wretches being wholly engaged in bidding the travellers farewell,
in kissing hands to each other, waving handkerchiefs, and the like
tame and vulgar practices. For now the single gentleman and Mr
Garland were in the carriage, and the post-boy was in the saddle,
and Kit, well wrapped and muffled up, was in the rumble behind; and
Mrs Garland was there, and Mr Abel was there, and Kit's mother was
there, and little Jacob was there, and Barbara's mother was visible
in remote perspective, nursing the ever-wakeful baby; and all were
nodding, beckoning, curtseying, or crying out, 'Good bye!' with all
the energy they could express. In another minute, the carriage was
out of sight; and Mr Chuckster remained alone on the spot where it
had lately been, with a vision of Kit standing up in the rumble
waving his hand to Barbara, and of Barbara in the full light and
lustre of his eyes--his eyes--Chuckster's--Chuckster the
successful--on whom ladies of quality had looked with favour from
phaetons in the parks on Sundays--waving hers to Kit!
How Mr Chuckster, entranced by this monstrous fact, stood for some
time rooted to the earth, protesting within himself that Kit was
the Prince of felonious characters, and very Emperor or Great Mogul
of Snobs, and how he clearly traced this revolting circumstance
back to that old villany of the shilling, are matters foreign to
our purpose; which is to track the rolling wheels, and bear the
travellers company on their cold, bleak journey.
It was a bitter day. A keen wind was blowing, and rushed against
them fiercely: bleaching the hard ground, shaking the white frost
from the trees and hedges, and whirling it away like dust. But
little cared Kit for weather. There was a freedom and freshness in
the wind, as it came howling by, which, let it cut never so sharp,
was welcome. As it swept on with its cloud of frost, bearing down
the dry twigs and boughs and withered leaves, and carrying them
away pell-mell, it seemed as though some general sympathy had got
abroad, and everything was in a hurry, like themselves. The harder
the gusts, the better progress they appeared to make. It was a
good thing to go struggling and fighting forward, vanquishing them
one by one; to watch them driving up, gathering strength and fury
as they came along; to bend for a moment, as they whistled past;
and then to look back and see them speed away, their hoarse noise
dying in the distance, and the stout trees cowering down before
them.
All day long, it blew without cessation. The night was clear and
starlight, but the wind had not fallen, and the cold was piercing.
Sometimes--towards the end of a long stage--Kit could not help
wishing it were a little warmer: but when they stopped to change
horses, and he had had a good run, and what with that, and the
bustle of paying the old postilion, and rousing the new one, and
running to and fro again until the horses were put to, he was so
warm that the blood tingled and smarted in his fingers' ends--
then, he felt as if to have it one degree less cold would be to
lose half the delight and glory of the journey: and up he jumped
again, right cheerily, singing to the merry music of the wheels as
they rolled away, and, leaving the townspeople in their warm beds,
pursued their course along the lonely road.
Meantime the two gentlemen inside, who were little disposed to
sleep, beguiled the time with conversation. As both were anxious
and expectant, it naturally turned upon the subject of their
expedition, on the manner in which it had been brought about, and
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on the hopes and fears they entertained respecting it. Of the
former they had many, of the latter few--none perhaps beyond that
indefinable uneasiness which is inseparable from suddenly awakened
hope, and protracted expectation.
In one of the pauses of their discourse, and when half the night
had worn away, the single gentleman, who had gradually become more
and more silent and thoughtful, turned to his companion and said
abruptly:
'Are you a good listener?'
'Like most other men, I suppose,' returned Mr Garland, smiling. 'I
can be, if I am interested; and if not interested, I should still
try to appear so. Why do you ask?'
'I have a short narrative on my lips,' rejoined his friend, 'and
will try you with it. It is very brief.'
Pausing for no reply, he laid his hand on the old gentleman's
sleeve, and proceeded thus:
'There were once two brothers, who loved each other dearly. There
was a disparity in their ages--some twelve years. I am not sure
but they may insensibly have loved each other the better for that
reason. Wide as the interval between them was, however, they
became rivals too soon. The deepest and strongest affection of
both their hearts settled upon one object.
'The youngest--there were reasons for his being sensitive and
watchful--was the first to find this out. I will not tell you
what misery he underwent, what agony of soul he knew, how great his
mental struggle was. He had been a sickly child. His brother,
patient and considerate in the midst of his own high health and
strength, had many and many a day denied himself the sports he
loved, to sit beside his couch, telling him old stories till his
pale face lighted up with an unwonted glow; to carry him in his
arms to some green spot, where he could tend the poor pensive boy
as he looked upon the bright summer day, and saw all nature healthy
but himself; to be, in any way, his fond and faithful nurse. I may
not dwell on all he did, to make the poor, weak creature love him,
or my tale would have no end. But when the time of trial came, the
younger brother's heart was full of those old days. Heaven
strengthened it to repay the sacrifices of inconsiderate youth by
one of thoughtful manhood. He left his brother to be happy. The
truth never passed his lips, and he quitted the country, hoping to
die abroad.
'The elder brother married her. She was in Heaven before long, and
left him with an infant daughter.
'If you have seen the picture-gallery of any one old family, you
will remember how the same face and figure--often the fairest and
slightest of them all--come upon you in different generations; and
how you trace the same sweet girl through a long line of portraits--
never growing old or changing--the Good Angel of the race--
abiding by them in all reverses--redeeming all their sins--
'In this daughter the mother lived again. You may judge with what
devotion he who lost that mother almost in the winning, clung to
this girl, her breathing image. She grew to womanhood, and gave
her heart to one who could not know its worth. Well! Her fond
father could not see her pine and droop. He might be more
deserving than he thought him. He surely might become so, with a
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wife like her. He joined their hands, and they were married.
'Through all the misery that followed this union; through all the
cold neglect and undeserved reproach; through all the poverty he
brought upon her; through all the struggles of their daily life,
too mean and pitiful to tell, but dreadful to endure; she toiled
on, in the deep devotion of her spirit, and in her better nature,
as only women can. Her means and substance wasted; her father
nearly beggared by her husband's hand, and the hourly witness (for
they lived now under one roof) of her ill-usage and unhappiness,--
she never, but for him, bewailed her fate. Patient, and upheld by
strong affection to the last, she died a widow of some three weeks'
date, leaving to her father's care two orphans; one a son of ten or
twelve years old; the other a girl--such another infant child--
the same in helplessness, in age, in form, in feature--as she had
been herself when her young mother died.
'The elder brother, grandfather to these two children, was now a
broken man; crushed and borne down, less by the weight of years
than by the heavy hand of sorrow. With the wreck of his
possessions, he began to trade--in pictures first, and then in
curious ancient things. He had entertained a fondness for such
matters from a boy, and the tastes he had cultivated were now to
yield him an anxious and precarious subsistence.
'The boy grew like his father in mind and person; the girl so like
her mother, that when the old man had her on his knee, and looked
into her mild blue eyes, he felt as if awakening from a wretched
dream, and his daughter were a little child again. The wayward boy
soon spurned the shelter of his roof, and sought associates more
congenial to his taste. The old man and the child dwelt alone
together.
'It was then, when the love of two dead people who had been nearest
and dearest to his heart, was all transferred to this slight
creature; when her face, constantly before him, reminded him, from
hour to hour, of the too early change he had seen in such another--
of all the sufferings he had watched and known, and all his child
had undergone; when the young man's profligate and hardened course
drained him of money as his father's had, and even sometimes
occasioned them temporary privation and distress; it was then that
there began to beset him, and to be ever in his mind, a gloomy
dread of poverty and want. He had no thought for himself in this.
His fear was for the child. It was a spectre in his house, and
haunted him night and day.
'The younger brother had been a traveller in many countries, and
had made his pilgrimage through life alone. His voluntary
banishment had been misconstrued, and he had borne (not without
pain) reproach and slight for doing that which had wrung his heart,
and cast a mournful shadow on his path. Apart from this,
communication between him and the elder was difficult, and
uncertain, and often failed; still, it was not so wholly broken off
but that he learnt--with long blanks and gaps between each
interval of information--all that I have told you now.
'Then, dreams of their young, happy life--happy to him though
laden with pain and early care--visited his pillow yet oftener
than before; and every night, a boy again, he was at his brother's
side. With the utmost speed he could exert, he settled his
affairs; converted into money all the goods he had; and, with
honourable wealth enough for both, with open heart and hand, with
limbs that trembled as they bore him on, with emotion such as men
can hardly bear and live, arrived one evening at his brother's
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door!'
The narrator, whose voice had faltered lately, stopped.
'The rest,' said Mr Garland, pressing his hand after a pause, 'I
know.'
'Yes,' rejoined his friend, 'we may spare ourselves the sequel.
You know the poor result of all my search. Even when by dint of
such inquiries as the utmost vigilance and sagacity could set on
foot, we found they had been seen with two poor travelling showmen--
and in time discovered the men themselves--and in time, the
actual place of their retreat; even then, we were too late. Pray
God, we are not too late again!'
'We cannot be,' said Mr Garland. 'This time we must succeed.'
'I have believed and hoped so,' returned the other. 'I try to
believe and hope so still. But a heavy weight has fallen on my
spirits, my good friend, and the sadness that gathers over me, will
yield to neither hope nor reason.'
'That does not surprise me,' said Mr Garland; 'it is a natural
consequence of the events you have recalled; of this dreary time
and place; and above all, of this wild and dismal night. A dismal
night, indeed! Hark! how the wind is howling!'
CHAPTER 70
Day broke, and found them still upon their way. Since leaving
home, they had halted here and there for necessary refreshment, and
had frequently been delayed, especially in the night time, by
waiting for fresh horses. They had made no other stoppages, but
the weather continued rough, and the roads were often steep and
heavy. It would be night again before they reached their place of
destination.
Kit, all bluff and hardened with the cold, went on manfully; and,
having enough to do to keep his blood circulating, to picture to
himself the happy end of this adventurous journey, and to look
about him and be amazed at everything, had little spare time for
thinking of discomforts. Though his impatience, and that of his
fellow-travellers, rapidly increased as the day waned, the hours
did not stand still. The short daylight of winter soon faded away,
and it was dark again when they had yet many miles to travel.
As it grew dusk, the wind fell; its distant moanings were more low
and mournful; and, as it came creeping up the road, and rattling
covertly among the dry brambles on either hand, it seemed like some
great phantom for whom the way was narrow, whose garments rustled
as it stalked along. By degrees it lulled and died away, and then
it came on to snow.
The flakes fell fast and thick, soon covering the ground some
inches deep, and spreading abroad a solemn stillness. The rolling
wheels were noiseless, and the sharp ring and clatter of the
horses' hoofs, became a dull, muffled tramp. The life of their
progress seemed to be slowly hushed, and something death-like to
usurp its place.
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Shading his eyes from the falling snow, which froze upon their
lashes and obscured his sight, Kit often tried to catch the
earliest glimpse of twinkling lights, denoting their approach to
some not distant town. He could descry objects enough at such
times, but none correctly. Now, a tall church spire appeared in
view, which presently became a tree, a barn, a shadow on the
ground, thrown on it by
their own bright lamps. Now, there were
horsemen, foot-passengers, carriages, going on before, or meeting
them in narrow ways; which, when they were close upon them, turned
to shadows too. A wall, a ruin, a sturdy gable end, would rise up
in the road; and, when they were plunging headlong at it, would be
the road itself. Strange turnings too, bridges, and sheets of
water, appeared to start up here and there, making the way doubtful
and uncertain; and yet they were on the same bare road, and these
things, like the others, as they were passed, turned into dim
illusions.
He descended slowly from his seat--for his limbs were numbed--
when they arrived at a lone posting-house, and inquired how far
they had to go to reach their journey's end. It was a late hour in
such by-places, and the people were abed; but a voice answered from
an upper window, Ten miles. The ten minutes that ensued appeared
an hour; but at the end of that time, a shivering figure led out
the horses they required, and after another brief delay they were
again in motion.
It was a cross-country road, full, after the first three or four
miles, of holes and cart-ruts, which, being covered by the snow,
were so many pitfalls to the trembling horses, and obliged them to
keep a footpace. As it was next to impossible for men so much
agitated as they were by this time, to sit still and move so
slowly, all three got out and plodded on behind the carriage. The
distance seemed interminable, and the walk was most laborious. As
each was thinking within himself that the driver must have lost his
way, a church bell, close at hand, struck the hour of midnight, and
the carriage stopped. It had moved softly enough, but when it
ceased to crunch the snow, the silence was as startling as if some
great noise had been replaced by perfect stillness.
'This is the place, gentlemen,' said the driver, dismounting from
his horse, and knocking at the door of a little inn. 'Halloa!
Past twelve o'clock is the dead of night here.'
The knocking was loud and long, but it failed to rouse the drowsy
inmates. All continued dark and silent as before. They fell back
a little, and looked up at the windows, which were mere black
patches in the whitened house front. No light appeared. The house
might have been deserted, or the sleepers dead, for any air of life
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