such as the removal of papers on the desk, for instance?'
But this was clearly shown to be quite impossible. Mr Swiveller,
though an unwilling witness, could not help proving to
demonstration, from the position in which it was found, that it
must have been designedly secreted.
'It's very distressing,' said Brass, 'immensely distressing, I am
sure. When he comes to be tried, I shall be very happy to
recommend him to mercy on account of his previous good character.
I did lose money before, certainly, but it doesn't quite follow
that he took it. The presumption's against him--strongly against
him--but we're Christians, I hope?'
'I suppose,' said the constable, looking round, 'that no gentleman
here can give evidence as to whether he's been flush of money of
late, Do you happen to know, Sir?'
'He has had money from time to time, certainly,' returned Mr
Garland, to whom the man had put the question. 'But that, as he
always told me, was given him by Mr Brass himself.'
'Yes to be sure,' said Kit eagerly. 'You can bear me out in that,
Sir?'
'Eh?' cried Brass, looking from face to face with an expression of
stupid amazement.
'The money you know, the half-crowns, that you gave me--from the
lodger,' said Kit.
'Oh dear me!' cried Brass, shaking his head and frowning heavily.
'This is a bad case, I find; a very bad case indeed.'
'What! Did you give him no money on account of anybody, Sir?'
asked Mr Garland, with great anxiety.
'I give him money, Sir!' returned Sampson. 'Oh, come you know,
this is too barefaced. Constable, my good fellow, we had better be
going.'
'What!' shrieked Kit. 'Does he deny that he did? ask him,
somebody, pray. Ask him to tell you whether he did or not!'
'Did you, sir?' asked the notary.
'I tell you what, gentlemen,' replied Brass, in a very grave
manner, 'he'll not serve his case this way, and really, if you feel
any interest in him, you had better advise him to go upon some
other tack. Did I, sir? Of course I never did.'
'Gentlemen,' cried Kit, on whom a light broke suddenly, 'Master, Mr
Abel, Mr Witherden, every one of you--he did it! What I have done
to offend him, I don't know, but this is a plot to ruin me. Mind,
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gentlemen, it's a plot, and whatever comes of it, I will say with
my dying breath that he put that note in my hat himself! Look at
him, gentlemen! see how he changes colour. Which of us looks the
guilty person--he, or I?'
'You hear him, gentlemen?' said Brass, smiling, 'you hear him.
Now, does this case strike you as assuming rather a black
complexion, or does it not? Is it at all a treacherous case, do
you think, or is it one of mere ordinary guilt? Perhaps,
gentlemen, if he had not said this in your presence and I had
reported it, you'd have held this to be impossible likewise, eh?'
With such pacific and bantering remarks did Mr Brass refute the
foul aspersion on his character; but the virtuous Sarah, moved by
stronger feelings, and having at heart, perhaps, a more jealous
regard for the honour of her family, flew from her brother's side,
without any previous intimation of her design, and darted at the
prisoner with the utmost fury. It would undoubtedly have gone hard
with Kit's face, but that the wary constable, foreseeing her
design, drew him aside at the critical moment, and thus placed Mr
Chuckster in circumstances of some jeopardy; for that gentleman
happening to be next the object of Miss Brass's wrath; and rage
being, like love and fortune, blind; was pounced upon by the fair
enslaver, and had a false collar plucked up by the roots, and his
hair very much dishevelled, before the exertions of the company
could make her sensible of her mistake.
The constable, taking warning by this desperate attack, and
thinking perhaps that it would be more satisfactory to the ends of
justice if the prisoner were taken before a magistrate, whole,
rather than in small pieces, led him back to the hackney-coach
without more ado, and moreover insisted on Miss Brass becoming an
outside passenger; to which proposal the charming creature, after
a little angry discussion, yielded her consent; and so took her
brother Sampson's place upon the box: Mr Brass with some reluctance
agreeing to occupy her seat inside. These arrangements perfected,
they drove to the justice-room with all speed, followed by the
notary and his two friends in another coach. Mr Chuckster alone
was left behind--greatly to his indignation; for he held the
evidence he could have given, relative to Kit's returning to work
out the shilling, to be so very material as bearing upon his
hypocritical and designing character, that he considered its
suppression little better than a compromise of felony.
At the justice-room, they found the single gentleman, who had gone
straight there, and was expecting them with desperate impatience.
But not fifty single gentlemen rolled into one could have helped
poor Kit, who in half an hour afterwards was committed for trial,
and was assured by a friendly officer on his way to prison that
there was no occasion to be cast down, for the sessions would soon
be on, and he would, in all likelihood, get his little affair
disposed of, and be comfortably transported, in less than a
fortnight.
CHAPTER 61
Let moralists and philosophers say what they may, it is very
questionable whether a guilty man would have felt half as much
misery that night, as Kit did, being innocent. The world, being in
the constant commission of vast quantities of injustice, is a
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little too apt to comfort itself with the idea that if the victim
of its falsehood and malice have a clear conscience, he cannot fail
to be sustained under his trials, and somehow or other to come
right at last; 'in which case,' say they who have hunted him down,
'--though we certainly don't expect it--nobody will be better
pleased than we.' Whereas, the world would do well to reflect,
that injustice is in itself, to every generous and properly
constituted mind, an injury, of all others the most insufferable,
the most torturing, and the most hard to bear; and that many clear
consciences have gone to their account elsewhere, and many sound
hearts have broken, because of this very reason; the knowledge of
their own deserts only aggravating their sufferings, and rendering
them the less endurable.
The world, however, was not in fault in Kit's case. But Kit was
innocent; and knowing this, and feeling that his best friends
deemed him guilty--that Mr and Mrs Garland would look upon him as
a monster of ingratitude--that Barbara would associate him with
all that was bad and criminal--that the pony would consider
himself forsaken--and that even his own mother might perhaps yield
to the strong app
earances against him, and believe him to be the
wretch he seemed--knowing and feeling all this, he experienced, at
first, an agony of mind which no words can describe, and walked up
and down the little cell in which he was locked up for the night,
almost beside himself with grief.
Even when the violence of these emotions had in some degree
subsided, and he was beginning to grow more calm, there came into
his mind a new thought, the anguish of which was scarcely less.
The child--the bright star of the simple fellow's life--she, who
always came back upon him like a beautiful dream--who had made
the poorest part of his existence, the happiest and best--who had
ever been so gentle, and considerate, and good--if she were ever
to hear of this, what would she think! As this idea occurred to
him, the walls of the prison seemed to melt away, and the old place
to reveal itself in their stead, as it was wont to be on winter
nights--the fireside, the little supper table, the old man's hat,
and coat, and stick--the half-opened door, leading to her little
room--they were all there. And Nell herself was there, and he--
both laughing heartily as they had often done--and when he had got
as far as this, Kit could go no farther, but flung himself upon his
poor bedstead and wept.
It was a long night, which seemed as though it would have no end;
but he slept too, and dreamed--always of being at liberty, and
roving about, now with one person and now with another, but ever
with a vague dread of being recalled to prison; not that prison,
but one which was in itself a dim idea--not of a place, but of a
care and sorrow: of something oppressive and always present, and
yet impossible to define. At last, the morning dawned, and there
was the jail itself--cold, black, and dreary, and very real
indeed.
He was left to himself, however, and there was comfort in that. He
had liberty to walk in a small paved yard at a certain hour, and
learnt from the turnkey, who came to unlock his cell and show him
where to wash, that there was a regular time for visiting, every
day, and that if any of his friends came to see him, he would be
fetched down to the grate. When he had given him this information,
and a tin porringer containing his breakfast, the man locked him up
again; and went clattering along the stone passage, opening and
shutting a great many other doors, and raising numberless loud
echoes which resounded through the building for a long time, as if
they were in prison too, and unable to get out.
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This turnkey had given him to understand that he was lodged, like
some few others in the jail, apart from the mass of prisoners;
because he was not supposed to be utterly depraved and
irreclaimable, and had never occupied apartments in that mansion
before. Kit was thankful for this indulgence, and sat reading the
church catechism very attentively (though he had known it by heart
from a little child), until he heard the key in the lock, and the
man entered again.
'Now then,' he said, 'come on!'
'Where to, Sir?' asked Kit.
The man contented himself by briefly replying 'Wisitors;' and
taking him by the arm in exactly the same manner as the constable
had done the day before, led him, through several winding ways and
strong gates, into a passage, where he placed him at a grating and
turned upon his heel. Beyond this grating, at the distance of
about four or five feet, was another exactly like it. In the space
between, sat a turnkey reading a newspaper, and outside the further
railing, Kit saw, with a palpitating heart, his mother with the
baby in her arms; Barbara's mother with her never-failing umbrella;
and poor little Jacob, staring in with all his might, as though he
were looking for the bird, or the wild beast, and thought the men
were mere accidents with whom the bars could have no possible
concern.
But when little Jacob saw his brother, and, thrusting his arms
between the rails to hug him, found that he came no nearer, but
still stood afar off with his head resting on the arm by which he
held to one of the bars, he began to cry most piteously; whereupon,
Kit's mother and Barbara's mother, who had restrained themselves as
much as possible, burst out sobbing and weeping afresh. Poor Kit
could not help joining them, and not one of them could speak a
word. During this melancholy pause, the turnkey read his newspaper
with a waggish look (he had evidently got among the facetious
paragraphs) until, happening to take his eyes off for an instant,
as if to get by dint of contemplation at the very marrow of some
joke of a deeper sort than the rest, it appeared to occur to him,
for the first time, that somebody was crying.
'Now, ladies, ladies,' he said, looking round with surprise, 'I'd
advise you not to waste time like this. It's allowanced here, you
know. You mustn't let that child make that noise either. It's
against all rules.'
'I'm his poor mother, sir,'--sobbed Mrs Nubbles, curtseying humbly,
'and this is his brother, sir. Oh dear me, dear me!'
'Well!' replied the turnkey, folding his paper on his knee, so as
to get with greater convenience at the top of the next column. 'It
can't be helped you know. He ain't the only one in the same fix.
You mustn't make a noise about it!'
With that he went on reading. The man was not unnaturally cruel or
hard-hearted. He had come to look upon felony as a kind of
disorder, like the scarlet fever or erysipelas: some people had it--
some hadn't--just as it might be.
'Oh! my darling Kit,' said his mother, whom Barbara's mother had
charitably relieved of the baby, 'that I should see my poor boy
here!'
'You don't believe that I did what they accuse me of, mother dear?'
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cried Kit, in a choking voice.
'I believe it!' exclaimed the poor woman, 'I that never knew you
tell a lie, or do a bad action from your cradle--that have never
had a moment's sorrow on your account, except it was the poor meals
that you have taken with such good humour and content, that I
forgot how little there was, when I thought how kind and thoughtful
you were, though you were but a child!--I believe it of the son
that's been a comfort to me from the hour of his birth until this
time, and that I never laid down one night in anger with! I
believe it of you Kit!--'
'Why then, thank God!' said Kit, clutching the bars with an
earnestness that shook them, 'and I can bear it, mother! Come what
may, I shall always have one drop of happiness in my heart when I
think that you said that.'
At this the poor woman fell a-crying again, and Barbara's mother
too. And little Jacob, whose disjointed thoughts had by this time
resolved themselves into a pretty distinct impression that Kit
couldn't go out for a walk if he wanted, and
that there were no
birds, lions, tigers or other natural curiosities behind those bars--
nothing indeed, but a caged brother--added his tears to theirs
with as little noise as possible.
Kit's mother, drying her eyes (and moistening them, poor soul, more
than she dried them), now took from the ground a small basket, and
submissively addressed herself to the turnkey, saying, would he
please to listen to her for a minute? The turnkey, being in the
very crisis and passion of a joke, motioned to her with his hand to
keep silent one minute longer, for her life. Nor did he remove his
hand into its former posture, but kept it in the same warning
attitude until he had finished the paragraph, when he paused for a
few seconds, with a smile upon his face, as who should say 'this
editor is a comical blade--a funny dog,' and then asked her what
she wanted.
'I have brought him a little something to eat,' said the good
woman. 'If you please, Sir, might he have it?'
'Yes,--he may have it. There's no rule against that. Give it to
me when you go, and I'll take care he has it.'
'No, but if you please sir--don't be angry with me sir--I am his
mother, and you had a mother once--if I might only see him eat a
little bit, I should go away, so much more satisfied that he was
all comfortable.'
And again the tears of Kit's mother burst forth, and of Barbara's
mother, and of little Jacob. As to the baby, it was crowing and
laughing with its might--under the idea, apparently, that the
whole scene had been invented and got up for its particular
satisfaction.
The turnkey looked as if he thought the request a strange one and
rather out of the common way, but nevertheless he laid down his
paper, and coming round where Kit's mother stood, took the basket
from her, and after inspecting its contents, handed it to Kit, and
went back to his place. It may be easily conceived that the
prisoner had no great appetite, but he sat down on the ground, and
ate as hard as he could, while, at every morsel he put into his
mouth, his mother sobbed and wept afresh, though with a softened
grief that bespoke the satisfaction the sight afforded her.
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While he was thus engaged, Kit made some anxious inquiries about
his employers, and whether they had expressed any opinion
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