XIX
An
Opinion
Worn
out by anxious watching, Mr. Lorry fell asleep at his post. On the tenth morning
of his suspense, he was startled by the shining of the sun into the room where
a heavy slumber had overtaken him when it was dark night.
He
rubbed his eyes and roused himself; but he doubted, when he had done so,
whether he was not still asleep. For, going to the door of the Doctor's room
and looking in, he perceived that the shoemaker's bench and tools were put
aside again, and that the Doctor himself sat reading at the window. He was in
his usual morning dress, and his face (which Mr. Lorry could distinctly see),
though still very pale, was calmly studious and attentive.
Even
when he had satisfied himself that he was awake, Mr. Lorry felt giddily
uncertain for some few moments whether the late shoemaking might not be a
disturbed dream of his own; for, did not his eyes show him his friend before
him in his accustomed clothing and aspect, and employed as usual; and was there
any sign within their range, that the change of which he had so strong an
impression had actually happened?
It
was but the inquiry of his first confusion and astonishment, the answer being
obvious. If the impression were not produced by a real corresponding and
sufficient cause, how came he, Jarvis Lorry, there? How came he to have fallen
asleep, in his clothes, on the sofa in Doctor Manette's consulting-room, and to
be debating these points outside the Doctor's bedroom door in the early
morning?
Within
a few minutes, Miss Pross stood whispering at his side. If he had had any
particle of doubt left, her talk would of necessity have resolved it; but he
was by that time clear-headed, and had none. He advised that they should let
the time go by until the regular breakfast-hour, and should then meet the
Doctor as if nothing unusual had occurred. If he appeared to be in his customary
state of mind, Mr. Lorry would then cautiously proceed to seek direction and
guidance from the opinion he had been, in his anxiety, so anxious to obtain.
Miss
Pross, submitting herself to his judgment, the scheme was worked out with care.
Having abundance of time for his usual methodical toilette, Mr. Lorry presented
himself at the breakfast-hour in his usual white linen, and with his usual neat
leg. The Doctor was summoned in the usual way, and came to breakfast.
So
far as it was possible to comprehend him without overstepping those delicate
and gradual approaches which Mr. Lorry felt to be the only safe advance, he at
first supposed that his daughter's marriage had taken place yesterday. An
incidental allusion, purposely thrown out, to the day of the week, and the day
of the month, set him thinking and counting, and evidently made him uneasy. In
all other respects, however, he was so composedly himself, that Mr. Lorry
determined to have the aid he sought. And that aid was his own.
Therefore,
when the breakfast was done and cleared away, and he and the Doctor were left
together, Mr. Lorry said, feelingly:
"My
dear Manette, I am anxious to have your opinion, in confidence, on a very
curious case in which I am deeply interested; that is to say, it is very
curious to me; perhaps, to your better information it may be less so."
Glancing
at his hands, which were discoloured by his late work, the Doctor looked
troubled, and listened attentively. He had already glanced at his hands more
than once.
"Doctor
Manette," said Mr. Lorry, touching him affectionately on the arm,
"the case is the case of a particularly dear friend of mine. Pray give
your mind to it, and advise me well for his sake--and above all, for his
daughter's--his daughter's, my dear Manette."
"If
I understand," said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, "some mental
shock--?"
"Yes!"
"Be
explicit," said the Doctor. "Spare no detail."
Mr.
Lorry saw that they understood one another, and proceeded.
"My
dear Manette, it is the case of an old and a prolonged shock, of great
acuteness and severity to the affections, the feelings, the--the--as you
express it--the mind. The mind. It is the case of a shock under which the
sufferer was borne down, one cannot say for how long, because I believe he cannot
calculate the time himself, and there are no other means of getting at it. It
is the case of a shock from which the sufferer recovered, by a process that he
cannot trace himself--as I once heard him publicly relate in a striking manner.
It is the case of a shock from which he has recovered, so completely, as to be
a highly intelligent man, capable of close application of mind, and great
exertion of body, and of constantly making fresh additions to his stock of
knowledge, which was already very large. But, unfortunately, there has
been," he paused and took a deep breath--"a slight relapse."
The
Doctor, in a low voice, asked, "Of how long duration?"
"Nine
days and nights."
"How
did it show itself? I infer," glancing at his hands again, "in the
resumption of some old pursuit connected with the shock?"
"That
is the fact."
"Now,
did you ever see him," asked the Doctor, distinctly and collectedly,
though in the same low voice, "engaged in that pursuit originally?"
"Once."
"And
when the relapse fell on him, was he in most respects--or in all respects--as
he was then?"
"I
think in all respects."
"You
spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter know of the relapse?"
"No.
It has been kept from her, and I hope will always be kept from her. It is known
only to myself, and to one other who may be trusted."
The
Doctor grasped his hand, and murmured, "That was very kind. That was very
thoughtful!" Mr. Lorry grasped his hand in return, and neither of the two
spoke for a little while.
"Now,
my dear Manette," said Mr. Lorry, at length, in his most considerate and
most affectionate way, "I am a mere man of 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? 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 have 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 remembrance that was the
first cause of the malady. Some intense associations of a 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 that 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 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 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.
"He
has always kept it by him," said Mr. Lorry, with an anxious look at his
friend. "Now, would it not be better that he should let it go?"
Still,
the Doctor, with shaded forehead, 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 strikes to
the heart of a lost child."
He
looked like his illustration, 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 bank-notes--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 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.