I had not been at home again many days when one evening I wentupstairs into my own room to take a peep over Charley's shoulderand see how she was getting on with her copy-book. Writing was atrying business to Charley, who seemed to have no natural powerover a pen, but in whose hand every pen appeared to becomeperversely animated1, and to go wrong and crooked2, and to stop, andsplash, and sidle into corners like a saddle-donkey. It was veryodd to see what old letters Charley's young hand had made, they sowrinkled, and shrivelled, and tottering3, it so plump and round.
Yet Charley was uncommonly4 expert at other things and had as nimblelittle fingers as I ever watched.
"Well, Charley," said I, looking over a copy of the letter O inwhich it was represented as square, triangular5, pear-shaped, andcollapsed in all kinds of ways, "we are improving. If we only getto make it round, we shall be perfect, Charley."Then I made one, and Charley made one, and the pen wouldn't joinCharley's neatly6, but twisted it up into a knot.
"Never mind, Charley. We shall do it in time."Charley laid down her pen, the copy being finished, opened and shuther cramped7 little hand, looked gravely at the page, half in prideand half in doubt, and got up, and dropped me a curtsy.
"Thank you, miss. If you please, miss, did you know a poor personof the name of Jenny?""A brickmaker's wife, Charley? Yes.""She came and spoke8 to me when I was out a little while ago, andsaid you knew her, miss. She asked me if I wasn't the young lady'slittle maid--meaning you for the young lady, miss--and I said yes,miss.""I thought she had left this neighbourhood altogether, Charley.""So she had, miss, but she's come back again to where she used tolive--she and Liz. Did you know another poor person of the name ofLiz, miss?""I think I do, Charley, though not by name.""That's what she said!" returned Chariey. "They have both comeback, miss, and have been tramping high and low.""Tramping high and low, have they, Charley?""Yes, miss." If Charley could only have made the letters in hercopy as round as the eyes with which she looked into my face, theywould have been excellent. "And this poor person came about thehouse three or four days, hoping to get a glimpse of you, miss--allshe wanted, she said--but you were away. That was when she saw me.
She saw me a-going about, miss," said Charley with a short laugh ofthe greatest delight and pride, "and she thought I looked like yourmaid!""Did she though, really, Charley?""Yes, miss!" said Charley. "Really and truly." And Charley, withanother short laugh of the purest glee, made her eyes very roundagain and looked as serious as became my maid. I was never tiredof seeing Charley in the full enjoyment9 of that great dignity,standing10 before me with her youthful face and figure, and hersteady manner, and her childish exultation11 breaking through it nowand then in the pleasantest way.
"And where did you see her, Charley?" said I.
My little maid's countenance12 fell as she replied, "By the doctor'sshop, miss." For Charley wore her black frock yet.
I asked if the brickmaker's wife were ill, but Charley said no. Itwas some one else. Some one in her cottage who had tramped down toSaint Albans and was tramping he didn't know where. A poor boy,Charley said. No father, no mother, no any one. "Like as Tommight have been, miss, if Emma and me had died after father," saidCharley, her round eyes filling with tears.
"And she was getting medicine for him, Charley?""She said, miss," returned Charley, "how that he had once done asmuch for her."My little maid's face was so eager and her quiet hands were foldedso closely in one another as she stood looking at me that I had nogreat difficulty in reading her thoughts. "Well, Charley," said I,"it appears to me that you and I can do no better than go round toJenny's and see what's the matter."The alacrity13 with which Charley brought my bonnet14 and veil, andhaving dressed me, quaintly15 pinned herself into her warm shawl andmade herself look like a little old woman, sufficiently16 expressedher readiness. So Charley and I, without saying anything to anyone, went out.
It was a cold, wild night, and the trees shuddered17 in the wind.
The rain had been thick and heavy all day, and with littleintermission for many days. None was falling just then, however.
The sky had partly cleared, but was very gloomy--even above us,where a few stars were shining. In the north and north-west, wherethe sun had set three hours before, there was a pale dead lightboth beautiful and awful; and into it long sullen18 lines of cloudwaved up like a sea stricken immovable as it was heaving. TowardsLondon a lurid19 glare overhung the whole dark waste, and thecontrast between these two lights, and the fancy which the redderlight engendered20 of an unearthly fire, gleaming on all the unseenbuildings of the city and on all the faces of its many thousands ofwondering inhabitants, was as solemn as might be.
I had no thought that night--none, I am quite sure--of what wassoon to happen to me. But I have always remembered since that whenwe had stopped at the garden-gate to look up at the sky, and whenwe went upon our way, I had for a moment an undefinable impressionof myself as being something different from what I then was. Iknow it was then and there that I had it. I have ever sinceconnected the feeling with that spot and time and with everythingassociated with that spot and time, to the distant voices in thetown, the barking of a dog, and the sound of wheels coming down themiry hill.
It was Saturday night, and most of the people belonging to theplace where we were going were drinking elsewhere. We found itquieter than I had previously21 seen it, though quite as miserable22.
The kilns23 were burning, and a stifling25 vapour set towards us with apale-blue glare.
We came to the cottage, where there was a feeble candle in thepatched window. We tapped at the door and went in. The mother ofthe little child who had died was sitting in a chair on one side ofthe poor fire by the bed; and opposite to her, a wretched boy,supported by the chimney-piece, was cowering26 on the floor. He heldunder his arm, like a little bundle, a fragment of a fur cap; andas he tried to warm himself, he shook until the crazy door andwindow shook. The place was closer than before and had anunhealthy and a very peculiar27 smell.
I had not lifted by veil when I first spoke to the woman, which wasat the moment of our going in. The boy staggered up instantly andstared at me with a remarkable28 expression of surprise and terror.
His action was so quick and my being the cause of it was so evidentthat I stood still instead of advancing nearer.
"I won't go no more to the berryin ground," muttered the boy; "Iain't a-going there, so I tell you!"I lifted my veil and spoke to the woman. She said to me in a lowvoice, "Don't mind him, ma'am. He'll soon come back to his head,"and said to him, "Jo, Jo, what's the matter?""I know wot she's come for!" cried the boy.
"Who?""The lady there. She's come to get me to go along with her to theberryin ground. I won't go to the berryin ground. I don't likethe name on it. She might go a-berryin ME." His shivering came onagain, and as he leaned against the wall, he shook the hovel.
"He has been talking off and on about such like all day, ma'am,"said Jenny softly. "Why, how you stare! This is MY lady, Jo.""Is it?" returned the boy doubtfully, and surveying me with his armheld out above his burning eyes. "She looks to me the t'other one.
It ain't the bonnet, nor yet it ain't the gownd, but she looks tome the t'other one."My little Charley, with her premature29 experience of illness andtrouble, had pulled off her bonnet and shawl and now went quietlyup to him with a chair and sat him down in it like an old sicknurse. Except that no such attendant could have shown himCharley's youthful face, which seemed to engage his confidence.
"I say!" said the boy. "YOU tell me. Ain't the lady the t'otherlady?"Charley shook her head as she methodically drew his rags about himand made him as warm as she could.
"Oh!" the boy muttered. "Then I s'pose she ain't.""I came to see if I could do you any good," said I. "What is thematter with you?""I'm a-being froze," returned the boy hoarsely30, with his haggardgaze wandering about me, "and then burnt up, and then froze, andthen burnt up, ever so many times in a hour. And my head's allsleepy, and all a-going mad-like--and I'm so dry--and my bonesisn't half so much bones as pain.
"When did he come here?" I asked the woman.
"This morning, ma'am, I found him at the corner of the town. I hadknown him up in London yonder. Hadn't I, Jo?""Tom-all-Alone's," the boy replied.
Whenever he fixed31 his attention or his eyes, it was only for a verylittle while. He soon began to droop32 his head again, and roll itheavily, and speak as if he were half awake.
"When did he come from London?" I asked.
"I come from London yes'day," said the boy himself, now flushed andhot. "I'm a-going somewheres.""Where is he going?" I asked.
"Somewheres," repeated the boy in a louder tone. "I have beenmoved on, and moved on, more nor ever I was afore, since thet'other one give me the sov'ring. Mrs. Snagsby, she's always a-watching, and a-driving of me--what have I done to her?--andthey're all a-watching and a-driving of me. Every one of 'em'sdoing of it, from the time when I don't get up, to the time when Idon't go to bed. And I'm a-going somewheres. That's where I'm a-going. She told me, down in Tom-all-Alone's, as she came fromStolbuns, and so I took the Stolbuns Road. It's as good asanother."He always concluded by addressing Charley.
"What is to be done with him?" said I, taking the woman aside. "Hecould not travel in this state even if he had a purpose and knewwhere he was going!""I know no more, ma'am, than the dead," she replied, glancingcompassionately at him. "Perhaps the dead know better, if theycould only tell us. I've kept him here all day for pity's sake,and I've given him broth34 and physic, and Liz has gone to try if anyone will take him in (here's my pretty in the bed--her child, but Icall it mine); but I can't keep him long, for if my husband was tocome home and find him here, he'd be rough in putting him out andmight do him a hurt. Hark! Here comes Liz back!"The other woman came hurriedly in as she spoke, and the boy got upwith a half-obscured sense that he was expected to be going. Whenthe little child awoke, and when and how Charley got at it, took itout of bed, and began to walk about hushing it, I don't know.
There she was, doing all this in a quiet motherly manner as if shewere living in Mrs. Blinder's attic35 with Tom and Emma again.
The friend had been here and there, and had been played about fromhand to hand, and had come back as she went. At first it was tooearly for the boy to be received into the proper refuge, and atlast it was too late. One official sent her to another, and theother sent her back again to the first, and so backward andforward, until it appeared to me as if both must have beenappointed for their skill in evading36 their duties instead ofperforming them. And now, after all, she said, breathing quickly,for she had been running and was frightened too, "Jenny, yourmaster's on the road home, and mine's not far behind, and the Lordhelp the boy, for we can do no more for him!" They put a fewhalfpence together and hurried them into his hand, and so, in anoblivious, half-thankful, half-insensible way, he shuffled37 out ofthe house.
"Give me the child, my dear," said its mother to Charley, "andthank you kindly38 too! Jenny, woman dear, good night!
Young lady, if my master don't fall out with me, I'll look down bythe kiln24 by and by, where the boy will be most like, and again inthe morning!" She hurried off, and presenfty we passed her hushingand singing to her child at her own door and looking anxiouslyalong the road for her drunken husband.
I was afraid of staying then to speak to either woman, lest Ishould bring her into trouble. But I said to Charley that we mustnot leave the boy to die. Charley, who knew what to do much betterthan I did, and whose quickness equalled her presence of mind,glided on before me, and presently we came up with Jo, just shortof the brick-kiln.
I think he must have begun his journey with some small bundle underhis arm and must have had it stolen or lost it. For he stillcarried his wretched fragment of fur cap like a bundle, though hewent bareheaded through the rain, which now fell fast. He stoppedwhen we called to him and again showed a dread39 of me when I cameup, standing with his lustrous40 eyes fixed upon me, and evenarrested in his shivering fit.
I asked him to come with us, and we would take care that he hadsome shelter for the night.
"I don't want no shelter," he said; "I can lay amongst the warmbricks.""But don't you know that people die there?" replied Charley.
"They dies everywheres," said the boy. "They dies in theirlodgings--she knows where; I showed her--and they dies down in Tom-all-Alone's in heaps. They dies more than they lives, according towhat I see." Then he hoarsely whispered Charley, "If she ain't thet'other one, she ain't the forrenner. Is there THREE of 'em then?"Charley looked at me a little frightened. I felt half frightenedat myself when the boy glared on me so.
But he turned and followed when I beckoned41 to him, and finding thathe acknowledged that influence in me, I led the way straight home.
It was not far, only at the summit of the hill. We passed but oneman. I doubted if we should have got home without assistance, theboy's steps were so uncertain and tremulous. He made no complaint,however, and was strangely unconcerned about himself, if I may sayso strange a thing.
Leaving him in the hall for a moment, shrunk into the corner of thewindow-seat and staring with an indifference42 that scarcely could becalled wonder at the comfort and brightness about him, I went intothe drawing-room to speak to my guardian43. There I found Mr.
Skimpole, who had come down by the coach, as he frequently didwithout notice, and never bringing any clothes with him, but alwaysborrowing everything he wanted.
They came out with me directly to look at the boy. The servantshad gathered in the hall too, and he shivered in the window-seatwith Charley standing by him, like some wounded animal that hadbeen found in a ditch.
"This is a sorrowful case," said my guardian after asking him aquestion or two and touching44 him and examining his eyes. "What doyou say, Harold?""You had better turn him out," said Mr. Skimpole.
"What do you mean?" inquired my guardian, almost sternly.
"My dear Jarndyce," said Mr. Skimpole, "you know what I am: I am achild. Be cross to me if I deserve it. But I have aconstitutional objection to this sort of thing. I always had, whenI was a medical man. He's not safe, you know. There's a very badsort of fever about him."Mr. Skimpole had retreated from the hall to the drawing-room againand said this in his airy way, seated on the music-stool as westood by.
"You'll say it's childish," observed Mr. Skimpole, looking gaily45 atus. "Well, I dare say it may be; but I AM a child, and I neverpretend to be anything else. If you put him out in the road, youonly put him where he was before. He will be no worse off than hewas, you know. Even make him better off, if you like. Give himsixpence, or five shillings, or five pound ten--you arearithmeticians, and I am not--and get rid of him!""And what is he to do then?" asked my guardian.
"Upon my life," said Mr. Skimpole, shrugging his shoulders with hisengaging smile, "I have not the least idea what he is to do then.
But I have no doubt he'll do it.""Now, is it not a horrible reflection," said my guardian, to whom Ihad hastily explained the unavailing efforts of the two women, "isit not a horrible reflection," walking up and down and rumpling46 hishair, "that if this wretched creature were a convicted prisoner,his hospital would be wide open to him, and he would be as welltaken care of as any sick boy in the kingdom?""My dear Jarndyce," returned Mr. Skimpole, "you'll pardon thesimplicity of the question, coming as it does from a creature whois perfectly47 simple in worldly matters, but why ISN'T he a prisonerthen?"My guardian stopped and looked at him with a whimsical mixture ofamusement and indignation in his face.
"Our young friend is not to be suspected of any delicacy48, I shouldimagine," said Mr. Skimpole, unabashed and candid49. "It seems to methat it would be wiser, as well as in a certain kind of way morerespectable, if he showed some misdirected energy that got him intoprison. There would be more of an adventurous50 spirit in it, andconsequently more of a certain sort of poetry.""I believe," returned my guardian, resuming his uneasy walk, "thatthere is not such another child on earth as yourself.""Do you really?" said Mr. Skimpole. "I dare say! But I confess Idon't see why our young friend, in his degree, should not seek toinvest himself with such poetry as is open to him. He is no doubtborn with an appetite--probably, when he is in a safer state ofhealth, he has an excellent appetite. Very well. At our youngfriend's natural dinner hour, most likely about noon, our youngfriend says in effect to society, 'I am hungry; will you have thegoodness to produce your spoon and feed me?' Society, which hastaken upon itself the general arrangement of the whole system ofspoons and professes51 to have a spoon for our young friend, does NOTproduce that spoon; and our young friend, therefore, says 'Youreally must excuse me if I seize it.' Now, this appears to me acase of misdirected energy, which has a certain amount of reason init and a certain amount of romance; and I don't know but what Ishould be more interested in our young friend, as an illustrationof such a case, than merely as a poor vagabond--which any one canbe.""In the meantime," I ventured to observe, "he is getting worse.""In the meantime," said Mr. Skimpole cheerfully, "as MissSummerson, with her practical good sense, observes, he is gettingworse. Therefore I recommend your turning him out before he getsstill worse."The amiable53 face with which he said it, I think I shall neverforget.
"Of course, little woman," observed my guardian, tuming to me, "Ican ensure his admission into the proper place by merely goingthere to enforce it, though it's a bad state of things when, in hiscondition, that is necessary. But it's growing late, and is a verybad night, and the boy is worn out already. There is a bed in thewholesome loft-room by the stable; we had better keep him theretill morning, when he can be wrapped up and removed. We'll dothat.""Oh!" said Mr. Skimpole, with his hands upon the keys of the pianoas we moved away. "Are you going back to our young friend?""Yes," said my guardian.
"How I envy you your constitution, Jarndyce!" returned Mr. Skimpolewith playful admiration54. "You don't mind these things; neitherdoes Miss Summerson. You are ready at all times to go anywhere,and do anything. Such is will! I have no will at all--and nowon't--simply can't.""You can't recommend anything for the boy, I suppose?" said myguardian, looking back over his shoulder half angrily; only halfangrily, for he never seemed to consider Mr. Skimpole anaccountable being.
"My dear Jarndyce, I observed a bottle of cooling medicine in hispocket, and it's impossible for him to do better than take it. Youcan tell them to sprinkle a little vinegar about the place where hesleeps and to keep it moderately cool and him moderately warm. Butit is mere52 impertinence in me to offer any recommendation. MissSummerson has such a knowledge of detail and such a capacity forthe administration of detail that she knows all about it."We went back into the hall and explained to Jo what we proposed todo, which Charley explained to him again and which he received withthe languid unconcern I had already noticed, wearily looking on atwhat was done as if it were for somebody else. The servantscompassionating his miserable state and being very anxious to help,we soon got the loft-room ready; and some of the men about thehouse carried him across the wet yard, well wrapped up. It waspleasant to observe how kind they were to him and how thereappeared to be a general impression among them that frequentlycalling him "Old Chap" was likely to revive his spirits. Charleydirected the operations and went to and fro between the loft-roomand the house with such little stimulants55 and comforts as wethought it safe to give him. My guardian himself saw him before hewas left for the night and reported to me when he returned to thegrowlery to write a letter on the boy's behalf, which a messengerwas charged to deliver at day-light in the morning, that he seemedeasier and inclined to sleep. They had fastened his door on theoutside, he said, in case of his being delirious56, but had soarranged that he could not make any noise without being heard.
Ada being in our room with a cold, Mr. Skimpole was left alone allthis time and entertained himself by playing snatches of patheticairs and sometimes singing to them (as we heard at a distance) withgreat expression and feeling. When we rejoined him in the drawing-room he said he would give us a little ballad57 which had come intohis head "apropos58 of our young friend," and he sang one about apeasant boy,"Thrown on the wide world, doomed59 to wander and roam,Bereft60 of his parents, bereft of a home."quite exquisitely61. It was a song that always made him cry, he toldus.
He was extremely gay all the rest of the evening, for he absolutelychirped--those were his delighted words--when he thought by what ahappy talent for business he was surrounded. He gave us, in hisglass of negus, "Better health to our young friend!" and supposedand gaily pursued the case of his being reserved like Whittingtonto become Lord Mayor of London. In that event, no doubt, he wouldestablish the Jarndyce Institution and the Summerson Almshouses,and a little annual Corporation Pilgrimage to St. Albans. He hadno doubt, he said, that our young friend was an excellent boy inhis way, but his way was not the Harold Skimpole way; what HaroldSkimpole was, Harold Skimpole had found himself, to hisconsiderable surprise, when he first made his own acquaintance; hehad accepted himself with all his failings and had thought it soundphilosophy to make the best of the bargain; and he hoped we woulddo the same.
Charley's last report was that the boy was quiet. I could see,from my window, the lantern they had left him burning quietly; andI went to bed very happy to think that he was sheltered.
There was more movement and more talking than usual a little beforedaybreak, and it awoke me. As I was dressing33, I looked out of mywindow and asked one of our men who had been among the activesympathizers last night whether there was anything wrong about thehouse. The lantern was still burning in the loft-window.
"It's the boy, miss," said he.
"Is he worse?" I inquired.
"Gone, miss.
"Dead!""Dead, miss? No. Gone clean off."At what time of the night he had gone, or how, or why, it seemedhopeless ever to divine. The door remaining as it had been left,and the lantern standing in the window, it could only be supposedthat he had got out by a trap in the floor which communicated withan empty cart-house below. But he had shut it down again, if thatwere so; and it looked as if it had not been raised. Nothing ofany kind was missing. On this fact being clearly ascertained62, weall yielded to the painful belief that delirium63 had come upon himin the night and that, allured64 by some imaginary object or pursuedby some imaginary horror, he had strayed away in that worse thanhelpless state; all of us, that is to say, but Mr. Skimpole, whorepeatedly suggested, in his usual easy light style, that it hadoccurred to our young friend that he was not a safe inmate65, havinga bad kind of fever upon him, and that he had with great naturalpoliteness taken himself off.
Every possible inquiry66 was made, and every place was searched. Thebrick-kilns were examined, the cottages were visited, the two womenwere particularly questioned, but they knew nothing of him, andnobody could doubt that their wonder was genuine. The weather hadfor some time been too wet and the night itself had been too wet toadmit of any tracing by footsteps. Hedge and ditch, and wall, andrick and stack, were examined by our men for a long distance round,lest the boy should be lying in such a place insensible or dead;but nothing was seen to indicate that he had ever been near. Fromthe time when he was left in the loft-room, he vanished.
The search continued for five days. I do not mean that it ceasedeven then, but that my attention was then diverted into a currentvery memorable67 to me.
As Charley was at her writing again in my room in the evening, andas I sat opposite to her at work, I felt the table tremble.
Looking up, I saw my little maid shivering from head to foot.
"Charley," said I, "are you so cold?""I think I am, miss," she replied. "I don't know what it is. Ican't hold myself still. I felt so yesterday at about this sametime, miss. Don't be uneasy, I think I'm ill."I heard Ada's voice outside, and I hurried to the door ofcommunication between my room and our pretty sitting-room68, andlocked it. Just in time, for she tapped at it while my hand wasyet upon the key.
Ada called to me to let her in, but I said, "Not now, my dearest.
Go away. There's nothing the matter; I will come to youpresently." Ah! It was a long, long time before my darling girland I were companions again.
Charley fell ill. In twelve hours she was very ill. I moved herto my room, and laid her in my bed, and sat down quietly to nurseher. I told my guardian all about it, and why I felt it wasnecessary that I should seclude69 myself, and my reason for notseeing my darling above all. At first she came very often to thedoor, and called to me, and even reproached me with sobs70 and tears;but I wrote her a long letter saying that she made me anxious andunhappy and imploring71 her, as she loved me and wished my mind to beat peace, to come no nearer than the garden. After that she camebeneath the window even oftener than she had come to the door, andif I had learnt to love her dear sweet voice before when we werehardly ever apart, how did I learn to love it then, when I stoodbehind the window-curtain listening and replying, but not so muchas looking out! How did I learn to love it afterwards, when theharder time came!
They put a bed for me in our sitting-room; and by keeping the doorwide open, I turned the two rooms into one, now that Ada hadvacated that part of the house, and kept them always fresh andairy. There was not a servant in or about the house but was sogood that they would all most gladly have come to me at any hour ofthe day or night without the least fear or unwillingness72, but Ithought it best to choose one worthy73 woman who was never to see Adaand whom I could trust to come and go with all precaution. Throughher means I got out to take the air with my guardian when there wasno fear of meeting Ada, and wanted for nothing in the way ofattendance, any more than in any other respect.
And thus poor Charley sickened and grew worse, and fell into heavydanger of death, and lay severely74 ill for many a long round of dayand night. So patient she was, so uncomplaining, and inspired bysuch a gentle fortitude75 that very often as I sat by Charley holdingher head in my arms--repose would come to her, so, when it wouldcome to her in no other attitude--I silently prayed to our Fatherin heaven that I might not forget the lesson which this littlesister taught me.
I was very sorrowful to think that Charley's pretty looks wouldchange and be disfigured, even if she recovered--she was such achild with her dimpled face--but that thought was, for the greaterpart, lost in her greater peril76. When she was at the worst, andher mind rambled77 again to the cares of her father's sick bed andthe little children, she still knew me so far as that she would bequiet in my arms when she could lie quiet nowhere else, and murmurout the wanderings of her mind less restlessly. At those times Iused to think, how should I ever tell the two remaining babies thatthe baby who had learned of her faithful heart to be a mother tothem in their need was dead!
There were other times when Charley knew me well and talked to me,telling me that she sent her love to Tom and Emma and that she wassure Tom would grow up to be a good man. At those times Charleywould speak to me of what she had read to her father as well as shecould to comfort him, of that young man carried out to be buriedwho was the only son of his mother and she was a widow, of theruler's daughter raised up by the gracious hand upon her bed ofdeath. And Charley told me that when her father died she hadkneeled down and prayed in her first sorrow that he likewise mightbe raised up and given back to his poor children, and that if sheshould never get better and should die too, she thought it likelythat it might come into Tom's mind to offer the same prayer forher. Then would I show Tom how these people of old days had beenbrought back to life on earth, only that we might know our hope tobe restored to heaven!
But of all the various times there were in Charley's illness, therewas not one when she lost the gentle qualities I have spoken of.
And there were many, many when I thought in the night of the lasthigh belief in the watching angel, and the last higher trust inGod, on the part of her poor despised father.
And Charley did not die. She flutteringiy and slowly turned thedangerous point, after long lingering there, and then began tomend. The hope that never had been given, from the first, ofCharley being in outward appearance Charley any more soon began tobe encouraged; and even that prospered78, and I saw her growing intoher old childish likeness79 again.
It was a great morning when I could tell Ada all this as she stoodout in the garden; and it was a great evening when Charley and I atlast took tea together in the next room. But on that same evening,I felt that I was stricken cold.
Happily for both of us, it was not until Charley was safe in bedagain and placidly80 asleep that I began to think the contagion81 ofher illness was upon me. I had been able easily to hide what Ifelt at tea-time, but I was past that already now, and I knew thatI was rapidly following in Charley's steps.
I was well enough, however, to be up early in the morning, and toreturn my darling's cheerful blessing82 from the garden, and to talkwith her as long as usual. But I was not free from an impressionthat I had been walking about the two rooms in the night, a littlebeside myself, though knowing where I was; and I felt confused attimes--with a curious sense of fullness, as if I were becoming toolarge altogether.
In the evening I was so much worse that I resolved to prepareCharley, with which view I said, "You're getting quite strong,Charley, are you not?'
"Oh, quite!" said Charley.
"Strong enough to be told a secret, I think, Charley?""Quite strong enough for that, miss!" cried Charley. But Charley'sface fell in the height of her delight, for she saw the secret inMY face; and she came out of the great chair, and fell upon mybosom, and said "Oh, miss, it's my doing! It's my doing!" and agreat deal more out of the fullness of her grateful heart.
"Now, Charley," said I after letting her go on for a little while,"if I am to be ill, my great trust, humanly speaking, is in you.
And unless you are as quiet and composed for me as you always werefor yourself, you can never fulfil it, Charley.""If you'll let me cry a little longer, miss," said Charley. "Oh,my dear, my dear! If you'll only let me cry a little longer. Oh,my dear!"--how affectionately and devotedly83 she poured this out asshe clung to my neck, I never can remember without tears--"I'll begood."So I let Charley cry a little longer, and it did us both good.
"Trust in me now, if you please, miss," said Charley quietly. "Iam listening to everything you say.""It's very little at present, Charley. I shall tell your doctorto-night that I don't think I am well and that you are going tonurse me."For that the poor child thanked me with her whole heart. "And inthe morning, when you hear Miss Ada in the garden, if I should notbe quite able to go to the window-curtain as usual, do you go,Charley, and say I am asleep--that I have rather tired myself, andam asleep. At all times keep the room as I have kept it, Charley,and let no one come."Charley promised, and I lay down, for I was very heavy. I saw thedoctor that night and asked the favour of him that I wished to askrelative to his saying nothing of my illness in the house as yet.
I have a very indistinct remembrance of that night melting intoday, and of day melting into night again; but I was just able onthe first morning to get to the window and speak to my darling.
On the second morning I heard her dear voice--Oh, how dear now!--outside; and I asked Charley, with some difficulty (speech beingpainful to me), to go and say I was asleep. I heard her answersoftly, "Don't disturb her, Charley, for the world!""How does my own Pride look, Charley?" I inquired.
"Disappointed, miss," said Charley, peeping through the curtain.
"But I know she is very beautiful this morning.""She is indeed, miss," answered Charley, peeping. "Still lookingup at the window."With her blue clear eyes, God bless them, always loveliest whenraised like that!
I called Charley to me and gave her her last charge.
"Now, Charley, when she knows I am ill, she will try to make herway into the room. Keep her out, Charley, if you love me truly, tothe last! Charley, if you let her in but once, only to look uponme for one moment as I lie here, I shall die.""I never will! I never will!" she promised me.
"I believe it, my dear Charley. And now come and sit beside me fora little while, and touch me with your hand. For I cannot see you,Charley; I am blind."
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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triangular
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| adj.三角（形）的，三者间的 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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kilns
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| n.窑( kiln的名词复数 )；烧窑工人 | |
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kiln
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| n.（砖、石灰等）窑，炉；v.烧窑 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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evading
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| 逃避( evade的现在分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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rumpling
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的现在分词 ) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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professes
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| 声称( profess的第三人称单数 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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stimulants
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| n.兴奋剂( stimulant的名词复数 )；含兴奋剂的饮料；刺激物；激励物 | |
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delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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allured
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| 诱引，吸引( allure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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seclude
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| vi.使隔离，使孤立，使隐退 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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81
contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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82
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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83
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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