The mist, though sluggish and slow to move, was of a keenly searching kind. No muffling up in furs and broadcloth kept it out. It seemed to penetrate into the very bones of the shrinking wayfarers, and to rack them with cold and pains. Everything was wet, and clammy to the touch. The warm blaze alone defied it, and leaped and sparkled merrily. It was a day to be at home, crowding about the fire, telling stories of travellers who had lost their way in such weather on heaths and moors; and to love a warm hearth more than ever.
The dwarf’s humour, as we know, was to have a fireside to himself; and when he was disposed to be convivial, to enjoy himself alone. By no means insensible to the comfort of being within doors, he ordered Tom Scott to pile the little stove with coals, and dismissing his work for that day, determined to be jovial.
To this end, he lighted up fresh candles and heaped more fuel on the fire; and having dined off a beefsteak, which he cooked himself in somewhat of a savage and cannibal-like manner, brewed a great bowl of hot punch, lighted his pipe, and sat down to spend the evening.
At this moment, a low knocking at the cabin-door arrested his attention. When it had been twice or thrice repeated, he softly opened the little window, and thrusting his head out, demanded who was there.
“Only me, Quilp” replied a woman’s voice.
“Only you!” cried the dwarf, stretching his neck to obtain a better view of his visitor. “And what brings you here, you jade? How dare you approach the ogre’s castle, eh?”
“I have come with some news,” rejoined his spouse. “Don’t be angry with me.”
“Is it good news, pleasant news; news to make a man skip and snap his fingers?” said the dwarf. “Is the dear old lady dead?”
“I don’t know what news it is, or whether it’s good or bad,” rejoined his wife.
“Then she’s alive,” said Quilp, “and there’s nothing the matter with her. Go home again, you bird of evil note, go home.”
“I have brought a letter”—cried the meek little woman.
“Toss it in at the window here, and go your ways,” said Quilp, interrupting her, “or I’ll come out and scratch you.”
“No, but please, Quilp—do hear me speak,” urged his submissive wife, in tears. “Please do.”
“Speak then,” growled the dwarf, with a malicious grin. “Be quick and short about it. Speak, will you?”
“It was left at our house this afternoon,” said Mrs. Quilp, trembling, “by a boy who said he didn’t know from whom it came, but that it was given to him to leave, and that he was told to say it must be brought on to you directly, for it was of the very greatest consequence.—But please,” she added, as her husband stretched out his hand for it, “please let me in. You don’t know how wet and cold I am, or how many times I have lost my way in coming here through this thick fog. Let me dry myself at the fire for five minutes. I’ll go away directly you tell me to, Quilp. Upon my word I will.”
Her amiable husband hesitated for a few moments; but bethinking himself that the letter might require some answer, of which she could be the bearer, closed the window, opened the door, and bade her enter. Mrs. Quilp obeyed right willingly, and kneeling down before the fire to warm her hands, delivered into his a little packet.
“I’m glad you’re wet,” said Quilp, snatching it, and squinting at her. “I’m glad you’re cold. I’m glad you’ve lost your way. I’m glad your eyes are red with crying. It does my heart good to see your little nose so pinched and frosty.”
“Oh Quilp!” sobbed his wife. “How cruel it is of you!”
“Did she think I was dead!” said Quilp, wrinkling his face into a most extraordinary series of grimaces. “Did she think she was going to have all the money, and to marry somebody she liked! Ha ha ha! Did she?”
These taunts elicited no reply from the poor little woman, who remained on her knees, warming her hands and sobbing, to Mr. Quilp’s great delight. But as he was contemplating her, and chuckling excessively, he happened to observe that Tom Scott was delighted too; wherefore, that he might have no presumptuous partner in his glee, the dwarf instantly collared him, dragged him to the door, and after a short scuffle, kicked him into the yard. In return for this mark of attention, Tom immediately walked upon his hands to the window, and—if the expression be allowable—looked in with his shoes: besides rattling his feet upon the glass like a Banshee upside down. As a matter of course, Mr. Quilp lost no time in resorting to the infallible poker, with which, after some dodging and lying in ambush, he paid his young friend one or two such unequivocal compliments that he vanished precipitately, and left him in quiet possession of the field.
“So! That little job being disposed of,” said the dwarf, coolly, “I’ll read my letter. Humph!” he muttered, looking at the direction. “I ought to know this writing. Beautiful Sally!”
Opening it, he read, in a fair, round, legal hand, as follows:
“Sammy has been practised upon, and has broken confidence. It has all come out. You had better not be in the way, for strangers are going to call upon you. They have been very quiet as yet, because they mean to surprise you. Don’t lose time. I didn’t. I am not to be found anywhere. If I was you, I wouldn’t be, either. S. B., late of B. M.”
To describe the changes that passed over Quilp’s face as he read this
