. Lorry's attention, and show him
where you stand. Then what you have to do, is, to remain there until he wants
you."
"Is
that all, sir?"
"That's
all. He wishes to have a messenger at hand. This is to tell him you are
there."
As the
ancient clerk deliberately folded and superscribed the note, Mr. Cruncher,
after surveying him in silence until he came to the blotting-paper stage,
remarked:
"I
suppose they'll be trying Forgeries this morning?"
"Treason!"
"That's
quartering," said Jerry. "Barbarous!"
"It
is the law," remarked the ancient clerk, turning his surprised spectacles
upon him. "It is the law."
"It's
hard in the law to spile a man, I think. Ifs hard enough to kill him, but it's
wery hard to spile him, sir."
"Not
at all," retained the ancient clerk. "Speak well of the law. Take
care of your chest and voice, my good friend, and leave the law to take care of
itself. I give you that advice."
"It's
the damp, sir, what settles on my chest and voice," said Jerry. "I
leave you to judge what a damp way of earning a living mine is."
"Well,
well," said the old clerk; "we all have our various ways of gaining a
livelihood. Some of us have damp ways, and some of us have dry ways. Here is
the letter. Go along."
Jerry
took the letter, and, remarking to himself with less internal deference than he
made an outward show of, "You are a lean old one, too," made his bow,
informed his son, in passing, of his destination, and went his way.
They
hanged at Tyburn, in those days, so the street outside Newgate had not obtained
one infamous notoriety that has since attached to it. But, the gaol was a vile
place, in which most kinds of debauchery and villainy were practised, and where
dire diseases were bred, that came into court with the prisoners, and sometimes
rushed straight from the dock at my Lord Chief Justice himself, and pulled him
off the bench. It had more than once happened, that the Judge in the black cap
pronounced his own doom as certainly as the prisoner's, and even died before
him. For the rest, the Old Bailey was famous as a kind of deadly inn-yard, from
which pale travellers set out continually, in carts and coaches, on a violent
passage into the other world: traversing some two miles and a half of public
street and road, and shaming few good citizens, if any. So powerful is use, and
so desirable to be good use in the beginning. It was famous, too, for the
pillory, a wise old institution, that inflicted a punishment of which no one
could foresee the extent; also, for the whipping-post, another dear old
institution, very humanising and softening to behold in action; also, for extensive
transactions in blood-money, another fragment of ancestral wisdom,
systematically leading to the most frightful mercenary crimes that could be
committed under Heaven. Altogether, the Old Bailey, at that date, was a choice
illustration of the precept, that "Whatever is is right;" an aphorism
that would be as final as it is lazy, did it not include the troublesome
consequence, that nothing that ever was, was wrong.
Making
his way through the tainted crowd, dispersed up and down this hideous scene of
action, with the skill of a man accustomed to make his way quietly, the
messenger found out the door he sought, and handed in his letter through a trap
in it. For, people then paid to see the play at the Old Bailey, just as they
paid to see the play in Bedlam--only the former entertainment was much the
dearer. Therefore, all the Old Bailey doors were well guarded--except, indeed,
the social doors by which the criminals got there, and those were always left
wide open.
After
some delay and demur, the door grudgingly turned on its hinges a very little
way, and allowed Mr. Jerry Cruncher to squeeze himself into court.
"What's
on?" he asked, in a whisper, of the man he found himself next to.
"Nothing
yet."
"What's
coming on?"
"The
Treason case."
"The
quartering one, eh?"
"Ah!"
returned the man, with a relish; "he'll be drawn on a hurdle to be half
hanged, and then he'll be taken down and sliced before his own face, and then
his inside will be taken out and burnt while he looks on, and then his head
will be chopped off, and he'll be cut into quarters. That's the sentence."
"If
he's found Guilty, you mean to say?" Jerry added, by way of proviso.
"Oh!
they'll find him guilty," said the other. "Don't you be afraid of
that."
Mr.
Cruncher's attention was here diverted to the door-keeper, whom he saw making
his way to Mr. Lorry, with the note in his hand. Mr. Lorry sat at a table,
among the gentlemen in wigs: not far from a wigged gentleman, the prisoner's
counsel, who had a great bundle of papers before him: and nearly opposite
another wigged gentleman with his hands in his pockets, whose whole attention,
when Mr. Cruncher looked at him then or afterwards, seemed to be concentrated
on the ceiling of the court. After some gruff coughing and rubbing of his chin
and signing with his hand, Jerry attracted the notice of Mr. Lorry, who had
stood up to look for him, and who quietly nodded and sat down again.
"What's
he got to do with the case?" asked
the man he had spoken with.
"Blest
if I know," said Jerry.
"What
have you got to do with it, then, if a
person may inquire?"
"Blest
if I know that either," said Jerry.
The
entrance of the Judge, and a consequent great stir and settling down in the
court, stopped the dialogue. Presently, the dock became the central point of
interest. Two gaolers, who had been standing there, went out, and the prisoner
was brought in, and put to the bar.
Everybody
present, except the one wigged gentleman who looked at the ceiling, stared at
him. All the human breath in the place, rolled at him, like a sea, or a wind,
or a fire. Eager faces strained round pillars and corners, to get a sight of
him; spectators in back rows stood up, not to miss a hair of him; people on the
floor of the court, laid their hands on the shoulders of the people before them,
to help themselves, at anybody's cost, to a view of him--stood a-tiptoe, got
upon ledges, stood upon next to nothing, to see every inch of him. Conspicuous
among these latter, like an animated bit of the spiked wall of Newgate, Jerry
stood: aiming at the prisoner the beery breath of a whet he had taken as he
came along, and discharging it to mingle with the waves of other beer, and gin,
and tea, and coffee, and what not, that flowed at him, and already broke upon
the great windows behind him in an impure mist and rain.
The
object of all this staring and blaring, was a young man of about
five-and-twenty, well-grown and well-looking, with a sunburnt cheek and a dark
eye. His condition was that of a young gentleman. He was plainly dressed in
black, or very dark grey, and his hair, which was long and dark, was gathered
in a ribbon at the back of his neck; more to be out of his way than for
ornament. As an emotion of the mind will express itself through any covering of
the body, so the paleness which his situation engendered came through the brown
upon his cheek, showing the soul to be stronger than the sun. He was otherwise
quite self-possessed, bowed to the Judge, and stood quiet.
The
sort of interest with which this man was stared and breathed at, was not a sort
that elevated humanity. Had he stood in peril of a less horrible sentence--had
there been a chance of any one of its savage details being spared--by just so
much would he have lost in his fascination. The form that was to be doomed to
be so shamefully mangled, was the sight; the immortal creature that was to be
so butchered and torn asunder, yielded the sensation. Whatever gloss the
various spectators put upon the interest, according to their several arts and
powers of self-deceit, the interest was, at the root of it, Ogreish.
Silence
in the court! Charles Darnay had yesterday pleaded Not Guilty to an indictment
denouncing him (with infinite jingle and jangle) for that he was a false
traitor to our serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, prince, our Lord
the King, by reason of his having, on divers occasions, and by divers means and
ways, assisted Lewis, the French King, in his wars against our said serene,
illustrious, excellent, and so forth; that was to say, by coming and going,
between the dominions of our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth,
and those of the said French Lewis, and wickedly, falsely, traitorously, and
otherwise evil-adverbiously, revealing to the said French Lewis what forces our
said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, had in preparation to send
to Canada and North America. This much, Jerry, with his head becoming more and
more spiky as the law terms bristled it, made out with huge satisfaction, and
so arrived circuitously at the understanding that the aforesaid, and over and
over again aforesaid, Charles Darnay, stood there before him upon his trial;
that the jury were swearing in; and that Mr. Attorney-General was making ready
to speak.
The
accused, who was (and who knew he was) being mentally hanged, beheaded, and
quartered, by everybody there, neither flinched from the situation, nor assumed
any theatrical air in it. He was quiet and attentive; watched the opening
proceedings with a grave interest; and stood with his hands resting on the slab
of wood before him, so composedly, that they had not displaced a leaf of the
herbs with which it was strewn. The court was all bestrewn with herbs and
sprinkled with vinegar, as a precaution against gaol air and gaol fever.
Over
the prisoner's head there was a mirror, to throw the light down upon him.
Crowds of the wicked and the wretched had been reflected in it, and had passed
from its surface and this earth's together. Haunted in a most ghastly manner
that abominable place would have been, if the glass could ever have rendered
back its reflections, as the ocean is one day to give up its dead. Some passing
thought of the infamy and disgrace for which it had been reserved, may have
struck the prisoner's mind. Be that as it may, a change in his position making
him conscious of a bar of light across his face, he looked up; and when he saw
the glass his face flushed, and his right hand pushed the herbs away.
It
happened, that the action turned his face to that side of the court which was
on his left. About on a level with his eyes, there sat, in that corner of the
Judge's bench, two persons upon whom his look immediately rested; so
immediately, and so much to the changing of his aspect, that all the eyes that
were turned upon him, turned to them.
The
spectators saw in the two figures, a young lady of little more than twenty, and
a gentleman who was evidently her father; a man of a very remarkable appearance
in respect of the absolute whiteness of his hair, and a certain indescribable
intensity of face: not of an active kind, but pondering and self-communing.
When this expression was upon him, he looked as if he were old; but when it was
stirred and broken up--as it was now, in a moment, on his speaking to his
daughter--he became a handsome man, not past the prime of life.
His
daughter had one of her hands drawn through his arm, as she sat by him, and the
other pressed upon it. She had drawn close to him, in her dread of the scene,
and in her pity for the prisoner. Her forehead had been strikingly expressive
of an engrossing terror and compassion that saw nothing but the peril of the
accused. This had been so very noticeable, so very powerfully and naturally
shown, that starers who had had no pity for him were touched by her; and the
whisper went about, "Who are they?"
Jerry,
the messenger, who had made his own observations, in his own manner, and who
had been sucking the rust off his fingers in his absorption, stretched his neck
to hear who they were. The crowd about him had pressed and passed the inquiry
on to the nearest attendant, and from him it had been more slowly pressed and
passed back; at last it got to Jerry:
"Witnesses."
"For
which side?"
"Against."
"Against
what side?"
"The
prisoner's."
The
Judge, whose eyes had gone in the general direction, recalled them, leaned back
in his seat, and looked steadily at the man whose life was in his hand, as Mr.
Attorney-General rose to spin the rope, grind the axe, and hammer the nails
into the scaffold.
3: A Disappointment
Mr.
Attorney-General had to inform the jury, that the prisoner before them, though
young in years, was old in the treasonable practices which claimed the forfeit
of his life. That this correspondence with the public enemy was not a
correspondence of to-day, or of yesterday, or even of last year, or of the year
before. That, it was certain the prisoner had, for longer than that, been in
the habit of passing and repassing between France and England, on secret
business of which he could give no honest account. That, if it were in the
nature of traitorous ways to thrive (which happily it never was), the real
wickedness and guilt of his business might have remained undiscovered. That
When
the Attorney-General ceased, a buzz arose in the court as if a cloud of great
blue-flies were swarming about the prisoner, in anticipation of what he was
soon to become. When toned down again, the unimpeachable patriot appeared in
the witness-box.
Mr.
Solicitor-General then, following his leader's lead, examined the patriot: John
Barsad, gentleman, by name. The story of his pure soul was exactly what Mr.
Attorney-General had described it to be-- perhaps, if it had a fault, a little
too exactly. Having released his noble bosom of its burden, he would have
modestly withdrawn himself, but that the wigged gentleman with the papers
before him, sitting not far from Mr. Lorry, begged to ask him a few questions.
The wigged gentleman sitting opposite, still looking at the ceiling of the
court.
Had he
ever been a spy himself? No, he scorned the base insinuation. What did he live
upon? His property. Where was his property? He didn't precisely remember where
it was. What was it? No business of anybody's. Had he inherited it? Yes, he
had. From whom? Distant relation. Very distant? Rather. Ever been in prison?
Certainly not. Never in a debtors' prison? Didn't see what that had to do with
it. Never in a debtors' prison?--Come, once again. Never? Yes. How many times?
Two or three times. Not five or six? Perhaps. Of what profession? Gentleman.
Ever been kicked? Might have been. Frequently? No. Ever kicked downstairs?
Decidedly not; once received a kick on the top of a staircase, and fell
downstairs of his own accord. Kicked on that occasion for cheating at dice?
Something to that effect was said by the intoxicated liar who committed the
assault, but it was not true. Swear it was not true? Positively. Ever live by
cheating at play? Never. Ever live by play? Not more than other gentlemen do.
Ever borrow money of the prisoner? Yes. Ever pay him? No. Was not this intimacy
with the prisoner, in reality a very slight one, forced upon the prisoner in
coaches, inns, and packets? No. Sure he saw the prisoner with these lists?
Certain. Knew no more about the lists? No. Had not procured them himself, for
instance? No. Expect to get anything by this evidence? No. Not in regular
government pay and employment, to lay traps? Oh dear no. Or to do anything? Oh
dear no. Swear that? Over and over again. No motives but motives of sheer
patriotism? None whatever.
The
virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through the case at a great rate. He
had taken service with the prisoner, in good faith and simplicity, four years
ago. He had asked the prisoner, aboard the
The
blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General called Mr. Jarvis Lorry.
"Mr.
Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson's bank?"
"I
am."
"On
a certain Friday night in November one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five,
did business occasion you to travel between
"It
did."
"Were
there any other passengers in the mail?"
"Two."
"Did
they alight on the road in the course of the night?"
"They
did."
"Mr.
Lorry, look upon the prisoner. Was he one of those two passengers?"
"I
cannot undertake to say that he was."
"Does
he resemble either of these two passengers?"
"Both
were so wrapped up, and the night was so dark, and we were all so reserved,
that I cannot undertake to say even that."
"Mr.
Lorry, look again upon the prisoner. Supposing him wrapped up as those two
passengers were, is there anything in his bulk and stature to render it
unlikely that he was one of them?"
"No."
"You
will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was not one of them?"
"No."
"So
at least you say he may have been one of them?"
"Yes.
Except that I remember them both to have been--like myself-- timorous of
highwaymen, and the prisoner has not a timorous air."
"Did
you ever see a counterfeit of timidity, Mr. Lorry?"
"I
certainly have seen that."
"Mr.
Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner. Have you seen him, to your certain
knowledge, before?"
"I
have."
"When?"
"I
was returning from
"At
what hour did he come on board?"
"At
a little after
"In
the dead of the night.
Was he the only passenger who came on board at that untimely hour?"
"He
happened to be the only one."
"Never
mind about `happening,' Mr. Lorry. He was the only passenger who came on board
in the dead of the night?"
"He
was."
"Were
you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any companion?"
"With
two companions. A gentleman and lady. They are here."
"They
are here. Had you any conversation with the prisoner?"
"Hardly
any. The weather was stormy, and the passage long and rough, and I lay on a
sofa, almost from shore to shore."
"Miss
Manette!"
The
young lady, to whom all eyes had been turned before, and were now turned again,
stood up where she had sat. Her father rose with her, and kept her hand drawn
through his arm.
"Miss
Manette, look upon the prisoner."
To be
confronted with such pity, and such earnest youth and beauty, was far more
trying to the accused than to be confronted with all the crowd. Standing, as it
were, apart with her on the edge of his grave, not all the staring curiosity
that looked on, could, for the moment, nerve him to remain quite still. His
hurried right hand parcelled out the herbs before him into imaginary beds of
flowers in a garden; and his efforts to control and steady his breathing shook
the lips from which the colour rushed to his heart. The buzz of the great flies
was loud again.
"Miss
Manette, have you seen the prisoner before?"
"Yes,
sir."
"Where?"
"On
board of the packet-ship just now referred to, sir, and on the same
occasion."
"You
are the young lady just now referred to?"
"O!
most unhappily, I am!"
The
plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the less musical voice of the
Judge, as he said something fiercely: "Answer the questions put to you,
and make no remark upon them."
"Miss
Manette, had you any conversation with the prisoner on that passage across the
Channel?"
"Yes,
sir."
"Recall
it."
In the
midst of a profound stillness, she faintly began: "When the gentleman came
on board--"
"Do
you mean the prisoner?" inquired the Judge, knitting his brows.
"Yes,
my Lord."
"Then
say the prisoner."
"When
the prisoner came on board, he noticed that my father," turning her eyes
lovingly to him as he stood beside her, "was much fatigued and in a very
weak state of health. My father was so reduced that I was afraid to take him
out of the air, and I had made a bed for him on the deck near the cabin steps,
and I sat on the deck at his side to take care of him. There were no other
passengers that night, but we four. The prisoner was so good as to beg
permission to advise me how I could shelter my father from the wind and
weather, better than I had done. I had not known how to do it well, not understanding
how the wind would set when we were out of the harbour. He did it for me. He
expressed great gentleness and kindness for my father's state, and I am sure he
felt it. That was the manner of our beginning to speak together."
"Let
me interrupt you for a moment. Had he come on board alone?"
"No."
"How
many were with him?"
"Two
French gentlemen."
"Had
they conferred together?"
"They
had conferred together until the last moment, when it was necessary for the
French gentlemen to be landed in their boat."
"Had
any papers been handed about among them, similar to these lists?"
"Some
papers had been handed about among them, but I don't know what papers."
"Like
these in shape and size?"
"Possibly,
but indeed I don't know, although they stood whispering very near to me:
because they stood at the top of the cabin steps to have the light of the lamp
that was hanging there; it was a dull lamp, and they spoke very low, and I did
not hear what they said, and saw only that they looked at papers."
"Now,
to the prisoner's conversation, Miss Manette."
"The
prisoner was as open in his confidence with me--which arose out of my helpless
situation--as he was kind, and good, and useful to my father. I hope,"
bursting into tears, "I may not repay him by doing him harm to-day."
Buzzing
from the blue-flies.
"Miss
Manette, if the prisoner does not perfectly understand that you give the
evidence which it is your duty to give--which you must give-- and which you
cannot escape from giving--with great unwillingness, he is the only person
present in that condition. Please to go on."
"He
told me that he was travelling on business of a delicate and difficult nature,
which might get people into trouble, and that he was therefore travelling under
an assumed name. He said that this business had, within a few days, taken him
to
"Did
he say anything about
"He
tried to explain to me how that quarrel had arisen,
and he said that, so far as he could judge, it was a wrong and foolish one on
Any
strongly marked expression of face on the part of a chief actor in a scene of
great interest to whom many eyes are directed, will be
unconsciously imitated by the spectators. Her forehead was painfully anxious
and intent as she gave this evidence, and, in the pauses when she stopped for
the Judge to write it down, watched its effect upon the counsel for and
against. Among the lookers-on there was the same expression in all quarters of
the court; insomuch, that a great majority of the foreheads there, might have
been mirrors reflecting the witness, when the Judge looked up from his notes to
glare at that tremendous heresy about George Washington.
Mr.
Attorney-General now signified to my Lord, that he deemed it necessary, as a
matter of precaution and form, to call the young lady's father, Doctor Manette.
Who was called accordingly.
"Doctor
Manette, look upon the prisoner. Have you ever seen him before?"
"Once.
When he called at my lodgings in
"Can
you identify him as your fellow-passenger on board the packet, or speak to his
conversation with your daughter?"
"Sir,
I can do neither."
"Is
there any particular and special reason for your being unable to do
either?"
He
answered, in a low voice, "There is."
"Has
it been your misfortune to undergo a long imprisonment, without trial, or even
accusation, in your native country, Doctor Manette?"
He
answered, in a tone that went to every heart, "A long imprisonment."
"Were
you newly released on the occasion in question?"
"They
tell me so."
"Have
you no remembrance of the occasion?"
"None.
My mind is a blank, from some time--I cannot even say what time-- when I
employed myself, in my captivity, in making shoes, to the time when I found
myself living in
Mr.
Attorney-General sat down, and the father and daughter sat down together.
A
singular circumstance then arose in the case. The object in hand being to show that
the prisoner went down, with some fellow-plotter untracked, in the Dover mail
on that Friday night in November five years ago, and got out of the mail in the
night, as a blind, at a place where he did not remain, but from which he
travelled back some dozen miles or more, to a garrison and dockyard, and there
collected information; a witness was called to identify him as having been at
the precise time required, in the coffee-room of an hotel in that
garrison-and-dockyard town, waiting for another person. The prisoner's counsel
was cross-examining this witness with no result, except that he had never seen
the prisoner on any other occasion, when the wigged gentleman who had all this
time been looking at the ceiling of the court, wrote a word or two on a little
piece of paper, screwed it up, and tossed it to him. Opening this piece of
paper in the next pause, the counsel looked with great attention and curiosity
at the prisoner.
"You
say again you are quite sure that it was the prisoner?"
The
witness was quite sure.
"Did
you ever see anybody very like the prisoner?"
Not so
like (the witness said) as that he could be mistaken.
"Look
well upon that gentleman, my learned friend there," pointing to him who
had tossed the paper over, "and then look well upon the prisoner. How say
you? Are they very like each other?"
Allowing
for my learned friend's appearance being careless and slovenly if not
debauched, they were sufficiently like each other to surprise, not only the
witness, but everybody present, when they were thus brought into comparison. My
Lord being prayed to bid my learned friend lay aside his wig, and giving no
very gracious consent, the likeness became much more remarkable. My Lord
inquired of Mr. Stryver (the prisoner's counsel), whether they were next to try
Mr. Carton (name of my learned friend) for treason? But, Mr. Stryver replied to
my Lord, no; but he would ask the witness to tell him whether what happened
once, might happen twice; whether he would have been so confident if he had
seen this illustration of his rashness sooner, whether he would be so
confident, having seen it; and more. The upshot of which, was, to smash this
witness like a crockery vessel, and shiver his part of the case to useless
lumber.
Mr.
Cruncher had by this time taken quite a lunch of rust off his fingers in his
following of the evidence. He had now to attend while Mr. Stryver fitted the
prisoner's case on the jury, like a compact suit of clothes; showing them how
the patriot, Barsad, was a hired spy and traitor, an unblushing trafficker in
blood, and one of the greatest scoundrels upon earth since accursed
Judas--which he certainly did look rather like. How the virtuous servant, Cly,
was his friend and partner, and was worthy to be; how the watchful eyes of
those forgers and false swearers had rested on the prisoner as a victim,
because some family affairs in France, he being of French extraction, did
require his making those passages across the Channel--though what those affairs
were, a consideration for others who were near and dear to him, forbade him,
even for his life, to disclose. How the evidence that had been warped and
wrested from the young lady, whose anguish in giving it they had witnessed,
came to nothing, involving the mere little innocent gallantries and politenesses
likely to pass between any young gentleman and young lady so thrown
together;--with the exception of that reference to George Washington, which was
altogether too extravagant and impossible to be regarded in any other light
than as a monstrous joke. How it would be a weakness in the government to break
down in this attempt to practise for popularity on the lowest national
antipathies and fears, and therefore Mr. Attorney-General had made the most of
it; how, nevertheless, it rested upon nothing, save that vile and infamous
character of evidence too often disfiguring such cases, and of which the State
Trials of this country were full. But, there my Lord interposed (with as grave
a face as if it had not been true), saying that he could not sit upon that Bench
and suffer those allusions.
Mr.
Stryver then called his few witnesses, and Mr. Cruncher had next to attend
while Mr. Attorney-General turned the whole suit of clothes Mr. Stryver had
fitted on the jury, inside out; showing how Barsad and Cly were even a hundred
times better than he had thought them, and the prisoner a hundred times worse.
Lastly, came my Lord himself, turning the suit of clothes, now inside out, now
outside in, but on the whole decidedly trimming and shaping them into
grave-clothes for the prisoner.
And
now, the jury turned to consider, and the great flies swarmed again.
Mr.
Carton, who had so long sat looking at the ceiling of the court, changed
neither his place nor his attitude, even in this excitement. While his teamed
friend, Mr. Stryver, massing his papers before him, whispered with those who
sat near, and from time to time glanced anxiously at the jury; while all the
spectators moved more or less, and grouped themselves anew; while even my Lord
himself arose from his seat, and slowly paced up and down his platform, not
unattended by a suspicion in the minds of the audience that his state was
feverish; this one man sat leaning back, with his torn gown half off him, his
untidy wig put on just as it had happened to fight on his head after its
removal, his hands in his pockets, and his eyes on the ceiling as they had been
all day. Something especially reckless in his demeanour, not only gave him a
disreputable look, but so diminished the strong resemblance he undoubtedly bore
to the prisoner (which his momentary earnestness, when they were compared
together, had strengthened), that many of the lookers-on, taking note of him
now, said to one another they would hardly have thought the two were so alike.
Mr. Cruncher made the observation to his next neighbour, and added, "I'd
hold half a guinea that he don't get no
law-work to do. Don't look like the sort of one to get any, do he?"
Yet,
this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the scene than he appeared to
take in; for now, when Miss Manette's head dropped upon her father's breast, he
was the first to see it, and to say audibly: "Officer! look to that young
lady. Help the gentleman to take her out. Don't you see she will fall!"
There
was much commiseration for her as she was removed, and much sympathy with her
father. It had evidently been a great distress to him, to have the days of his
imprisonment recalled. He had shown strong internal agitation when he was
questioned, and that pondering or brooding look which made him old, had been upon
him, like a heavy cloud, ever since. As he passed out, the jury, who had turned
back and paused a moment, spoke, through their foreman.
They
were not agreed, and wished to retire. My Lord (perhaps with George Washington
on his mind) showed some surprise that they were not agreed, but signified his
pleasure that they should retire under watch and ward, and retired himself. The
trial had lasted all day, and the lamps in the court were now being lighted. It
began to be rumoured that the jury would be out a long while. The spectators
dropped off to get refreshment, and the prisoner withdrew to the back of the
dock, and sat down.
Mr.
Lorry, who had gone out when the young lady and her father went out, now
reappeared, and beckoned to Jerry: who, in the slackened interest, could easily
get near him.
"Jerry,
if you wish to take something to eat, you can. But, keep in the way. You will
be sure to hear when the jury come in. Don't be a moment behind them, for I
want you to take the verdict back to the bank. You are the quickest messenger I
know, and will get to Temple Bar long before I can."
Jerry
had just enough forehead to knuckle, and he knuckled it in acknowledgment of
this communication and a shilling. Mr. Carton came up at the moment, and
touched Mr. Lorry on the arm.
"How
is the young lady?"
"She
is greatly distressed; but her father is comforting her, and she feels the
better for being out of court."
"I'll
tell the prisoner so. It won't do for a respectable bank gentleman like you, to
be seen speaking to him publicly, you know."
Mr.
Lorry reddened as if he were conscious of having debated the point in his mind,
and Mr. Carton made his way to the outside of the bar. The way out of court lay
in that direction, and Jerry followed him, all eyes, ears, and spikes.
"Mr.
Darnay!"
The
prisoner came forward directly.
"You
will naturally be anxious to hear of the witness, Miss Manette. She will do
very well. You have seen the worst of her agitation."
"I
am deeply sorry to have been the cause of it. Could you tell her so for me,
with my fervent acknowledgments?"
"Yes,
I could. I will, if you ask it."
Mr.
Carton's manner was so careless as to be almost insolent. He stood, half turned
from the prisoner, lounging with his elbow against the bar.
"I
do ask it. Accept my cordial thanks."
"What,"
said Carton, still only half turned towards him, "do you expect, Mr.
Darnay?"
"The
worst."
"It's
the wisest thing to expect, and the likeliest. But I think their withdrawing is
in your favour."
Loitering
on the way out of court not being allowed, Jerry heard no more: but left
them--so like each other in feature, so unlike each other in manner--standing
side by side, both reflected in the glass above them.
An hour
and a half limped heavily away in the thief-and-rascal crowded passages below,
even though assisted off with mutton pies and ale. The hoarse messenger,
uncomfortably seated on a form after taking that refection, had dropped into a
doze, when a loud murmur and a rapid tide of people setting up the stairs that
led to the court, carried him along with them.
"Jerry!
Jerry!" Mr. Lorry was already calling at the door when he got there.
"Here,
sir! It's a fight to get back again. Here I am, sir!"
Mr.
Lorry handed him a paper through the throng. "Quick! Have you got
it?"
"Yes,
sir."
Hastily
written on the paper was the word "AQUITTED."
"If
you had sent the message, `Recalled to Life,' again," muttered Jerry, as
he turned, "I should have known what you meant, this time."
He had
no opportunity of saying, or so much as thinking, anything else, until he was
clear of the Old Bailey; for, the crowd came pouring out with a vehemence that
nearly took him off his legs, and a loud buzz swept into the street as if the
baffled blue-flies were dispersing in search of other carrion.
4: Congratulatory
From
the dimly-lighted passages of the court, the last sediment of the human stew
that had been boiling there all day, was straining off, when Doctor Manette,
Lucie Manette, his daughter, Mr. Lorry, the solicitor for the defence, and its
counsel, Mr. Stryver, stood gathered round Mr. Charles Darnay--just
released--congratulating him on his escape from death.
It
would have been difficult by a far brighter light, to recognise in Doctor
Manette, intellectual of face and upright of bearing, the shoemaker of the
garret in
Only
his daughter had the power of charming this black brooding from his mind. She
was the golden thread that united him to a Past beyond his misery, and to a
Present beyond his misery: and the sound of her voice, the light of her face,
the touch of her hand, had a strong beneficial influence with him almost
always. Not absolutely always, for she could recall some occasions on which her
power had failed; but they were few and slight, and she believed them over.
Mr.
Darnay had kissed her hand fervently and gratefully, and had turned to Mr. Stryver,
whom he warmly thanked. Mr. Stryver, a man of little more than thirty, but
looking twenty years older than he was, stout, loud, red, bluff, and free from
any drawback of delicacy, had a pushing way of shouldering himself (morally and
physically) into companies and conversations, that argued well for his
shouldering his way up in life.
He
still had his wig and gown on, and he said, squaring himself at his late client
to that degree that he squeezed the innocent Mr. Lorry clean out of the group:
"I am glad to have brought you off with honour, Mr. Darnay. It was an
infamous prosecution, grossly infamous; but not the less likely to succeed on
that account."
"You
have laid me under an obligation to you for life--in two senses," said his
late client, taking his hand.
"I
have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay; and my best is as good as another man's,
I believe."
It
clearly being incumbent on some one to say, "Much better," Mr. Lorry
said it; perhaps not quite disinterestedly, but with the interested object of
squeezing himself back again.
"You
think so?" said Mr. Stryver. "Well! you have been present all day,
and you ought to know. You are a man of business, too."
"And
as such," quoth Mr. Lorry, whom the counsel learned in the law had now
shouldered back into the group, just as he had previously shouldered him out of
it--"as such I will appeal to Doctor Manette, to break up this conference
and order us all to our homes. Miss Lucie looks ill, Mr. Darnay has had a
terrible day, we are worn out."
"Speak
for yourself, Mr. Lorry," said Stryver; "I have a night's work to do
yet. Speak for yourself."
"I
speak for myself," answered Mr. Lorry, "and for Mr. Darnay, and for
Miss Lucie, and--Miss Lucie, do you not think I may speak for us all?" He
asked her the question pointedly, and with a glance at her father.
His
face had become frozen, as it were, in a very curious look at Darnay: an intent
look, deepening into a frown of dislike and distrust, not even unmixed with
fear. With this strange expression on him his thoughts had wandered away.
"My
father," said Lucie, softly laying her hand on his.
He
slowly shook the shadow off, and turned to her.
"Shall
we go home, my father?"
With a
long breath, he answered "Yes."
The
friends of the acquitted prisoner had dispersed, under the impression--which he
himself had originated--that he would not be released that night. The lights
were nearly all extinguished in the passages, the iron gates were being closed
with a jar and a rattle, and the dismal place was deserted until to-morrow
morning's interest of gallows, pillory, whipping-post, and branding-iron,
should repeople it. Walking between her father and Mr. Darnay, Lucie Manette
passed into the open air. A hackney-coach was called, and the father and
daughter departed in it.
Mr.
Stryver had left them in the passages, to shoulder his way back to the
robing-room. Another person, who had not joined the group, or interchanged a
word with any one of them, but who had been leaning against the wall where its
shadow was darkest, had silently strolled out after the rest, and had looked on
until the coach drove away. He now stepped up to where Mr. Lorry and Mr. Darnay
stood upon the pavement.
"So,
Mr. Lorry! Men of business may speak to Mr. Darnay now?"
Nobody
had made any acknowledgment of Mr. Carton's part in the day's proceedings;
nobody had known of it. He was unrobed, and was none the better for it in
appearance.
"If
you knew what a conflict goes on in the business mind, when the business mind is
divided between good-natured impulse and business appearances, you would be
amused, Mr. Darnay."
Mr.
Lorry reddened, and said, warmly, "You have mentioned that before, sir. We
men of business, who serve a House, are not our own masters. We have to think
of the House more than ourselves."
"I know, I
know," rejoined Mr. Carton, carelessly. "Don't be nettled, Mr. Lorry.
You are as good as another, I have no doubt: better, I dare say."
"And
indeed, sir," pursued Mr. Lorry, not minding him, "I really don't know
what you have to do with the matter. If you'll excuse me, as very much your
elder, for saying so, I really don't know that it is your business."
"Business!
Bless you, I have no business,"
said Mr. Carton.
"It
is a pity you have not, sir."
"I
think so, too."
"If
you had," pursued Mr. Lorry, "perhaps you would attend to it."
"Lord
love you, no!--I shouldn't," said Mr. Carton.
"Well,
sir!" cried Mr. Lorry, thoroughly heated by his indifference,
"business is a very good thing, and a very respectable thing. And, sir, if
business imposes its restraints and its silences and impediments, Mr. Darnay as
a young gentleman of generosity knows how to make allowance for that
circumstance. Mr. Darnay, good night, God bless you, sir! I hope you have been
this day preserved for a prosperous and happy life.--Chair there!"
Perhaps
a little angry with himself, as well as with the barrister, Mr. Lorry bustled
into the chair, and was carried off to Tellson's. Carton, who smelt of port
wine, and did not appear to be quite sober, laughed then, and turned to Darnay:
"This
is a strange chance that throws you and me together. This must be a strange
night to you, standing alone here with your counterpart on these street
stones?"
"I
hardly seem yet," returned Charles Darnay, "to belong to this world
again."
"I
don't wonder at it; it's not so long since you were pretty far advanced on your
way to another. You speak faintly."
"I
begin to think I am faint."
"Then
why the devil don't you dine? I dined, myself, while those numskulls were deliberating
which world you should belong to--this, or some other. Let me show you the
nearest tavern to dine well at."
Drawing
his arm through his own, he took him down Ludgate-hill to Fleet-street, and so,
up a covered way, into a tavern. Here, they were shown into a little room,
where Charles Darnay was soon recruiting his strength with a good plain dinner
and good wine: while Carton sat opposite to him at the same table, with his
separate bottle of port before him, and his fully half-insolent manner upon him.
"Do
you feel, yet, that you belong to this terrestrial scheme again, Mr.
Darnay?"
"I
am frightfully confused regarding time and place; but I am so far mended as to
feel that."
"It
must be an immense satisfaction!"
He said
it bitterly, and filled up his glass again: which was a large one.
"As
to me, the greatest desire I have, is to forget that I belong to it. It has no
good in it for me--except wine like this--nor I for it. So we are not much
alike in that particular. Indeed, I begin to think we are not much alike in any
particular, you and I."
Confused
by the emotion of the day, and feeling his being there with this Double of
coarse deportment, to be like a dream, Charles Darnay was at a loss how to
answer; finally, answered not at all.
"Now
your dinner is done," Carton presently said, "why don't you call a
health, Mr. Darnay; why don't you give your toast?"
"What
health? What toast?"
"Why,
it's on the tip of your tongue. It ought to be, it must be, I'll swear it's
there."
"Miss
Manette, then!"
"Miss
Manette, then!"
Looking
his companion full in the face while he drank the toast, Carton flung his glass
over his shoulder against the wall, where it shivered to pieces; then, rang the
bell, and ordered in another.
"That's
a fair young lady to hand to a coach in the dark, Mr. Darnay!" he said,
ruing his new goblet.
A
slight frown and a laconic "Yes," were the answer.
"That's
a fair young lady to be pitied by and wept for by! How does it feel? Is it
worth being tried for one's life, to be the object of such sympathy and
compassion, Mr. Darnay?"
Again
Darnay answered not a word.
"She
was mightily pleased to have your message, when I gave it her. Not that she
showed she was pleased, but I suppose she was."
The
allusion served as a timely reminder to Darnay that this disagreeable companion
had, of his own free will, assisted him in the strait of the day. He turned the
dialogue to that point, and thanked him for it.
"I
neither want any thanks, nor merit any," was the careless rejoinder.
"It was nothing to do, in the first place; and I don't know why I did it,
in the second. Mr. Darnay, let me ask you a question."
"Willingly,
and a small return for your good offices."
"Do
you think I particularly like you?"
"Really,
Mr. Carton," returned the other, oddly disconcerted, "I have not
asked myself the question."
"But
ask yourself the question now."
"You
have acted as if you do; but I don't think you do."
"I don't think I do," said Carton.
"I begin to have a very good opinion of your understanding."
"Nevertheless,"
pursued Darnay, rising to ring the bell, "there is nothing in that, I
hope, to prevent my calling the reckoning, and our parting without ill-blood on
either side."
Carton
rejoining, "Nothing in life!" Darnay rang. "Do you call the
whole reckoning?" said Carton. On his answering in the affirmative,
"Then bring me another pint of this same wine, drawer, and come and wake
me at ten."
The
bill being paid, Charles Darnay rose and wished him good night. Without
returning the wish, Carton rose too, with something of a threat of defiance in
his manner, and said, "A last word, Mr. Darnay: you think I am
drunk?"
"I
think you have been drinking, Mr. Carton."
"Think?
You know I have been drinking."
"Since
I must say so, I know it."
"Then
you shall likewise know why. I am a disappointed drudge, sir. I care for no man
on earth, and no man on earth cares for me."
"Much
to be regretted. You might have used your talents better."
"May
be so, Mr. Darnay; may be not. Don't let your sober face elate you, however;
you don't know what it may come to. Good night!"
When he
was left alone, this strange being took up a candle, went to a glass that hung
against the wall, and surveyed himself minutely in it.
"Do
you particularly like the man?" he muttered, at his own image; "why should
you particularly like a man who resembles you? There is nothing in you to like;
you know that. Ah, confound you! What a change you have made in yourself! A
good reason for taking to a man, that he shows you what you have fallen away
from, and what you might have been! Change places with him, and would you have
been looked at by those blue eyes as he was, and commiserated by that agitated
face as he was? Come on, and have it out in plain words! You hate the
fellow."
He
resorted to his pint of wine for consolation, drank it all in a few minutes,
and fell asleep on his arms, with his hair straggling over the table, and a
long winding-sheet in the candle dripping down upon him.
5: The
Jackal
Those were
drinking days, and most men drank hard. So very great is the improvement Time
has brought about in such habits, that a moderate statement of the quantity of
wine and punch which one man would swallow in the course of a night, without
any detriment to his reputation as a perfect gentleman, would seem, in these
days, a ridiculous exaggeration. The learned profession of the law was
certainly not behind any other learned profession in its Bacchanalian
propensities; neither was Mr. Stryver, already fast shouldering his way to a
large and lucrative practice, behind his compeers in this particular, any more
than in the drier parts of the legal race.
A
favourite at the Old Bailey, and eke at the Sessions, Mr. Stryver had begun
cautiously to hew away the lower staves of the ladder on which he mounted.
Sessions and Old Bailey had now to summon their favourite, specially, to their
longing arms; and shouldering itself towards the visage of the Lord Chief
Justice in the Court of King's Bench, the florid countenance of Mr. Stryver
might be daily seen, bursting out of the bed of wigs, like a great sunflower
pushing its way at the sun from among a rank garden-full of flaring companions.
It had
once been noted at the Bar, that while Mr. Stryver was a glib man, and an unscrupulous,
and a ready, and a bold, he had not that faculty of extracting the essence from
a heap of statements, which is among the most striking and necessary of the
advocate's accomplishments. But, a remarkable improvement came upon him as to
this. The more business he got, the greater his power seemed to grow of getting
at its pith and marrow; and however late at night he sat carousing with Sydney
Carton, he always had his points at his fingers' ends in the morning.
Sydney
Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was Stryver's great ally. What the
two drank together, between Hilary Term and Michaelmas, might have floated a
king's ship. Stryver never had a case in hand, anywhere, but Carton was there,
with his hands in his pockets, staring at the ceiling of the court; they went
the same Circuit, and even there they prolonged their usual orgies late into
the night, and Carton was rumoured to be seen at broad day, going home
stealthily and unsteadily to his lodgings, like a dissipated cat. At last, it
began to get about, among such as were interested in the matter, that although
Sydney Carton would never be a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and that
he rendered suit and service to Stryver in that humble capacity.
"
"What's the matter?"
"
"What
do you mean?
"Yes,
sir. Your honour told
me to call you."
"Oh!
I remember. Very well, very well."
After a
few dull efforts to get to sleep again, which the man dexterously combated by
stirring the fire continuously for five minutes, he got up, tossed his hat on,
and walked out. He turned into the
The
Stryver clerk, who never assisted at these conferences, had gone home, and the
Stryver principal opened the door. He had his slippers on, and a loose
bed-gown, and his throat was bare for his greater ease. He had that rather
wild, strained, seared marking about the eyes, which may be observed in all
free livers of his class, from the portrait of Jeffries downward, and which can
be traced, under various disguises of Art, through the portraits of every
Drinking Age.
"You
are a little late, Memory," said Stryver.
"About
the usual time; it may be a quarter of an hour later."
They
went into a dingy room lined with books and littered with papers, where there
was a blazing fire. A kettle steamed upon the hob, and in the midst of the
wreck of papers a table shone, with plenty of wine upon it, and brandy, and
rum, and sugar, and lemons.
"You
have had your bottle, I perceive,
"Two
to-night, I think. I have been dining with the day's
client; or seeing him dine--it's all one!"
"That
was a rare point,
"I
thought he was rather a handsome fellow, and I thought I should have been much
the same sort of fellow, if I had had any luck."
Mr.
Stryver laughed till he shook his precocious paunch.
"You
and your luck,
Sullenly
enough, the jackal loosened his dress, went into an adjoining room, and came
back with a large jug of cold water, a basin, and a towel or two. Steeping the
towels in the water, and partially wringing them out, he folded them on his
head in a manner hideous to behold, sat down at the table, and said, "Now
I am ready!"
"Not
much boiling down to be done to-night, Memory," said Mr. Stryver, gaily,
as he looked among his papers.
"How
much?"
"Only
two sets of them."
"Give
me the worst first."
"There
they are,
The
lion then composed himself on his back on a sofa on one side of the drinking-table,
while the jackal sat at his own paper-bestrewn table proper, on the other side
of it, with the bottles and glasses ready to his hand. Both resorted to the
drinking-table without stint, but each in a different way; the lion for the
most part reclining with his hands in his waistband, looking at the fire, or
occasionally flirting with some lighter document; the jackal, with knitted
brows and intent face, so deep in his task, that his eyes did not even follow
the hand he stretched out for his glass--which often groped about, for a minute
or more, before it found the glass for his lips. Two or three times, the matter
in hand became so knotty, that the jackal found it imperative on him to get up,
and steep his towels anew. From these pilgrimages to the jug and basin, he
returned with such eccentricities of damp headgear as no words can describe;
which were made the more ludicrous by his anxious gravity.
At
length the jackal had got together a compact repast for the lion, and proceeded
to offer it to him. The lion took it with care and caution, made his selections
from it, and his remarks upon it, and the jackal assisted both. When the repast
was fully discussed, the lion put his hands in his waistband again, and lay
down to mediate. The jackal then invigorated himself with a bum for his
throttle, and a fresh application to his head, and applied himself to the
collection of a second meal; this was administered to the lion in the same
manner, and was not disposed of until the clocks struck three in the morning.
"And
now we have done,
The
jackal removed the towels from his head, which had been steaming again, shook
himself, yawned, shivered, and complied.
"You
were very sound,
"I
always am sound; am I not?"
"I
don't gainsay it. What has roughened your temper? Put some punch to it and
smooth it again."
With a
deprecatory grunt, the jackal again complied.
"The
old Sydney Carton of old
"Ah!"
returned the other, sighing: "yes! The same
"And
why not?"
"God
knows. It was my way, I suppose."
He sat,
with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched out before him, looking at
the fire.
"Carton,"
said his friend, squaring himself at him with a bullying air, as if the
fire-grate had been the furnace in which sustained endeavour was forged, and
the one delicate thing to be done for the old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury
School was to shoulder him into it, "your way is, and always was, a lame
way. You summon no energy and purpose. Look at me."
"Oh,
botheration!" returned
"How
have I done what I have done?" said Stryver; "how do I do what I
do?"
"Partly
through paying me to help you, I suppose. But it's not worth your while to
apostrophise me, or the air, about it; what you want to do, you do. You were
always in the front rank, and I was always behind."
"I
had to get into the front rank; I was not born there, was I?"
"I
was not present at the ceremony; but my opinion is you were," said Carton.
At this, he laughed again, and they both laughed.
"Before
"And
whose fault was that?"
"Upon
my soul, I am not sure that it was not yours. You were always driving and
riving and shouldering and passing, to that restless degree that I had no
chance for my life but in rust and repose. It's a gloomy thing, however, to
talk about one's own past, with the day breaking. Turn me in some other
direction before I go."
"Well
then! Pledge me to the pretty witness," said Stryver, holding up his
glass. "Are you turned in a pleasant direction?"
Apparently
not, for he became gloomy again.
"Pretty
witness," he muttered, looking down into his glass. "I have had
enough of witnesses to-day and to-night; who's your pretty witness?"
"The
picturesque doctor's daughter, Miss Manette."
"She pretty?"
"Is
she not?"
"No."
"Why,
man alive, she was the admiration of the whole Court!"
"Rot
the admiration of the whole Court! Who made the Old Bailey a judge of beauty?
She was a golden-haired doll!"
"Do
you know,
"Quick to see what happened! If a girl, doll or no doll, swoons within a yard or two of a man's nose, he can see it without a perspective-glass. I pledge you, but I deny the beaut