Christmas Stories. Чарльз Диккенс

destined figure in Creation), it was on a New Year’s Day that this festivity took place.

      Bowley Hall was full of visitors. The red-faced gentleman was there, Mr. Filer was there, the great Alderman Cute was there—Alderman Cute had a sympathetic feeling with great people, and had considerably improved his acquaintance with Sir Joseph Bowley on the strength of his attentive letter: indeed had become quite a friend of the family since then—and many guests were there. Trotty’s ghost was there, wandering about, poor phantom, drearily; and looking for its guide.

      There was to be a great dinner in the Great Hall. At which Sir Joseph Bowley, in his celebrated character of Friend and Father of the Poor, was to make his great speech. Certain plum-puddings were to be eaten by his Friends and Children in another Hall first; and, at a given signal, Friends and Children flocking in among their Friends and Fathers, were to form a family assemblage, with not one manly eye therein unmoistened by emotion.

      But, there was more than this to happen. Even more than this. Sir Joseph Bowley, Baronet and Member of Parliament, was to play a match at skittles—real skittles—with his tenants!

      “Which quite reminds me,” said Alderman Cute, “of the days of old King Hal, stout King Hal, bluff King Hal. Ah! Fine character!”

      “Very,” said Mr. Filer, dryly. “For marrying women and murdering ’em. Considerably more than the average number of wives by the bye.”

      “You’ll marry the beautiful ladies, and not murder ’em, eh?” said Alderman Cute to the heir of Bowley, aged twelve. “Sweet boy! We shall have this little gentleman in Parliament now,” said the Alderman, holding him by the shoulders, and looking as reflective as he could, “before we know where we are. We shall hear of his successes at the poll; his speeches in the House; his overtures from Governments; his brilliant achievements of all kinds; ah! we shall make our little orations about him in the Common Council, I’ll be bound; before we have time to look about us!”

      “Oh, the difference of shoes and stockings!” Trotty thought. But his heart yearned towards the child, for the love of those same shoeless and stockingless boys, predestined (by the Alderman) to turn out bad, who might have been the children of poor Meg.

      “Richard,” moaned Trotty, roaming among the company, to and fro; “where is he? I can’t find Richard! Where is Richard?” Not likely to be there, if still alive! But Trotty’s grief and solitude confused him; and he still went wandering among the gallant company, looking for his guide, and saying, “Where is Richard? Show me Richard!”

      He was wandering thus, when he encountered Mr. Fish, the confidential Secretary: in great agitation.

      “Bless my heart and soul!” cried Mr. Fish. “Where’s Alderman Cute? Has anybody seen the Alderman?”

      Seen the Alderman? Oh dear! Who could ever help seeing the Alderman? He was so considerate, so affable, he bore so much in mind the natural desires of folks to see him, that if he had a fault, it was the being constantly On View. And wherever the great people were, there, to be sure, attracted by the kindred sympathy between great souls, was Cute.

      Several voices cried that he was in the circle round Sir Joseph. Mr. Fish made way there; found him; and took him secretly into a window near at hand. Trotty joined them. Not of his own accord. He felt that his steps were led in that direction.

      “My dear Alderman Cute,” said Mr. Fish. “A little more this way. The most dreadful circumstance has occurred. I have this moment received the intelligence. I think it will be best not to acquaint Sir Joseph with it till the day is over. You understand Sir Joseph, and will give me your opinion. The most frightful and deplorable event!”

      “Fish!” returned the Alderman. “Fish! My good fellow, what is the matter? Nothing revolutionary, I hope! No—no attempted interference with the magistrates?”

      “Deedles, the banker,” gasped the Secretary. “Deedles Brothers—who was to have been here to-day—high in office in the Goldsmiths’ Company—”

      “Not stopped!” exclaimed the Alderman, “It can’t be!”

      “Shot himself.”

      “Good God!”

      “Put a double-barrelled pistol to his mouth, in his own counting house,” said Mr. Fish, “and blew his brains out. No motive. Princely circumstances!”

      “Circumstances!” exclaimed the Alderman. “A man of noble fortune. One of the most respectable of men. Suicide, Mr. Fish! By his own hand!”

      “This very morning,” returned Mr. Fish.

      “Oh the brain, the brain!” exclaimed the pious Alderman, lifting up his hands. “Oh the nerves, the nerves; the mysteries of this machine called Man! Oh the little that unhinges it: poor creatures that we are! Perhaps a dinner, Mr. Fish. Perhaps the conduct of his son, who, I have heard, ran very wild, and was in the habit of drawing bills upon him without the least authority! A most respectable man. One of the most respectable men I ever knew! A lamentable instance, Mr. Fish. A public calamity! I shall make a point of wearing the deepest mourning. A most respectable man! But there is One above. We must submit, Mr. Fish. We must submit!”

      What, Alderman! No word of Putting Down? Remember, Justice, your high moral boast and pride. Come, Alderman! Balance those scales. Throw me into this, the empty one, no dinner, and Nature’s founts in some poor woman, dried by starving misery and rendered obdurate to claims for which her offspring has authority in holy mother Eve. Weigh me the two, you Daniel, going to judgment, when your day shall come! Weigh them, in the eyes of suffering thousands, audience (not unmindful) of the grim farce you play. Or supposing that you strayed from your five wits—it’s not so far to go, but that it might be—and laid hands upon that throat of yours, warning your fellows (if you have a fellow) how they croak their comfortable wickedness to raving heads and stricken hearts. What then?

      The words rose up in Trotty’s breast, as if they had been spoken by some other voice within him. Alderman Cute pledged himself to Mr. Fish that he would assist him in breaking the melancholy catastrophe to Sir Joseph when the day was over. Then, before they parted, wringing Mr. Fish’s hand in bitterness of soul, he said, “The most respectable of men!” And added that he hardly knew (not even he), why such afflictions were allowed on earth.

      “It’s almost enough to make one think, if one didn’t know better,” said Alderman Cute, “that at times some motion of a capsizing nature was going on in things, which affected the general economy of the social fabric. Deedles Brothers!”

      The skittle-playing came off with immense success. Sir Joseph knocked the pins about quite skilfully; Master Bowley took an innings at a shorter distance also; and everybody said that now, when a Baronet and the Son of a Baronet played at skittles, the country was coming round again, as fast as it could come.

      At its proper time, the Banquet was served up. Trotty involuntarily repaired to the Hall with the rest, for he felt himself conducted thither by some stronger impulse than his own free will. The sight was gay in the extreme; the ladies were very handsome; the visitors delighted, cheerful, and good-tempered. When the lower doors were opened, and the people flocked in, in their rustic dresses, the beauty of the spectacle was at its height; but Trotty only murmured more and more, “Where is Richard! He should help and comfort her! I can’t see Richard!”

      There had been some speeches made; and Lady Bowley’s health had been proposed; and Sir Joseph Bowley had returned thanks, and had made his great speech, showing by various pieces of evidence that he was the born Friend and Father, and so forth; and had given as a Toast, his Friends and Children, and the Dignity of Labour; when a slight disturbance at the bottom of the Hall attracted Toby’s notice. After some confusion, noise, and opposition, one man broke through the rest, and stood forward by himself.

      Not Richard. No. But one whom he had thought of, and had looked for, many times. In a scantier supply of light, he might have doubted the identity of that worn man, so old, and grey, and bent; but with a blaze of lamps upon his gnarled and knotted head, he knew Will Fern as soon as he stepped forth.