A TALE OF TWO CITIES - 1 - 4

A TALE OF TWO CITIES

A STORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION

By Charles Dickens

Recalled to Life

(4)

The Preparation

When the mail got successfully to Dover, in the course of the forenoon,

the head drawer at the Royal George Hotel opened the coach-door as his

custom was. He did it with some flourish of ceremony, for a mail journey

from London in winter was an achievement to congratulate an adventurous

traveller upon.

By that time, there was only one adventurous traveller left be

congratulated: for the two others had been set down at their respective

roadside destinations. The mildewy inside of the coach, with its damp

and dirty straw, its disagreeable smell, and its obscurity, was rather

like a larger dog-kennel. Mr. Lorry, the passenger, shaking himself out

of it in chains of straw, a tangle of shaggy wrapper, flapping hat, and

muddy legs, was rather like a larger sort of dog.

“There will be a packet to Calais, tomorrow, drawer?”

“Yes, sir, if the weather holds and the wind sets tolerable fair. The

tide will serve pretty nicely at about two in the afternoon, sir. Bed,

sir?”

“I shall not go to bed till night; but I want a bedroom, and a barber.”

“And then breakfast, sir? Yes, sir. That way, sir, if you please.

Show Concord! Gentleman's valise and hot water to Concord. Pull off

gentleman's boots in Concord. (You will find a fine sea-coal fire, sir.)

Fetch barber to Concord. Stir about there, now, for Concord!”

The Concord bed-chamber being always assigned to a passenger by the

mail, and passengers by the mail being always heavily wrapped up from

head to foot, the room had the odd interest for the establishment of the

Royal George, that although but one kind of man was seen to go into it,

all kinds and varieties of men came out of it. Consequently, another

drawer, and two porters, and several maids and the landlady, were all

loitering by accident at various points of the road between the Concord

and the coffee-room, when a gentleman of sixty, formally dressed in a

brown suit of clothes, pretty well worn, but very well kept, with large

square cuffs and large flaps to the pockets, passed along on his way to

his breakfast.

The coffee-room had no other occupant, that forenoon, than the gentleman

in brown. His breakfast-table was drawn before the fire, and as he sat,

with its light shining on him, waiting for the meal, he sat so still,

that he might have been sitting for his portrait.

Very orderly and methodical he looked, with a hand on each knee, and a

loud watch ticking a sonorous sermon under his flapped waist-coat,

as though it pitted its gravity and longevity against the levity and

evanescence of the brisk fire. He had a good leg, and was a little vain

of it, for his brown stockings fitted sleek and close, and were of a

fine texture; his shoes and buckles, too, though plain, were trim. He

wore an odd little sleek crisp flaxen wig, setting very close to his

head: which wig, it is to be presumed, was made of hair, but which

looked far more as though it were spun from filaments of silk or glass.

His linen, though not of a fineness in accordance with his stockings,

was as white as the tops of the waves that broke upon the neighbouring

beach, or the specks of sail that glinted in the sunlight far at sea. A

face habitually suppressed and quieted, was still lighted up under the

quaint wig by a pair of moist bright eyes that it must have cost

their owner, in years gone by, some pains to drill to the composed and

reserved expression of Tellson's Bank. He had a healthy colour in his

cheeks, and his face, though lined, bore few traces of anxiety.

But, perhaps the confidential bachelor clerks in Tellson's Bank were

principally occupied with the cares of other people; and perhaps

second-hand cares, like second-hand clothes, come easily off and on.

Completing his resemblance to a man who was sitting for his portrait,

Mr. Lorry dropped off to sleep. The arrival of his breakfast roused him,

and he said to the drawer, as he moved his chair to it:

“I wish accommodation prepared for a young lady who may come here at any

time to-day. She may ask for Mr. Jarvis Lorry, or she may only ask for a

gentleman from Tellson's Bank. Please to let me know.”

“Yes, sir. Tellson's Bank in London, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, sir. We have oftentimes the honour to entertain your gentlemen in

their travelling backwards and forwards betwixt London and Paris, sir. A

vast deal of travelling, sir, in Tellson and Company's House.”

“Yes. We are quite a French House, as well as an English one.”

“Yes, sir. Not much in the habit of such travelling yourself, I think,

sir?”

“Not of late years. It is fifteen years since we--since I--came last

from France.”

“Indeed, sir? That was before my time here, sir. Before our people's

time here, sir. The George was in other hands at that time, sir.”

“I believe so.”

“But I would hold a pretty wager, sir, that a House like Tellson and

Company was flourishing, a matter of fifty, not to speak of fifteen

years ago?”

“You might treble that, and say a hundred and fifty, yet not be far from

the truth.”

“Indeed, sir!”

Rounding his mouth and both his eyes, as he stepped backward from the

table, the waiter shifted his napkin from his right arm to his left,

dropped into a comfortable attitude, and stood surveying the guest while

he ate and drank, as from an observatory or watchtower. According to the

immemorial usage of waiters in all ages.

When Mr. Lorry had finished his breakfast, he went out for a stroll on

the beach. The little narrow, crooked town of Dover hid itself away

from the beach, and ran its head into the chalk cliffs, like a marine

ostrich. The beach was a desert of heaps of sea and stones tumbling

wildly about, and the sea did what it liked, and what it liked was

destruction. It thundered at the town, and thundered at the cliffs, and

brought the coast down, madly. The air among the houses was of so strong

a piscatory flavour that one might have supposed sick fish went up to be

dipped in it, as sick people went down to be dipped in the sea. A little

fishing was done in the port, and a quantity of strolling about by

night, and looking seaward: particularly at those times when the tide

made, and was near flood. Small tradesmen, who did no business whatever,

sometimes unaccountably realised large fortunes, and it was remarkable

that nobody in the neighbourhood could endure a lamplighter.

As the day declined into the afternoon, and the air, which had been

at intervals clear enough to allow the French coast to be seen, became

again charged with mist and vapour, Mr. Lorry's thoughts seemed to cloud

too. When it was dark, and he sat before the coffee-room fire, awaiting

his dinner as he had awaited his breakfast, his mind was busily digging,

digging, digging, in the live red coals.

A bottle of good claret after dinner does a digger in the red coals no

harm, otherwise than as it has a tendency to throw him out of work.

Mr. Lorry had been idle a long time, and had just poured out his last

glassful of wine with as complete an appearance of satisfaction as is

ever to be found in an elderly gentleman of a fresh complexion who has

got to the end of a bottle, when a rattling of wheels came up the narrow

street, and rumbled into the inn-yard.

He set down his glass untouched. “This is Mam'selle!” said he.

In a very few minutes the waiter came in to announce that Miss Manette

had arrived from London, and would be happy to see the gentleman from

Tellson's.

“So soon?”

Miss Manette had taken some refreshment on the road, and required none

then, and was extremely anxious to see the gentleman from Tellson's

immediately, if it suited his pleasure and convenience.

The gentleman from Tellson's had nothing left for it but to empty his

glass with an air of stolid desperation, settle his odd little flaxen

wig at the ears, and follow the waiter to Miss Manette's apartment.

It was a large, dark room, furnished in a funereal manner with black

horsehair, and loaded with heavy dark tables. These had been oiled and

oiled, until the two tall candles on the table in the middle of the room

were gloomily reflected on every leaf; as if _they_ were buried, in deep

graves of black mahogany, and no light to speak of could be expected

from them until they were dug out.

The obscurity was so difficult to penetrate that Mr. Lorry, picking his

way over the well-worn Turkey carpet, supposed Miss Manette to be, for

the moment, in some adjacent room, until, having got past the two tall

candles, he saw standing to receive him by the table between them and

the fire, a young lady of not more than seventeen, in a riding-cloak,

and still holding her straw travelling-hat by its ribbon in her hand. As

his eyes rested on a short, slight, pretty figure, a quantity of golden

hair, a pair of blue eyes that met his own with an inquiring look, and

a forehead with a singular capacity (remembering how young and smooth

it was), of rifting and knitting itself into an expression that was

not quite one of perplexity, or wonder, or alarm, or merely of a bright

fixed attention, though it included all the four expressions--as his

eyes rested on these things, a sudden vivid likeness passed before him,

of a child whom he had held in his arms on the passage across that very

Channel, one cold time, when the hail drifted heavily and the sea ran

high. The likeness passed away, like a breath along the surface of

the gaunt pier-glass behind her, on the frame of which, a hospital

procession of negro cupids, several headless and all cripples, were

offering black baskets of Dead Sea fruit to black divinities of the

feminine gender--and he made his formal bow to Miss Manette.

“Pray take a seat, sir.” In a very clear and pleasant young voice; a

little foreign in its accent, but a very little indeed.

“I kiss your hand, miss,” said Mr. Lorry, with the manners of an earlier

date, as he made his formal bow again, and took his seat.

“I received a letter from the Bank, sir, yesterday, informing me that

some intelligence--or discovery--”

“The word is not material, miss; either word will do.”

“--respecting the small property of my poor father, whom I never saw--so

long dead--”

Mr. Lorry moved in his chair, and cast a troubled look towards the

hospital procession of negro cupids. As if _they_ had any help for

anybody in their absurd baskets!

“--rendered it necessary that I should go to Paris, there to communicate

with a gentleman of the Bank, so good as to be despatched to Paris for

the purpose.”

“Myself.”

“As I was prepared to hear, sir.”

She curtseyed to him (young ladies made curtseys in those days), with a

pretty desire to convey to him that she felt how much older and wiser he

was than she. He made her another bow.

“I replied to the Bank, sir, that as it was considered necessary, by

those who know, and who are so kind as to advise me, that I should go to

France, and that as I am an orphan and have no friend who could go with

me, I should esteem it highly if I might be permitted to place myself,

during the journey, under that worthy gentleman's protection. The

gentleman had left London, but I think a messenger was sent after him to

beg the favour of his waiting for me here.”

“I was happy,” said Mr. Lorry, “to be entrusted with the charge. I shall

be more happy to execute it.”

“Sir, I thank you indeed. I thank you very gratefully. It was told me

by the Bank that the gentleman would explain to me the details of the

business, and that I must prepare myself to find them of a surprising

nature. I have done my best to prepare myself, and I naturally have a

strong and eager interest to know what they are.”

“Naturally,” said Mr. Lorry. “Yes--I--”

After a pause, he added, again settling the crisp flaxen wig at the

ears, “It is very difficult to begin.”

He did not begin, but, in his indecision, met her glance. The young

forehead lifted itself into that singular expression--but it was pretty

and characteristic, besides being singular--and she raised her hand,

as if with an involuntary action she caught at, or stayed some passing

shadow.

“Are you quite a stranger to me, sir?”

“Am I not?” Mr. Lorry opened his hands, and extended them outwards with

an argumentative smile.

Between the eyebrows and just over the little feminine nose, the line of

which was as delicate and fine as it was possible to be, the expression

deepened itself as she took her seat thoughtfully in the chair by which

she had hitherto remained standing. He watched her as she mused, and the

moment she raised her eyes again, went on:

“In your adopted country, I presume, I cannot do better than address you

as a young English lady, Miss Manette?”

“If you please, sir.”

“Miss Manette, I am a man of business. I have a business charge to

acquit myself of. In your reception of it, don't heed me any more than

if I was a speaking machine--truly, I am not much else. I will, with

your leave, relate to you, miss, the story of one of our customers.”

“Story!”

He seemed wilfully to mistake the word she had repeated, when he added,

in a hurry, “Yes, customers; in the banking business we usually call

our connection our customers. He was a French gentleman; a scientific

gentleman; a man of great acquirements--a Doctor.”

“Not of Beauvais?”

“Why, yes, of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the

gentleman was of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the

gentleman was of repute in Paris. I had the honour of knowing him there.

Our relations were business relations, but confidential. I was at that

time in our French House, and had been--oh! twenty years.”

“At that time--I may ask, at what time, sir?”

“I speak, miss, of twenty years ago. He married--an English lady--and

I was one of the trustees. His affairs, like the affairs of many other

French gentlemen and French families, were entirely in Tellson's hands.

In a similar way I am, or I have been, trustee of one kind or other for

scores of our customers. These are mere business relations, miss;

there is no friendship in them, no particular interest, nothing like

sentiment. I have passed from one to another, in the course of my

business life, just as I pass from one of our customers to another in

the course of my business day; in short, I have no feelings; I am a mere

machine. To go on--”

“But this is my father's story, sir; and I begin to think”--the

curiously roughened forehead was very intent upon him--“that when I was

left an orphan through my mother's surviving my father only two years,

it was you who brought me to England. I am almost sure it was you.”

Mr. Lorry took the hesitating little hand that confidingly advanced

to take his, and he put it with some ceremony to his lips. He then

conducted the young lady straightway to her chair again, and, holding

the chair-back with his left hand, and using his right by turns to rub

his chin, pull his wig at the ears, or point what he said, stood looking

down into her face while she sat looking up into his.

“Miss Manette, it _was_ I. And you will see how truly I spoke of myself

just now, in saying I had no feelings, and that all the relations I hold

with my fellow-creatures are mere business relations, when you reflect

that I have never seen you since. No; you have been the ward of

Tellson's House since, and I have been busy with the other business of

Tellson's House since. Feelings! I have no time for them, no chance

of them. I pass my whole life, miss, in turning an immense pecuniary

Mangle.”

After this odd description of his daily routine of employment, Mr. Lorry

flattened his flaxen wig upon his head with both hands (which was most

unnecessary, for nothing could be flatter than its shining surface was

before), and resumed his former attitude.

“So far, miss (as you have remarked), this is the story of your

regretted father. Now comes the difference. If your father had not died

when he did--Don't be frightened! How you start!”

She did, indeed, start. And she caught his wrist with both her hands.

“Pray,” said Mr. Lorry, in a soothing tone, bringing his left hand from

the back of the chair to lay it on the supplicatory fingers that clasped

him in so violent a tremble: “pray control your agitation--a matter of

business. As I was saying--”

Her look so discomposed him that he stopped, wandered, and began anew:

“As I was saying; if Monsieur Manette had not died; if he had suddenly

and silently disappeared; if he had been spirited away; if it had not

been difficult to guess to what dreadful place, though no art could

trace him; if he had an enemy in some compatriot who could exercise a

privilege that I in my own time have known the boldest people afraid

to speak of in a whisper, across the water there; for instance, the

privilege of filling up blank forms for the consignment of any one

to the oblivion of a prison for any length of time; if his wife had

implored the king, the queen, the court, the clergy, for any tidings of

him, and all quite in vain;--then the history of your father would have

been the history of this unfortunate gentleman, the Doctor of Beauvais.”

“I entreat you to tell me more, sir.”

“I will. I am going to. You can bear it?”

“I can bear anything but the uncertainty you leave me in at this

moment.”

“You speak collectedly, and you--_are_ collected. That's good!” (Though

his manner was less satisfied than his words.) “A matter of business.

Regard it as a matter of business--business that must be done. Now

if this doctor's wife, though a lady of great courage and spirit,

had suffered so intensely from this cause before her little child was

born--”

“The little child was a daughter, sir.”

“A daughter. A-a-matter of business--don't be distressed. Miss, if the

poor lady had suffered so intensely before her little child was born,

that she came to the determination of sparing the poor child the

inheritance of any part of the agony she had known the pains of, by

rearing her in the belief that her father was dead--No, don't kneel! In

Heaven's name why should you kneel to me!”

“For the truth. O dear, good, compassionate sir, for the truth!”

“A--a matter of business. You confuse me, and how can I transact

business if I am confused? Let us be clear-headed. If you could kindly

mention now, for instance, what nine times ninepence are, or how many

shillings in twenty guineas, it would be so encouraging. I should be so

much more at my ease about your state of mind.”

Without directly answering to this appeal, she sat so still when he had

very gently raised her, and the hands that had not ceased to clasp

his wrists were so much more steady than they had been, that she

communicated some reassurance to Mr. Jarvis Lorry.

“That's right, that's right. Courage! Business! You have business before

you; useful business. Miss Manette, your mother took this course with

you. And when she died--I believe broken-hearted--having never slackened

her unavailing search for your father, she left you, at two years old,

to grow to be blooming, beautiful, and happy, without the dark cloud

upon you of living in uncertainty whether your father soon wore his

heart out in prison, or wasted there through many lingering years.”

As he said the words he looked down, with an admiring pity, on the

flowing golden hair; as if he pictured to himself that it might have

been already tinged with grey.

“You know that your parents had no great possession, and that what

they had was secured to your mother and to you. There has been no new

discovery, of money, or of any other property; but--”

He felt his wrist held closer, and he stopped. The expression in the

forehead, which had so particularly attracted his notice, and which was

now immovable, had deepened into one of pain and horror.

“But he has been--been found. He is alive. Greatly changed, it is too

probable; almost a wreck, it is possible; though we will hope the best.

Still, alive. Your father has been taken to the house of an old servant

in Paris, and we are going there: I, to identify him if I can: you, to

restore him to life, love, duty, rest, comfort.”

A shiver ran through her frame, and from it through his. She said, in a

low, distinct, awe-stricken voice, as if she were saying it in a dream,

“I am going to see his Ghost! It will be his Ghost--not him!”

Mr. Lorry quietly chafed the hands that held his arm. “There, there,

there! See now, see now! The best and the worst are known to you, now.

You are well on your way to the poor wronged gentleman, and, with a fair

sea voyage, and a fair land journey, you will be soon at his dear side.”

She repeated in the same tone, sunk to a whisper, “I have been free, I

have been happy, yet his Ghost has never haunted me!”

“Only one thing more,” said Mr. Lorry, laying stress upon it as a

wholesome means of enforcing her attention: “he has been found under

another name; his own, long forgotten or long concealed. It would be

worse than useless now to inquire which; worse than useless to seek to

know whether he has been for years overlooked, or always designedly

held prisoner. It would be worse than useless now to make any inquiries,

because it would be dangerous. Better not to mention the subject,

anywhere or in any way, and to remove him--for a while at all

events--out of France. Even I, safe as an Englishman, and even

Tellson's, important as they are to French credit, avoid all naming of

the matter. I carry about me, not a scrap of writing openly referring

to it. This is a secret service altogether. My credentials, entries,

and memoranda, are all comprehended in the one line, 'Recalled to Life;'

which may mean anything. But what is the matter! She doesn't notice a

word! Miss Manette!”

Perfectly still and silent, and not even fallen back in her chair, she

sat under his hand, utterly insensible; with her eyes open and fixed

upon him, and with that last expression looking as if it were carved or

branded into her forehead. So close was her hold upon his arm, that he

feared to detach himself lest he should hurt her; therefore he called

out loudly for assistance without moving.

A wild-looking woman, whom even in his agitation, Mr. Lorry observed to

be all of a red colour, and to have red hair, and to be dressed in some

extraordinary tight-fitting fashion, and to have on her head a most

wonderful bonnet like a Grenadier wooden measure, and good measure too,

or a great Stilton cheese, came running into the room in advance of the

inn servants, and soon settled the question of his detachment from the

poor young lady, by laying a brawny hand upon his chest, and sending him

flying back against the nearest wall.

(“I really think this must be a man!” was Mr. Lorry's breathless

reflection, simultaneously with his coming against the wall.)

“Why, look at you all!” bawled this figure, addressing the inn servants.

“Why don't you go and fetch things, instead of standing there staring

at me? I am not so much to look at, am I? Why don't you go and fetch

things? I'll let you know, if you don't bring smelling-salts, cold

water, and vinegar, quick, I will.”

There was an immediate dispersal for these restoratives, and she

softly laid the patient on a sofa, and tended her with great skill and

gentleness: calling her “my precious!” and “my bird!” and spreading her

golden hair aside over her shoulders with great pride and care.

“And you in brown!” she said, indignantly turning to Mr. Lorry;

“couldn't you tell her what you had to tell her, without frightening her

to death? Look at her, with her pretty pale face and her cold hands. Do

you call _that_ being a Banker?”

Mr. Lorry was so exceedingly disconcerted by a question so hard to

answer, that he could only look on, at a distance, with much feebler

sympathy and humility, while the strong woman, having banished the inn

servants under the mysterious penalty of “letting them know” something

not mentioned if they stayed there, staring, recovered her charge by a

regular series of gradations, and coaxed her to lay her drooping head

upon her shoulder.

“I hope she will do well now,” said Mr. Lorry.

“No thanks to you in brown, if she does. My darling pretty!”

“I hope,” said Mr. Lorry, after another pause of feeble sympathy and

humility, “that you accompany Miss Manette to France?”

“A likely thing, too!” replied the strong woman. “If it was ever

intended that I should go across salt water, do you suppose Providence

would have cast my lot in an island?”

This being another question hard to answer, Mr. Jarvis Lorry withdrew to

consider it.

*****

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