The Haunted Man and the Ghost's Bargain by Charles Dickens - HTML preview

CHAPTER III—The Gift Reversed

Night was still heavy in the sky.  On open plains, from hill-tops, and from the decks of solitary ships at sea, a distant low-lying line, that promised by-and-by to change to light, was visible in the dim horizon; but its promise was remote and doubtful, and the moon was striving with the night-clouds busily.

The shadows upon Redlaw’s mind succeeded thick and fast to one another, and obscured its light as the night-clouds hovered between the moon and earth, and kept the latter veiled in darkness.  Fitful and uncertain as the shadows which the night-clouds cast, were their concealments from him, and imperfect revelations to him; and, like the night-clouds still, if the clear light broke forth for a moment, it was only that they might sweep over it, and make the darkness deeper than before.

Without, there was a profound and solemn hush upon the ancient pile of building, and its buttresses and angles made dark shapes of mystery upon the ground, which now seemed to retire into the smooth white snow and now seemed to come out of it, as the moon’s path was more or less beset.  Within, the Chemist’s room was indistinct and murky, by the light of the expiring lamp; a ghostly silence had succeeded to the knocking and the voice outside; nothing was audible but, now and then, a low sound among the whitened ashes of the fire, as of its yielding up its last breath.  Before it on the ground the boy lay fast asleep.  In his chair, the Chemist sat, as he had sat there since the calling at his door had ceased—like a man turned to stone.

At such a time, the Christmas music he had heard before, began to play.  He listened to it at first, as he had listened in the church-yard; but presently—it playing still, and being borne towards him on the night air, in a low, sweet, melancholy strain—he rose, and stood stretching his hands about him, as if there were some friend approaching within his reach, on whom his desolate touch might rest, yet do no harm.  As he did this, his face became less fixed and wondering; a gentle trembling came upon him; and at last his eyes filled with tears, and he put his hands before them, and bowed down his head.

His memory of sorrow, wrong, and trouble, had not come back to him; he knew that it was not restored; he had no passing belief or hope that it was.  But some dumb stir within him made him capable, again, of being moved by what was hidden, afar off, in the music.  If it were only that it told him sorrowfully the value of what he had lost, he thanked Heaven for it with a fervent gratitude.

As the last chord died upon his ear, he raised his head to listen to its lingering vibration.  Beyond the boy, so that his sleeping figure lay at its feet, the Phantom stood, immovable and silent, with its eyes upon him.

Ghastly it was, as it had ever been, but not so cruel and relentless in its aspect—or he thought or hoped so, as he looked upon it trembling.  It was not alone, but in its shadowy hand it held another hand.

And whose was that?  Was the form that stood beside it indeed Milly’s, or but her shade and picture?  The quiet head was bent a little, as her manner was, and her eyes were looking down, as if in pity, on the sleeping child.  A radiant light fell on her face, but did not touch the Phantom; for, though close beside her, it was dark and colourless as ever.

“Spectre!” said the Chemist, newly troubled as he looked, “I have not been stubborn or presumptuous in respect of her.  Oh, do not bring her here.  Spare me that!”

“This is but a shadow,” said the Phantom; “when the morning shines seek out the reality whose image I present before you.”

“Is it my inexorable doom to do so?” cried the Chemist.

“It is,” replied the Phantom.

“To destroy her peace, her goodness; to make her what I am myself, and what I have made of others!”

“I have said seek her out,” returned the Phantom.  “I have said no more.”

“Oh, tell me,” exclaimed Redlaw, catching at the hope which he fancied might lie hidden in the words.  “Can I undo what I have done?”

“No,” returned the Phantom.

“I do not ask for restoration to myself,” said Redlaw.  “What I abandoned, I abandoned of my own free will, and have justly lost.  But for those to whom I have transferred the fatal gift; who never sought it; who unknowingly received a curse of which they had no warning, and which they had no power to shun; can I do nothing?”

“Nothing,” said the Phantom.

“If I cannot, can any one?”

The Phantom, standing like a statue, kept its gaze upon him for a while; then turned its head suddenly, and looked upon the shadow at its side.

“Ah!  Can she?” cried Redlaw, still looking upon the shade.

The Phantom released the hand it had retained till now, and softly raised its own with a gesture of dismissal.  Upon that, her shadow, still preserving the same attitude, began to move or melt away.

“Stay,” cried Redlaw with an earnestness to which he could not give enough expression.  “For a moment!  As an act of mercy!  I know that some change fell upon me, when those sounds were in the air just now.  Tell me, have I lost the power of harming her?  May I go near her without dread?  Oh, let her give me any sign of hope!”

The Phantom looked upon the shade as he did—not at him—and gave no answer.

“At least, say this—has she, henceforth, the consciousness of any power to set right what I have done?”

“She has not,” the Phantom answered.

“Has she the power bestowed on her without the consciousness?”

The phantom answered: “Seek her out.”

And her shadow slowly vanished.

They were face to face again, and looking on each other, as intently and awfully as at the time of the bestowal of the gift, across the boy who still lay on the ground between them, at the Phantom’s feet.

“Terrible instructor,” said the Chemist, sinking on his knee before it, in an attitude of supplication, “by whom I was renounced, but by whom I am revisited (in which, and in whose milder aspect, I would fain believe I have a gleam of hope), I will obey without inquiry, praying that the cry I have sent up in the anguish of my soul has been, or will be, heard, in behalf of those whom I have injured beyond human reparation.  But there is one thing—”

“You speak to me of what is lying here,” the phantom interposed, and pointed with its finger to the boy.

“I do,” returned the Chemist.  “You know what I would ask.  Why has this child alone been proof against my influence, and why, why, have I detected in its thoughts a terrible companionship with mine?”

“This,” said the Phantom, pointing to the boy, “is the last, completest illustration of a human creature, utterly bereft of such remembrances as you have yielded up.  No softening memory of sorrow, wrong, or trouble enters here, because this wretched mortal from his birth has been abandoned to a worse condition than the beasts, and has, within his knowledge, no one contrast, no humanising touch, to make a grain of such a memory spring up in his hardened breast.  All within this desolate creature is barren wilderness.  All within the man bereft of what you have resigned, is the same barren wilderness.  Woe to such a man!  Woe, tenfold, to the nation that shall count its monsters such as this, lying here, by hundreds and by thousands!”

Redlaw shrank, appalled, from what he heard.

“There is not,” said the Phantom, “one of these—not one—but sows a harvest that mankind MUST reap.  From every seed of evil in this boy, a field of ruin is grown that shall be gathered in, and garnered up, and sown again in many places in the world, until regions are overspread with wickedness enough to raise the waters of another Deluge.  Open and unpunished murder in a city’s streets would be less guilty in its daily toleration, than one such spectacle as this.”

It seemed to look down upon the boy in his sleep.  Redlaw, too, looked down upon him with a new emotion.

“There is not a father,” said the Phantom, “by whose side in his daily or his nightly walk, these creatures pass; there is not a mother among all the ranks of loving mothers in this land; there is no one risen from the state of childhood, but shall be responsible in his or her degree for this enormity.  There is not a country throughout the earth on which it would not bring a curse.  There is no religion upon earth that it would not deny; there is no people upon earth it would not put to shame.”

The Chemist clasped his hands, and looked, with trembling fear and pity, from the sleeping boy to the Phantom, standing above him with his finger pointing down.

“Behold, I say,” pursued the Spectre, “the perfect type of what it was your choice to be.  Your influence is powerless here, because from this child’s bosom you can banish nothing.  His thoughts have been in ‘terrible companionship’ with yours, because you have gone down to his unnatural level.  He is the growth of man’s indifference; you are the growth of man’s presumption.  The beneficent design of Heaven is, in each case, overthrown, and from the two poles of the immaterial world you come together.”

The Chemist stooped upon the ground beside the boy, and, with the same kind of compassion for him that he now felt for himself, covered him as he slept, and no longer shrank from him with abhorrence or indifference.

Soon, now, the distant line on the horizon brightened, the darkness faded, the sun rose red and glorious, and the chimney stacks and gables of the ancient building gleamed in the clear air, which turned the smoke and vapour of the city into a cloud of gold.  The very sun-dial in his shady corner, where the wind was used to spin with such unwindy constancy, shook off the finer particles of snow that had accumulated on his dull old face in the night, and looked out at the little white wreaths eddying round and round him.  Doubtless some blind groping of the morning made its way down into the forgotten crypt so cold and earthy, where the Norman arches were half buried in the ground, and stirred the dull sap in the lazy vegetation hanging to the walls, and quickened the slow principle of life within the little world of wonderful and delicate creation which existed there, with some faint knowledge that the sun was up.

The Tetterbys were up, and doing.  Mr. Tetterby took down the shutters of the shop, and, strip by strip, revealed the treasures of the window to the eyes, so proof against their seductions, of Jerusalem Buildings.  Adolphus had been out so long already, that he was halfway on to “Morning Pepper.”  Five small Tetterbys, whose ten round eyes were much inflamed by soap and friction, were in the tortures of a cool wash in the back kitchen; Mrs. Tetterby presiding.  Johnny, who was pushed and hustled through his toilet with great rapidity when Moloch chanced to be in an exacting frame of mind (which was always the case), staggered up and down with his charge before the shop door, under greater difficulties than usual; the weight of Moloch being much increased by a complication of defences against the cold, composed of knitted worsted-work, and forming a complete suit of chain-armour, with a head-piece and blue gaiters.

It was a peculiarity of this baby to be always cutting teeth.  Whether they never came, or whether they came and went away again, is not in evidence; but it had certainly cut enough, on the showing of Mrs. Tetterby, to make a handsome dental provision for the sign of the Bull and Mouth.  All sorts of objects were impressed for the rubbing of its gums, notwithstanding that it always carried, dangling at its waist (which was immediately under its chin), a bone ring, large enough to have represented the rosary of a young nun.  Knife-handles, umbrella-tops, the heads of walking-sticks selected from the stock, the fingers of the family in general, but especially of Johnny, nutmeg-graters, crusts, the handles of doors, and the cool knobs on the tops of pokers, were among the commonest instruments indiscriminately applied for this baby’s relief.  The amount of electricity that must have been rubbed out of it in a week, is not to be calculated.  Still Mrs. Tetterby always said “it was coming through, and then the child would be herself;” and still it never did come through, and the child continued to be somebody else.

The tempers of the little Tetterbys had sadly changed with a few hours.  Mr. and Mrs. Tetterby themselves were not more altered than their offspring.  Usually they were an unselfish, good-natured, yielding little race, sharing short commons when it happened (which was pretty often) contentedly and even generously, and taking a great deal of enjoyment out of a very little meat.  But they were fighting now, not only for the soap and water, but even for the breakfast which was yet in perspective.  The hand of every little Tetterby was against the other little Tetterbys; and even Johnny’s hand—the patient, much-enduring, and devoted Johnny—rose against the baby!  Yes, Mrs. Tetterby, going to the door by mere accident, saw him viciously pick out a weak place in the suit of armour where a slap would tell, and slap that blessed child.

Mrs. Tetterby had him into the parlour by the collar, in that same flash of time, and repaid him the assault with usury thereto.

“You brute, you murdering little boy,” said Mrs. Tetterby.  “Had you the heart to do it?”

“Why don’t her teeth come through, then,” retorted Johnny, in a loud rebellious voice, “instead of bothering me?  How would you like it yourself?”

“Like it, sir!” said Mrs. Tetterby, relieving him of his dishonoured load.

“Yes, like it,” said Johnny.  “How would you?  Not at all.  If you was me, you’d go for a soldier.  I will, too.  There an’t no babies in the Army.”

Mr. Tetterby, who had arrived upon the scene of action, rubbed his chin thoughtfully, instead of correcting the rebel, and seemed rather struck by this view of a military life.

“I wish I was in the Army myself, if the child’s in the right,” said Mrs. Tetterby, looking at her husband, “for I have no peace of my life here.  I’m a slave—a Virginia slave:” some indistinct association with their weak descent on the tobacco trade perhaps suggested this aggravated expression to Mrs. Tetterby.  “I never have a holiday, or any pleasure at all, from year’s end to year’s end!  Why, Lord bless and save the child,” said Mrs. Tetterby, shaking the baby with an irritability hardly suited to so pious an aspiration, “what’s the matter with her now?”

Not being able to discover, and not rendering the subject much clearer by shaking it, Mrs. Tetterby put the baby away in a cradle, and, folding her arms, sat rocking it angrily with her foot.

“How you stand there, ’Dolphus,” said Mrs. Tetterby to her husband.  “Why don’t you do something?”

“Because I don’t care about doing anything,” Mr. Tetterby replied.

“I am sure I don’t,” said Mrs. Tetterby.

“I’ll take my oath I don’t,” said Mr. Tetterby.

A diversion arose here among Johnny and his five younger brothers, who, in preparing the family breakfast table, had fallen to skirmishing for the temporary possession of the loaf, and were buffeting one another with great heartiness; the smallest boy of all, with precocious discretion, hovering outside the knot of combatants, and harassing their legs.  Into the midst of this fray, Mr. and Mrs. Tetterby both precipitated themselves with great ardour, as if such ground were the only ground on which they could now agree; and having, with no visible remains of their late soft-heartedness, laid about them without any lenity, and done much execution, resumed their former relative positions.

“You had better read your paper than do nothing at all,” said Mrs. Tetterby.

“What’s there to read in a paper?” returned Mr. Tetterby, with excessive discontent.

“What?” said Mrs. Tetterby.  “Police.”

“It’s nothing to me,” said Tetterby.  “What do I care what people do, or are done to?”

“Suicides,” suggested Mrs. Tetterby.

“No business of mine,” replied her husband.

“Births, deaths, and marriages, are those nothing to you?” said Mrs. Tetterby.

“If the births were all over for good, and all to-day; and the deaths were all to begin to come off to-morrow; I don’t see why it should interest me, till I thought it was a coming to my turn,” grumbled Tetterby.  “As to marriages, I’ve done it myself.  I know quite enough about them.”

To judge from the dissatisfied expression of her face and manner, Mrs. Tetterby appeared to entertain the same opinions as her husband; but she opposed him, nevertheless, for the gratification of quarrelling with him.

“Oh, you’re a consistent man,” said Mrs. Tetterby, “an’t you?  You, with the screen of your own making there, made of nothing else but bits of newspapers, which you sit and read to the children by the half-hour together!”

“Say used to, if you please,” returned her husband.  “You won’t find me doing so any more.  I’m wiser now.”

“Bah! wiser, indeed!” said Mrs. Tetterby.  “Are you better?”

The question sounded some discordant note in Mr. Tetterby’s breast.  He ruminated dejectedly, and passed his hand across and across his forehead.

“Better!” murmured Mr. Tetterby.  “I don’t know as any of us are better, or happier either.  Better, is it?”

He turned to the screen, and traced about it with his finger, until he found a certain paragraph of which he was in quest.

“This used to be one of the family favourites, I recollect,” said Tetterby, in a forlorn and stupid way, “and used to draw tears from the children, and make ’em good, if there was any little bickering or discontent among ’em, next to the story of the robin redbreasts in the wood.  ‘Melancholy case of destitution.  Yesterday a small man, with a baby in his arms, and surrounded by half-a-dozen ragged little ones, of various ages between ten and two, the whole of whom were evidently in a famishing condition, appeared before the worthy magistrate, and made the following recital:’—Ha!  I don’t understand it, I’m sure,” said Tetterby; “I don’t see what it has got to do with us.”

“How old and shabby he looks,” said Mrs. Tetterby, watching him.  “I never saw such a change in a man.  Ah! dear me, dear me, dear me, it was a sacrifice!”

“What was a sacrifice?” her husband sourly inquired.

Mrs. Tetterby shook her head; and without replying in words, raised a complete sea-storm about the baby, by her violent agitation of the cradle.

“If you mean your marriage was a sacrifice, my good woman—” said her husband.

“I do mean it,” said his wife.

“Why, then I mean to say,” pursued Mr. Tetterby, as sulkily and surlily as she, “that there are two sides to that affair; and that I was the sacrifice; and that I wish the sacrifice hadn’t been accepted.”

“I wish it hadn’t, Tetterby, with all my heart and soul I do assure you,” said his wife.  “You can’t wish it more than I do, Tetterby.”

“I don’t know what I saw in her,” muttered the newsman, “I’m sure;—certainly, if I saw anything, it’s not there now.  I was thinking so, last night, after supper, by the fire.  She’s fat, she’s ageing, she won’t bear comparison with most other women.”

“He’s common-looking, he has no air with him, he’s small, he’s beginning to stoop and he’s getting bald,” muttered Mrs. Tetterby.

“I must have been half out of my mind when I did it,” muttered Mr. Tetterby.

“My senses must have forsook me.  That’s the only way in which I can explain it to myself,” said Mrs. Tetterby with elaboration.

In this mood they sat down to breakfast.  The little Tetterbys were not habituated to regard that meal in the light of a sedentary occupation, but discussed it as a dance or trot; rather resembling a savage ceremony, in the occasionally shrill whoops, and brandishings of bread and butter, with which it was accompanied, as well as in the intricate filings off into the street and back again, and the hoppings up and down the door-steps, which were incidental to the performance.  In the present instance, the contentions between these Tetterby children for the milk-and-water jug, common to all, which stood upon the table, presented so lamentable an instance of angry passions risen very high indeed, that it was an outrage on the memory of Dr. Watts.  It was not until Mr. Tetterby had driven the whole herd out at the front door, that a moment’s peace was secured; and even that was broken by the discovery that Johnny had surreptitiously come back, and was at that instant choking in the jug like a ventriloquist, in his indecent and rapacious haste.

“These children will be the death of me at last!” said Mrs. Tetterby, after banishing the culprit.  “And the sooner the better, I think.”

“Poor people,” said Mr. Tetterby, “ought not to have children at all.  They give us no pleasure.”

He was at that moment taking up the cup which Mrs. Tetterby had rudely pushed towards him, and Mrs. Tetterby was lifting her own cup to her lips, when they both stopped, as if they were transfixed.

“Here!  Mother!  Father!” cried Johnny, running into the room.  “Here’s Mrs. William coming down the street!”

And if ever, since the world began, a young boy took a baby from a cradle with the care of an old nurse, and hushed and soothed it tenderly, and tottered away with it cheerfully, Johnny was that boy, and Moloch was that baby, as they went out together!

Mr. Tetterby put down his cup; Mrs. Tetterby put down her cup.  Mr. Tetterby rubbed his forehead; Mrs. Tetterby rubbed hers.  Mr. Tetterby’s face began to smooth and brighten; Mrs. Tetterby’s began to smooth and brighten.

“Why, Lord forgive me,” said Mr. Tetterby to himself, “what evil tempers have I been giving way to?  What has been the matter here!”

“How could I ever treat him ill again, after all I said and felt last night!” sobbed Mrs. Tetterby, with her apron to her eyes.

“Am I a brute,” said Mr. Tetterby, “or is there any good in me at all?  Sophia!  My little woman!”

“’Dolphus dear,” returned his wife.

“I—I’ve been in a state of mind,” said Mr. Tetterby, “that I can’t abear to think of, Sophy.”

“Oh!  It’s nothing to what I’ve been in, Dolf,” cried his wife in a great burst of grief.

“My Sophia,” said Mr. Tetterby, “don’t take on.  I never shall forgive myself.  I must have nearly broke your heart, I know.”

“No, Dolf, no.  It was me!  Me!” cried Mrs. Tetterby.

“My little woman,” said her husband, “don’t.  You make me reproach myself dreadful, when you show such a noble spirit.  Sophia, my dear, you don’t know what I thought.  I showed it bad enough, no doubt; but what I thought, my little woman!—”

“Oh, dear Dolf, don’t!  Don’t!” cried his wife.

“Sophia,” said Mr. Tetterby, “I must reveal it.  I couldn’t rest in my conscience unless I mentioned it.  My little woman—”

“Mrs. William’s very nearly here!” screamed Johnny at the door.

“My little woman, I wondered how,” gasped Mr. Tetterby, supporting himself by his chair, “I wondered how I had ever admired you—I forgot the precious children you have brought about me, and thought you didn’t look as slim as I could wish.  I—I never gave a recollection,” said Mr. Tetterby, with severe self-accusation, “to the cares you’ve had as my wife, and along of me and mine, when you might have had hardly any with another man, who got on better and was luckier than me (anybody might have found such a man easily I am sure); and I quarrelled with you for having aged a little in the rough years you have lightened for me.  Can you believe it, my little woman?  I hardly can myself.”

Mrs. Tetterby, in a whirlwind of laughing and crying, caught his face within her hands, and held it there.

“Oh, Dolf!” she cried.  “I am so happy that you thought so; I am so grateful that you thought so!  For I thought that you were common-looking, Dolf; and so you are, my dear, and may you be the commonest of all sights in my eyes, till you close them with your own good hands.  I thought that you were small; and so you are, and I’ll make much of you because you are, and more of you because I love my husband.  I thought that you began to stoop; and so you do, and you shall lean on me, and I’ll do all I can to keep you up.  I thought there was no air about you; but there is, and it’s the air of home, and that’s the purest and the best there is, and God bless home once more, and all belonging to it, Dolf!”

“Hurrah!  Here’s Mrs. William!” cried Johnny.

So she was, and all the children with her; and so she came in, they kissed her, and kissed one another, and kissed the baby, and kissed their father and mother, and then ran back and flocked and danced about her, trooping on with her in triumph.

Mr. and Mrs. Tetterby were not a bit behind-hand in the warmth of their reception.  They were as much attracted to her as the children were; they ran towards her, kissed her hands, pressed round her, could not receive her ardently or enthusiastically enough.  She came among them like the spirit of all goodness, affection, gentle consideration, love, and domesticity.

“What! are you all so glad to see me, too, this bright Christmas morning?” said Milly, clapping her hands in a pleasant wonder.  “Oh dear, how delightful this is!”

More shouting from the children, more kissing, more trooping round her, more happiness, more love, more joy, more honour, on all sides, than she could bear.

“Oh dear!” said Milly, “what delicious tears you make me shed.  How can I ever have deserved this!  What have I done to be so loved?”

“Who can help it!” cried Mr. Tetterby.

“Who can help it!” cried Mrs. Tetterby.

“Who can help it!” echoed the children, in a joyful chorus.  And they danced and trooped about her again, and clung to her, and laid their rosy faces against her dress, and kissed and fondled it, and could not fondle it, or her, enough.

“I never was so moved,” said Milly, drying her eyes, “as I have been this morning.  I must tell you, as soon as I can speak.—Mr. Redlaw came to me at sunrise, and with a tenderness in his manner, more as if I had been his darling daughter than myself, implored me to go with him to where William’s brother George is lying ill.  We went together, and all the way along he was so kind, and so subdued, and seemed to put such trust and hope in me, that I could not help crying with pleasure.  When we got to the house, we met a woman at the door (somebody had bruised and hurt her, I am afraid), who caught me by the hand, and blessed me as I passed.”

“She was right!” said Mr. Tetterby.  Mrs. Tetterby said she was right.  All the children cried out that she was right.

“Ah, but there’s more than that,” said Milly.  “When we got up stairs, into the room, the sick man who had lain for hours in a state from which no effort could rouse him, rose up in his bed, and, bursting into tears, stretched out his arms to me, and said that he had led a mis-spent life, but that he was truly repentant now, in his sorrow for the past, which was all as plain to him as a great prospect, from which a dense black cloud had cleared away, and that he entreated me to ask his poor old father for his pardon and his blessing, and to say a prayer beside his bed.  And when I did so, Mr. Redlaw joined in it so fervently, and then so thanked and thanked me, and thanked Heaven, that my heart quite overflowed, and I could have done nothing but sob and cry, if the sick man had not begged me to sit down by him,—which made me quiet of course.  As I sat there, he held my hand in his until he sank in a doze; and even then, when I withdrew my hand to leave him to come here (which Mr. Redlaw was very earnest indeed in wishing me to do), his hand felt for mine, so that some one else was obliged to take my place and make believe to give him my hand back.  Oh dear, oh dear,” said Milly, sobbing.  “How thankful and how happy I should feel, and do feel, for all this!”

While she was speaking, Redlaw had come in, and, after pausing for a moment to observe the group of which she was the centre, had silently ascended the stairs.  Upon those stairs he now appeared again; remaining there, while the young student passed him, and came running down.

“Kind nurse, gentlest, best of creatures,” he said, falling on his knee to her, and catching at her hand, “forgive my cruel ingratitude!”

“Oh dear, oh dear!” cried Milly innocently, “here’s another of them!  Oh dear, here’s somebody else who likes me.  What shall I ever do!”

The guileless, simple way in which she said it, and in which she put her hands before her eyes and wept for very happiness, was as touching as it was delightful.

“I was not myself,” he said.  “I don’t know what it was—it was some consequence of my disorder perhaps—I was mad.  But I am so no longer.  Almost as I speak, I am restored.  I heard the children crying out your name, and the shade passed from me at the very sound of it.  Oh, don’t weep!  Dear Milly, if you could read my heart, and only knew with what affection and what grateful homage it is glowing, you would not let me see you weep.  It is such deep reproach.”

“No, no,” said Milly, “it’s not that.  It’s not indeed.  It’s joy.  It’s wonder that you should think it necessary to ask me to forgive so little, and yet it’s pleasure that you do.”

“And will you come again? and will you finish the little curtain?”

“No,” said Milly, drying her eyes, and shaking her head.  “You won’t care for my needlework now.”

“Is it forgiving me, to say that?”

She beckoned him aside, and whispered in his