George Meredith
The Amazing Marriage. Complete
CHAPTER XXXVI. BELOW THE SURFACE AND ABOVE
The girl was counselled by the tremor of her instincts to forbear to speak of the minor circumstance, that her mistress had, besides a good stick, a good companion on the road to Croridge: and she rejoiced to think her mistress had him, because it seemed an intimation of justice returning upon earth. She was combative, a born rebel against tyranny. She weighed the powers, she felt to the worth of the persons coming into her range of touch: she set her mistress and my lord fronting for a wrestle, and my lord’s wealth went to thin vapour, and her mistress’s character threw him. More dimly, my lord and the Welsh gentleman were put to the trial: a tough one for these two men. She did not proclaim the winner, but a momentary flutter of pity in the direction of Lord Fleetwood did as much. She pitied him; for his presence at Esslemont betrayed an inclination; he was ignorant of his lady’s character, of how firm she could be to defy him and all the world, in her gratitude to the gentleman she thought of as her true friend, smiled at for his open nature,—called by his Christian name.
The idea of a piece of information stinging Lord Fleetwood, the desire to sting, so as to be an instrument of retribution (one of female human nature’s ecstasies); and her, abstaining, that she, might not pain the lord who had been generous to her sister Sally, made the force in Madge’s breast which urges to the gambling for the undeveloped, entitled prophecy. She kept it low and felt it thrill.
Lord Fleetwood, chatted; Madge had him wincing. He might pull the cover off the child’s face carelessly—he looked at the child. His look at the child was a thought of the mother. If he thought of the mother, he would be wanting to see her. If he heard her call a gentleman by his Christian name, and heard the gentleman say ‘Carinthia’ my lord would begin to shiver at changes. Women have to do unusual things when they would bring that outer set to human behaviour. Perhaps my lord would mount the coach-box and whip his horses away, adieu forever. His lady would not weep. He might, perhaps, command her to keep her mouth shut from gentlemen’s Christian names, all except his own. His lady would not obey. He had to learn something of changes that had come to others as well as to himself. Ah, and then would he dare hint, as base men will? He may blow foul smoke on her, she will shine out of it. He has to learn what she is, that is his lesson; and let him pray all night and work hard all day for it not to be too late. Let him try to be a little like Mr. Woodseer, who worships the countess, and is hearty with the gentleman she treats as her best of friends. There is the real nobleman.
Fleetwood chatted on airily. His instincts were duller than those of the black-browed girl, at whom he gazed for idle satisfaction of eye from time to time while she replied demurely and maintained her drama of, the featureless but well-distinguished actors within her bosom,—a round, plump bust, good wharfage and harbourage, he was thinking. Excellent harbourage, supposing the arms out in pure good-will. A girl to hold her voyager fast and safe! Men of her class had really a capital choice in a girl like this. Men of another class as well, possibly, for temporary anchorage out midchannel. No?—possibly not. Here and there a girl is a Tartar. Ines talked of her as if she were a kind of religious edifice and a doubt were sacrilege. She could impress the rascal: girls have their arts for reaching the holy end, and still they may have a welcome for a foreign ship.
The earl said humorously: ‘You will grant me permission to lunch at your mistress’s table in her absence?’ And she said: ‘My lord!’ And he resumed, to waken her interest with a personal question: ‘You like our quiet country round Esslemont?’ She said: ‘I do,’ and gave him plain look for look. Her eye was undefended: he went into it, finding neither shallow nor depth, simply the look, always the look; whereby he knew that no story of man was there, and not the shyest of remote responsive invitations from Nature’s wakened and detected rogue. The bed of an unmarried young woman’s eye yields her secret of past and present to the intrepid diver, if he can get his plunge; he holds her for the tenth of a minute, that is the revealment. Jewel or oyster-shell, it is ours. She cannot withhold it, he knew right well. This girl, then, was, he could believe, one of the rarely exampled innocent in knowledge. He was practised to judge.
Invitation or challenge or response from the handsomest he would have scorned just then. His native devilry suffered a stir at sight of an innocent in knowledge and spotless after experiences. By a sudden singular twist, rather unfairly, naturally, as it happened, he attributed it to an influence issuing from her mistress, to whom the girl was devoted, whom consequently she copied; might physically, and also morally, at a distance, resemble.
‘Well, you’ve been a faithful servant to your lady, my dear; I hope you’ll be comfortable here,’ he said. ‘She likes the mountains.’
‘My lady would be quite contented if she could pass two months of the year in the mountains,’ Madge answered.
‘Look at me. They say people living together get a likeness to one another. What’s your opinion? Upon my word, your eyebrows remind me, though they’re not the colour—they have a bend!’
‘You’ve seen my lady in danger, my lord.’
‘Yes; well, there ‘s no one to resemble her there, she has her mark—kind of superhuman business. We’re none of us “fifty feet high, with phosphorus heads,” as your friend Mr. Gower Woodseer says of the prodigiosities. Lady Fleetwood is back—when?’
‘Before dark, she should be.’
He ran up the steps to the house.
At Lekkatts beneath Croridge a lean midday meal was being finished hard on the commencement by a silent company of three. When eating is choking to the younger members of the repast, bread and cold mutton-bone serve the turn as conclusively as the Frenchman’s buffet-dishes. Carinthia’s face of unshed tears dashed what small appetite Chillon had. Lord Levellier plied his fork in his right hand ruminating, his back an arch across his plate.
Riddles to the thwarted young, these old people will not consent to be read by sensations. Carinthia watched his jaws at their work of eating under his victim’s eye-knowing Chillon to be no longer an officer in the English service; knowing that her beloved had sold out for the mere money to pay debts and support his Henrietta; knowing, as he must know, that Chillon’s act struck a knife to pierce his mother’s breast through her coffin-boards! This old man could eat, and he could withhold the means due to his dead sister’s son. Could he look on Chillon and not feel that the mother’s heart was beating in her son’s fortunes? Half the money due to Chillon would have saved him from ruin.
Lord Levellier laid his fork on the plate. He munched his grievance with his bit of meat. The nephew and niece here present feeding on him were not so considerate as the Welsh gentleman, a total stranger, who had walked up to Lekkatts with the Countess of Fleetwood, and expressed the preference to feed at an inn. Relatives are cormorants.
His fork on his plate released the couple. Barely half a dozen words, before the sitting to that niggard restoration, had informed Carinthia of the step taken by her brother. She beckoned him to follow her.
‘The worst is done now, Chillon. I am silent. Uncle is a rock. You say we must not offend. I have given him my whole mind. Say where Riette is to live.’
‘Her headquarters will be here, at a furnished house. She’s, with her cousin, the Dowager.’
‘Yes. She should be with me.’
‘She wants music. She wants—poor girl! let her have what comes to her.’
Their thoughts beneath their speech were like fish darting under shadow of the traffic bridge.
‘She loves music,’ said Carinthia; ‘it is almost life to her, like fresh air to me. Next month I am in London; Lady Arpington is kind. She will give me as much of their polish as I can take. I dare say I should feel the need of it if I were an enlightened person.’
‘For instance, did I hear “Owain,” when your Welsh friend was leaving?’ Chillon asked.
‘It was his dying wife’s wish, brother.’
‘Keep to the rules, dear.’
‘They have been broken, Chillon.’
‘Mend them.’
‘That would be a step backward.’
‘“The right one for defence!” father says.’
‘Father says, “The habit of the defensive paralyzes will.”’
‘“Womanizes,” he says, Carin. You quote him falsely, to shield the sex. Quite right. But my sister must not be tricky. Keep to the rules. You’re an exceptional woman, and it would be a good argument, if you were not in an exceptional position.’
‘Owain is the exceptional man, brother.’
‘My dear, after all, you have a husband.’
‘I have a brother, I have a friend, I have no—I am a man’s wife and the mother of his child; I am free, or husband would mean dungeon. Does my brother want an oath from me? That I can give him.’
‘Conduct, yes; I couldn’t doubt you,’ said Chillon. ‘But “the world’s a flood at a dyke for women, and they must keep watch,” you’ve read.’
‘But Owain is not our enemy,’ said Carinthia, in her deeper tones, expressive of conviction, and not thereby assuring to hear. ‘He is a man with men, a child with women. His Rebecca could describe him; I laugh now at some of her sayings of him; I see her mouth, so tenderly comical over her big “simpleton,” she called him, and loved him so.’
The gentleman appeared on the waste land above the house. His very loose black suit and a peculiar roll of his gait likened him to a mourning boatswain who was jolly. In Lord Levellier’s workshop his remarks were to the point. Chillon’s powders for guns and blasting interested him, and he proposed to ride over from Barlings to witness a test of them.
‘You are staying at Barlings?’ Chillon said.
‘Yes; now Carinthia is at Esslemont,’ he replied, astoundingly the simpleton.
His conversation was practical and shrewd on the walk with Chillon and Carinthia down to Esslemont evidently he was a man well armed to encounter the world; social usages might be taught him. Chillon gained a round view of the worthy simple fellow, unlikely to turn out impracticable, for he talked such good sense upon matters of business.
Carinthia saw her brother tickled and interested. A feather moved her. Full of tears though she was, her, heart lay open to the heavens and their kind, small, wholesome gifts. Her happiness in the walk with her brother and her friend—the pair of them united by her companionship, both of them showing they counted her their comrade—was the nearest to the radiant day before she landed on an island, and imagined happiness grew here, and found it to be gilt thorns, loud mockery. A shaving North-easter tore the scream from hedges and the roar from copses under a faceless breadth of sky, and she said, as they turned into Esslemont Park lane: ‘We have had one of our old walks to-day, Chillon!’
‘You used to walk together long walks over in your own country,’ said Mr. Wythan.
‘Yes, Owain, we did, and my brother never knew me tired.’
‘Never knew you confess to it,’ said Chillon, as he swallowed the name on her lips.
‘Walking was flying over there, brother.’
‘Say once or twice in Wales, too,’ Mr. Wythan begged of her.
‘Wales reminded. Yes,.. Owain, I shall not forget Wales, Welsh people. Mr. Woodseer says they have the three-stringed harp in their breasts, and one string is always humming, whether you pull it or no.’
‘That ‘s love of country! that ‘s their love of wild Wales, Carinthia.’
There was a quiet interrogation in Chillon’s turn of the head at this fervent simpleton.
‘I love them for that hum,’ said she. ‘It joins one in me.’
‘Call to them any day, they are up, ready to march!’
‘Oh, dear souls!’ Carinthia said.
Her breath drew in.
The three were dumb. They saw Lord Fleetwood standing in the park gateway.
CHAPTER XXXVII. BETWEEN CARINTHIA AND HER LORD
The earl’s easy grace of manner was a ceremonial mantle on him as he grasped the situation in a look. He bent with deferential familiarity to his countess, exactly toning the degree of difference which befitted a salute to the two gentlemen, amiable or hostile.
‘There and back?’ he said, and conveyed a compliment to Carinthia’s pedestrian vigour in the wary smile which can be recalled for a snub.
She replied: ‘We have walked the distance, my lord.’
Her smile was the braced one of an untired stepper.
‘A cold wind for you.’
‘We walked fast.’
She compelled him to take her in the plural, though he addressed her separately, but her tones had their music.
‘Your brother, Captain Kirby-Levellier, I believe?’
‘My brother is not of the army now, my lord.’
She waved her hand for Madge to conduct donkey and baby to the house. He noticed. He was unruffled.
The form of amenity expected from her, in relation to her brother, was not exhibited. She might perhaps be feeling herself awkward at introductions, and had to be excused.
‘I beg,’ he said, and motioned to Chillon the way of welcome into the park, saw the fixed figure, and passed over the unspoken refusal, with a remark to Mr. Wythan: ‘At Barlings, I presume?’
‘My tent is pitched there,’ was the answer.
‘Good-bye, my brother,’ said Carinthia.
Chillon folded his arms round her. ‘God bless you, dear love. Let me see you soon.’ He murmured:
‘You can protect yourself.’
‘Fear nothing for me, dearest.’
She kissed her brother’s cheek. The strain of her spread fingers on his shoulder signified no dread at her being left behind.
Strangers observing their embrace would have vowed that the pair were brother and sister, and of a notable stock.
‘I will walk with you to Croridge again when you send word you are willing to go; and so, good-bye, Owain,’ she said.
She gave her hand; frankly she pressed the Welshman’s, he not a whit behind her in frankness.
Fleetwood had a skimming sense of a drop upon a funny, whirly world. He kept from giddiness, though the whirl had lasted since he beheld the form of a wild forest girl, dancing, as it struck him now, over an abyss, on the plumed shoot of a stumpy tree.
Ay, and she danced at the ducal schloss;—she mounted his coach like a witch of the Alps up crags;—she was beside him pelting to the vale under a leaden Southwester;—she sat solitary by the fireside in the room of the inn.
Veil it. He consented to the veil he could not lift. He had not even power to try, and his heart thumped.
London’s Whitechapel Countess glided before him like a candle in the fog.
He had accused her as the creature destroying Romance. Was it gold in place of gilding, absolute upper human life that the ridiculous object at his heels over London proposed instead of delirious brilliancies, drunken gallops, poison-syrups,—puffs of a young man’s vapours?
There was Madge and the donkey basket-trap ahead on the road to the house, bearing proof of the veiled had-been: signification of a might-have-been. Why not a possible might-be? Still the might-be might be. Looking on this shaven earth and sky of March with the wrathful wind at work, we know that it is not the end: a day follows for the world. But looking on those blown black funeral sprays, and the wrinkled chill waters, and the stare of the Esslemont house-windows, it has an appearance of the last lines of our written volume: dead Finis. Not death; fouler, the man alive seeing himself stretched helpless for the altering of his deeds; a coffin carrying him; the fatal whiteheaded sacerdotal official intoning his aims on the march to front, the drear craped files of the liveried, salaried mourners over his failure, trooping at his heels.
Frontward was the small lake’s grey water, rearward an avenue of limes.
But the man alive, if but an inch alive, can so take his life in his clutch, that he does alter, cleanse, recast his deeds:—it is known; priests proclaim it, philosophers admit it.
Can he lay his clutch on another’s life, and wring out the tears shed, the stains of the bruises, recollection of the wrongs?
Contemplate the wounded creature as a woman. Then, what sort of woman is she? She was once under a fascination—ludicrously, painfully, intensely like a sort of tipsy poor puss, the trapped hare tossed to her serpent; and thoroughly reassured for a few caresses, quite at home, caged and at home; and all abloom with pretty ways, modest pranks, innocent fondlings. Gobbled, my dear!
It is the doom of the innocents, a natural fate. Smother the creature with kindness again, show we are a point in the scale above that old coiler snake—which broke no bones, bit not so very deep;—she will be, she ought to be, the woman she was. That is, if she was then sincere, a dose of kindness should operate happily to restore the honeymoony fancies, hopes, trusts, dreams, all back, as before the honeymoon showed the silver crook and shadowy hag’s back of a decaying crescent. And true enough, the poor girl’s young crescent of a honeymoon went down sickly-yellow rather early. It can be renewed. She really was at that time rather romantic. She became absurd. Romance is in her, nevertheless. She is a woman of mettle: she is probably expecting to be wooed. One makes a hash of yesterday’s left dish, but she may know no better. ‘Add a pickle,’ as Chummy Potts used to say. The dish is rendered savoury by a slight expenditure of attentions, just a dab of intimated soft stuff.
‘Pleasant to see you established here, if you find the place agreeable,’ he said.
She was kissing her hand to her brother, all her eyes for him—or for the couple; and they were hidden by the park lodge before she replied: ‘It is an admired, beautiful place.’
‘I came,’ said he, ‘to have your assurance that it suits you.’
‘I thank you, my lord.’
‘“My lord” would like a short rest, Carinthia.’
She seemed placidly acquiescing. ‘You have seen the boy?’
‘Twice to-day. We were having a conversation just now.’
‘We think him very intelligent.’
‘Lady Arpington tells me you do the honours here excellently.’
‘She is good to me.’
‘Praises the mother’s management of the young one. John Edward: Edward for call-name. Madge boasts his power for sleeping.’
‘He gives little trouble.’
‘And babes repay us! We learn from small things. Out of the mouth of babes wisdom? Well, their habits show the wisdom of the mother. A good mother! There’s no higher title. A lady of my acquaintance bids fair to win it, they say.’
Carinthia looked in simplicity, saw herself, and said ‘If a mother may rear her boy till he must go to school, she is rewarded for all she does.’
‘Ah,’ said he, nodding over her mania of the perpetual suspicion. ‘Leddings, Queeney, the servants here, run smoothly?’
‘They do: they are happy in serving.’
‘You see, we English are not such bad fellows when we’re known. The climate to-day, for example, is rather trying.’
‘I miss colours most in England,’ said Carinthia. ‘I like the winds. Now and then we have a day to remember.’
‘We ‘re to be “the artist of the day,” Gower Woodseer says, and we get an attachment to the dreariest; we are to study “small variations of the commonplace”—dear me! But he may be right. The “sky of lead and scraped lead” over those lines, he points out; and it’s not a bad trick for reconciling us to gloomy English weather. You take lessons from him?’
‘I can always learn from him,’ said Carinthia.
Fleetwood depicted his plodding Gower at the tussle with account-books. She was earnest in sympathy; not awake to the comical; dull as the clouds, dull as the discourse. Yet he throbbed for being near her took impression of her figure, the play of her features, the carriage of her body.
He was shut from her eyes. The clear brown eyes gave exchange of looks; less of admission than her honest maid’s.
Madge and the miracle infant awaited them on the terrace. For so foreign did the mother make herself to him, that the appearance of the child, their own child, here between them, was next to miraculous; and the mother, who might well have been the most astonished, had transparently not an idea beyond the verified palpable lump of young life she lifted in her arms out of the arms of Madge, maternally at home with its presence on earth.
Demonstrably a fine specimen, a promising youngster. The father was allowed to inspect him. This was his heir: a little fellow of smiles, features, puckered brows of inquiry; seeming a thing made already, and active on his own account.
‘Do people see likenesses?’ he asked.
‘Some do,’ said the mother.
‘You?’
She was constrained to give answer. ‘There is a likeness to my father, I have thought.’
There’s a dotage of idolatrous daughters, he could have retorted; and his gaze was a polite offer to humdrum reconcilement, if it pleased her.
She sent the child up the steps.
‘Do you come in, my lord?’
‘The house is yours, my lady.’
‘I cannot feel it mine.’
‘You are the mistress to invite or exclude.’
‘I am ready to go in a few hours for a small income of money, for my child and me.’
‘—Our child.’
‘Yes.’
‘It is our child.’
‘It is.’
‘Any sum you choose to name. But where would you live?’
‘Near my brother I would live.’
‘Three thousand a year for pin-money, or more, are at your disposal. Stay here, I beg. You have only to notify your wants. And we’ll talk familiarly now, as we’re together. Can I be of aid to your brother? Tell me, pray. I am disposed in every way to subscribe to your wishes. Pray, speak, speak out.’
So the earl said. He had to force his familiar tone against the rebuke of her grandeur of stature; and he was for inducing her to deliver her mind, that the mountain girl’s feebleness in speech might reinstate him. She rejoined unhesitatingly: ‘My brother would not accept aid from you, my lord. I will take no money more than for my needs.’
‘You spoke of certain sums down in Wales.’
‘I did then.’ Her voice was dead.
‘Ah! You must be feeling the cold North-wind here.’
‘I do not. You may feel the cold, my lord. Will you enter the house?’
‘Do you invite me?’
‘The house is your own.’
‘Will the mistress of the house honour me so far?’
‘I am not the mistress of the house, my lord.’
‘You refuse, Carinthia?’
‘I would keep from using those words. I have no right to refuse the entry of the house to you.’
‘If I come in?’
‘I guard my rooms.’
She had been awake, then, to the thrusting and parrying behind masked language.
‘Good. You are quite decided, I may suppose.’
‘I will leave them when I have a little money, or when I know of how I may earn some.’
‘The Countess of Fleetwood earning a little money?’
‘I can put aside your title, my lord.’
‘No, you can’t put it aside while the man with the title lives, not even if you’re running off in earnest, under a dozen Welsh names. Why should you desire to do it? The title entitles you to the command of half my possessions. As to the house; don’t be alarmed; you will not have to guard your rooms. The extraordinary wild animal you—the impression may have been produced; I see, I see. If I were in the house, I should not be rageing at your doors; and it is not my intention to enter the house. That is, not by right of ownership. You have my word.’
He bowed to her, and walked to the stables.
She had the art of extracting his word from him. The word given, she went off with it, disengaged mistress of Esslemont. And she might have the place for residence, but a decent courtesy required that she should remain at the portico until he was out of sight. She was the first out of sight, rather insolently.
She returned him without comment the spell he had cast on her, and he was left to estimate the value of a dirited piece of metal not in the currency, stamped false coin. An odd sense of impoverishment chilled him. Chilly weather was afflicting the whole country, he was reminded, and he paced about hurriedly until his horses were in the shafts. After all, his driving away would be much more expected of him than a stay at the house where the Whitechapel Countess resided, chill, dry, talking the language of early Exercises in English, suitable to her Welshmen. Did she ‘Owain’ them every one?
As he whipped along the drive and left that glassy stare of Esslemont behind him, there came a slap of a reflection:—here, on the box of this coach, the bride just bursting her sheath sat, and was like warm wax to take impressions. She was like hard stone to retain them, pretty evidently. Like women the world over, she thinks only of her side of the case. Men disdain to plead theirs. Now money is offered her, she declines it. Formerly, she made it the principal subject of her conversation.
Turn the mind to something brighter. Fleetwood strung himself to do so, and became agitated by the question whether the bride sat to left or to right of him when the South-wester blew-a wind altogether preferable to the chill North-east. Women, when they are no longer warm, are colder than the deadliest catarrh wind scything across these islands. Of course she sat to left of him. In the line of the main road, he remembered a look he dropped on her, a look over his left shoulder.
She never had a wooing: she wanted it, had a kind of right to it, or the show of it. How to begin? But was she worth an effort? Turn to something brighter. Religion is the one refuge from women, Feltre says: his Roman Catholic recipe. The old shoemaker, Mr. Woodseer, hauls women into his religion, and purifies them by the process,—fancies he does. He gets them to wear an air. Old Gower, too, has his Religion of Nature, with free admission for women, whom he worships in similes, running away from them, leering sheepishly. No, Feltre’s’ rigid monastic system is the sole haven. And what a world, where we have no safety except in renouncing it! The two sexes created to devour one another must abjure their sex before they gain ‘The Peace,’ as Feltre says, impressively, if absurdly. He will end a monk if he has the courage of his logic. A queer spectacle—an English nobleman a shaven monk!
Fleetwood shuddered. We are twisted face about to discover our being saved by women from that horror—the joining the ranks of the nasal friars. By what women? Bacchante, clearly, if the wife we have is a North-easter to wither us, blood, bone, and soul.
He was hungry; he waxed furious with the woman who had flung him out upon the roads. He was thirsty as well. The brightest something to refresh his thoughts grew and glowed in the form of a shiny table, bearing tasty dishes, old wines; at an inn or anywhere. But, out of London, an English inn to furnish the dishes and the wines for a civilized and self-respecting man is hard to seek, as difficult to find as a perfect skeleton of an extinct species. The earl’s breast howled derision of his pursuit when he drew up at the sign of the Royal Sovereign, in the dusky hour, and handed himself desperately to Mrs. Rundles’ mercy.
He could not wait for a dinner, so his eating was cold meat. Warned by a sip, that his drinking, if he drank, was to be an excursion in chemical acids, the virtues of an abstainer served for his consolation. Tolerant of tobacco, although he did not smoke, he fronted the fire, envying Gower Woodseer the contemplative pipe, which for half a dozen puffs wafted him to bracing deserts, or primaeval forests, or old highways with the swallow thoughts above him, down the Past, into the Future. A pipe is pleasant dreams at command. A pipe is the concrete form of philosophy. Why, then, a pipe is the alternative of a friar’s frock for an escape from women. But if one does not smoke!… Here and there a man is visibly in the eyes of all men cursed: let him be blest by Fortune; let him be handsome, healthy, wealthy, courted, he is cursed.
Fleetwood lay that night beneath the roof of the Royal Sovereign. Sleep is life’s legitimate mate. It will treat us at times as the faithless wife, who becomes a harrying beast, behaves to her lord. He had no sleep. Having put out his candle, an idea took hold of him, and he jumped up to light it again and verify the idea that this room… He left the bed and strode round it, going in the guise of an urgent somnambulist, or ghost bearing burden of an imperfectly remembered mission. This was the room.
Reason and cold together overcame his illogical scruples to lie down on that bed soliciting the sleep desired. He lay and groaned, lay and rolled. All night the Naval Monarch with the loose cheeks and jelly smile of the swinging sign-board creaked. Flaws of the North-easter swung and banged him. He creaked high, in complaint,—low, in some partial contentment. There was piping of his boatswain, shrill piping—shrieks of the whistle. How many nights had that most ill-fated of brides lain listening to the idiotic uproar! It excused a touch of craziness. But how many? Not one, not two, ten, twenty:—count, count to the exact number of nights the unhappy girl must have heard those mad colloquies of the hurricane boatswain and the chirpy king. By heaven! Whitechapel, after one night of it, beckons as a haven of grace.
