BOOK THE SECOND: RICHES - CHAPTER 20 Introduces the next

The passengers were landing from the packet on the pier at Calais.

A low-lying place and a low-spirited place Calais was, with the

tide ebbing out towards low water-mark. There had been no more

water on the bar than had sufficed to float the packet in; and now

the bar itself, with a shallow break of sea over it, looked like a

lazy marine monster just risen to the surface, whose form was

indistinctly shown as it lay asleep. The meagre lighthouse all in

white, haunting the seaboard as if it were the ghost of an edifice

that had once had colour and rotundity, dropped melancholy tears

after its late buffeting by the waves. The long rows of gaunt

black piles, slimy and wet and weather-worn, with funeral garlands

of seaweed twisted about them by the late tide, might have

represented an unsightly marine cemetery. Every wave-dashed,

storm-beaten object, was so low and so little, under the broad grey

sky, in the noise of the wind and sea, and before the curling lines

of surf, making at it ferociously, that the wonder was there was

any Calais left, and that its low gates and low wall and low roofs

and low ditches and low sand-hills and low ramparts and flat

streets, had not yielded long ago to the undermining and besieging

sea, like the fortifications children make on the sea-shore.

After slipping among oozy piles and planks, stumbling up wet steps

and encountering many salt difficulties, the passengers entered on

their comfortless peregrination along the pier; where all the

French vagabonds and English outlaws in the town (half the

population) attended to prevent their recovery from bewilderment.

After being minutely inspected by all the English, and claimed and

reclaimed and counter-claimed as prizes by all the French in a

hand-to-hand scuffle three quarters of a mile long, they were at

last free to enter the streets, and to make off in their various

directions, hotly pursued.

Clennam, harassed by more anxieties than one, was among this

devoted band. Having rescued the most defenceless of his

compatriots from situations of great extremity, he now went his way

alone, or as nearly alone as he could be, with a native gentleman

in a suit of grease and a cap of the same material, giving chase at

a distance of some fifty yards, and continually calling after him,

'Hi! Ice-say! You! Seer! Ice-say! Nice Oatel!'

Even this hospitable person, however, was left behind at last, and

Clennam pursued his way, unmolested. There was a tranquil air in

the town after the turbulence of the Channel and the beach, and its

dulness in that comparison was agreeable. He met new groups of his

countrymen, who had all a straggling air of having at one time

overblown themselves, like certain uncomfortable kinds of flowers,

and of being now mere weeds. They had all an air, too, of lounging

out a limited round, day after day, which strongly reminded him of

the Marshalsea. But, taking no further note of them than was

sufficient to give birth to the reflection, he sought out a certain

street and number which he kept in his mind.

'So Pancks said,' he murmured to himself, as he stopped before a

dull house answering to the address. 'I suppose his information to

be correct and his discovery, among Mr Casby's loose papers,

indisputable; but, without it, I should hardly have supposed this

to be a likely place.'

A dead sort of house, with a dead wall over the way and a dead

gateway at the side, where a pendant bell-handle produced two dead

tinkles, and a knocker produced a dead, flat, surface-tapping, that

seemed not to have depth enough in it to penetrate even the cracked

door. However, the door jarred open on a dead sort of spring; and

he closed it behind him as he entered a dull yard, soon brought to

a close by another dead wall, where an attempt had been made to

train some creeping shrubs, which were dead; and to make a little

fountain in a grotto, which was dry; and to decorate that with a

little statue, which was gone.

The entry to the house was on the left, and it was garnished as the

outer gateway was, with two printed bills in French and English,

announcing Furnished Apartments to let, with immediate possession.

A strong cheerful peasant woman, all stocking, petticoat, white

cap, and ear-ring, stood here in a dark doorway, and said with a

pleasant show of teeth, 'Ice-say! Seer! Who?'

Clennam, replying in French, said the English lady; he wished to

see the English lady. 'Enter then and ascend, if you please,'

returned the peasant woman, in French likewise. He did both, and

followed her up a dark bare staircase to a back room on the first-

floor. Hence, there was a gloomy view of the yard that was dull,

and of the shrubs that were dead, and of the fountain that was dry,

and of the pedestal of the statue that was gone.

'Monsieur Blandois,' said Clennam.

'With pleasure, Monsieur.'

Thereupon the woman withdrew and left him to look at the room. It

was the pattern of room always to be found in such a house. Cool,

dull, and dark. Waxed floor very slippery. A room not large

enough to skate in; nor adapted to the easy pursuit of any other

occupation. Red and white curtained windows, little straw mat,

little round table with a tumultuous assemblage of legs underneath,

clumsy rush-bottomed chairs, two great red velvet arm-chairs

affording plenty of space to be uncomfortable in, bureau, chimney-

glass in several pieces pretending to be in one piece, pair of

gaudy vases of very artificial flowers; between them a Greek

warrior with his helmet off, sacrificing a clock to the Genius of

France.

After some pause, a door of communication with another room was

opened, and a lady entered. She manifested great surprise on

seeing Clennam, and her glance went round the room in search of

some one else.

'Pardon me, Miss Wade. I am alone.'

'It was not your name that was brought to me.'

'No; I know that. Excuse me. I have already had experience that

my name does not predispose you to an interview; and I ventured to

mention the name of one I am in search of.'

'Pray,' she returned, motioning him to a chair so coldly that he

remained standing, 'what name was it that you gave?'

'I mentioned the name of Blandois.'

'Blandois?'

'A name you are acquainted with.'

'It is strange,' she said, frowning, 'that you should still press

an undesired interest in me and my acquaintances, in me and my

affairs, Mr Clennam. I don't know what you mean.'

'Pardon me. You know the name?'

'What can you have to do with the name? What can I have to do with

the name? What can you have to do with my knowing or not knowing

any name? I know many names and I have forgotten many more. This

may be in the one class, or it may be in the other, or I may never

have heard it. I am acquainted with no reason for examining

myself, or for being examined, about it.'

'If you will allow me,' said Clennam, 'I will tell you my reason

for pressing the subject. I admit that I do press it, and I must

beg you to forgive me if I do so, very earnestly. The reason is

all mine, I do not insinuate that it is in any way yours.'

'Well, sir,' she returned, repeating a little less haughtily than

before her former invitation to him to be seated: to which he now

deferred, as she seated herself. 'I am at least glad to know that

this is not another bondswoman of some friend of yours, who is

bereft of free choice, and whom I have spirited away. I will hear

your reason, if you please.'

'First, to identify the person of whom we speak,' said Clennam,

'let me observe that it is the person you met in London some time

back. You will remember meeting him near the river--in the

Adelphi!'

'You mix yourself most unaccountably with my business,' she

replied, looking full at him with stern displeasure. 'How do you

know that?'

'I entreat you not to take it ill. By mere accident.'

'What accident?'

'Solely the accident of coming upon you in the street and seeing

the meeting.'

'Do you speak of yourself, or of some one else?'

'Of myself. I saw it.'

'To be sure it was in the open street,' she observed, after a few

moments of less and less angry reflection. 'Fifty people might

have seen it. It would have signified nothing if they had.'

'Nor do I make my having seen it of any moment, nor (otherwise than

as an explanation of my coming here) do I connect my visit with it

or the favour that I have to ask.'

'Oh! You have to ask a favour! It occurred to me,' and the

handsome face looked bitterly at him, 'that your manner was

softened, Mr Clennam.'

He was content to protest against this by a slight action without

contesting it in words. He then referred to Blandois'

disappearance, of which it was probable she had heard? However

probable it was to him, she had heard of no such thing. Let him

look round him (she said) and judge for himself what general

intelligence was likely to reach the ears of a woman who had been

shut up there while it was rife, devouring her own heart. When she

had uttered this denial, which he believed to be true, she asked

him what he meant by disappearance? That led to his narrating the

circumstances in detail, and expressing something of his anxiety to

discover what had really become of the man, and to repel the dark

suspicions that clouded about his mother's house. She heard him

with evident surprise, and with more marks of suppressed interest

than he had seen in her; still they did not overcome her distant,

proud, and self-secluded manner. When he had finished, she said

nothing but these words:

'You have not yet told me, sir, what I have to do with it, or what

the favour is? Will you be so good as come to that?'

'I assume,' said Arthur, persevering, in his endeavour to soften

her scornful demeanour, 'that being in communication--may I say,

confidential communication?--with this person--'

'You may say, of course, whatever you like,' she remarked; 'but I

do not subscribe to your assumptions, Mr Clennam, or to any one's.'

'--that being, at least in personal communication with him,' said

Clennam, changing the form of his position in the hope of making it

unobjectionable, 'you can tell me something of his antecedents,

pursuits, habits, usual place of residence. Can give me some

little clue by which to seek him out in the likeliest manner, and

either produce him, or establish what has become of him. This is

the favour I ask, and I ask it in a distress of mind for which I

hope you will feel some consideration. If you should have any

reason for imposing conditions upon me, I will respect it without

asking what it is.'

'You chanced to see me in the street with the man,' she observed,

after being, to his mortification, evidently more occupied with her

own reflections on the matter than with his appeal. 'Then you knew

the man before?'

'Not before; afterwards. I never saw him before, but I saw him

again on this very night of his disappearance. In my mother's

room, in fact. I left him there. You will read in this paper all

that is known of him.'

He handed her one of the printed bills, which she read with a

steady and attentive face.

'This is more than I knew of him,' she said, giving it back.

Clennam's looks expressed his heavy disappointment, perhaps his

incredulity; for she added in the same unsympathetic tone: 'You

don't believe it. Still, it is so. As to personal communication:

it seems that there was personal communication between him and your

mother. And yet you say you believe her declaration that she knows

no more of him!'

A sufficiently expressive hint of suspicion was conveyed in these

words, and in the smile by which they were accompanied, to bring

the blood into Clennam's cheeks.

'Come, sir,' she said, with a cruel pleasure in repeating the stab,

'I will be as open with you as you can desire. I will confess that

if I cared for my credit (which I do not), or had a good name to

preserve (which I have not, for I am utterly indifferent to its

being considered good or bad), I should regard myself as heavily

compromised by having had anything to do with this fellow. Yet he

never passed in at MY door--never sat in colloquy with ME until

midnight.'

She took her revenge for her old grudge in thus turning his subject

against him. Hers was not the nature to spare him, and she had no

compunction.

'That he is a low, mercenary wretch; that I first saw him prowling

about Italy (where I was, not long ago), and that I hired him

there, as the suitable instrument of a purpose I happened to have;

I have no objection to tell you. In short, it was worth my while,

for my own pleasure--the gratification of a strong feeling--to pay

a spy who would fetch and carry for money. I paid this creature.

And I dare say that if I had wanted to make such a bargain, and if

I could have paid him enough, and if he could have done it in the

dark, free from all risk, he would have taken any life with as

little scruple as he took my money. That, at least, is my opinion

of him; and I see it is not very far removed from yours. Your

mother's opinion of him, I am to assume (following your example of

assuming this and that), was vastly different.'

'My mother, let me remind you,' said Clennam, 'was first brought

into communication with him in the unlucky course of business.'

'It appears to have been an unlucky course of business that last

brought her into communication with him,' returned Miss Wade; 'and

business hours on that occasion were late.'

'You imply,' said Arthur, smarting under these cool-handed thrusts,

of which he had deeply felt the force already, 'that there was

something--'

'Mr Clennam,' she composedly interrupted, 'recollect that I do not

speak by implication about the man. He is, I say again without

disguise, a low mercenary wretch. I suppose such a creature goes

where there is occasion for him. If I had not had occasion for

him, you would not have seen him and me together.'

Wrung by her persistence in keeping that dark side of the case

before him, of which there was a half-hidden shadow in his own

breast, Clennam was silent.

'I have spoken of him as still living,' she added, 'but he may have

been put out of the way for anything I know. For anything I care,

also. I have no further occasion for him.'

With a heavy sigh and a despondent air, Arthur Clennam slowly rose.

She did not rise also, but said, having looked at him in the

meanwhile with a fixed look of suspicion, and lips angrily

compressed:

'He was the chosen associate of your dear friend, Mr Gowan, was he

not? Why don't you ask your dear friend to help you?'

The denial that he was a dear friend rose to Arthur's lips; but he

repressed it, remembering his old struggles and resolutions, and

said:

'Further than that he has never seen Blandois since Blandois set

out for England, Mr Gowan knows nothing additional about him. He

was a chance acquaintance, made abroad.'

'A chance acquaintance made abroad!' she repeated. 'Yes. Your

dear friend has need to divert himself with all the acquaintances

he can make, seeing what a wife he has. I hate his wife, sir.'

The anger with which she said it, the more remarkable for being so

much under her restraint, fixed Clennam's attention, and kept him

on the spot. It flashed out of her dark eyes as they regarded him,

quivered in her nostrils, and fired the very breath she exhaled;

but her face was otherwise composed into a disdainful serenity; and

her attitude was as calmly and haughtily graceful as if she had

been in a mood of complete indifference.

'All I will say is, Miss Wade,' he remarked, 'that you can have

received no provocation to a feeling in which I believe you have no

sharer.'

'You may ask your dear friend, if you choose,' she returned, 'for

his opinion upon that subject.'

'I am scarcely on those intimate terms with my dear friend,' said

Arthur, in spite of his resolutions, 'that would render my

approaching the subject very probable, Miss Wade.'

'I hate him,' she returned. 'Worse than his wife, because I was

once dupe enough, and false enough to myself, almost to love him.

You have seen me, sir, only on common-place occasions, when I dare

say you have thought me a common-place woman, a little more self-

willed than the generality. You don't know what I mean by hating,

if you know me no better than that; you can't know, without knowing

with what care I have studied myself and people about me. For this

reason I have for some time inclined to tell you what my life has

been--not to propitiate your opinion, for I set no value on it; but

that you may comprehend, when you think of your dear friend and his

dear wife, what I mean by hating. Shall I give you something I

have written and put by for your perusal, or shall I hold my hand?'

Arthur begged her to give it to him. She went to the bureau,

unlocked it, and took from an inner drawer a few folded sheets of

paper. Without any conciliation of him, scarcely addressing him,

rather speaking as if she were speaking to her own looking-glass

for the justification of her own stubbornness, she said, as she

gave them to him:

'Now you may know what I mean by hating! No more of that. Sir,

whether you find me temporarily and cheaply lodging in an empty

London house, or in a Calais apartment, you find Harriet with me.

You may like to see her before you leave. Harriet, come in!' She

called Harriet again. The second call produced Harriet, once

Tattycoram.

'Here is Mr Clennam,' said Miss Wade; 'not come for you; he has

given you up,--I suppose you have, by this time?'

'Having no authority, or influence--yes,' assented Clennam.

'Not come in search of you, you see; but still seeking some one.

He wants that Blandois man.'

'With whom I saw you in the Strand in London,' hinted Arthur.

'If you know anything of him, Harriet, except that he came from

Venice--which we all know--tell it to Mr Clennam freely.'

'I know nothing more about him,' said the girl.

'Are you satisfied?' Miss Wade inquired of Arthur.

He had no reason to disbelieve them; the girl's manner being so

natural as to be almost convincing, if he had had any previous

doubts. He replied, 'I must seek for intelligence elsewhere.'

He was not going in the same breath; but he had risen before the

girl entered, and she evidently thought he was. She looked quickly

at him, and said:

'Are they well, sir?'

'Who?'

She stopped herself in saying what would have been 'all of them;'

glanced at Miss Wade; and said 'Mr and Mrs Meagles.'

'They were, when I last heard of them. They are not at home. By

the way, let me ask you. Is it true that you were seen there?'

'Where? Where does any one say I was seen?' returned the girl,

sullenly casting down her eyes.

'Looking in at the garden gate of the cottage.'

'No,' said Miss Wade. 'She has never been near it.'

'You are wrong, then,' said the girl. 'I went down there the last

time we were in London. I went one afternoon when you left me

alone. And I did look in.'

'You poor-spirited girl,' returned Miss Wade with infinite

contempt; 'does all our companionship, do all our conversations, do

all your old complainings, tell for so little as that?'

'There was no harm in looking in at the gate for an instant,' said

the girl. 'I saw by the windows that the family were not there.'

'Why should you go near the place?'

'Because I wanted to see it. Because I felt that I should like to

look at it again.'

As each of the two handsome faces looked at the other, Clennam felt

how each of the two natures must be constantly tearing the other to

pieces.

'Oh!' said Miss Wade, coldly subduing and removing her glance; 'if

you had any desire to see the place where you led the life from

which I rescued you because you had found out what it was, that is

another thing. But is that your truth to me? Is that your

fidelity to me? Is that the common cause I make with you? You are

not worth the confidence I have placed in you. You are not worth

the favour I have shown you. You are no higher than a spaniel, and

had better go back to the people who did worse than whip you.'

'If you speak so of them with any one else by to hear, you'll

provoke me to take their part,' said the girl.

'Go back to them,' Miss Wade retorted. 'Go back to them.'

'You know very well,' retorted Harriet in her turn, 'that I won't

go back to them. You know very well that I have thrown them off,

and never can, never shall, never will, go back to them. Let them

alone, then, Miss Wade.'

'You prefer their plenty to your less fat living here,' she

rejoined. 'You exalt them, and slight me. What else should I have

expected? I ought to have known it.'

'It's not so,' said the girl, flushing high, 'and you don't say

what you mean. I know what you mean. You are reproaching me,

underhanded, with having nobody but you to look to. And because I

have nobody but you to look to, you think you are to make me do, or

not do, everything you please, and are to put any affront upon me.

You are as bad as they were, every bit. But I will not be quite

tamed, and made submissive. I will say again that I went to look

at the house, because I had often thought that I should like to see

it once more. I will ask again how they are, because I once liked

them and at times thought they were kind to me.'

Hereupon Clennam said that he was sure they would still receive her

kindly, if she should ever desire to return.

'Never!' said the girl passionately. 'I shall never do that.

Nobody knows that better than Miss Wade, though she taunts me

because she has made me her dependent. And I know I am so; and I

know she is overjoyed when she can bring it to my mind.'

'A good pretence!' said Miss Wade, with no less anger, haughtiness,

and bitterness; 'but too threadbare to cover what I plainly see in

this. My poverty will not bear competition with their money.

Better go back at once, better go back at once, and have done with

it!'

Arthur Clennam looked at them, standing a little distance asunder

in the dull confined room, each proudly cherishing her own anger;

each, with a fixed determination, torturing her own breast, and

torturing the other's. He said a word or two of leave-taking; but

Miss Wade barely inclined her head, and Harriet, with the assumed

humiliation of an abject dependent and serf (but not without

defiance for all that), made as if she were too low to notice or to

be noticed.

He came down the dark winding stairs into the yard with an

increased sense upon him of the gloom of the wall that was dead,

and of the shrubs that were dead, and of the fountain that was dry,

and of the statue that was gone. Pondering much on what he had

seen and heard in that house, as well as on the failure of all his

efforts to trace the suspicious character who was lost, he returned

to London and to England by the packet that had taken him over. On

the way he unfolded the sheets of paper, and read in them what is

reproduced in the next chapter.

Read next: BOOK THE SECOND: RICHES#CHAPTER 21 The History of a Self-Tormentor

Read previous: BOOK THE SECOND: RICHES#CHAPTER 19 The Storming of the Castle in the Air

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