BOOK THE SECOND: RICHES - CHAPTER 1 Fellow Travellers

In the autumn of the year, Darkness and Night were creeping up to

the highest ridges of the Alps.

It was vintage time in the valleys on the Swiss side of the Pass of

the Great Saint Bernard, and along the banks of the Lake of Geneva.

The air there was charged with the scent of gathered grapes.

Baskets, troughs, and tubs of grapes stood in the dim village

doorways, stopped the steep and narrow village streets, and had

been carrying all day along the roads and lanes. Grapes, split and

crushed under foot, lay about everywhere. The child carried in a

sling by the laden peasant woman toiling home, was quieted with

picked-up grapes; the idiot sunning his big goitre under the leaves

of the wooden chalet by the way to the Waterfall, sat Munching

grapes; the breath of the cows and goats was redolent of leaves and

stalks of grapes; the company in every little cabaret were eating,

drinking, talking grapes. A pity that no ripe touch of this

generous abundance could be given to the thin, hard, stony wine,

which after all was made from the grapes!

The air had been warm and transparent through the whole of the

bright day. Shining metal spires and church-roofs, distant and

rarely seen, had sparkled in the view; and the snowy mountain-tops

had been so clear that unaccustomed eyes, cancelling the

intervening country, and slighting their rugged heights for

something fabulous, would have measured them as within a few hours

easy reach. Mountain-peaks of great celebrity in the valleys,

whence no trace of their existence was visible sometimes for months

together, had been since morning plain and near in the blue sky.

And now, when it was dark below, though they seemed solemnly to

recede, like spectres who were going to vanish, as the red dye of

the sunset faded out of them and left them coldly white, they were

yet distinctly defined in their loneliness above the mists and

shadows.

Seen from these solitudes, and from the Pass of the Great Saint

Bernard, which was one of them, the ascending Night came up the

mountain like a rising water. When it at last rose to the walls of

the convent of the Great Saint Bernard, it was as if that weather-

beaten structure were another Ark, and floated on the shadowy

waves.

Darkness, outstripping some visitors on mules, had risen thus to

the rough convent walls, when those travellers were yet climbing

the mountain. As the heat of the glowing day when they had stopped

to drink at the streams of melted ice and snow, was changed to the

searching cold of the frosty rarefied night air at a great height,

so the fresh beauty of the lower journey had yielded to barrenness

and desolation. A craggy track, up which the mules in single file

scrambled and turned from block to block, as though they were

ascending the broken staircase of a gigantic ruin, was their way

now. No trees were to be seen, nor any vegetable growth save a

poor brown scrubby moss, freezing in the chinks of rock. Blackened

skeleton arms of wood by the wayside pointed upward to the convent

as if the ghosts of former travellers overwhelmed by the snow

haunted the scene of their distress. Icicle-hung caves and cellars

built for refuges from sudden storms, were like so many whispers of

the perils of the place; never-resting wreaths and mazes of mist

wandered about, hunted by a moaning wind; and snow, the besetting

danger of the mountain, against which all its defences were taken,

drifted sharply down.

The file of mules, jaded by their day's work, turned and wound

slowly up the deep ascent; the foremost led by a guide on foot, in

his broad-brimmed hat and round jacket, carrying a mountain staff

or two upon his shoulder, with whom another guide conversed. There

was no speaking among the string of riders. The sharp cold, the

fatigue of the journey, and a new sensation of a catching in the

breath, partly as if they had just emerged from very clear crisp

water, and partly as if they had been sobbing, kept them silent.

At length, a light on the summit of the rocky staircase gleamed

through the snow and mist. The guides called to the mules, the

mules pricked up their drooping heads, the travellers' tongues were

loosened, and in a sudden burst of slipping, climbing, jingling,

clinking, and talking, they arrived at the convent door.

Other mules had arrived not long before, some with peasant riders

and some with goods, and had trodden the snow about the door into

a pool of mud. Riding-saddles and bridles, pack-saddles and

strings of bells, mules and men, lanterns, torches, sacks,

provender, barrels, cheeses, kegs of honey and butter, straw

bundles and packages of many shapes, were crowded confusedly

together in this thawed quagmire and about the steps. Up here in

the clouds, everything was seen through cloud, and seemed

dissolving into cloud. The breath of the men was cloud, the breath

of the mules was cloud, the lights were encircled by cloud,

speakers close at hand were not seen for cloud, though their voices

and all other sounds were surprisingly clear. Of the cloudy line

of mules hastily tied to rings in the wall, one would bite another,

or kick another, and then the whole mist would be disturbed: with

men diving into it, and cries of men and beasts coming out of it,

and no bystander discerning what was wrong. In the midst of this,

the great stable of the convent, occupying the basement story and

entered by the basement door, outside which all the disorder was,

poured forth its contribution of cloud, as if the whole rugged

edifice were filled with nothing else, and would collapse as soon

as it had emptied itself, leaving the snow to fall upon the bare

mountain summit.

While all this noise and hurry were rife among the living

travellers, there, too, silently assembled in a grated house half-

a-dozen paces removed, with the same cloud enfolding them and the

same snow flakes drifting in upon them, were the dead travellers

found upon the mountain. The mother, storm-belated many winters

ago, still standing in the corner with her baby at her breast; the

man who had frozen with his arm raised to his mouth in fear or

hunger, still pressing it with his dry lips after years and years.

An awful company, mysteriously come together! A wild destiny for

that mother to have foreseen! 'Surrounded by so many and such

companions upon whom I never looked, and never shall look, I and my

child will dwell together inseparable, on the Great Saint Bernard,

outlasting generations who will come to see us, and will never know

our name, or one word of our story but the end.'

The living travellers thought little or nothing of the dead just

then. They thought much more of alighting at the convent door, and

warming themselves at the convent fire. Disengaged from the

turmoil, which was already calming down as the crowd of mules began

to be bestowed in the stable, they hurried shivering up the steps

and into the building. There was a smell within, coming up from

the floor, of tethered beasts, like the smell of a menagerie of

wild animals. There were strong arched galleries within, huge

stone piers, great staircases, and thick walls pierced with small

sunken windows--fortifications against the mountain storms, as if

they had been human enemies. There were gloomy vaulted sleeping-

rooms within, intensely cold, but clean and hospitably prepared for

guests. Finally, there was a parlour for guests to sit in and sup

in, where a table was already laid, and where a blazing fire shone

red and high.

In this room, after having had their quarters for the night

allotted to them by two young Fathers, the travellers presently

drew round the hearth. They were in three parties; of whom the

first, as the most numerous and important, was the slowest, and had

been overtaken by one of the others on the way up. It consisted of

an elderly lady, two grey-haired gentlemen, two young ladies, and

their brother. These were attended (not to mention four guides),

by a courier, two footmen, and two waiting-maids: which strong body

of inconvenience was accommodated elsewhere under the same roof.

The party that had overtaken them, and followed in their train,

consisted of only three members: one lady and two gentlemen. The

third party, which had ascended from the valley on the Italian side

of the Pass, and had arrived first, were four in number: a

plethoric, hungry, and silent German tutor in spectacles, on a tour

with three young men, his pupils, all plethoric, hungry, and

silent, and all in spectacles.

These three groups sat round the fire eyeing each other drily, and

waiting for supper. Only one among them, one of the gentlemen

belonging to the party of three, made advances towards

conversation. Throwing out his lines for the Chief of the

important tribe, while addressing himself to his own companions, he

remarked, in a tone of voice which included all the company if they

chose to be included, that it had been a long day, and that he felt

for the ladies. That he feared one of the young ladies was not a

strong or accustomed traveller, and had been over-fatigued two or

three hours ago. That he had observed, from his station in the

rear, that she sat her mule as if she were exhausted. That he had,

twice or thrice afterwards, done himself the honour of inquiring of

one of the guides, when he fell behind, how the lady did. That he

had been enchanted to learn that she had recovered her spirits, and

that it had been but a passing discomfort. That he trusted (by

this time he had secured the eyes of the Chief, and addressed him)

he might be permitted to express his hope that she was now none the

worse, and that she would not regret having made the journey.

'My daughter, I am obliged to you, sir,' returned the Chief, 'is

quite restored, and has been greatly interested.'

'New to mountains, perhaps?' said the insinuating traveller.

'New to--ha--to mountains,' said the Chief.

'But you are familiar with them, sir?' the insinuating traveller

assumed.

'I am--hum--tolerably familiar. Not of late years. Not of late

years,' replied the Chief, with a flourish of his hand.

The insinuating traveller, acknowledging the flourish with an

inclination of his head, passed from the Chief to the second young

lady, who had not yet been referred to otherwise than as one of the

ladies in whose behalf he felt so sensitive an interest.

He hoped she was not incommoded by the fatigues of the day.

'Incommoded, certainly,' returned the young lady, 'but not tired.'

The insinuating traveller complimented her on the justice of the

distinction. It was what he had meant to say. Every lady must

doubtless be incommoded by having to do with that proverbially

unaccommodating animal, the mule.

'We have had, of course,' said the young lady, who was rather

reserved and haughty, 'to leave the carriages and fourgon at

Martigny. And the impossibility of bringing anything that one

wants to this inaccessible place, and the necessity of leaving

every comfort behind, is not convenient.'

'A savage place indeed,' said the insinuating traveller.

The elderly lady, who was a model of accurate dressing, and whose

manner was perfect, considered as a piece of machinery, here

interposed a remark in a low soft voice.

'But, like other inconvenient places,' she observed, 'it must be

seen. As a place much spoken of, it is necessary to see it.'

'O! I have not the least objection to seeing it, I assure you, Mrs

General,' returned the other, carelessly.

'You, madam,' said the insinuating traveller, 'have visited this

spot before?'

'Yes,' returned Mrs General. 'I have been here before. Let me

commend you, my dear,' to the former young lady, 'to shade your

face from the hot wood, after exposure to the mountain air and

snow. You, too, my dear,' to the other and younger lady, who

immediately did so; while the former merely said, 'Thank you, Mrs

General, I am Perfectly comfortable, and prefer remaining as I am.'

The brother, who had left his chair to open a piano that stood in

the room, and who had whistled into it and shut it up again, now

came strolling back to the fire with his glass in his eye. He was

dressed in the very fullest and completest travelling trim. The

world seemed hardly large enough to yield him an amount of travel

proportionate to his equipment.

'These fellows are an immense time with supper,' he drawled. 'I

wonder what they'll give us! Has anybody any idea?'

'Not roast man, I believe,' replied the voice of the second

gentleman of the party of three.

'I suppose not. What d'ye mean?' he inquired.

'That, as you are not to be served for the general supper, perhaps

you will do us the favour of not cooking yourself at the general

fire,' returned the other.

The young gentleman who was standing in an easy attitude on the

hearth, cocking his glass at the company, with his back to the

blaze and his coat tucked under his arms, something as if he were

Of the Poultry species and were trussed for roasting, lost

countenance at this reply; he seemed about to demand further

explanation, when it was discovered--through all eyes turning on

the speaker--that the lady with him, who was young and beautiful,

had not heard what had passed through having fainted with her head

upon his shoulder.

'I think,' said the gentleman in a subdued tone, 'I had best carry

her straight to her room. Will you call to some one to bring a

light?' addressing his companion, 'and to show the way? In this

strange rambling place I don't know that I could find it.'

'Pray, let me call my maid,' cried the taller of the young ladies.

'Pray, let me put this water to her lips,' said the shorter, who

had not spoken yet.

Each doing what she suggested, there was no want of assistance.

Indeed, when the two maids came in (escorted by the courier, lest

any one should strike them dumb by addressing a foreign language to

them on the road), there was a prospect of too much assistance.

Seeing this, and saying as much in a few words to the slighter and

younger of the two ladies, the gentleman put his wife's arm over

his shoulder, lifted her up, and carried her away.

His friend, being left alone with the other visitors, walked slowly

up and down the room without coming to the fire again, pulling his

black moustache in a contemplative manner, as if he felt himself

committed to the late retort. While the subject of it was

breathing injury in a corner, the Chief loftily addressed this

gentleman.

'Your friend, sir,' said he, 'is--ha--is a little impatient; and,

in his impatience, is not perhaps fully sensible of what he owes

to--hum--to--but we will waive that, we will waive that. Your

friend is a little impatient, sir.'

'It may be so, sir,' returned the other. 'But having had the

honour of making that gentleman's acquaintance at the hotel at

Geneva, where we and much good company met some time ago, and

having had the honour of exchanging company and conversation with

that gentleman on several subsequent excursions, I can hear

nothing--no, not even from one of your appearance and station,

sir--detrimental to that gentleman.'

'You are in no danger, sir, of hearing any such thing from me. In

remarking that your friend has shown impatience, I say no such

thing. I make that remark, because it is not to be doubted that my

son, being by birth and by--ha--by education a--hum--a gentleman,

would have readily adapted himself to any obligingly expressed wish

on the subject of the fire being equally accessible to the whole of

the present circle. Which, in principle, I--ha--for all are--hum--

equal on these occasions--I consider right.'

'Good,' was the reply. 'And there it ends! I am your son's

obedient servant. I beg your son to receive the assurance of my

profound consideration. And now, sir, I may admit, freely admit,

that my friend is sometimes of a sarcastic temper.'

'The lady is your friend's wife, sir?'

'The lady is my friend's wife, sir.'

'She is very handsome.'

'Sir, she is peerless. They are still in the first year of their

marriage. They are still partly on a marriage, and partly on an

artistic, tour.'

'Your friend is an artist, sir?'

The gentleman replied by kissing the fingers of his right hand, and

wafting the kiss the length of his arm towards Heaven. As who

should say, I devote him to the celestial Powers as an immortal

artist!

'But he is a man of family,' he added. 'His connections are of the

best. He is more than an artist: he is highly connected. He may,

in effect, have repudiated his connections, proudly, impatiently,

sarcastically (I make the concession of both words); but he has

them. Sparks that have been struck out during our intercourse have

shown me this.'

'Well! I hope,' said the lofty gentleman, with the air of finally

disposing of the subject, 'that the lady's indisposition may be

only temporary.'

'Sir, I hope so.'

'Mere fatigue, I dare say.'

'Not altogether mere fatigue, sir, for her mule stumbled to-day,

and she fell from the saddle. She fell lightly, and was up again

without assistance, and rode from us laughing; but she complained

towards evening of a slight bruise in the side. She spoke of it

more than once, as we followed your party up the mountain.'

The head of the large retinue, who was gracious but not familiar,

appeared by this time to think that he had condescended more than

enough. He said no more, and there was silence for some quarter of

an hour until supper appeared.

With the supper came one of the young Fathers (there seemed to be

no old Fathers) to take the head of the table. It was like the

supper of an ordinary Swiss hotel, and good red wine grown by the

convent in more genial air was not wanting. The artist traveller

calmly came and took his place at table when the rest sat down,

with no apparent sense upon him of his late skirmish with the

completely dressed traveller.

'Pray,' he inquired of the host, over his soup, 'has your convent

many of its famous dogs now?'

'Monsieur, it has three.'

'I saw three in the gallery below. Doubtless the three in

question.'

The host, a slender, bright-eyed, dark young man of polite manners,

whose garment was a black gown with strips of white crossed over it

like braces, and who no more resembled the conventional breed of

Saint Bernard monks than he resembled the conventional breed of

Saint Bernard dogs, replied, doubtless those were the three in

question.

'And I think,' said the artist traveller, 'I have seen one of them

before.'

It was possible. He was a dog sufficiently well known. Monsieur

might have easily seen him in the valley or somewhere on the lake,

when he (the dog) had gone down with one of the order to solicit

aid for the convent.

'Which is done in its regular season of the year, I think?'

Monsieur was right.

'And never without a dog. The dog is very important.'

Again Monsieur was right. The dog was very important. People were

justly interested in the dog. As one of the dogs celebrated

everywhere, Ma'amselle would observe.

Ma'amselle was a little slow to observe it, as though she were not

yet well accustomed to the French tongue. Mrs General, however,

observed it for her.

'Ask him if he has saved many lives?' said, in his native English,

the young man who had been put out of countenance.

The host needed no translation of the question. He promptly

replied in French, 'No. Not this one.'

'Why not?' the same gentleman asked.

'Pardon,' returned the host composedly, 'give him the opportunity

and he will do it without doubt. For example, I am well

convinced,' smiling sedately, as he cut up the dish of veal to be

handed round, on the young man who had been put out of countenance,

'that if you, Monsieur, would give him the opportunity, he would

hasten with great ardour to fulfil his duty.'

The artist traveller laughed. The insinuating traveller (who

evinced a provident anxiety to get his full share of the supper),

wiping some drops of wine from his moustache with a piece of bread,

joined the conversation.

'It is becoming late in the year, my Father,' said he, 'for

tourist-travellers, is it not?'

'Yes, it is late. Yet two or three weeks, at most, and we shall be

left to the winter snows.'

'And then,' said the insinuating traveller, 'for the scratching

dogs and the buried children, according to the pictures!'

'Pardon,' said the host, not quite understanding the allusion.

'How, then the scratching dogs and the buried children according to

the pictures?'

The artist traveller struck in again before an answer could be

given.

'Don't you know,' he coldly inquired across the table of his

companion, 'that none but smugglers come this way in the winter or

can have any possible business this way?'

'Holy blue! No; never heard of it.'

'So it is, I believe. And as they know the signs of the weather

tolerably well, they don't give much employment to the dogs--who

have consequently died out rather--though this house of

entertainment is conveniently situated for themselves. Their young

families, I am told, they usually leave at home. But it's a grand

idea!' cried the artist traveller, unexpectedly rising into a tone

of enthusiasm. 'It's a sublime idea. It's the finest idea in the

world, and brings tears into a man's eyes, by Jupiter!' He then

went on eating his veal with great composure.

There was enough of mocking inconsistency at the bottom of this

speech to make it rather discordant, though the manner was refined

and the person well-favoured, and though the depreciatory part of

it was so skilfully thrown off as to be very difficult for one not

perfectly acquainted with the English language to understand, or ,

even understanding, to take offence at: so simple and dispassionate

was its tone. After finishing his veal in the midst of silence,

the speaker again addressed his friend.

'Look,' said he, in his former tone, 'at this gentleman our host,

not yet in the prime of life, who in so graceful a way and with

such courtly urbanity and modesty presides over us! Manners fit

for a crown! Dine with the Lord Mayor of London (if you can get an

invitation) and observe the contrast. This dear fellow, with the

finest cut face I ever saw, a face in perfect drawing, leaves some

laborious life and comes up here I don't know how many feet above

the level of the sea, for no other purpose on earth (except

enjoying himself, I hope, in a capital refectory) than to keep an

hotel for idle poor devils like you and me, and leave the bill to

our consciences! Why, isn't it a beautiful sacrifice? What do we

want more to touch us? Because rescued people of interesting

appearance are not, for eight or nine months out of every twelve,

holding on here round the necks of the most sagacious of dogs

carrying wooden bottles, shall we disparage the place? No! Bless

the place. It's a great place, a glorious place!'

The chest of the grey-haired gentleman who was the Chief of the

important party, had swelled as if with a protest against his being

numbered among poor devils. No sooner had the artist traveller

ceased speaking than he himself spoke with great dignity, as having

it incumbent on him to take the lead in most places, and having

deserted that duty for a little while.

He weightily communicated his opinion to their host, that his life

must be a very dreary life here in the winter.

The host allowed to Monsieur that it was a little monotonous. The

air was difficult to breathe for a length of time consecutively.

The cold was very severe. One needed youth and strength to bear

it. However, having them and the blessing of Heaven--

Yes, that was very good. 'But the confinement,' said the grey-

haired gentleman.

There were many days, even in bad weather, when it was possible to

walk about outside. It was the custom to beat a little track, and

take exercise there.

'But the space,' urged the grey-haired gentleman. 'So small. So--

ha--very limited.'

Monsieur would recall to himself that there were the refuges to

visit, and that tracks had to be made to them also.

Monsieur still urged, on the other hand, that the space was so--

ha--hum--so very contracted. More than that, it was always the

same, always the same.

With a deprecating smile, the host gently raised and gently lowered

his shoulders. That was true, he remarked, but permit him to say

that almost all objects had their various points of view. Monsieur

and he did not see this poor life of his from the same point of

view. Monsieur was not used to confinement.

'I--ha--yes, very true,' said the grey-haired gentleman. He seemed

to receive quite a shock from the force of the argument.

Monsieur, as an English traveller, surrounded by all means of

travelling pleasantly; doubtless possessing fortune, carriages, and

servants--

'Perfectly, perfectly. Without doubt,' said the gentleman.

Monsieur could not easily place himself in the position of a person

who had not the power to choose, I will go here to-morrow, or there

next day; I will pass these barriers, I will enlarge those bounds.

Monsieur could not realise, perhaps, how the mind accommodated

itself in such things to the force of necessity.

'It is true,' said Monsieur. 'We will--ha--not pursue the subject.

You are--hum--quite accurate, I have no doubt. We will say no

more.'

The supper having come to a close, he drew his chair away as he

spoke, and moved back to his former place by the fire. As it was

very cold at the greater part of the table, the other guests also

resumed their former seats by the fire, designing to toast

themselves well before going to bed. The host, when they rose from

the table, bowed to all present, wished them good night, and

withdrew. But first the insinuating traveller had asked him if

they could have some wine made hot; and as he had answered Yes, and

had presently afterwards sent it in, that traveller, seated in the

centre of the group, and in the full heat of the fire, was soon

engaged in serving it out to the rest.

At this time, the younger of the two young ladies, who had been

silently attentive in her dark corner (the fire-light was the chief

light in the sombre room, the lamp being smoky and dull) to what

had been said of the absent lady, glided out. She was at a loss

which way to turn when she had softly closed the door; but, after

a little hesitation among the sounding passages and the many ways,

came to a room in a corner of the main gallery, where the servants

were at their supper. From these she obtained a lamp, and a

direction to the lady's room.

It was up the great staircase on the story above. Here and there,

the bare white walls were broken by an iron grate, and she thought

as she went along that the place was something like a prison. The

arched door of the lady's room, or cell, was not quite shut. After

knocking at it two or three times without receiving an answer, she

pushed it gently open, and looked in.

The lady lay with closed eyes on the outside of the bed, protected

from the cold by the blankets and wrappers with which she had been

covered when she revived from her fainting fit. A dull light

placed in the deep recess of the window, made little impression on

the arched room. The visitor timidly stepped to the bed, and said,

in a soft whisper, 'Are you better?'

The lady had fallen into a slumber, and the whisper was too low to

awake her. Her visitor, standing quite still, looked at her

attentively.

'She is very pretty,' she said to herself. 'I never saw so

beautiful a face. O how unlike me!'

It was a curious thing to say, but it had some hidden meaning, for

it filled her eyes with tears.

'I know I must be right. I know he spoke of her that evening. I

could very easily be wrong on any other subject, but not on this,

not on this!'

With a quiet and tender hand she put aside a straying fold of the

sleeper's hair, and then touched the hand that lay outside the

covering.

'I like to look at her,' she breathed to herself. 'I like to see

what has affected him so much.'

She had not withdrawn her hand, when the sleeper opened her eyes

and started.

'Pray don't be alarmed. I am only one of the travellers from down-

stairs. I came to ask if you were better, and if I could do

anything for you.'

'I think you have already been so kind as to send your servants to

my assistance?'

'No, not I; that was my sister. Are you better?'

'Much better. It is only a slight bruise, and has been well looked

to, and is almost easy now. It made me giddy and faint in a

moment. It had hurt me before; but at last it overpowered me all

at once.'

'May I stay with you until some one comes? Would you like it?'

'I should like it, for it is lonely here; but I am afraid you will

feel the cold too much.'

'I don't mind cold. I am not delicate, if I look so.' She quickly

moved one of the two rough chairs to the bedside, and sat down.

The other as quickly moved a part of some travelling wrapper from

herself, and drew it over her, so that her arm, in keeping it about

her, rested on her shoulder.

'You have so much the air of a kind nurse,' said the lady, smiling

on her, 'that you seem as if you had come to me from home.'

'I am very glad of it.'

'I was dreaming of home when I woke just now. Of my old home, I

mean, before I was married.'

'And before you were so far away from it.'

'I have been much farther away from it than this; but then I took

the best part of it with me, and missed nothing. I felt solitary

as I dropped asleep here, and, missing it a little, wandered back

to it.' There was a sorrowfully affectionate and regretful sound

in her voice, which made her visitor refrain from looking at her

for the moment.

'It is a curious chance which at last brings us together, under

this covering in which you have wrapped me,' said the visitor after

a pause;'for do you know, I think I have been looking for you some

time.'

'Looking for me?'

'I believe I have a little note here, which I was to give to you

whenever I found you. This is it. Unless I greatly mistake, it is

addressed to you? Is it not?'

The lady took it, and said yes, and read it. Her visitor watched

her as she did so. It was very short. She flushed a little as she

put her lips to her visitor's cheek, and pressed her hand.

'The dear young friend to whom he presents me, may be a comfort to

me at some time, he says. She is truly a comfort to me the first

time I see her.'

'Perhaps you don't,' said the visitor, hesitating--'perhaps you

don't know my story? Perhaps he never told you my story ?'

'No.'

'Oh no, why should he! I have scarcely the right to tell it myself

at present, because I have been entreated not to do so. There is

not much in it, but it might account to you for my asking you not

to say anything about the letter here. You saw my family with me,

perhaps? Some of them--I only say this to you--are a little proud,

a little prejudiced.'

'You shall take it back again,' said the other; 'and then my

husband is sure not to see it. He might see it and speak of it,

otherwise, by some accident. Will you put it in your bosom again,

to be certain?'

She did so with great care. Her small, slight hand was still upon

the letter, when they heard some one in the gallery outside.

'I promised,' said the visitor, rising, 'that I would write to him

after seeing you (I could hardly fail to see you sooner or later),

and tell him if you were well and happy. I had better say you were

well and happy.'

'Yes, yes, yes! Say I was very well and very happy. And that I

thanked him affectionately, and would never forget him.'

'I shall see you in the morning. After that we are sure to meet

again before very long. Good night!'

'Good night. Thank you, thank you. Good night, my dear!'

Both of them were hurried and fluttered as they exchanged this

parting, and as the visitor came out of the door. She had expected

to meet the lady's husband approaching it; but the person in the

gallery was not he: it was the traveller who had wiped the wine-

drops from his moustache with the piece of bread. When he heard

the step behind him, he turned round--for he was walking away in

the dark.

His politeness, which was extreme, would not allow of the young

lady's lighting herself down-stairs, or going down alone. He took

her lamp, held it so as to throw the best light on the stone steps,

and followed her all the way to the supper-room. She went down,

not easily hiding how much she was inclined to shrink and tremble;

for the appearance of this traveller was particularly disagreeable

to her. She had sat in her quiet corner before supper imagining

what he would have been in the scenes and places within her

experience, until he inspired her with an aversion that made him

little less than terrific.

He followed her down with his smiling politeness, followed her in,

and resumed his seat in the best place in the hearth. There with

the wood-fire, which was beginning to burn low, rising and falling

upon him in the dark room, he sat with his legs thrust out to warm,

drinking the hot wine down to the lees, with a monstrous shadow

imitating him on the wall and ceiling.

The tired company had broken up, and all the rest were gone to bed

except the young lady's father, who dozed in his chair by the fire.

The traveller had been at the pains of going a long way up-stairs

to his sleeping-room to fetch his pocket-flask of brandy. He told

them so, as he poured its contents into what was left of the wine,

and drank with a new relish.

'May I ask, sir, if you are on your way to Italy?'

The grey-haired gentleman had roused himself, and was preparing to

withdraw. He answered in the affirmative.

'I also!' said the traveller. 'I shall hope to have the honour of

offering my compliments in fairer scenes, and under softer

circumstances, than on this dismal mountain.'

The gentleman bowed, distantly enough, and said he was obliged to

him.

'We poor gentlemen, sir,' said the traveller, pulling his moustache

dry with his hand, for he had dipped it in the wine and brandy; 'we

poor gentlemen do not travel like princes, but the courtesies and

graces of life are precious to us. To your health, sir!'

'Sir, I thank you.'

'To the health of your distinguished family--of the fair ladies,

your daughters!'

'Sir, I thank you again, I wish you good night. My dear, are our--

ha--our people in attendance?'

'They are close by, father.'

'Permit me!' said the traveller, rising and holding the door open,

as the gentleman crossed the room towards it with his arm drawn

through his daughter's. 'Good repose! To the pleasure of seeing

you once more! To to-morrow!'

As he kissed his hand, with his best manner and his daintiest

smile, the young lady drew a little nearer to her father, and

passed him with a dread of touching him.

'Humph!' said the insinuating traveller, whose manner shrunk, and

whose voice dropped when he was left alone. 'If they all go to

bed, why I must go. They are in a devil of a hurry. One would

think the night would be long enough, in this freezing silence and

solitude, if one went to bed two hours hence.'

Throwing back his head in emptying his glass, he cast his eyes upon

the travellers' book, which lay on the piano, open, with pens and

ink beside it, as if the night's names had been registered when he

was absent. Taking it in his hand, he read these entries.

William Dorrit, Esquire

Frederick Dorrit, Esquire

Edward Dorrit, Esquire

Miss Dorrit

Miss Amy Dorrit

Mrs General

and Suite.

From France to Italy.

Mr and Mrs Henry Gowan.

From France to Italy.

To which he added, in a small complicated hand, ending with a long

lean flourish, not unlike a lasso thrown at all the rest of the

names:

Blandois. Paris.

From France to Italy.

And then, with his nose coming down over his moustache and his

moustache going up and under his nose, repaired to his allotted

cell.

Read next: BOOK THE SECOND: RICHES#CHAPTER 2 Mrs General

Read previous: BOOK THE FIRST: POVERTY#CHAPTER 36 The Marshalsea becomes an Orphan

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