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and therefore lets her go, in some confusion. Then, Mr Brass's

gentleman calls Richard Swiveller, and Richard Swiveller appears

accordingly.

Now, Mr Brass's gentleman has it whispered in his ear that this witness

is disposed to be friendly to the prisoner--which, to say the truth, he

is rather glad to hear, as his strength is considered to lie in what is

familiarly termed badgering. Wherefore, he begins by requesting the

officer to be quite sure that this witness kisses the book, then goes

to work at him, tooth and nail.

'Mr Swiveller,' says this gentleman to Dick, when he had told his tale

with evident reluctance and a desire to make the best of it: 'Pray sir,

where did you dine yesterday?'--'Where did I dine yesterday?'--'Aye,

sir, where did you dine yesterday--was it near here, sir?'--'Oh to be

sure--yes--just over the way.'--'To be sure. Yes. Just over the way,'

repeats Mr Brass's gentleman, with a glance at the court.--'Alone,

sir?'--'I beg your pardon,' says Mr Swiveller, who has not caught the

question--'Alone, sir?' repeats Mr Brass's gentleman in a voice of

thunder, 'did you dine alone? Did you treat anybody, sir? Come!'--'Oh

yes, to be sure--yes, I did,' says Mr Swiveller with a smile.--'Have

the goodness to banish a levity, sir, which is very ill-suited to the

place in which you stand (though perhaps you have reason to be thankful

that it's only that place),' says Mr Brass's gentleman, with a nod of

the head, insinuating that the dock is Mr Swiveller's legitimate sphere

of action; 'and attend to me. You were waiting about here, yesterday,

in expectation that this trial was coming on. You dined over the way.

You treated somebody. Now, was that somebody brother to the prisoner

at the bar?'--Mr Swiveller is proceeding to explain--'Yes or No, sir,'

cries Mr Brass's gentleman--'But will you allow me--'--'Yes or No,

sir'--'Yes it was, but--'--'Yes it was,' cries the gentleman, taking

him up short. 'And a very pretty witness YOU are!'

Down sits Mr Brass's gentleman. Kit's gentleman, not knowing how the

matter really stands, is afraid to pursue the subject. Richard

Swiveller retires abashed. Judge, jury and spectators have visions of

his lounging about, with an ill-looking, large-whiskered, dissolute

young fellow of six feet high. The reality is, little Jacob, with the

calves of his legs exposed to the open air, and himself tied up in a

shawl. Nobody knows the truth; everybody believes a falsehood; and all

because of the ingenuity of Mr Brass's gentleman.

Then come the witnesses to character, and here Mr Brass's gentleman

shines again. It turns out that Mr Garland has had no character with

Kit, no recommendation of him but from his own mother, and that he was

suddenly dismissed by his former master for unknown reasons. 'Really

Mr Garland,' says Mr Brass's gentleman, 'for a person who has arrived

at your time of life, you are, to say the least of it, singularly

indiscreet, I think.' The jury think so too, and find Kit guilty. He

is taken off, humbly protesting his innocence. The spectators settle

themselves in their places with renewed attention, for there are

several female witnesses to be examined in the next case, and it has

been rumoured that Mr Brass's gentleman will make great fun in

cross-examining them for the prisoner.

Kit's mother, poor woman, is waiting at the grate below stairs,

accompanied by Barbara's mother (who, honest soul! never does anything

but cry, and hold the baby), and a sad interview ensues. The

newspaper-reading turnkey has told them all. He don't think it will be

transportation for life, because there's time to prove the good

character yet, and that is sure to serve him. He wonders what he did

it for. 'He never did it!' cries Kit's mother. 'Well,' says the

turnkey, 'I won't contradict you. It's all one, now, whether he did it

or not.'

Kit's mother can reach his hand through the bars, and she clasps it--

God, and those to whom he has given such tenderness, only know in how

much agony. Kit bids her keep a good heart, and, under pretence of

having the children lifted up to kiss him, prays Barbara's mother in a

whisper to take her home.

'Some friend will rise up for us, mother,' cried Kit, 'I am sure. If

not now, before long. My innocence will come out, mother, and I shall

be brought back again; I feel confidence in that. You must teach

little Jacob and the baby how all this was, for if they thought I had

ever been dishonest, when they grew old enough to understand, it would

break my heart to know it, if I was thousands of miles away.--Oh! is

there no good gentleman here, who will take care of her!'

The hand slips out of his, for the poor creature sinks down upon the

earth, insensible. Richard Swiveller comes hastily up, elbows the

bystanders out of the way, takes her (after some trouble) in one arm

after the manner of theatrical ravishers, and, nodding to Kit, and

commanding Barbara's mother to follow, for he has a coach waiting,

bears her swiftly off.

Well; Richard took her home. And what astonishing absurdities in the

way of quotation from song and poem he perpetrated on the road, no man

knows. He took her home, and stayed till she was recovered; and,

having no money to pay the coach, went back in state to Bevis Marks,

bidding the driver (for it was Saturday night) wait at the door while

he went in for 'change.'

'Mr Richard, sir,' said Brass cheerfully, 'Good evening!'

Monstrous as Kit's tale had appeared, at first, Mr Richard did, that

night, half suspect his affable employer of some deep villany. Perhaps

it was but the misery he had just witnessed which gave his careless

nature this impulse; but, be that as it may, it was very strong upon

him, and he said in as few words as possible, what he wanted.

'Money?' cried Brass, taking out his purse. 'Ha ha! To be sure, Mr

Richard, to be sure, sir. All men must live. You haven't change for a

five-pound note, have you sir?'

'No,' returned Dick, shortly.

'Oh!' said Brass, 'here's the very sum. That saves trouble. You're

very welcome I'm sure.--Mr Richard, sir--'

Dick, who had by this time reached the door, turned round.

'You needn't,' said Brass, 'trouble yourself to come back any more,

Sir.'

'Eh?'

'You see, Mr Richard,' said Brass, thrusting his hands in his pockets,

and rocking himself to and fro on his stool, 'the fact is, that a man

of your abilities is lost, Sir, quite lost, in our dry and mouldy line.

It's terrible drudgery--shocking. I should say, now, that the stage,

or the--or the army, Mr Richard--or something very superior in the

licensed victualling way--was the kind of thing that would call out the

genius of such a man as you. I hope you'll look in to see us now and

then. Sally, Sir, will be delighted I'm sure. She's extremely sorry

to lose you, Mr Richard, but a sense of her duty to society reconciles

her. An amazing creature that, sir! You'll find the money quite

correct, I think. There's a cracked window sir, but I've not made any

deduction on that account. Whenever we part with friends, Mr Richard,

let us part liberally. A delightful sentiment, sir!'

To all these rambling observations, Mr Swiveller answered not one word,

but, returning for the aquatic jacket, rolled it into a tight round

ball: looking steadily at Brass meanwhile as if he had some intention

of bowling him down with it. He only took it under his arm, however,

and marched out of the office in profound silence. When he had closed

the door, he re-opened it, stared in again for a few moments with the

same portentous gravity, and nodding his head once, in a slow and

ghost-like manner, vanished.

He paid the coachman, and turned his back on Bevis Marks, big with

great designs for the comforting of Kit's mother and the aid of Kit

himself.

But the lives of gentlemen devoted to such pleasures as Richard

Swiveller, are extremely precarious. The spiritual excitement of the

last fortnight, working upon a system affected in no slight degree by

the spirituous excitement of some years, proved a little too much for

him. That very night, Mr Richard was seized with an alarming illness,

and in twenty-four hours was stricken with a raging fever.

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 anxiety--to 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 horrible--in 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

chamber--all 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;

the--the 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 him--shuffling the cards, cutting, dealing, playing,

counting, pegging--going 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 another--and another--I say!--I'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

still--No, 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