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Chapter 3

THE world had grown six years older since that night of the return.
It was a warm autumn afternoon, and there had been heavy rain. The
sun burst suddenly from among the clouds; and the old battle-
ground, sparkling brilliantly and cheerfully at sight of it in one
green place, flashed a responsive welcome there, which spread along
the country side as if a joyful beacon had been lighted up, and
answered from a thousand stations.

How beautiful the landscape kindling in the light, and that
luxuriant influence passing on like a celestial presence,
brightening everything! The wood, a sombre mass before, revealed
its varied tints of yellow, green, brown, red: its different forms
of trees, with raindrops glittering on their leaves and twinkling
as they fell. The verdant meadow-land, bright and glowing, seemed
as if it had been blind, a minute since, and now had found a sense
of sight where-with to look up at the shining sky. Corn-fields,
hedge-rows, fences, homesteads, and clustered roofs, the steeple of
the church, the stream, the water-mill, all sprang out of the
gloomy darkness smiling. Birds sang sweetly, flowers raised their
drooping heads, fresh scents arose from the invigorated ground; the
blue expanse above extended and diffused itself; already the sun's
slanting rays pierced mortally the sullen bank of cloud that
lingered in its flight; and a rainbow, spirit of all the colours
that adorned the earth and sky, spanned the whole arch with its
triumphant glory.

At such a time, one little roadside Inn, snugly sheltered behind a
great elm-tree with a rare seat for idlers encircling its capacious
bole, addressed a cheerful front towards the traveller, as a house
of entertainment ought, and tempted him with many mute but
significant assurances of a comfortable welcome. The ruddy sign-
board perched up in the tree, with its golden letters winking in
the sun, ogled the passer-by, from among the green leaves, like a
jolly face, and promised good cheer. The horse-trough, full of
clear fresh water, and the ground below it sprinkled with droppings
of fragrant hay, made every horse that passed, prick up his ears.
The crimson curtains in the lower rooms, and the pure white
hangings in the little bed-chambers above, beckoned, Come in! with
every breath of air. Upon the bright green shutters, there were
golden legends about beer and ale, and neat wines, and good beds;
and an affecting picture of a brown jug frothing over at the top.
Upon the window-sills were flowering plants in bright red pots,
which made a lively show against the white front of the house; and
in the darkness of the doorway there were streaks of light, which
glanced off from the surfaces of bottles and tankards.

On the door-step, appeared a proper figure of a landlord, too; for,
though he was a short man, he was round and broad, and stood with
his hands in his pockets, and his legs just wide enough apart to
express a mind at rest upon the subject of the cellar, and an easy
confidence - too calm and virtuous to become a swagger - in the
general resources of the Inn. The superabundant moisture,
trickling from everything after the late rain, set him off well.
Nothing near him was thirsty. Certain top-heavy dahlias, looking
over the palings of his neat well-ordered garden, had swilled as
much as they could carry - perhaps a trifle more - and may have
been the worse for liquor; but the sweet-briar, roses, wall-
flowers, the plants at the windows, and the leaves on the old tree,
were in the beaming state of moderate company that had taken no
more than was wholesome for them, and had served to develop their
best qualities. Sprinkling dewy drops about them on the ground,
they seemed profuse of innocent and sparkling mirth, that did good
where it lighted, softening neglected corners which the steady rain
could seldom reach, and hurting nothing.

This village Inn had assumed, on being established, an uncommon
sign. It was called The Nutmeg-Grater. And underneath that
household word, was inscribed, up in the tree, on the same flaming
board, and in the like golden characters, By Benjamin Britain.

At a second glance, and on a more minute examination of his face,
you might have known that it was no other than Benjamin Britain
himself who stood in the doorway - reasonably changed by time, but
for the better; a very comfortable host indeed.

'Mrs. B.,' said Mr. Britain, looking down the road, 'is rather
late. It's tea-time.'

As there was no Mrs. Britain coming, he strolled leisurely out into
the road and looked up at the house, very much to his satisfaction.
'It's just the sort of house,' said Benjamin, 'I should wish to
stop at, if I didn't keep it.'

Then, he strolled towards the garden-paling, and took a look at the
dahlias. They looked over at him, with a helpless drowsy hanging
of their heads: which bobbed again, as the heavy drops of wet
dripped off them.

'You must be looked after,' said Benjamin. 'Memorandum, not to
forget to tell her so. She's a long time coming!'

Mr. Britain's better half seemed to be by so very much his better
half, that his own moiety of himself was utterly cast away and
helpless without her.

'She hadn't much to do, I think,' said Ben. 'There were a few
little matters of business after market, but not many. Oh! here we
are at last!'

A chaise-cart, driven by a boy, came clattering along the road:
and seated in it, in a chair, with a large well-saturated umbrella
spread out to dry behind her, was the plump figure of a matronly
woman, with her bare arms folded across a basket which she carried
on her knee, several other baskets and parcels lying crowded around
her, and a certain bright good nature in her face and contented
awkwardness in her manner, as she jogged to and fro with the motion
of her carriage, which smacked of old times, even in the distance.
Upon her nearer approach, this relish of by-gone days was not
diminished; and when the cart stopped at the Nutmeg-Grater door, a
pair of shoes, alighting from it, slipped nimbly through Mr.
Britain's open arms, and came down with a substantial weight upon
the pathway, which shoes could hardly have belonged to any one but
Clemency Newcome.

In fact they did belong to her, and she stood in them, and a rosy
comfortable-looking soul she was: with as much soap on her glossy
face as in times of yore, but with whole elbows now, that had grown
quite dimpled in her improved condition.

'You're late, Clemmy!' said Mr. Britain.

'Why, you see, Ben, I've had a deal to do!' she replied, looking
busily after the safe removal into the house of all the packages
and baskets: 'eight, nine, ten - where's eleven? Oh! my basket's
eleven! It's all right. Put the horse up, Harry, and if he coughs
again give him a warm mash to-night. Eight, nine, ten. Why,
where's eleven? Oh! forgot, it's all right. How's the children,
Ben?'

'Hearty, Clemmy, hearty.'

'Bless their precious faces!' said Mrs. Britain, unbonneting her
own round countenance (for she and her husband were by this time in
the bar), and smoothing her hair with her open hands. 'Give us a
kiss, old man!'

Mr. Britain promptly complied.

'I think,' said Mrs. Britain, applying herself to her pockets and
drawing forth an immense bulk of thin books and crumpled papers: a
very kennel of dogs'-ears: 'I've done everything. Bills all
settled - turnips sold - brewer's account looked into and paid -
'bacco pipes ordered - seventeen pound four, paid into the Bank -
Doctor Heathfield's charge for little Clem - you'll guess what that
is - Doctor Heathfield won't take nothing again, Ben.'

'I thought he wouldn't,' returned Ben.

'No. He says whatever family you was to have, Ben, he'd never put
you to the cost of a halfpenny. Not if you was to have twenty.'

Mr. Britain's face assumed a serious expression, and he looked hard
at the wall.

'An't it kind of him?' said Clemency.

'Very,' returned Mr. Britain. 'It's the sort of kindness that I
wouldn't presume upon, on any account.'

'No,' retorted Clemency. 'Of course not. Then there's the pony -
he fetched eight pound two; and that an't bad, is it?'

'It's very good,' said Ben.

'I'm glad you're pleased!' exclaimed his wife. 'I thought you
would be; and I think that's all, and so no more at present from
yours and cetrer, C. Britain. Ha ha ha! There! Take all the
papers, and lock 'em up. Oh! Wait a minute. Here's a printed
bill to stick on the wall. Wet from the printer's. How nice it
smells!'

'What's this?' said Ben, looking over the document.

'I don't know,' replied his wife. 'I haven't read a word of it.'

'"To be sold by Auction,"' read the host of the Nutmeg-Grater,
'"unless previously disposed of by private contract."'

'They always put that,' said Clemency.

'Yes, but they don't always put this,' he returned. 'Look here,
"Mansion," &c. - "offices," &c., "shrubberies," &c., "ring fence,"
&c. "Messrs. Snitchey and Craggs," &c., "ornamental portion of the
unencumbered freehold property of Michael Warden, Esquire,
intending to continue to reside abroad"!'

'Intending to continue to reside abroad!' repeated Clemency.

'Here it is,' said Britain. 'Look!'

'And it was only this very day that I heard it whispered at the old
house, that better and plainer news had been half promised of her,
soon!' said Clemency, shaking her head sorrowfully, and patting her
elbows as if the recollection of old times unconsciously awakened
her old habits. 'Dear, dear, dear! There'll be heavy hearts, Ben,
yonder.'

Mr. Britain heaved a sigh, and shook his head, and said he couldn't
make it out: he had left off trying long ago. With that remark,
he applied himself to putting up the bill just inside the bar
window. Clemency, after meditating in silence for a few moments,
roused herself, cleared her thoughtful brow, and bustled off to
look after the children.

Though the host of the Nutmeg-Grater had a lively regard for his
good-wife, it was of the old patronising kind, and she amused him
mightily. Nothing would have astonished him so much, as to have
known for certain from any third party, that it was she who managed
the whole house, and made him, by her plain straightforward thrift,
good-humour, honesty, and industry, a thriving man. So easy it is,
in any degree of life (as the world very often finds it), to take
those cheerful natures that never assert their merit, at their own
modest valuation; and to conceive a flippant liking of people for
their outward oddities and eccentricities, whose innate worth, if
we would look so far, might make us blush in the comparison!

It was comfortable to Mr. Britain, to think of his own
condescension in having married Clemency. She was a perpetual
testimony to him of the goodness of his heart, and the kindness of
his disposition; and he felt that her being an excellent wife was
an illustration of the old precept that virtue is its own reward.

He had finished wafering up the bill, and had locked the vouchers
for her day's proceedings in the cupboard - chuckling all the time,
over her capacity for business - when, returning with the news that
the two Master Britains were playing in the coach-house under the
superintendence of one Betsey, and that little Clem was sleeping
'like a picture,' she sat down to tea, which had awaited her
arrival, on a little table. It was a very neat little bar, with
the usual display of bottles and glasses; a sedate clock, right to
the minute (it was half-past five); everything in its place, and
everything furbished and polished up to the very utmost.

'It's the first time I've sat down quietly to-day, I declare,' said
Mrs. Britain, taking a long breath, as if she had sat down for the
night; but getting up again immediately to hand her husband his
tea, and cut him his bread-and-butter; 'how that bill does set me
thinking of old times!'

'Ah!' said Mr. Britain, handling his saucer like an oyster, and
disposing of its contents on the same principle.

'That same Mr. Michael Warden,' said Clemency, shaking her head at
the notice of sale, 'lost me my old place.'

'And got you your husband,' said Mr. Britain.

'Well! So he did,' retorted Clemency, 'and many thanks to him.'

'Man's the creature of habit,' said Mr. Britain, surveying her,
over his saucer. 'I had somehow got used to you, Clem; and I found
I shouldn't be able to get on without you. So we went and got made
man and wife. Ha! ha! We! Who'd have thought it!'

'Who indeed!' cried Clemency. 'It was very good of you, Ben.'

'No, no, no,' replied Mr. Britain, with an air of self-denial.
'Nothing worth mentioning.'

'Oh yes it was, Ben,' said his wife, with great simplicity; 'I'm
sure I think so, and am very much obliged to you. Ah!' looking
again at the bill; 'when she was known to be gone, and out of
reach, dear girl, I couldn't help telling - for her sake quite as
much as theirs - what I knew, could I?'

'You told it, anyhow,' observed her husband.

'And Dr. Jeddler,' pursued Clemency, putting down her tea-cup, and
looking thoughtfully at the bill, 'in his grief and passion turned
me out of house and home! I never have been so glad of anything in
all my life, as that I didn't say an angry word to him, and hadn't
any angry feeling towards him, even then; for he repented that
truly, afterwards. How often he has sat in this room, and told me
over and over again he was sorry for it! - the last time, only
yesterday, when you were out. How often he has sat in this room,
and talked to me, hour after hour, about one thing and another, in
which he made believe to be interested! - but only for the sake of
the days that are gone by, and because he knows she used to like
me, Ben!'

'Why, how did you ever come to catch a glimpse of that, Clem?'
asked her husband: astonished that she should have a distinct
perception of a truth which had only dimly suggested itself to his
inquiring mind.

'I don't know, I'm sure,' said Clemency, blowing her tea, to cool
it. 'Bless you, I couldn't tell you, if you was to offer me a
reward of a hundred pound.'

He might have pursued this metaphysical subject but for her
catching a glimpse of a substantial fact behind him, in the shape
of a gentleman attired in mourning, and cloaked and booted like a
rider on horseback, who stood at the bar-door. He seemed attentive
to their conversation, and not at all impatient to interrupt it.

Clemency hastily rose at this sight. Mr. Britain also rose and
saluted the guest. 'Will you please to walk up-stairs, sir?
There's a very nice room up-stairs, sir.'

'Thank you,' said the stranger, looking earnestly at Mr. Britain's
wife. 'May I come in here?'

'Oh, surely, if you like, sir,' returned Clemency, admitting him.

'What would you please to want, sir?'

The bill had caught his eye, and he was reading it.

'Excellent property that, sir,' observed Mr. Britain.

He made no answer; but, turning round, when he had finished
reading, looked at Clemency with the same observant curiosity as
before. 'You were asking me,' - he said, still looking at her, -
'What you would please to take, sir,' answered Clemency, stealing a
glance at him in return.

'If you will let me have a draught of ale,' he said, moving to a
table by the window, 'and will let me have it here, without being
any interruption to your meal, I shall be much obliged to you.' He
sat down as he spoke, without any further parley, and looked out at
the prospect. He was an easy, well-knit figure of a man in the
prime of life. His face, much browned by the sun, was shaded by a
quantity of dark hair; and he wore a moustache. His beer being set
before him, he filled out a glass, and drank, good-humouredly, to
the house; adding, as he put the tumbler down again:

'It's a new house, is it not?'

'Not particularly new, sir,' replied Mr. Britain.

'Between five and six years old,' said Clemency; speaking very
distinctly.

'I think I heard you mention Dr. Jeddler's name, as I came in,'
inquired the stranger. 'That bill reminds me of him; for I happen
to know something of that story, by hearsay, and through certain
connexions of mine. - Is the old man living?'

'Yes, he's living, sir,' said Clemency.

'Much changed?'

'Since when, sir?' returned Clemency, with remarkable emphasis and
expression.

'Since his daughter - went away.'

'Yes! he's greatly changed since then,' said Clemency. 'He's grey
and old, and hasn't the same way with him at all; but, I think he's
happy now. He has taken on with his sister since then, and goes to
see her very often. That did him good, directly. At first, he was
sadly broken down; and it was enough to make one's heart bleed, to
see him wandering about, railing at the world; but a great change
for the better came over him after a year or two, and then he began
to like to talk about his lost daughter, and to praise her, ay and
the world too! and was never tired of saying, with the tears in his
poor eyes, how beautiful and good she was. He had forgiven her
then. That was about the same time as Miss Grace's marriage.
Britain, you remember?'

Mr. Britain remembered very well.

'The sister is married then,' returned the stranger. He paused for
some time before he asked, 'To whom?'

Clemency narrowly escaped oversetting the tea-board, in her emotion
at this question.

'Did YOU never hear?' she said.

'I should like to hear,' he replied, as he filled his glass again,
and raised it to his lips.

'Ah! It would be a long story, if it was properly told,' said
Clemency, resting her chin on the palm of her left hand, and
supporting that elbow on her right hand, as she shook her head, and
looked back through the intervening years, as if she were looking
at a fire. 'It would be a long story, I am sure.'

'But told as a short one,' suggested the stranger.

Told as a short one,' repeated Clemency in the same thoughtful
tone, and without any apparent reference to him, or consciousness
of having auditors, 'what would there be to tell? That they
grieved together, and remembered her together, like a person dead;
that they were so tender of her, never would reproach her, called
her back to one another as she used to be, and found excuses for
her! Every one knows that. I'm sure I do. No one better,' added
Clemency, wiping her eyes with her hand.

'And so,' suggested the stranger.

'And so,' said Clemency, taking him up mechanically, and without
any change in her attitude or manner, 'they at last were married.
They were married on her birth-day - it comes round again to-morrow
- very quiet, very humble like, but very happy. Mr. Alfred said,
one night when they were walking in the orchard, "Grace, shall our
wedding-day be Marion's birth-day?" And it was.'

'And they have lived happily together?' said the stranger.

'Ay,' said Clemency. 'No two people ever more so. They have had
no sorrow but this.'

She raised her head as with a sudden attention to the circumstances
under which she was recalling these events, and looked quickly at
the stranger. Seeing that his face was turned toward the window,
and that he seemed intent upon the prospect, she made some eager
signs to her husband, and pointed to the bill, and moved her mouth
as if she were repeating with great energy, one word or phrase to
him over and over again. As she uttered no sound, and as her dumb
motions like most of her gestures were of a very extraordinary
kind, this unintelligible conduct reduced Mr. Britain to the
confines of despair. He stared at the table, at the stranger, at
the spoons, at his wife - followed her pantomime with looks of deep
amazement and perplexity - asked in the same language, was it
property in danger, was it he in danger, was it she - answered her
signals with other signals expressive of the deepest distress and
confusion - followed the motions of her lips - guessed half aloud
'milk and water,' 'monthly warning,' 'mice and walnuts' - and
couldn't approach her meaning.

Clemency gave it up at last, as a hopeless attempt; and moving her
chair by very slow degrees a little nearer to the stranger, sat
with her eyes apparently cast down but glancing sharply at him now
and then, waiting until he should ask some other question. She had
not to wait long; for he said, presently:

'And what is the after history of the young lady who went away?
They know it, I suppose?'

Clemency shook her head. 'I've heard,' she said, 'that Doctor
Jeddler is thought to know more of it than he tells. Miss Grace
has had letters from her sister, saying that she was well and
happy, and made much happier by her being married to Mr. Alfred:
and has written letters back. But there's a mystery about her life
and fortunes, altogether, which nothing has cleared up to this
hour, and which - '

She faltered here, and stopped.

'And which' - repeated the stranger.

'Which only one other person, I believe, could explain,' said
Clemency, drawing her breath quickly.

'Who may that be?' asked the stranger.

'Mr. Michael Warden!' answered Clemency, almost in a shriek: at
once conveying to her husband what she would have had him
understand before, and letting Michael Warden know that he was
recognised.

'You remember me, sir?' said Clemency, trembling with emotion; 'I
saw just now you did! You remember me, that night in the garden.
I was with her!'

'Yes. You were,' he said.

'Yes, sir,' returned Clemency. 'Yes, to be sure. This is my
husband, if you please. Ben, my dear Ben, run to Miss Grace - run
to Mr. Alfred - run somewhere, Ben! Bring somebody here,
directly!'

'Stay!' said Michael Warden, quietly interposing himself between
the door and Britain. 'What would you do?'

'Let them know that you are here, sir,' answered Clemency, clapping
her hands in sheer agitation. 'Let them know that they may hear of
her, from your own lips; let them know that she is not quite lost
to them, but that she will come home again yet, to bless her father
and her loving sister - even her old servant, even me,' she struck
herself upon the breast with both hands, 'with a sight of her sweet
face. Run, Ben, run!' And still she pressed him on towards the
door, and still Mr. Warden stood before it, with his hand stretched
out, not angrily, but sorrowfully.

'Or perhaps,' said Clemency, running past her husband, and catching
in her emotion at Mr. Warden's cloak, 'perhaps she's here now;
perhaps she's close by. I think from your manner she is. Let me
see her, sir, if you please. I waited on her when she was a little
child. I saw her grow to be the pride of all this place. I knew
her when she was Mr. Alfred's promised wife. I tried to warn her
when you tempted her away. I know what her old home was when she
was like the soul of it, and how it changed when she was gone and
lost. Let me speak to her, if you please!'

He gazed at her with compassion, not unmixed with wonder: but, he
made no gesture of assent.

'I don't think she CAN know,' pursued Clemency, 'how truly they
forgive her; how they love her; what joy it would be to them, to
see her once more. She may be timorous of going home. Perhaps if
she sees me, it may give her new heart. Only tell me truly, Mr.
Warden, is she with you?'

'She is not,' he answered, shaking his head.

This answer, and his manner, and his black dress, and his coming
back so quietly, and his announced intention of continuing to live
abroad, explained it all. Marion was dead.

He didn't contradict her; yes, she was dead! Clemency sat down,
hid her face upon the table, and cried.

At that moment, a grey-headed old gentleman came running in: quite
out of breath, and panting so much that his voice was scarcely to
be recognised as the voice of Mr. Snitchey.

'Good Heaven, Mr. Warden!' said the lawyer, taking him aside, 'what
wind has blown - ' He was so blown himself, that he couldn't get
on any further until after a pause, when he added, feebly, 'you
here?'

'An ill-wind, I am afraid,' he answered. 'If you could have heard
what has just passed - how I have been besought and entreated to
perform impossibilities - what confusion and affliction I carry
with me!'

'I can guess it all. But why did you ever come here, my good sir?'
retorted Snitchey.

'Come! How should I know who kept the house? When I sent my
servant on to you, I strolled in here because the place was new to
me; and I had a natural curiosity in everything new and old, in
these old scenes; and it was outside the town. I wanted to
communicate with you, first, before appearing there. I wanted to
know what people would say to me. I see by your manner that you
can tell me. If it were not for your confounded caution, I should
have been possessed of everything long ago.'

'Our caution!' returned the lawyer, 'speaking for Self and Craggs -
deceased,' here Mr. Snitchey, glancing at his hat-band, shook his
head, 'how can you reasonably blame us, Mr. Warden? It was
understood between us that the subject was never to be renewed, and
that it wasn't a subject on which grave and sober men like us (I
made a note of your observations at the time) could interfere. Our
caution too! When Mr. Craggs, sir, went down to his respected
grave in the full belief - '

'I had given a solemn promise of silence until I should return,
whenever that might be,' interrupted Mr. Warden; 'and I have kept
it.'

'Well, sir, and I repeat it,' returned Mr. Snitchey, 'we were bound
to silence too. We were bound to silence in our duty towards
ourselves, and in our duty towards a variety of clients, you among
them, who were as close as wax. It was not our place to make
inquiries of you on such a delicate subject. I had my suspicions,
sir; but, it is not six months since I have known the truth, and
been assured that you lost her.'

'By whom?' inquired his client.

'By Doctor Jeddler himself, sir, who at last reposed that
confidence in me voluntarily. He, and only he, has known the whole
truth, years and years.'

'And you know it?' said his client.

'I do, sir!' replied Snitchey; 'and I have also reason to know that
it will be broken to her sister to-morrow evening. They have given
her that promise. In the meantime, perhaps you'll give me the
honour of your company at my house; being unexpected at your own.
But, not to run the chance of any more such difficulties as you
have had here, in case you should be recognised - though you're a
good deal changed; I think I might have passed you myself, Mr.
Warden - we had better dine here, and walk on in the evening. It's
a very good place to dine at, Mr. Warden: your own property, by-
the-bye. Self and Craggs (deceased) took a chop here sometimes,
and had it very comfortably served. Mr. Craggs, sir,' said
Snitchey, shutting his eyes tight for an instant, and opening them
again, 'was struck off the roll of life too soon.'

'Heaven forgive me for not condoling with you,' returned Michael
Warden, passing his hand across his forehead, 'but I'm like a man
in a dream at present. I seem to want my wits. Mr. Craggs - yes -
I am very sorry we have lost Mr. Craggs.' But he looked at
Clemency as he said it, and seemed to sympathise with Ben,
consoling her.

'Mr. Craggs, sir,' observed Snitchey, 'didn't find life, I regret
to say, as easy to have and to hold as his theory made it out, or
he would have been among us now. It's a great loss to me. He was
my right arm, my right leg, my right ear, my right eye, was Mr.
Craggs. I am paralytic without him. He bequeathed his share of
the business to Mrs. Craggs, her executors, administrators, and
assigns. His name remains in the Firm to this hour. I try, in a
childish sort of a way, to make believe, sometimes, he's alive.
You may observe that I speak for Self and Craggs - deceased, sir -
deceased,' said the tender-hearted attorney, waving his pocket-
handkerchief.

Michael Warden, who had still been observant of Clemency, turned to
Mr. Snitchey when he ceased to speak, and whispered in his ear.

'Ah, poor thing!' said Snitchey, shaking his head. 'Yes. She was
always very faithful to Marion. She was always very fond of her.
Pretty Marion! Poor Marion! Cheer up, Mistress - you are married
now, you know, Clemency.'

Clemency only sighed, and shook her head.

'Well, well! Wait till to-morrow,' said the lawyer, kindly.

'To-morrow can't bring back' the dead to life, Mister,' said
Clemency, sobbing.

'No. It can't do that, or it would bring back Mr. Craggs,
deceased,' returned the lawyer. 'But it may bring some soothing
circumstances; it may bring some comfort. Wait till to-morrow!'

So Clemency, shaking his proffered hand, said she would; and
Britain, who had been terribly cast down at sight of his despondent
wife (which was like the business hanging its head), said that was
right; and Mr. Snitchey and Michael Warden went up-stairs; and
there they were soon engaged in a conversation so cautiously
conducted, that no murmur of it was audible above the clatter of
plates and dishes, the hissing of the frying-pan, the bubbling of
saucepans, the low monotonous waltzing of the jack - with a
dreadful click every now and then as if it had met with some mortal
accident to its head, in a fit of giddiness - and all the other
preparations in the kitchen for their dinner.


To-morrow was a bright and peaceful day; and nowhere were the
autumn tints more beautifully seen, than from the quiet orchard of
the Doctor's house. The snows of many winter nights had melted
from that ground, the withered leaves of many summer times had
rustled there, since she had fled. The honey-suckle porch was
green again, the trees cast bountiful and changing shadows on the
grass, the landscape was as tranquil and serene as it had ever
been; but where was she!

Not there. Not there. She would have been a stranger sight in her
old home now, even than that home had been at first, without her.
But, a lady sat in the familiar place, from whose heart she had
never passed away; in whose true memory she lived, unchanging,
youthful, radiant with all promise and all hope; in whose affection
- and it was a mother's now, there was a cherished little daughter
playing by her side - she had no rival, no successor; upon whose
gentle lips her name was trembling then.

The spirit of the lost girl looked out of those eyes. Those eyes
of Grace, her sister, sitting with her husband in the orchard, on
their wedding-day, and his and Marion's birth-day.

He had not become a great man; he had not grown rich; he had not
forgotten the scenes and friends of his youth; he had not fulfilled
any one of the Doctor's old predictions. But, in his useful,
patient, unknown visiting of poor men's homes; and in his watching
of sick beds; and in his daily knowledge of the gentleness and
goodness flowering the by-paths of this world, not to be trodden
down beneath the heavy foot of poverty, but springing up, elastic,
in its track, and making its way beautiful; he had better learned
and proved, in each succeeding year, the truth of his old faith.
The manner of his life, though quiet and remote, had shown him how
often men still entertained angels, unawares, as in the olden time;
and how the most unlikely forms - even some that were mean and ugly
to the view, and poorly clad - became irradiated by the couch of
sorrow, want, and pain, and changed to ministering spirits with a
glory round their heads.

He lived to better purpose on the altered battle-ground, perhaps,
than if he had contended restlessly in more ambitious lists; and he
was happy with his wife, dear Grace.

And Marion. Had HE forgotten her?

'The time has flown, dear Grace,' he said, 'since then;' they had
been talking of that night; 'and yet it seems a long long while
ago. We count by changes and events within us. Not by years.'

'Yet we have years to count by, too, since Marion was with us,'
returned Grace. 'Six times, dear husband, counting to-night as
one, we have sat here on her birth-day, and spoken together of that
happy return, so eagerly expected and so long deferred. Ah when
will it be! When will it be!'

Her husband attentively observed her, as the tears collected in her
eyes; and drawing nearer, said:

'But, Marion told you, in that farewell letter which she left for
you upon your table, love, and which you read so often, that years
must pass away before it COULD be. Did she not?'

She took a letter from her breast, and kissed it, and said 'Yes.'

'That through these intervening years, however happy she might be,
she would look forward to the time when you would meet again, and
all would be made clear; and that she prayed you, trustfully and
hopefully to do the same. The letter runs so, does it not, my
dear?'

'Yes, Alfred.'

'And every other letter she has written since?'

'Except the last - some months ago - in which she spoke of you, and
what you then knew, and what I was to learn to-night.'

He looked towards the sun, then fast declining, and said that the
appointed time was sunset.

'Alfred!' said Grace, laying her hand upon his shoulder earnestly,
'there is something in this letter - this old letter, which you say
I read so often - that I have never told you. But, to-night, dear
husband, with that sunset drawing near, and all our life seeming to
soften and become hushed with the departing day, I cannot keep it
secret.'

'What is it, love?'

'When Marion went away, she wrote me, here, that you had once left
her a sacred trust to me, and that now she left you, Alfred, such a
trust in my hands: praying and beseeching me, as I loved her, and
as I loved you, not to reject the affection she believed (she knew,
she said) you would transfer to me when the new wound was healed,
but to encourage and return it.'

' - And make me a proud, and happy man again, Grace. Did she say
so?'

'She meant, to make myself so blest and honoured in your love,' was
his wife's answer, as he held her in his arms.

'Hear me, my dear!' he said. - 'No. Hear me so!' - and as he
spoke, he gently laid the head she had raised, again upon his
shoulder. 'I know why I have never heard this passage in the
letter, until now. I know why no trace of it ever showed itself in
any word or look of yours at that time. I know why Grace, although
so true a friend to me, was hard to win to be my wife. And knowing
it, my own! I know the priceless value of the heart I gird within
my arms, and thank GOD for the rich possession!'

She wept, but not for sorrow, as he pressed her to his heart.
After a brief space, he looked down at the child, who was sitting
at their feet playing with a little basket of flowers, and bade her
look how golden and how red the sun was.

'Alfred,' said Grace, raising her head quickly at these words.
'The sun is going down. You have not forgotten what I am to know
before it sets.'

'You are to know the truth of Marion's history, my love,' he
answered.

'All the truth,' she said, imploringly. 'Nothing veiled from me,
any more. That was the promise. Was it not?'

'It was,' he answered.

'Before the sun went down on Marion's birth-day. And you see it,
Alfred? It is sinking fast.'

He put his arm about her waist, and, looking steadily into her
eyes, rejoined:

'That truth is not reserved so long for me to tell, dear Grace. It
is to come from other lips.'

'From other lips!' she faintly echoed.

'Yes. I know your constant heart, I know how brave you are, I know
that to you a word of preparation is enough. You have said, truly,
that the time is come. It is. Tell me that you have present
fortitude to bear a trial - a surprise - a shock: and the
messenger is waiting at the gate.'

'What messenger?' she said. 'And what intelligence does he bring?'

'I am pledged,' he answered her, preserving his steady look, 'to
say no more. Do you think you understand me?'

'I am afraid to think,' she said.

There was that emotion in his face, despite its steady gaze, which
frightened her. Again she hid her own face on his shoulder,
trembling, and entreated him to pause - a moment.

'Courage, my wife! When you have firmness to receive the
messenger, the messenger is waiting at the gate. The sun is
setting on Marion's birth-day. Courage, courage, Grace!'

She raised her head, and, looking at him, told him she was ready.
As she stood, and looked upon him going away, her face was so like
Marion's as it had been in her later days at home, that it was
wonderful to see. He took the child with him. She called her back
- she bore the lost girl's name - and pressed her to her bosom.
The little creature, being released again, sped after him, and
Grace was left alone.

She knew not what she dreaded, or what hoped; but remained there,
motionless, looking at the porch by which they had disappeared.

Ah! what was that, emerging from its shadow; standing on its
threshold! That figure, with its white garments rustling in the
evening air; its head laid down upon her father's breast, and
pressed against it to his loving heart! O God! was it a vision
that came bursting from the old man's arms, and with a cry, and
with a waving of its hands, and with a wild precipitation of itself
upon her in its boundless love, sank down in her embrace!

'Oh, Marion, Marion! Oh, my sister! Oh, my heart's dear love!
Oh, joy and happiness unutterable, so to meet again!'

It was no dream, no phantom conjured up by hope and fear, but
Marion, sweet Marion! So beautiful, so happy, so unalloyed by care
and trial, so elevated and exalted in her loveliness, that as the
setting sun shone brightly on her upturned face, she might have
been a spirit visiting the earth upon some healing mission.

Clinging to her sister, who had dropped upon a seat and bent down
over her - and smiling through her tears - and kneeling, close
before her, with both arms twining round her, and never turning for
an instant from her face - and with the glory of the setting sun
upon her brow, and with the soft tranquillity of evening gathering
around them - Marion at length broke silence; her voice, so calm,
low, clear, and pleasant, well-tuned to the time.

'When this was my dear home, Grace, as it will be now again - '

'Stay, my sweet love! A moment! O Marion, to hear you speak
again.'

She could not bear the voice she loved so well, at first.

'When this was my dear home, Grace, as it will be now again, I
loved him from my soul. I loved him most devotedly. I would have
died for him, though I was so young. I never slighted his
affection in my secret breast for one brief instant. It was far
beyond all price to me. Although it is so long ago, and past, and
gone, and everything is wholly changed, I could not bear to think
that you, who love so well, should think I did not truly love him
once. I never loved him better, Grace, than when he left this very
scene upon this very day. I never loved him better, dear one, than
I did that night when I left here.'

Her sister, bending over her, could look into her face, and hold
her fast.

'But he had gained, unconsciously,' said Marion, with a gentle
smile, 'another heart, before I knew that I had one to give him.
That heart - yours, my sister! - was so yielded up, in all its
other tenderness, to me; was so devoted, and so noble; that it
plucked its love away, and kept its secret from all eyes but mine -
Ah! what other eyes were quickened by such tenderness and
gratitude! - and was content to sacrifice itself to me. But, I
knew something of its depths. I knew the struggle it had made. I
knew its high, inestimable worth to him, and his appreciation of
it, let him love me as he would. I knew the debt I owed it. I had
its great example every day before me. What you had done for me, I
knew that I could do, Grace, if I would, for you. I never laid my
head down on my pillow, but I prayed with tears to do it. I never
laid my head down on my pillow, but I thought of Alfred's own words
on the day of his departure, and how truly he had said (for I knew
that, knowing you) that there were victories gained every day, in
struggling hearts, to which these fields of battle were nothing.
Thinking more and more upon the great endurance cheerfully
sustained, and never known or cared for, that there must be, every
day and hour, in that great strife of which he spoke, my trial
seemed to grow light and easy. And He who knows our hearts, my
dearest, at this moment, and who knows there is no drop of
bitterness or grief - of anything but unmixed happiness - in mine,
enabled me to make the resolution that I never would be Alfred's
wife. That he should be my brother, and your husband, if the
course I took could bring that happy end to pass; but that I never
would (Grace, I then loved him dearly, dearly!) be his wife!'

'O Marion! O Marion!'

'I had tried to seem indifferent to him;' and she pressed her
sister's face against her own; 'but that was hard, and you were
always his true advocate. I had tried to tell you of my
resolution, but you would never hear me; you would never understand
me. The time was drawing near for his return. I felt that I must
act, before the daily intercourse between us was renewed. I knew
that one great pang, undergone at that time, would save a
lengthened agony to all of us. I knew that if I went away then,
that end must follow which HAS followed, and which has made us both
so happy, Grace! I wrote to good Aunt Martha, for a refuge in her
house: I did not then tell her all, but something of my story, and
she freely promised it. While I was contesting that step with
myself, and with my love of you, and home, Mr. Warden, brought here
by an accident, became, for some time, our companion.'

'I have sometimes feared of late years, that this might have been,'
exclaimed her sister; and her countenance was ashy-pale. 'You
never loved him - and you married him in your self-sacrifice to
me!'

'He was then,' said Marion, drawing her sister closer to her, 'on
the eve of going secretly away for a long time. He wrote to me,
after leaving here; told me what his condition and prospects really
were; and offered me his hand. He told me he had seen I was not
happy in the prospect of Alfred's return. I believe he thought my
heart had no part in that contract; perhaps thought I might have
loved him once, and did not then; perhaps thought that when I tried
to seem indifferent, I tried to hide indifference - I cannot tell.
But I wished that you should feel me wholly lost to Alfred -
hopeless to him - dead. Do you understand me, love?'

Her sister looked into her face, attentively. She seemed in doubt.

'I saw Mr. Warden, and confided in his honour; charged him with my
secret, on the eve of his and my departure. He kept it. Do you
understand me, dear?'

Grace looked confusedly upon her. She scarcely seemed to hear.

'My love, my sister!' said Marion, 'recall your thoughts a moment;
listen to me. Do not look so strangely on me. There are
countries, dearest, where those who would abjure a misplaced
passion, or would strive, against some cherished feeling of their
hearts and conquer it, retire into a hopeless solitude, and close
the world against themselves and worldly loves and hopes for ever.
When women do so, they assume that name which is so dear to you and
me, and call each other Sisters. But, there may be sisters, Grace,
who, in the broad world out of doors, and underneath its free sky,
and in its crowded places, and among its busy life, and trying to
assist and cheer it and to do some good, - learn the same lesson;
and who, with hearts still fresh and young, and open to all
happiness and means of happiness, can say the battle is long past,
the victory long won. And such a one am I! You understand me
now?'

Still she looked fixedly upon her, and made no reply.

'Oh Grace, dear Grace,' said Marion, clinging yet more tenderly and
fondly to that breast from which she had been so long exiled, 'if
you were not a happy wife and mother - if I had no little namesake
here - if Alfred, my kind brother, were not your own fond husband -
from whence could I derive the ecstasy I feel to-night! But, as I
left here, so I have returned. My heart has known no other love,
my hand has never been bestowed apart from it. I am still your
maiden sister, unmarried, unbetrothed: your own loving old Marion,
in whose affection you exist alone and have no partner, Grace!'

She understood her now. Her face relaxed: sobs came to her
relief; and falling on her neck, she wept and wept, and fondled her
as if she were a child again.

When they were more composed, they found that the Doctor, and his
sister good Aunt Martha, were standing near at hand, with Alfred.

'This is a weary day for me,' said good Aunt Martha, smiling
through her tears, as she embraced her nieces; 'for I lose my dear
companion in making you all happy; and what can you give me, in
return for my Marion?'

'A converted brother,' said the Doctor.

'That's something, to be sure,' retorted Aunt Martha, 'in such a
farce as - '

'No, pray don't,' said the doctor penitently.

'Well, I won't,' replied Aunt Martha. 'But, I consider myself ill
used. I don't know what's to become of me without my Marion, after
we have lived together half-a-dozen years.'

'You must come and live here, I suppose,' replied the Doctor. 'We
shan't quarrel now, Martha.'

'Or you must get married, Aunt,' said Alfred.

'Indeed,' returned the old lady, 'I think it might be a good
speculation if I were to set my cap at Michael Warden, who, I hear,
is come home much the better for his absence in all respects. But
as I knew him when he was a boy, and I was not a very young woman
then, perhaps he mightn't respond. So I'll make up my mind to go
and live with Marion, when she marries, and until then (it will not
be very long, I dare say) to live alone. What do YOU say,
Brother?'

'I've a great mind to say it's a ridiculous world altogether, and
there's nothing serious in it,' observed the poor old Doctor.

'You might take twenty affidavits of it if you chose, Anthony,'
said his sister; 'but nobody would believe you with such eyes as
those.'

'It's a world full of hearts,' said the Doctor, hugging his
youngest daughter, and bending across her to hug Grace - for he
couldn't separate the sisters; 'and a serious world, with all its
folly - even with mine, which was enough to have swamped the whole
globe; and it is a world on which the sun never rises, but it looks
upon a thousand bloodless battles that are some set-off against the
miseries and wickedness of Battle-Fields; and it is a world we need
be careful how we libel, Heaven forgive us, for it is a world of
sacred mysteries, and its Creator only knows what lies beneath the
surface of His lightest image!'


You would not be the better pleased with my rude pen, if it
dissected and laid open to your view the transports of this family,
long severed and now reunited. Therefore, I will not follow the
poor Doctor through his humbled recollection of the sorrow he had
had, when Marion was lost to him; nor, will I tell how serious he
had found that world to be, in which some love, deep-anchored, is
the portion of all human creatures; nor, how such a trifle as the
absence of one little unit in the great absurd account, had
stricken him to the ground. Nor, how, in compassion for his
distress, his sister had, long ago, revealed the truth to him by
slow degrees, and brought him to the knowledge of the heart of his
self-banished daughter, and to that daughter's side.

Nor, how Alfred Heathfield had been told the truth, too, in the
course of that then current year; and Marion had seen him, and had
promised him, as her brother, that on her birth-day, in the
evening, Grace should know it from her lips at last.

'I beg your pardon, Doctor,' said Mr. Snitchey, looking into the
orchard, 'but have I liberty to come in?'

Without waiting for permission, he came straight to Marion, and
kissed her hand, quite joyfully.

'If Mr. Craggs had been alive, my dear Miss Marion,' said Mr.
Snitchey, 'he would have had great interest in this occasion. It
might have suggested to him, Mr. Alfred, that our life is not too
easy perhaps: that, taken altogether, it will bear any little
smoothing we can give it; but Mr. Craggs was a man who could endure
to be convinced, sir. He was always open to conviction. If he
were open to conviction, now, I - this is weakness. Mrs. Snitchey,
my dear,' - at his summons that lady appeared from behind the door,
'you are among old friends.'

Mrs. Snitchey having delivered her congratulations, took her
husband aside.

'One moment, Mr. Snitchey,' said that lady. 'It is not in my
nature to rake up the ashes of the departed.'

'No, my dear,' returned her husband.

'Mr. Craggs is - '

'Yes, my dear, he is deceased,' said Snitchey.

'But I ask you if you recollect,' pursued his wife, 'that evening
of the ball? I only ask you that. If you do; and if your memory
has not entirely failed you, Mr. Snitchey; and if you are not
absolutely in your dotage; I ask you to connect this time with that
- to remember how I begged and prayed you, on my knees - '

'Upon your knees, my dear?' said Mr. Snitchey.

'Yes,' said Mrs. Snitchey, confidently, 'and you know it - to
beware of that man - to observe his eye - and now to tell me
whether I was right, and whether at that moment he knew secrets
which he didn't choose to tell.'

'Mrs. Snitchey,' returned her husband, in her ear, 'Madam. Did you
ever observe anything in MY eye?'

'No,' said Mrs. Snitchey, sharply. 'Don't flatter yourself.'

'Because, Madam, that night,' he continued, twitching her by the
sleeve, 'it happens that we both knew secrets which we didn't
choose to tell, and both knew just the same professionally. And so
the less you say about such things the better, Mrs. Snitchey; and
take this as a warning to have wiser and more charitable eyes
another time. Miss Marion, I brought a friend of yours along with
me. Here! Mistress!'

Poor Clemency, with her apron to her eyes, came slowly in, escorted
by her husband; the latter doleful with the presentiment, that if
she abandoned herself to grief, the Nutmeg-Grater was done for.

'Now, Mistress,' said the lawyer, checking Marion as she ran
towards her, and interposing himself between them, 'what's the
matter with YOU?'

'The matter!' cried poor Clemency. - When, looking up in wonder,
and in indignant remonstrance, and in the added emotion of a great
roar from Mr. Britain, and seeing that sweet face so well
remembered close before her, she stared, sobbed, laughed, cried,
screamed, embraced her, held her fast, released her, fell on Mr.
Snitchey and embraced him (much to Mrs. Snitchey's indignation),
fell on the Doctor and embraced him, fell on Mr. Britain and
embraced him, and concluded by embracing herself, throwing her
apron over her head, and going into hysterics behind it.

A stranger had come into the orchard, after Mr. Snitchey, and had
remained apart, near the gate, without being observed by any of the
group; for they had little spare attention to bestow, and that had
been monopolised by the ecstasies of Clemency. He did not appear
to wish to be observed, but stood alone, with downcast eyes; and
there was an air of dejection about him (though he was a gentleman
of a gallant appearance) which the general happiness rendered more
remarkable.

None but the quick eyes of Aunt Martha, however, remarked him at
all; but, almost as soon as she espied him, she was in conversation
with him. Presently, going to where Marion stood with Grace and
her little namesake, she whispered something in Marion's ear, at
which she started, and appeared surprised; but soon recovering from
her confusion, she timidly approached the stranger, in Aunt
Martha's company, and engaged in conversation with him too.

'Mr. Britain,' said the lawyer, putting his hand in his pocket, and
bringing out a legal-looking document, while this was going on, 'I
congratulate you. You are now the whole and sole proprietor of
that freehold tenement, at present occupied and held by yourself as
a licensed tavern, or house of public entertainment, and commonly
called or known by the sign of the Nutmeg-Grater. Your wife lost
one house, through my client Mr. Michael Warden; and now gains
another. I shall have the pleasure of canvassing you for the
county, one of these fine mornings.'

'Would it make any difference in the vote if the sign was altered,
sir?' asked Britain.

'Not in the least,' replied the lawyer.

'Then,' said Mr. Britain, handing him back the conveyance, 'just
clap in the words, "and Thimble," will you be so good; and I'll
have the two mottoes painted up in the parlour instead of my wife's
portrait.'

'And let me,' said a voice behind them; it was the stranger's -
Michael Warden's; 'let me claim the benefit of those inscriptions.
Mr. Heathfield and Dr. Jeddler, I might have deeply wronged you
both. That I did not, is no virtue of my own. I will not say that
I am six years wiser than I was, or better. But I have known, at
any rate, that term of self-reproach. I can urge no reason why you
should deal gently with me. I abused the hospitality of this
house; and learnt by my own demerits, with a shame I never have
forgotten, yet with some profit too, I would fain hope, from one,'
he glanced at Marion, 'to whom I made my humble supplication for
forgiveness, when I knew her merit and my deep unworthiness. In a
few days I shall quit this place for ever. I entreat your pardon.
Do as you would be done by! Forget and Forgive!'

*****

TIME - from whom I had the latter portion of this story, and with
whom I have the pleasure of a personal acquaintance of some five-
and-thirty years' duration - informed me, leaning easily upon his
scythe, that Michael Warden never went away again, and never sold
his house, but opened it afresh, maintained a golden means of
hospitality, and had a wife, the pride and honour of that
countryside, whose name was Marion. But, as I have observed that
Time confuses facts occasionally, I hardly know what weight to give
to his authority.

Charles Dickens

    Part The First

    Part The Second

    Part The Third

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