business, and unfit to cope with such intricate and difficult
matters. I do not possess the kind of information necessary; I do
not possess the kind of intelligence; I want guiding. There is no
man in this world on whom I could so rely for right guidance, as
on you. Tell me, how does this relapse come about? Is there
danger of another? Could a repetition of it be prevented? How
should a repetition of it be treated? How does it come about at all?
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What can I do for my friend? No man ever can have been more
desirous in his heart to serve a friend, than I am to serve mine, if I
knew how. But I don’t know how to originate, in such a case. If
your sagacity, knowledge, and experience, could put me on the
right track, I might be able to do so much; unenlightened and
undirected, I can do so little. Pray discuss it with me; pray enable
me to see it a little more clearly, and teach me how to be a little
more useful.”
Doctor Manette sat meditating after these earnest words were
spoken, and Mr. Lorry did not press him.
“I think it probable,” said the Doctor, breaking silence with an
effort, “that the relapse you have described, my dear friend, was
not quite unforeseen by its subject.”
“Was it dreaded by him?” Mr. Lorry ventured to ask.
“Very much.” He said it with an involuntary shudder.
“You have no idea how such an apprehension weighs on the
sufferer’s mind, and how difficult—how almost impossible—it is,
for him to force himself to utter a word upon the topic that
oppresses him.”
“Would he,” asked Mr. Lorry, “be sensibly relieved if he could
prevail upon himself to impart that secret brooding to any one,
when it is on him?”
“I think so. But it is, as I told you, next to impossible. I even
believe it—in some cases—to be quite impossible.”
“Now,” said Mr. Lorry, gently laying his hand on the Doctor’s
arm again, after a short silence on both sides, “to what would you
refer this attack?”
“I believe,” returned Doctor Manette, “that there had been a
strong and extraordinary revival of the train of thought and
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remembrance that was the first cause of the malady. Some intense
associations of the most distressing nature were vividly recalled, I
think. It is probable that there had long been a dread lurking in
his mind, that those associations would be recalled—say, under
certain circumstances—say, on a particular occasion. He tried to
prepare himself in vain; perhaps the effort to prepare himself
made him less able to bear it.”
“Would he remember what took place in the relapse?” asked
Mr. Lorry with natural hesitation.
The Doctor looked desolately round the room, shook his head,
and answered, in a low voice, “Not at all.”
“Now, as to the future,” hinted Mr. Lorry.
“As to the future,” said the Doctor, recovering firmness, “I
should have great hope. As it pleased Heaven in its mercy to
restore him so soon, I should have great hope. He, yielding under
the pressure of a complicated something, long dreaded and long
vaguely foreseen and contended against, and recovering after the
cloud had burst and passed, I should hope the worst was over.”
“Well, well! That’s good comfort. I am thankful!” said Mr.
Lorry.
“I am thankful!” repeated the Doctor, bending his head with
reverence.
“There are two other points,” said Mr. Lorry, “on which I am
anxious to be instructed. I may go on?”
“You cannot do your friend a better service.” The Doctor gave
him his hand.
“To the first, then. He is of a studious habit, and unusually
energetic; he applies himself with great ardour to the acquisition
of professional knowledge, to the conducting of experiments, to
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many things. Now, does he do too much?”
“I think not. It may be the character of his mind, to be always in
singular need of occupation. That may be, in part, natural to it; in
part, the result of affliction. The less it was occupied with healthy
things, the more it would be in danger of turning in the unhealthy
direction. He may have observed himself, and made the
discovery.”
“You are sure that he is not under too great a strain?”
“I think I am quite sure of it.”
“My dear Manette, if he were overworked now—”
“My dear Lorry, I doubt if that could easily be. There has been
a violent stress in one direction, and it needs a counterweight.”
“Excuse me, as a persistent man of business. Assuming, for a
moment, that he was overworked; it would show itself in some
renewal of this disorder?”
“I do not think so. I do not think,” said Doctor Manette with the
firmness of self-conviction, “that anything but the one train of
association would renew it. I think that, henceforth, nothing but
some extraordinary jarring of that chord could renew it. After
what has happened, and after his recovery, I find it difficult to
imagine any such violent sounding of that string again. I trust, and
I almost believe, that the circumstances likely to renew it are
exhausted.”
He spoke with the diffidence of a man who knew how slight a
thing would overset the delicate organisation of the mind, and yet
with the confidence of a man who had slowly won his assurance
out of personal endurance and distress. It was not for his friend to
abate that confidence. He professed himself more relieved and
encouraged than he really was, and approached his second and
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last point. He felt it to be the most difficult of all; but,
remembering his old Sunday morning conversation with Miss
Pross, and remembering what he had seen in the last nine days, he
knew that he must face it.
“The occupation resumed under the influence of this passing
affliction so happily recovered from,” said Mr. Lorry, clearing his
throat, “we will call Blacksmith’s work, Blacksmith’s work. We will
say, to put a case and for the sake of illustration, that he had been
used, in his bad time, to work at a little forge. We will say that he
was unexpectedly found at his forge again. Is it not a pity that he
should keep it by him?”
The Doctor shaded his forehead with his hand, and beat his foot
nervously on the ground.
“You do not find it easy to advise me?” said Mr. Lorry. “I quite
understand it to be a nice question. And yet I think—” And there
he shook his head, and stopped.
“You see,” said Doctor Manette, turning to him after an uneasy
pause, “it is very hard to explain, consistently, the innermost
workings of this poor man’s mind. He once yearned so frightfully
for that occupation, and it was so welcome when it came; no doubt
it relieved his pain so much, by substituting the perplexity of the
fingers for the perplexity of the brain, and by substituting, as he
became more practised, the ingenuity of the hands, for the
ingenuity of the mental torture; that he has never been able to
bear the thought of putting it quite out of his reach. Even now,
when I believe he is more hopeful of himself than he has ever
been, and even speaks of himself with a kind of confidence, the
idea that he might need that old employment, and not find it, gives
him a sudden sense of terror, like that which one may fancy
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strikes to the heart of a lost child.”
He looked like his allusion as he raised his eyes to Mr. Lorry’s
face.
“But may not—mind! I ask for information, as a plodding man
of business who only deals with such material objects as guineas,
shillings, and banknotes—may not the retention of the thing
involve the retention of the idea? If the thing were gone, my dear
Manette, might not the fear go with it? In short, is it not a
concession to the misgiving, to keep the forge?”
There was another silence.
“You see, too,” said the Doctor, tremulously, “it is such an old
companion.”
“I would not keep it,” said Mr. Lorry, shaking his head; for he
gained in firmness as he saw the Doctor disquieted. “I would
recommend him to sacrifice it. I only want your authority. I am
sure it does no good. Come! Give me your authority, like a dear
good man. For his daughter’s sake, my dear Manette!”
Very strange to see what a struggle there was within him!
“In her name, then, let it be done; I sanction it. But, I would not
take it away while he was present. Let it be removed when he is
not there; let him miss his old companion after an absence.”
Mr. Lorry readily engaged for that, and the conference was
ended. They passed the day in the country, and the Doctor was
quite restored. On the three following days he remained perfectly
well, and on the fourteenth day he went away to join Lucie and
her husband. The precaution that had been taken to account for
his silence, Mr. Lorry had previously explained to him, and he had
written to Lucie in accordance with it, and she had no suspicions.
On the night of the day on which he left the house, Mr. Lorry
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went into his room with a chopper, saw, chisel, and hammer,
attended by Miss Pross carrying a light. There, with closed doors,
and in a mysterious and guilty manner, Mr. Lorry hacked the
shoemaker’s bench to pieces, while Miss Pross held the candle as
if she were assisting at a murder—for which, indeed, in her
grimness, she was no unsuitable figure. The burning of the body
(previously reduced to pieces convenient for the purpose) was
commenced without delay in the kitchen fire; and the tools, shoes,
and leather, were buried in the garden. So wicked do destruction
and secrecy appear to honest minds, that Mr. Lorry and Miss
Pross, while engaged in the commission of their deed and in the
removal of its traces, almost felt, and almost looked, like
accomplices in a horrible crime.
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Chapter XXVI
A PLEA
W hen the newly-married pair came home, the first person
who appeared, to offer his congratulations, was Sydney
Carton. They had not been at home many hours, when
he presented himself. He was not improved in habits, or in looks,
or in manner; but there was a certain rugged air of fidelity about
him, which was new to the observation of Charles Darnay.
He watched his opportunity of taking Darnay aside into a
window, and of speaking to him when no one overheard.
“Mr. Darnay,” said Carton, “I wish we might be friends.”
“We are already friends, I hope.”
“You are good enough to say so, as a fashion of speech; but, I
don’t mean any fashion of speech. Indeed, when I say I wish we
might be friends, I scarcely mean quite that, either.”
Charles Darnay—as was natural—asked him, in all good
humour and good-fellowship, what he did mean?
“Upon my life,” said Carton, smiling, “I find that easier to
comprehend in my own mind, than to convey to yours. However,
let me try. You remember a certain famous occasion when I was
more drunk than—than usual?”
“I remember a certain famous occasion when you forced me to
confess that you had been drinking.”
“I remember it too. The curse of those occasions is heavy upon
me, for I always remember them. I hope it may be taken into
account one day, when all days are at an end for me! Don’t be
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alarmed; I am not going to preach.”
“I am not at all alarmed. Earnestness in you, is anything but
alarming to me.”
“Ah!” said Carton, with a careless wave of his hand, as if he
waved that away. “On the drunken occasion in question (one of a
large number, as you know), I was insufferable about liking you,
and not liking you. I wish you would forget it.”
“I forgot it long ago.”
“Fashion of speech again! But, Mr. Darnay, oblivion is not so
easy to me, as you represent it to be to you. I have by no means
forgotten it, and a light answer does not help me to forget it.”
“If it was a light answer,” returned Darnay, “I beg your
forgiveness for it. I had no other object than to turn a slight thing,
which, to my surprise, seems to trouble you too much, aside. I
declare to you, on the faith of a gentleman, that I have long
dismissed it from my mind. Good Heaven, what was there to
dismiss! Have I had nothing more important to remember, in the
great service you rendered me that day?”
“As to the great service,” said Carton, “I am bound to avow to
you, when you speak of it in that way, that it was mere
professional claptrap. I don’t know that I cared what became of
you, when I rendered it.—Mind! I say when I rendered it; I am
speaking of the past.”
“You make light of the obligation,” returned Darnay, “but I will
not quarrel with your light answer.”
“Genuine truth, Mr. Darnay, trust me! I have gone aside from
my purpose; I was speaking about our being friends. Now, you
know me; you know I am incapable of all the higher and better
flights of men. If you doubt it, ask Stryver, and he’ll tell you so.”
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“I prefer to form my own opinion, without the aid of his.”
“Well! At any rate you know me as a dissolute dog, who has
never done any good, and never will.”
“I don’t know that you ‘never will.’”
“But I do, and you must take my word for it. Well! If you could
endure to have such a worthless fellow, and a fellow of such
indifferent reputation, coming and going at odd times, I should ask
that I might be permitted to come and go as a privileged person
here; that I might be regarded as a useless (and I would add, if it
were not for the resemblance I detected between you and me), an
unornamental, piece of furniture, tolerated for its old service, and
taken no notice of. I doubt if I should abuse the permission. It is a
hundred to one if I should avail myself of it four times in a year. It
would satisfy me, I daresay, to know that I had it.”
“Will you try?”
“That is another way of saying that I am placed on the footing I
have indicated. I thank you, Darnay. I may use that freedom with
your name?”
“I think so, Carton, by this time.”
They shook hands upon it, and Sydney turned away. Within a
minute afterwards, he was, to all outward appearance, as
unsubstantial as ever.
When he was gone, and in the course of an evening passed with
Miss Pross, the Doctor, and Mr. Lorry, Charles Darnay made some
mention of this conversation in general terms, and spoke of
Sydney Carton as a problem of carelessness and recklessness. He
spoke of him, in short, not bitterly or meaning to bear hard upon
him, but as anybody might who saw him as he showed himself.
He had no idea that this could dwell in the thoughts of his fair
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young wife; but, when he afterwards joined her in their own
rooms, he found her waiting for him with the old pretty lifting of
the forehead strongly marked.
“We are thoughtful tonight!” said Darnay, drawing his arm
about her.
“Yes, dearest Charles,” with her hands on his breast, and the
inquiring and attentive expression fixed upon him; “we are rather
thoughtful tonight, for we have something on our mind tonight.”
“What is it, my Lucie?”
“Will you promise not to press one question on me, if I beg you
not to ask it?”
“Will I promise? What will I not promise to my Love?”
What, indeed, with his hand putting aside the golden hair from
the cheek, and his other hand against the heart that beat for him!
“I think, Charles, poor Mr. Carton deserves more consideration
and respect than you expressed for him tonight.”
“Indeed, my own? Why so?”
