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Book the Second: The Golden Thread
Chapter XX.
A Plea
When the newly-married pair came home, the
first person who appeared, to offer his
congratulations, was Sydney Carton.
They had not been at home many hours, when
he presented himself.
He was not improved in habits, or in looks,
or in manner; but there was a certain
rugged air of fidelity about him, which was
new to the observation of Charles Darnay.
He watched his opportunity of taking Darnay
aside into a window, and of speaking to him
when no one overheard.
"Mr. Darnay," said Carton, "I wish we might
be friends."
"We are already friends, I hope."
"You are good enough to say so, as a
fashion of speech; but, I don't mean any
fashion of speech.
Indeed, when I say I wish we might be
friends, I scarcely mean quite that,
either."
Charles Darnay--as was natural--asked him,
in all good-humour and good-fellowship,
what he did mean?
"Upon my life," said Carton, smiling, "I
find that easier to comprehend in my own
mind, than to convey to yours.
However, let me try.
You remember a certain famous occasion when
I was more drunk than--than usual?"
"I remember a certain famous occasion when
you forced me to confess that you had been
drinking."
"I remember it too.
The curse of those occasions is heavy upon
me, for I always remember them.
I hope it may be taken into account one
day, when all days are at an end for me!
Don't be alarmed; I am not going to
preach."
"I am not at all alarmed.
Earnestness in you, is anything but
alarming to me."
"Ah!" said Carton, with a careless wave of
his hand, as if he waved that away.
"On the drunken occasion in question (one
of a large number, as you know), I was
insufferable about liking you, and not
liking you.
I wish you would forget it."
"I forgot it long ago."
"Fashion of speech again!
But, Mr. Darnay, oblivion is not so easy to
me, as you represent it to be to you.
I have by no means forgotten it, and a
light answer does not help me to forget
it."
"If it was a light answer," returned
Darnay, "I beg your forgiveness for it.
I had no other object than to turn a slight
thing, which, to my surprise, seems to
trouble you too much, aside.
I declare to you, on the faith of a
gentleman, that I have long dismissed it
from my mind.
Good Heaven, what was there to dismiss!
Have I had nothing more important to
remember, in the great service you rendered
me that day?"
"As to the great service," said Carton, "I
am bound to avow to you, when you speak of
it in that way, that it was mere
professional claptrap, I don't know that I
cared what became of you, when I rendered
it.--Mind!
I say when I rendered it; I am speaking of
the past."
"You make light of the obligation,"
returned Darnay, "but I will not quarrel
with _your_ light answer."
"Genuine truth, Mr. Darnay, trust me!
I have gone aside from my purpose; I was
speaking about our being friends.
Now, you know me; you know I am incapable
of all the higher and better flights of
men.
If you doubt it, ask Stryver, and he'll
tell you so."
"I prefer to form my own opinion, without
the aid of his."
"Well!
At any rate you know me as a dissolute dog,
who has never done any good, and never
will."
"I don't know that you 'never will.'"
"But I do, and you must take my word for
it.
Well!
If you could endure to have such a
worthless fellow, and a fellow of such
indifferent reputation, coming and going at
odd times, I should ask that I might be
permitted to come and go as a privileged
person here; that I might be regarded as an
useless (and I would add, if it were not
for the resemblance I detected between you
and me, an unornamental) piece of
furniture, tolerated for its old service,
and taken no notice of.
I doubt if I should abuse the permission.
It is a hundred to one if I should avail
myself of it four times in a year.
It would satisfy me, I dare say, to know
that I had it."
"Will you try?"
"That is another way of saying that I am
placed on the footing I have indicated.
I thank you, Darnay.
I may use that freedom with your name?"
"I think so, Carton, by this time."
They shook hands upon it, and Sydney turned
away.
Within a minute afterwards, he was, to all
outward appearance, as unsubstantial as
ever.
When he was gone, and in the course of an
evening passed with Miss Pross, the Doctor,
and Mr. Lorry, Charles Darnay made some
mention of this conversation in general
terms, and spoke of Sydney Carton as a
problem of carelessness and recklessness.
He spoke of him, in short, not bitterly or
meaning to bear hard upon him, but as
anybody might who saw him as he showed
himself.
He had no idea that this could dwell in the
thoughts of his fair young wife; but, when
he afterwards joined her in their own
rooms, he found her waiting for him with
the old pretty lifting of the forehead
strongly marked.
"We are thoughtful to-night!" said Darnay,
drawing his arm about her.
"Yes, dearest Charles," with her hands on
his breast, and the inquiring and attentive
expression fixed upon him; "we are rather
thoughtful to-night, for we have something
on our mind to-night."
"What is it, my Lucie?"
"Will you promise not to press one question
on me, if I beg you not to ask it?"
"Will I promise?
What will I not promise to my Love?"
What, indeed, with his hand putting aside
the golden hair from the cheek, and his
other hand against the heart that beat for
him!
"I think, Charles, poor Mr. Carton deserves
more consideration and respect than you
expressed for him to-night."
"Indeed, my own?
Why so?"
"That is what you are not to ask me.
But I think--I know--he does."
"If you know it, it is enough.
What would you have me do, my Life?"
"I would ask you, dearest, to be very
generous with him always, and very lenient
on his faults when he is not by.
I would ask you to believe that he has a
heart he very, very seldom reveals, and
that there are deep wounds in it.
My dear, I have seen it bleeding."
"It is a painful reflection to me," said
Charles Darnay, quite astounded, "that I
should have done him any wrong.
I never thought this of him."
"My husband, it is so.
I fear he is not to be reclaimed; there is
scarcely a hope that anything in his
character or fortunes is reparable now.
But, I am sure that he is capable of good
things, gentle things, even magnanimous
things."
She looked so beautiful in the purity of
her faith in this lost man, that her
husband could have looked at her as she was
for hours.
"And, O my dearest Love!" she urged,
clinging nearer to him, laying her head
upon his breast, and raising her eyes to
his, "remember how strong we are in our
happiness, and how weak he is in his
misery!"
The supplication touched him home.
"I will always remember it, dear Heart!
I will remember it as long as I live."
He bent over the golden head, and put the
rosy lips to his, and folded her in his
arms.
If one forlorn wanderer then pacing the
dark streets, could have heard her innocent
disclosure, and could have seen the drops
of pity kissed away by her husband from the
soft blue eyes so loving of that husband,
he might have cried to the night--and the
words would not have parted from his lips
for the first time--
"God bless her for her sweet compassion!"