X. Two Promises
More months, to the number of twelve, had come and gone, and Mr. CharlesDarnay was established in England as a higher teacher of the Frenchlanguage who was conversant with French literature. In this age, hewould have been a Professor; in that age, he was a Tutor. He read withyoung men who could find any leisure and interest for the study of aliving tongue spoken all over the world, and he cultivated a taste forits stores of knowledge and fancy. He could write of them, besides, insound English, and render them into sound English. Such masters were notat that time easily found; Princes that had been, and Kings that wereto be, were not yet of the Teacher class, and no ruined nobility haddropped out of Tellson's ledgers, to turn cooks and carpenters. As atutor, whose attainments made the student's way unusually pleasant andprofitable, and as an elegant translator who brought something to hiswork besides mere dictionary knowledge, young Mr. Darnay soon becameknown and encouraged. He was well acquainted, more-over, with thecircumstances of his country, and those were of ever-growing interest.So, with great perseverance and untiring industry, he prospered.
In London, he had expected neither to walk on pavements of gold, norto lie on beds of roses; if he had had any such exalted expectation, hewould not have prospered. He had expected labour, and he found it, anddid it and made the best of it. In this, his prosperity consisted.
A certain portion of his time was passed at Cambridge, where heread with undergraduates as a sort of tolerated smuggler who drove acontraband trade in European languages, instead of conveying Greekand Latin through the Custom-house. The rest of his time he passed inLondon.
Now, from the days when it was always summer in Eden, to these dayswhen it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the world of a man hasinvariably gone one way--Charles Darnay's way--the way of the love of awoman.
He had loved Lucie Manette from the hour of his danger. He had neverheard a sound so sweet and dear as the sound of her compassionate voice;he had never seen a face so tenderly beautiful, as hers when it wasconfronted with his own on the edge of the grave that had been dug forhim. But, he had not yet spoken to her on the subject; the assassinationat the deserted chateau far away beyond the heaving water and the long,long, dusty roads--the solid stone chateau which had itself become themere mist of a dream--had been done a year, and he had never yet, by somuch as a single spoken word, disclosed to her the state of his heart.
That he had his reasons for this, he knew full well. It was again asummer day when, lately arrived in London from his college occupation,he turned into the quiet corner in Soho, bent on seeking an opportunityof opening his mind to Doctor Manette. It was the close of the summerday, and he knew Lucie to be out with Miss Pross.
He found the Doctor reading in his arm-chair at a window. The energywhich had at once supported him under his old sufferings and aggravatedtheir sharpness, had been gradually restored to him. He was now avery energetic man indeed, with great firmness of purpose, strengthof resolution, and vigour of action. In his recovered energy he wassometimes a little fitful and sudden, as he had at first been in theexercise of his other recovered faculties; but, this had never beenfrequently observable, and had grown more and more rare.
He studied much, slept little, sustained a great deal of fatigue withease, and was equably cheerful. To him, now entered Charles Darnay, atsight of whom he laid aside his book and held out his hand.
Charles Darnay! I rejoice to see you. We have been counting on yourreturn these three or four days past. Mr. Stryver and Sydney Carton wereboth here yesterday, and both made you out to be more than due.
I am obliged to them for their interest in the matter, he answered,a little coldly as to them, though very warmly as to the Doctor. MissManette--
Is well, said the Doctor, as he stopped short, and your return willdelight us all. She has gone out on some household matters, but willsoon be home.
Doctor Manette, I knew she was from home. I took the opportunity of herbeing from home, to beg to speak to you.
There was a blank silence.
Yes? said the Doctor, with evident constraint. Bring your chair here,and speak on.
He complied as to the chair, but appeared to find the speaking on lesseasy.
I have had the happiness, Doctor Manette, of being so intimate here,so he at length began, for some year and a half, that I hope the topicon which I am about to touch may not--
He was stayed by the Doctor's putting out his hand to stop him. When hehad kept it so a little while, he said, drawing it back:
Is Lucie the topic?
She is.
It is hard for me to speak of her at any time. It is very hard for meto hear her spoken of in that tone of yours, Charles Darnay.
It is a tone of fervent admiration, true homage, and deep love, DoctorManette! he said deferentially.
There was another blank silence before her father rejoined:
I believe it. I do you justice; I believe it.
His constraint was so manifest, and it was so manifest, too, that itoriginated in an unwillingness to approach the subject, that CharlesDarnay hesitated.
Shall I go on, sir?
Another blank.
Yes, go on.
You anticipate what I would say, though you cannot know how earnestlyI say it, how earnestly I feel it, without knowing my secret heart, andthe hopes and fears and anxieties with which it has long beenladen. Dear Doctor Manette, I love your daughter fondly, dearly,disinterestedly, devotedly. If ever there were love in the world, I loveher. You have loved yourself; let your old love speak for me!
The Doctor sat with his face turned away, and his eyes bent on theground. At the last words, he stretched out his hand again, hurriedly,and cried:
Not that, sir! Let that be! I adjure you, do not recall that!
His cry was so like a cry of actual pain, that it rang in CharlesDarnay's ears long after he had ceased. He motioned with the hand he hadextended, and it seemed to be an appeal to Darnay to pause. The latterso received it, and remained silent.
I ask your pardon, said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, after somemoments. I do not doubt your loving Lucie; you may be satisfied of it.
He turned towards him in his chair, but did not look at him, orraise his eyes. His chin dropped upon his hand, and his white hairovershadowed his face:
Have you spoken to Lucie?
No.
Nor written?
Never.
It would be ungenerous to affect not to know that your self-denial isto be referred to your consideration for her father. Her father thanksyou.
He offered his hand; but his eyes did not go with it.
I know, said Darnay, respectfully, how can I fail to know, DoctorManette, I who have seen you together from day to day, that betweenyou and Miss Manette there is an affection so unusual, so touching, sobelonging to the circumstances in which it has been nurtured, that itcan have few parallels, even in the tenderness between a father andchild. I know, Doctor Manette--how can I fail to know--that, mingledwith the affection and duty of a daughter who has become a woman, thereis, in her heart, towards you, all the love and reliance of infancyitself. I know that, as in her childhood she had no parent, so she isnow devoted to you with all the constancy and fervour of her presentyears and character, united to the trustfulness and attachment of theearly days in which you were lost to her. I know perfectly well that ifyou had been restored to her from the world beyond this life, you couldhardly be invested, in her sight, with a more sacred character than thatin which you are always with her. I know that when she is clinging toyou, the hands of baby, girl, and woman, all in one, are round yourneck. I know that in loving you she sees and loves her mother at herown age, sees and loves you at my age, loves her mother broken-hearted,loves you through your dreadful trial and in your blessed restoration. Ihave known this, night and day, since I have known you in your home.
Her father sat silent, with his face bent down. His breathing was alittle quickened; but he repressed all other signs of agitation.
Dear Doctor Manette, always knowing this, always seeing her and youwith this hallowed light about you, I have forborne, and forborne, aslong as it was in the nature of man to do it. I have felt, and do evennow feel, that to bring my love--even mine--between you, is to touchyour history with something not quite so good as itself. But I love her.Heaven is my witness that I love her!
I believe it, answered her father, mournfully. I have thought sobefore now. I believe it.
But, do not believe, said Darnay, upon whose ear the mournful voicestruck with a reproachful sound, that if my fortune were so cast asthat, being one day so happy as to make her my wife, I must at any timeput any separation between her and you, I could or would breathe aword of what I now say. Besides that I should know it to be hopeless, Ishould know it to be a baseness. If I had any such possibility, even ata remote distance of years, harboured in my thoughts, and hidden in myheart--if it ever had been there--if it ever could be there--I could notnow touch this honoured hand.
He laid his own upon it as he spoke.
No, dear Doctor Manette. Like you, a voluntary exile from France; likeyou, driven from it by its distractions, oppressions, and miseries; likeyou, striving to live away from it by my own exertions, and trustingin a happier future; I look only to sharing your fortunes, sharing yourlife and home, and being faithful to you to the death. Not to dividewith Lucie her privilege as your child, companion, and friend; but tocome in aid of it, and bind her closer to you, if such a thing can be.
His touch still lingered on her father's hand. Answering the touch for amoment, but not coldly, her father rested his hands upon the arms ofhis chair, and looked up for the first time since the beginning of theconference. A struggle was evidently in his face; a struggle with thatoccasional look which had a tendency in it to dark doubt and dread.
You speak so feelingly and so manfully, Charles Darnay, that I thankyou with all my heart, and will open all my heart--or nearly so. Haveyou any reason to believe that Lucie loves you?
None. As yet, none.
Is it the immediate object of this confidence, that you may at onceascertain that, with my knowledge?
Not even so. I might not have the hopefulness to do it for weeks; Imight (mistaken or not mistaken) have that hopefulness to-morrow.
Do you seek any guidance from me?
I ask none, sir. But I have thought it possible that you might have itin your power, if you should deem it right, to give me some.
Do you seek any promise from me?
I do seek that.
What is it?
I well understand that, without you, I could have no hope. I wellunderstand that, even if Miss Manette held me at this moment in herinnocent heart--do not think I have the presumption to assume so much--Icould retain no place in it against her love for her father.
If that be so, do you see what, on the other hand, is involved in it?
I understand equally well, that a word from her father in any suitor'sfavour, would outweigh herself and all the world. For which reason,Doctor Manette, said Darnay, modestly but firmly, I would not ask thatword, to save my life.
I am sure of it. Charles Darnay, mysteries arise out of close love, aswell as out of wide division; in the former case, they are subtle anddelicate, and difficult to penetrate. My daughter Lucie is, in this onerespect, such a mystery to me; I can make no guess at the state of herheart.
May I ask, sir, if you think she is-- As he hesitated, her fathersupplied the rest.
Is sought by any other suitor?
It is what I meant to say.
Her father considered a little before he answered:
You have seen Mr. Carton here, yourself. Mr. Stryver is here too,occasionally. If it be at all, it can only be by one of these.
Or both, said Darnay.
I had not thought of both; I should not think either, likely. You wanta promise from me. Tell me what it is.
It is, that if Miss Manette should bring to you at any time, on her ownpart, such a confidence as I have ventured to lay before you, you willbear testimony to what I have said, and to your belief in it. I hope youmay be able to think so well of me, as to urge no influence againstme. I say nothing more of my stake in this; this is what I ask. Thecondition on which I ask it, and which you have an undoubted right torequire, I will observe immediately.
I give the promise, said the Doctor, without any condition. I believeyour object to be, purely and truthfully, as you have stated it. Ibelieve your intention is to perpetuate, and not to weaken, the tiesbetween me and my other and far dearer self. If she should ever tell methat you are essential to her perfect happiness, I will give her to you.If there were--Charles Darnay, if there were--
The young man had taken his hand gratefully; their hands were joined asthe Doctor spoke:
--any fancies, any reasons, any apprehensions, anything whatsoever,new or old, against the man she really loved--the direct responsibilitythereof not lying on his head--they should all be obliterated for hersake. She is everything to me; more to me than suffering, more to methan wrong, more to me--Well! This is idle talk.
So strange was the way in which he faded into silence, and so strangehis fixed look when he had ceased to speak, that Darnay felt his ownhand turn cold in the hand that slowly released and dropped it.
You said something to me, said Doctor Manette, breaking into a smile.What was it you said to me?
He was at a loss how to answer, until he remembered having spoken of acondition. Relieved as his mind reverted to that, he answered:
Your confidence in me ought to be returned with full confidence on mypart. My present name, though but slightly changed from my mother's, isnot, as you will remember, my own. I wish to tell you what that is, andwhy I am in England.
Stop! said the Doctor of Beauvais.
I wish it, that I may the better deserve your confidence, and have nosecret from you.
Stop!
For an instant, the Doctor even had his two hands at his ears; foranother instant, even had his two hands laid on Darnay's lips.
Tell me when I ask you, not now. If your suit should prosper, if Lucieshould love you, you shall tell me on your marriage morning. Do youpromise?
Willingly.
Give me your hand. She will be home directly, and it is better sheshould not see us together to-night. Go! God bless you!
It was dark when Charles Darnay left him, and it was an hour later anddarker when Lucie came home; she hurried into the room alone--forMiss Pross had gone straight up-stairs--and was surprised to find hisreading-chair empty.
My father! she called to him. Father dear!
Nothing was said in answer, but she heard a low hammering sound in hisbedroom. Passing lightly across the intermediate room, she looked in athis door and came running back frightened, crying to herself, with herblood all chilled, What shall I do! What shall I do!
Her uncertainty lasted but a moment; she hurried back, and tapped athis door, and softly called to him. The noise ceased at the sound ofher voice, and he presently came out to her, and they walked up and downtogether for a long time.
She came down from her bed, to look at him in his sleep that night. Heslept heavily, and his tray of shoemaking tools, and his old unfinishedwork, were all as usual.