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CHAPTER 64
Tossing to and fro upon his hot, uneasy bed; tormented by a fierce
thirst which nothing could appease; unable to find, in any change
of posture, a moment's peace or ease; and rambling, ever, through
deserts of thought where there was no resting-place, no sight or
sound suggestive of refreshment or repose, nothing but a dull
eternal weariness, with no change but the restless shiftings of his
miserable body, and the weary wandering of his mind, constant still
to one ever-present anxiety--to a sense of something left undone,
of some fearful obstacle to be surmounted, of some carking care
that would not be driven away, and which haunted the distempered
brain, now in this form, now in that, always shadowy and dim, but
recognisable for the same phantom in every shape it took: darkening
every vision like an evil conscience, and making slumber horrible--
in these slow tortures of his dread disease, the unfortunate
Richard lay wasting and consuming inch by inch, until, at last,
when he seemed to fight and struggle to rise up, and to be held
down by devils, he sank into a deep sleep, and dreamed no more.
He awoke. With a sensation of most blissful rest, better than
sleep itself, he began gradually to remember something of these
sufferings, and to think what a long night it had been, and whether
he had not been delirious twice or thrice. Happening, in the midst
of these cogitations, to raise his hand, he was astonished to find
how heavy it seemed, and yet how thin and light it really was.
Still, he felt indifferent and happy; and having no curiosity to
pursue the subject, remained in the same waking slumber until his
attention was attracted by a cough. This made him doubt whether he
had locked his door last night, and feel a little surprised at
having a companion in the room. Still, he lacked energy to follow
up this train of thought; and unconsciously fell, in a luxury of
repose, to staring at some green stripes on the bed-furniture, and
associating them strangely with patches of fresh turf, while the
yellow ground between made gravel-walks, and so helped out a long
perspective of trim gardens.
He was rambling in imagination on these terraces, and had quite
lost himself among them indeed, when he heard the cough once more.
The walks shrunk into stripes again at the sound, and raising
himself a little in the bed, and holding the curtain open with one
hand, he looked out.
The same room certainly, and still by candlelight; but with what
unbounded astonishment did he see all those bottles, and basins,
and articles of linen airing by the fire, and such-like furniture
of a sick chamber--all very clean and neat, but all quite
different from anything he had left there, when he went to bed!
The atmosphere, too, filled with a cool smell of herbs and vinegar;
the floor newly sprinkled; the--the what? The Marchioness?
Yes; playing cribbage with herself at the table. There she sat,
intent upon her game, coughing now and then in a subdued manner as
if she feared to disturb him--shuffling the cards, cutting,
dealing, playing, counting, pegging--going through all the
mysteries of cribbage as if she had been in full practice from her
cradle! Mr Swiveller contemplated these things for a short time,
and suffering the curtain to fall into its former position, laid
his head on the pillow again.
'I'm dreaming,' thought Richard, 'that's clear. When I went to
bed, my hands were not made of egg-shells; and now I can almost see
through 'em. If this is not a dream, I have woke up, by mistake,
in an Arabian Night, instead of a London one. But I have no doubt
I'm asleep. Not the least.'
Here the small servant had another cough.
'Very remarkable!' thought Mr Swiveller. 'I never dreamt such a
real cough as that before. I don't know, indeed, that I ever
dreamt either a cough or a sneeze. Perhaps it's part of the
philosophy of dreams that one never does. There's another--and
another--I say!--I'm dreaming rather fast!'
For the purpose of testing his real condition, Mr Swiveller, after
some reflection, pinched himself in the arm.
'Queerer still!' he thought. 'I came to bed rather plump than
otherwise, and now there's nothing to lay hold of. I'll take
another survey.'
The result of this additional inspection was, to convince Mr
Swiveller that the objects by which he was surrounded were real,
and that he saw them, beyond all question, with his waking eyes.
'It's an Arabian Night; that's what it is,' said Richard. 'I'm in
Damascus or Grand Cairo. The Marchioness is a Genie, and having
had a wager with another Genie about who is the handsomest young
man alive, and the worthiest to be the husband of the Princess of
China, has brought me away, room and all, to compare us together.
Perhaps,' said Mr Swiveller, turning languidly round on his pillow,
and looking on that side of his bed which was next the wall, 'the
Princess may be still--No, she's gone.'
Not feeling quite satisfied with this explanation, as, even taking
it to be the correct one, it still involved a little mystery and
doubt, Mr Swiveller raised the curtain again, determined to take
the first favourable opportunity of addressing his companion. An
occasion presented itself. The Marchioness dealt, turned up a
knave, and omitted to take the usual advantage; upon which Mr
Swiveller called out as loud as he could--'Two for his heels!'
The Marchioness jumped up quickly and clapped her hands. 'Arabian
Night, certainly,' thought Mr Swiveller; 'they always clap their
hands instead of ringing the bell. Now for the two thousand black
slaves, with jars of jewels on their heads!'
It appeared, however, that she had only clapped her hands for joy;
for directly afterward she began to laugh, and then to cry;
declaring, not in choice Arabic but in familiar English, that she
was 'so glad, she didn't know what to do.'
'Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, thoughtfully, 'be pleased to draw
nearer. First of all, will you have the goodness to inform me
where I shall find my voice; and secondly, what has become of my
flesh?'
The Marchioness only shook her head mournfully, and cried again;
whereupon Mr Swiveller (being very weak) felt his own eyes affected
likewise.
'I begin to infer, from your manner, and these appearances,
Marchioness,' said Richard after a pause, and smiling with a
trembling lip, 'that I have been ill.'
'You just have!' replied the small servant, wiping her eyes. 'And
haven't you been a talking nonsense!'
'Oh!' said Dick. 'Very ill, Marchioness, have I been?'
'Dead, all but,' replied the small servant. 'I never thought you'd
get better. Thank Heaven you have!'
Mr Swiveller was silent for a long while. By and bye, he began to
talk again, inquiring how long he had been there.
'Three weeks to-morrow,' replied the servant.
'Three what?' said Dick.
'Weeks,' returned the Marchioness emphatically; 'three long, slow
weeks.'
The bare thought of having been in such extremity, caused Richard
to fall into another silence, and to lie flat down again, at his
full length. The Marchioness, having arranged the bed-clothes more
comfortably, and felt that his hands and forehead were quite cool--
a discovery that filled her with delight--cried a little more,
and then applied herself to getting tea ready, and making some thin
dry toast.
While she was thus engaged, Mr Swiveller looked on with a grateful
heart, very much astonished to see how thoroughly at home she made
herself, and attributing this attention, in its origin, to Sally
Brass, whom, in his own mind, he could not thank enough. When the
Marchioness had finished her toasting, she spread a clean cloth on
a tray, and brought him some crisp slices and a great basin of weak
tea, with which (she said) the doctor had left word he might
refresh himself when he awoke. She propped him up with pillows, if
not as skilfully as if she had been a professional nurse all her
life, at least as tenderly; and looked on with unutterable
satisfaction while the patient--stopping every now and then to
shake her by the hand--took his poor meal with an appetite and
relish, which the greatest dainties of the earth, under any other
circumstances, would have failed to provoke. Having cleared away,
and disposed everything comfortably about him again, she sat down
at the table to take her own tea.
'Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, 'how's Sally?'
The small servant screwed her face into an expression of the very
uttermost entanglement of slyness, and shook her head.
'What, haven't you seen her lately?' said Dick.
'Seen her!' cried the small servant. 'Bless you, I've run away!'
Mr Swiveller immediately laid himself down again quite flat, and so
remained for about five minutes. By slow degrees he resumed his
sitting posture after that lapse of time, and inquired:
'And where do you live, Marchioness?'
'Live!' cried the small servant. 'Here!'
'Oh!' said Mr Swiveller.
And with that he fell down flat again, as suddenly as if he had
been shot. Thus he remained, motionless and bereft of speech,
until she had finished her meal, put everything in its place, and
swept the hearth; when he motioned her to bring a chair to the
bedside, and, being propped up again, opened a farther
conversation.
'And so,' said Dick, 'you have run away?'
'Yes,' said the Marchioness, 'and they've been a tizing of me.'
'Been--I beg your pardon,' said Dick--'what have they been doing?'
'Been a tizing of me--tizing you know--in the newspapers,'
rejoined the Marchioness.
'Aye, aye,' said Dick, 'advertising?'
The small servant nodded, and winked. Her eyes were so red with
waking and crying, that the Tragic Muse might have winked with
greater consistency. And so Dick felt.
'Tell me,' said he, 'how it was that you thought of coming here.'
'Why, you see,' returned the Marchioness, 'when you was gone, I
hadn't any friend at all, because the lodger he never come back,
and I didn't know where either him or you was to be found, you
know. But one morning, when I was-'
'Was near a keyhole?' suggested Mr Swiveller, observing that she
faltered.
'Well then,' said the small servant, nodding; 'when I was near the
office keyhole--as you see me through, you know--I heard somebody
saying that she lived here, and was the lady whose house you lodged
at, and that you was took very bad, and wouldn't nobody come and
take care of you. Mr Brass, he says, "It's no business of mine,"
he says; and Miss Sally, she says, "He's a funny chap, but it's no
business of mine;" and the lady went away, and slammed the door to,
when she went out, I can tell you. So I run away that night, and
come here, and told 'em you was my brother, and they believed me,
and I've been here ever since.'
'This poor little Marchioness has been wearing herself to death!'
cried Dick.
'No I haven't,' she returned, 'not a bit of it. Don't you mind
about me. I like sitting up, and I've often had a sleep, bless
you, in one of them chairs. But if you could have seen how you
tried to jump out o' winder, and if you could have heard how you
used to keep on singing and making speeches, you wouldn't have
believed it--I'm so glad you're better, Mr Liverer.'
'Liverer indeed!' said Dick thoughtfully. 'It's well I am a
liverer. I strongly suspect I should have died, Marchioness, but
for you.'
At this point, Mr Swiveller took the small servant's hand in his
again, and being, as we have seen, but poorly, might in struggling
to express his thanks have made his eyes as red as hers, but that
she quickly changed the theme by making him lie down, and urging
him to keep very quiet.
'The doctor,' she told him, 'said you was to be kept quite still,
and there was to be no noise nor nothing. Now, take a rest, and
then we'll talk again. I'll sit by you, you know. If you shut
your eyes, perhaps you'll go to sleep. You'll be all the better
for it, if you do.'
The Marchioness, in saying these words, brought a little table to
the bedside, took her seat at it, and began to work away at the
concoction of some cooling drink, with the address of a score of
chemists. Richard Swiveller being indeed fatigued, fell into a
slumber, and waking in about half an hour, inquired what time it
was.
'Just gone half after six,' replied his small friend, helping him
to sit up again.
'Marchioness,' said Richard, passing his hand over his forehead and
turning suddenly round, as though the subject but that moment
flashed upon him, 'what has become of Kit?'
He had been sentenced to transportation for a great many years, she
said.
'Has he gone?' asked Dick--'his mother--how is she,--what has
become of her?'
His nurse shook her head, and answered that she knew nothing about
them. 'But, if I thought,' said she, very slowly, 'that you'd keep
quiet, and not put yourself into another fever, I could tell you--
but I won't now.'
'Yes, do,' said Dick. 'It will amuse me.'
'Oh! would it though!' rejoined the small servant, with a horrified
look. 'I know better than that. Wait till you're better and then
I'll tell you.'
Dick looked very earnestly at his little friend: and his eyes,
being large and hollow from illness, assisted the expression so
much, that she was quite frightened, and besought him not to think
any more about it. What had already fallen from her, however, had
not only piqued his curiosity, but seriously alarmed him, wherefore
he urged her to tell him the worst at once.
'Oh there's no worst in it,' said the small servant. 'It hasn't
anything to do with you.'
'Has it anything to do with--is it anything you heard through
chinks or keyholes--and that you were not intended to hear?' asked
Dick, in a breathless state.
'Yes,' replied the small servant.
'In--in Bevis Marks?' pursued Dick hastily. 'Conversations
between Brass and Sally?'
'Yes,' cried the small servant again.
Richard Swiveller thrust his lank arm out of bed, and, gripping her
by the wrist and drawing her close to him, bade her out with it,
and freely too, or he would not answer for the consequences; being
wholly unable to endure the state of excitement and expectation.
She, seeing that he was greatly agitated, and that the effects of
postponing her revelation might be much more injurious than any
that were likely to ensue from its being made at once, promised
compliance, on condition that the patient kept himself perfectly
quiet, and abstained from starting up or tossing about.
'But if you begin to do that,' said the small servant, 'I'll leave
off. And so I tell you.'
'You can't leave off, till you have gone on,' said Dick. 'And do
go on, there's a darling. Speak, sister, speak. Pretty Polly say.
Oh tell me when, and tell me where, pray Marchioness, I beseech
you!'
Unable to resist these fervent adjurations, which Richard Swiveller
poured out as passionately as if they had been of the most solemn
and tremendous nature, his companion spoke thus:
'Well! Before I run away, I used to sleep in the kitchen--where
we played cards, you know. Miss Sally used to keep the key of the
kitchen door in her pocket, and she always come down at night to
take away the candle and rake out the fire. When she had done
that, she left me to go to bed in the dark, locked the door on the
outside, put the key in her pocket again, and kept me locked up
till she come down in the morning--very early I can tell you--and
let me out. I was terrible afraid of being kept like this, because
if there was a fire, I thought they might forget me and only take
care of themselves you know. So, whenever I see an old rusty key
anywhere, I picked it up and tried if it would fit the door, and at
last I found in the dust cellar a key that did fit it.'
Here, Mr Swiveller made a violent demonstration with his legs. But
the small servant immediately pausing in her talk, he subsided
again, and pleading a momentary forgetfulness of their compact,
entreated her to proceed.
'They kept me very short,' said the small servant. 'Oh! you can't
think how short they kept me! So I used to come out at night after
they'd gone to bed, and feel about in the dark for bits of biscuit,
or sangwitches that you'd left in the office, or even pieces of
orange peel to put into cold water and make believe it was wine.
Did you ever taste orange peel and water?'
Mr Swiveller replied that he had never tasted that ardent liquor;
and once more urged his friend to resume the thread of her
narrative.
'If you make believe very much, it's quite nice,' said the small
servant, 'but if you don't, you know, it seems as if it would bear
a little more seasoning, certainly. Well, sometimes I used to come
out after they'd gone to bed, and sometimes before, you know; and
one or two nights before there was all that precious noise in the
office--when the young man was took, I mean--I come upstairs
while Mr Brass and Miss Sally was a-sittin' at the office fire; and
I tell you the truth, that I come to listen again, about the key of
the safe.'
Mr Swiveller gathered up his knees so as to make a great cone of
the bedclothes, and conveyed into his countenance an expression of
the utmost concern. But the small servant pausing, and holding up
her finger, the cone gently disappeared, though the look of concern
did not.
'There was him and her,' said the small servant, 'a-sittin' by the
fire, and talking softly together. Mr Brass says to Miss Sally,
"Upon my word," he says "it's a dangerous thing, and it might get
us into a world of trouble, and I don't half like it." She says--
you know her way--she says, "You're the chickenest-hearted,
feeblest, faintest man I ever see, and I think," she says, "that I
ought to have been the brother, and you the sister. Isn't Quilp,"
she says, "our principal support?" "He certainly is," says Mr
Brass, "And an't we," she says, "constantly ruining somebody or
other in the way of business?" "We certainly are," says Mr Brass.
"Then does it signify," she says, "about ruining this Kit when
Quilp desires it?" "It certainly does not signify," says Mr Brass.
Then they whispered and laughed for a long time about there being
no danger if it was well done, and then Mr Brass pulls out his
pocket-book, and says, "Well," he says, 'here it is--Quilp's own
five-pound note. We'll agree that way, then," he says. "Kit's
coming to-morrow morning, I know. While he's up-stairs, you'll get
out of the way, and I'll clear off Mr Richard. Having Kit alone,
I'll hold him in conversation, and put this property in his hat.
I'll manage so, besides," he says, 'that Mr Richard shall find it
there, and be the evidence. And if that don't get Christopher out
of Mr Quilp's way, and satisfy Mr Quilp's grudges," he says, "the
Devil's in it." Miss Sally laughed, and said that was the plan, and
as they seemed to be moving away, and I was afraid to stop any
longer, I went down-stairs again.--There!'
The small servant had gradually worked herself into as much
agitation as Mr Swiveller, and therefore made no effort to restrain
him when he sat up in bed and hastily demanded whether this story
had been told to anybody.
'How could it be?' replied his nurse. 'I was almost afraid to
think about it, and hoped the young man would be let off. When I
heard 'em say they had found him guilty of what he didn't do, you
was gone, and so was the lodger--though I think I should have been
frightened to tell him, even if he'd been there. Ever since I come
here, you've been out of your senses, and what would have been the
good of telling you then?'
'Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, plucking off his nightcap and
flinging it to the other end of the room; 'if you'll do me the
favour to retire for a few minutes and see what sort of a night it
is, I'll get up.'
'You mustn't think of such a thing,' cried his nurse.
'I must indeed,' said the patient, looking round the room.
'Whereabouts are my clothes?'
'Oh, I'm so glad--you haven't got any,' replied the Marchioness.
'Ma'am!' said Mr Swiveller, in great astonishment.
'I've been obliged to sell them, every one, to get the things that
was ordered for you. But don't take on about that,' urged the
Marchioness, as Dick fell back upon his pillow. 'You're too weak
to stand, indeed.'
'I am afraid,' said Richard dolefully, 'that you're right. What
ought I to do! what is to be done!'
It naturally occurred to him on very little reflection, that the
first step to take would be to communicate with one of the Mr
Garlands instantly. It was very possible that Mr Abel had not yet
left the office. In as little time as it takes to tell it, the
small servant had the address in pencil on a piece of paper; a
verbal description of father and son, which would enable her to
recognise either, without difficulty; and a special caution to be
shy of Mr Chuckster, in consequence of that gentleman's known
antipathy to Kit. Armed with these slender powers, she hurried
away, commissioned to bring either old Mr Garland or Mr Abel,
bodily, to that apartment.
'I suppose,' said Dick, as she closed the door slowly, and peeped
into the room again, to make sure that he was comfortable, 'I
suppose there's nothing left--not so much as a waistcoat even?'
'No, nothing.'
'It's embarrassing,' said Mr Swiveller, 'in case of fire--even an
umbrella would be something--but you did quite right, dear
Marchioness. I should have died without you!'
Content of CHAPTER 64 [Charles Dickens' novel: The Old Curiosity Shop]
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