第 90 页

evidence of her having been seen at all), two wretched people were more

than once observed to crawl at dusk from the inmost recesses of St

Giles's, and to take their way along the streets, with shuffling steps

and cowering shivering forms, looking into the roads and kennels as

they went in search of refuse food or disregarded offal. These forms

were never beheld but in those nights of cold and gloom, when the

terrible spectres, who lie at all other times in the obscene

hiding-places of London, in archways, dark vaults and cellars, venture

to creep into the streets; the embodied spirits of Disease, and Vice,

and Famine. It was whispered by those who should have known, that

these were Sampson and his sister Sally; and to this day, it is said,

they sometimes pass, on bad nights, in the same loathsome guise, close

at the elbow of the shrinking passenger.

The body of Quilp being found--though not until some days had

elapsed--an inquest was held on it near the spot where it had been

washed ashore. The general supposition was that he had committed

suicide, and, this appearing to be favoured by all the circumstances of

his death, the verdict was to that effect. He was left to be buried

with a stake through his heart in the centre of four lonely roads.

It was rumoured afterwards that this horrible and barbarous ceremony

had been dispensed with, and that the remains had been secretly given

up to Tom Scott. But even here, opinion was divided; for some said Tom

dug them up at midnight, and carried them to a place indicated to him

by the widow. It is probable that both these stories may have had

their origin in the simple fact of Tom's shedding tears upon the

inquest--which he certainly did, extraordinary as it may appear. He

manifested, besides, a strong desire to assault the jury; and being

restrained and conducted out of court, darkened its only window by

standing on his head upon the sill, until he was dexterously tilted

upon his feet again by a cautious beadle.

Being cast upon the world by his master's death, he determined to go

through it upon his head and hands, and accordingly began to tumble for

his bread. Finding, however, his English birth an insurmountable

obstacle to his advancement in this pursuit (notwithstanding that his

art was in high repute and favour), he assumed the name of an Italian

image lad, with whom he had become acquainted; and afterwards tumbled

with extraordinary success, and to overflowing audiences.

Little Mrs Quilp never quite forgave herself the one deceit that lay so

heavy on her conscience, and never spoke or thought of it but with

bitter tears. Her husband had no relations, and she was rich. He had

made no will, or she would probably have been poor. Having married the

first time at her mother's instigation, she consulted in her second

choice nobody but herself. It fell upon a smart young fellow enough;

and as he made it a preliminary condition that Mrs Jiniwin should be

thenceforth an out-pensioner, they lived together after marriage with no

more than the average amount of quarrelling, and led a merry life upon

the dead dwarf's money.

Mr and Mrs Garland, and Mr Abel, went out as usual (except that there

was a change in their household, as will be seen presently), and in due

time the latter went into partnership with his friend the notary, on

which occasion there was a dinner, and a ball, and great extent of

dissipation. Unto this ball there happened to be invited the most

bashful young lady that was ever seen, with whom Mr Abel happened to

fall in love. HOW it happened, or how they found it out, or which of

them first communicated the discovery to the other, nobody knows. But

certain it is that in course of time they were married; and equally

certain it is that they were the happiest of the happy; and no less

certain it is that they deserved to be so. And it is pleasant to write

down that they reared a family; because any propagation of goodness and

benevolence is no small addition to the aristocracy of nature, and no

small subject of rejoicing for mankind at large.

The pony preserved his character for independence and principle down to

the last moment of his life; which was an unusually long one, and

caused him to be looked upon, indeed, as the very Old Parr of ponies.

He often went to and fro with the little phaeton between Mr Garland's

and his son's, and, as the old people and the young were frequently

together, had a stable of his own at the new establishment, into which

he would walk of himself with surprising dignity. He condescended to

play with the children, as they grew old enough to cultivate his

friendship, and would run up and down the little paddock with them like

a dog; but though he relaxed so far, and allowed them such small

freedoms as caresses, or even to look at his shoes or hang on by his

tail, he never permitted any one among them to mount his back or drive

him; thus showing that even their familiarity must have its limits, and

that there were points between them far too serious for trifling.

He was not unsusceptible of warm attachments in his later life, for

when the good bachelor came to live with Mr Garland upon the

clergyman's decease, he conceived a great friendship for him, and

amiably submitted to be driven by his hands without the least

resistance. He did no work for two or three years before he died, but

lived in clover; and his last act (like a choleric old gentleman) was

to kick his doctor.

Mr Swiveller, recovering very slowly from his illness, and entering

into the receipt of his annuity, bought for the Marchioness a handsome

stock of clothes, and put her to school forthwith, in redemption of the

vow he had made upon his fevered bed. After casting about for some

time for a name which should be worthy of her, he decided in favour of

Sophronia Sphynx, as being euphonious and genteel, and furthermore

indicative of mystery. Under this title the Marchioness repaired, in

tears, to the school of his selection, from which, as she soon

distanced all competitors, she was removed before the lapse of many

quarters to one of a higher grade. It is but bare justice to Mr

Swiveller to say, that, although the expenses of her education kept him

in straitened circumstances for half a dozen years, he never slackened

in his zeal, and always held himself sufficiently repaid by the

accounts he heard (with great gravity) of her advancement, on his

monthly visits to the governess, who looked upon him as a literary

gentleman of eccentric habits, and of a most prodigious talent in

quotation.

In a word, Mr Swiveller kept the Marchioness at this establishment

until she was, at a moderate guess, full nineteen years of age--

good-looking, clever, and good-humoured; when he began to consider

seriously what was to be done next. On one of his periodical visits,

while he was revolving this question in his mind, the Marchioness came

down to him, alone, looking more smiling and more fresh than ever.

Then, it occurred to him, but not for the first time, that if she would

marry him, how comfortable they might be! So Richard asked her;

whatever she said, it wasn't No; and they were married in good earnest

that day week. Which gave Mr Swiveller frequent occasion to remark at

divers subsequent periods that there had been a young lady saving up

for him after all.

A little cottage at Hampstead being to let, which had in its garden a

smoking-box, the envy of the civilised world, they agreed to become its

tenants, and, when the honey-moon was over, entered upon its

occupation. To this retreat Mr Chuckster repaired regularly every

Sunday to spend the day--usually beginning with breakfast--and here he

was the great purveyor of general news and fashionable intelligence.

For some years he continued a deadly foe to Kit, protesting that he had

a better opinion of him when he was supposed to have stolen the

five-pound note, than when he was shown to be perfectly free of the

crime; inasmuch as his guilt would have had in it something daring and

bold, whereas his innocence was but another proof of a sneaking and

crafty disposition. By slow degrees, however, he was reconciled to him

in the end; and even went so far as to honour him with his patronage,

as one who had in some measure reformed, and was therefore to be

forgiven. But he never forgot or pardoned that circumstance of the

shilling; holding that if he had come back to get another he would have

done well enough, but that his returning to work out the former gift

was a stain upon his moral character which no penitence or contrition

could ever wash away.

Mr Swiveller, having always been in some measure of a philosophic and

reflective turn, grew immensely contemplative, at times, in the

smoking-box, and was accustomed at such periods to debate in his own

mind the mysterious question of Sophronia's parentage. Sophronia

herself supposed she was an orphan; but Mr Swiveller, putting various

slight circumstances together, often thought Miss Brass must know

better than that; and, having heard from his wife of her strange

interview with Quilp, entertained sundry misgivings whether that

person, in his lifetime, might not also have been able to solve the

riddle, had he chosen. These speculations, however, gave him no

uneasiness; for Sophronia was ever a most cheerful, affectionate, and

provident wife to him; and Dick (excepting for an occasional outbreak

with Mr Chuckster, which she had the good sense rather to encourage

than oppose) was to her an attached and domesticated husband. And they

played many hundred thousand games of cribbage together. And let it be

added, to Dick's honour, that, though we have called her Sophronia, he

called her the Marchioness from first to last; and that upon every

anniversary of the day on which he found her in his sick room, Mr

Chuckster came to dinner, and there was great glorification.

The gamblers, Isaac List and Jowl, with their trusty confederate Mr

James Groves of unimpeachable memory, pursued their course with varying

success, until the failure of a spirited enterprise in the way of their

profession, dispersed them in various directions, and caused their

career to receive a sudden check from the long and strong arm of the

law. This defeat had its origin in the untoward detection of a new

associate--young Frederick Trent--who thus became the unconscious

instrument of their punishment and his own.

For the young man himself, he rioted abroad for a brief term, living by

his wits--which means by the abuse of every faculty that worthily

employed raises man above the beasts, and so degraded, sinks him far

below them. It was not long before his body was recognised by a

stranger, who chanced to visit that hospital in Paris where the drowned

are laid out to be owned; despite the bruises and disfigurements which

were said to have been occasioned by some previous scuffle. But the

stranger kept his own counsel until he returned home, and it was never

claimed or cared for.

The younger brother, or the single gentleman, for that designation is

more familiar, would have drawn the poor schoolmaster from his lone

retreat, and made him his companion and friend. But the humble village

teacher was timid of venturing into the noisy world, and had become

fond of his dwelling in the old churchyard. Calmly happy in his

school, and in the spot, and in the attachment of Her little mourner,

he pursued his quiet course in peace; and was, through the righteous

gratitude of his friend--let this brief mention suffice for that--a

POOR school-master no more.

That friend--single gentleman, or younger brother, which you will--had

at his heart a heavy sorrow; but it bred in him no misanthropy or

monastic gloom. He went forth into the world, a lover of his kind.

For a long, long time, it was his chief delight to travel in the steps

of the old man and the child (so far as he could trace them from her

last narrative), to halt where they had halted, sympathise where they

had suffered, and rejoice where they had been made glad. Those who had

been kind to them, did not escape his search. The sisters at the

school--they who were her friends, because themselves so

friendless--Mrs Jarley of the wax-work, Codlin, Short--he found them

all; and trust me, the man who fed the furnace fire was not forgotten.

Kit's story having got abroad, raised him up a host of friends, and

many offers of provision for his future life. He had no idea at first

of ever quitting Mr Garland's service; but, after serious remonstrance

and advice from that gentleman, began to contemplate the possibility of

such a change being brought about in time. A good post was procured

for him, with a rapidity which took away his breath, by some of the

gentlemen who had believed him guilty of the offence laid to his

charge, and who had acted upon that belief. Through the same kind

agency, his mother was secured from want, and made quite happy. Thus,

as Kit often said, his great misfortune turned out to be the source of

all his subsequent prosperity.

Did Kit live a single man all his days, or did he marry? Of course he

married, and who should be his wife but Barbara? And the best of it

was, he married so soon that little Jacob was an uncle, before the

calves of his legs, already mentioned in this history, had ever been

encased in broadcloth pantaloons,--though that was not quite the best

either, for of necessity the baby was an uncle too. The delight of

Kit's mother and of Barbara's mother upon the great occasion is past

all telling; finding they agreed so well on that, and on all other

subjects, they took up their abode together, and were a most harmonious

pair of friends from that time forth. And hadn't Astley's cause to

bless itself for their all going together once a quarter--to the

pit--and didn't Kit's mother always say, when they painted the outside,

that Kit's last treat had helped to that, and wonder what the manager

would feel if he but knew it as they passed his house!

When Kit had children six and seven years old, there was a Barbara