The Battle of Life. A Love Story. Чарльз Диккенс

orations addressed by the Doctor to various people, all tending to shew that his very existence was at best a mistake and an absurdity; this unfortunate servitor had fallen, by degrees, into such an abyss of confused and contradictory suggestions from within and without, that Truth at the bottom of her well, was on the level surface as compared with Britain in the depths of his mystification. The only point he clearly comprehended, was, that the new element usually brought into these discussions by Snitchey and Craggs, never served to make them clearer, and always seemed to give the Doctor a species of advantage and confirmation. Therefore he looked upon the Firm as one of the proximate causes of his state of mind, and held them in abhorrence accordingly.

      “But this is not our business, Alfred,” said the Doctor. “Ceasing to be my ward (as you have said) to-day; and leaving us full to the brim of such learning as the Grammar School down here was able to give you, and your studies in London could add to that, and such practical knowledge as a dull old country Doctor like myself could graft upon both; you are away, now, into the world. The first term of probation appointed by your poor father, being over, away you go now, your own master, to fulfil his second desire: and long before your three years’ tour among the foreign schools of medicine is finished, you’ll have forgotten us. Lord, you’ll forget us easily in six months!”

      “If I do – But you know better; why should I speak to you!” said Alfred, laughing.

      “I don’t know anything of the sort,” returned the Doctor. “What do you say, Marion?”

      Marion, trifling with her teacup, seemed to say – but she didn’t say it – that he was welcome to forget them, if he could. Grace pressed the blooming face against her cheek, and smiled.

      “I haven’t been, I hope, a very unjust steward in the execution of my trust,” pursued the Doctor; “but I am to be, at any rate, formally discharged, and released, and what not, this morning; and here are our good friends Snitchey and Craggs, with a bagful of papers, and accounts, and documents, for the transfer of the balance of the trust fund to you (I wish it was a more difficult one to dispose of, Alfred, but you must get to be a great man and make it so), and other drolleries of that sort, which are to be signed, sealed, and delivered.”

      “And duly witnessed, as by law required,” said Snitchey, pushing away his plate, and taking out the papers, which his partner proceeded to spread upon the table; “and Self and Craggs having been co-trustees with you, Doctor, in so far as the fund was concerned, we shall want your two servants to attest the signatures – can you read, Mrs. Newcome?”

      “I a’n’t married, Mister,” said Clemency.

      “Oh, I beg your pardon. I should think not,” chuckled Snitchey, casting his eyes over her extraordinary figure. “You can read?”

      “A little,” answered Clemency.

      “The marriage service, night and morning, eh?” observed the lawyer, jocosely.

      “No,” said Clemency. “Too hard. I only reads a thimble.”

      “Read a thimble!” echoed Snitchey. “What are you talking about, young woman?”

      Clemency nodded. “And a nutmeg-grater.”

      “Why, this is a lunatic! a subject for the Lord High Chancellor!” said Snitchey, staring at her.

      “If possessed of any property,” stipulated Craggs.

      Grace, however, interposing, explained that each of the articles in question bore an engraved motto, and so formed the pocket library of Clemency Newcome, who was not much given to the study of books.

      “Oh, that’s it, is it, Miss Grace!” said Snitchey. “Yes, yes. Ha, ha, ha! I thought our friend was an idiot. She looks uncommonly like it,” he muttered, with a supercilious glance. “And what does the thimble say, Mrs. Newcome?”

      “I a’n’t married, Mister,” observed Clemency.

      “Well, Newcome. Will that do?” said the lawyer. “What does the thimble say, Newcome?”

      How Clemency, before replying to this question, held one pocket open, and looked down into its yawning depths for the thimble which wasn’t there, – and how she then held an opposite pocket open, and seeming to descry it, like a pearl of great price, at the bottom, cleared away such intervening obstacles as a handkerchief, an end of wax candle, a flushed apple, an orange, a lucky penny, a cramp bone, a padlock, a pair of scissors in a sheath, more expressively describable as promising young shears, a handful or so of loose beads, several balls of cotton, a needle-case, a cabinet collection of curl-papers, and a biscuit, all of which articles she entrusted individually and severally to Britain to hold, – is of no consequence. Nor how, in her determination to grasp this pocket by the throat and keep it prisoner (for it had a tendency to swing and twist itself round the nearest corner), she assumed, and calmly maintained, an attitude apparently inconsistent with the human anatomy and the laws of gravity. It is enough that at last she triumphantly produced the thimble on her finger, and rattled the nutmeg-grater; the literature of both those trinkets being obviously in course of wearing out and wasting away, through excessive friction.

      “That’s the thimble, is it, young woman?” said Mr. Snitchey, diverting himself at her expense. “And what does the thimble say?”

      “It says,” replied Clemency, reading slowly round it as if it were a tower, “For-get and for-give.”

      Snitchey and Craggs laughed heartily. “So new!” said Snitchey. “So easy!” said Craggs. “Such a knowledge of human nature in it,” said Snitchey. “So applicable to the affairs of life,” said Craggs.

      “And the nutmeg-grater?” inquired the head of the Firm.

      “The grater says,” returned Clemency, “Do as you – wold – be – done by.”

      “‘Do, or you’ll be done brown,’ you mean,” said Mr. Snitchey.

      “I don’t understand,” retorted Clemency, shaking her head vaguely. “I a’n’t no lawyer.”