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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 anxietyóto 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 horribleóin 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 chamberóall 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; theóthe 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 himóshuffling
the cards, cutting, dealing, playing, counting, peggingógoing 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 anotheróand anotheróI say!óI'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 stillóNo, 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 couldó'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 ***. '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 ***.
'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 coolóa discovery
that filled her with delightócried 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 patientóstopping every now and then to shake
her by the handótook 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 ***.
'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 ***, 'you have run away?'
'Yes,' said the Marchioness, 'and they've been a tizing of me.'
'BeenóI beg your pardon,' said ***ó'what have they been doing?'
'Been a tizing of meótizing you knowóin the newspapers,' rejoined the Marchioness.
'Aye, aye,' said ***, '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 *** 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 keyholeóas you
see me through, you knowóI 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 ***.
'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 itóI'm so glad you're better,
Mr Liverer.'
'Liverer indeed!' said *** 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 ***ó'his motheróhow is she,ówhat 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 youóbut I won't now.'
'Yes, do,' said ***. '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.'
*** 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 withóis it anything you heard through chinks or keyholesóand
that you were not intended to hear?' asked ***, in a breathless state.
'Yes,' replied the small servant.
'Inóin Bevis Marks?' pursued *** 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 ***. '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 kitchenówhere 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 morningóvery early I can
tell youóand 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 officeówhen the
young man was took, I meanóI 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 saysóyou know
her wayóshe 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 isóQuilp'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.óThere!'
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 lodgeróthough 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 gladóyou 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 *** 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 ***, as she closed the door slowly, and peeped into the room again,
to make sure that he was comfortable, 'I suppose there's nothing leftónot so much as a waistcoat
even?'
'No, nothing.'
'It's embarrassing,' said Mr Swiveller, 'in case of fireóeven an umbrella would be somethingóbut
you did quite right, dear Marchioness. I should have died without you!'