“And so he is,” cried the old man, suddenly rousing himself from his state of despondency, and lashed into the most violent excitement, “so he is; I have felt that from the first, I have always known it, I’ve seen it, I never felt it half so strongly as I feel it now. Quilp, I have dreamed three nights of winning the same large sum, I never could dream that dream before, though I have often tried. Do not desert me now I have this chance. I have no resource but you, give me some help, let me try this one last hope.”
The dwarf shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.
“See Quilp, good tenderhearted Quilp,” said the old man, drawing some scraps of paper from his pocket with a trembling hand, and clasping the dwarf’s arm, “only see here. Look at these figures, the result of long calculation, and painful and hard experience. I must win, I only want a little help once more, a few pounds, but two score pounds, dear Quilp.”
“The last advance was seventy,” said the dwarf; “and it went in one night.”
“I know it did,” answered the old man, “but that was the very worst fortune of all, and the time had not come then. Quilp, consider, consider,” the old man cried, trembling so much the while that the papers in his hand fluttered as if they were shaken by the wind, “that orphan child. If I were alone, I could die with gladness—perhaps even anticipate that doom which is dealt out so unequally, coming as it does on the proud and happy in their strength, and shunning the needy and afflicted and all who court it in their despair—but what I have done, has been for her. Help me for her sake I implore you—not for mine, for hers!”
“I’m sorry I’ve got an appointment in the city,” said Quilp looking at his watch with perfect self-possession, “or I should have been very glad to have spent half an hour with you while you composed yourself—very glad.”
“Nay, Quilp, good Quilp,” gasped the old man, catching at his skirts—“you and I have talked together more than once of her poor mother’s story. The fear of her coming to poverty has perhaps been bred in me by that. Do not be hard upon me, but take that into account. You are a great gainer by me. Oh spare me the money for this one last hope!”
“I couldn’t do it really,” said Quilp with unusual politeness, “though I tell you what—and this is a circumstance worth bearing in mind as showing how the sharpest among us may be taken in sometimes—I was so deceived by the penurious way in which you lived, alone with Nelly—”
“All done to save money for tempting fortune, and make her triumph greater,” cried the old man.
“Yes yes, I understand that now,” said Quilp; “but I was going to say, I was so deceived by that, your miserly way, the reputation you had among those who knew you of being rich, and your repeated assurances that you would make of my advances treble and quadruple the interest you paid me, that I’d have advanced you even now what you want, on your simple note of hand, though I had been led to suspect something wrong, if I hadn’t unexpectedly become acquainted with your secret way of life.”
“Who is it,” retorted the old man desperately, “that notwithstanding all my caution, told you that. Come. Let me know the name—the person.”
The crafty dwarf, bethinking himself that his giving up the child would lead to the disclosure of the artifice he had employed, which, as nothing was to be gained by it, it was as well to conceal, stopped short in his answer and said, “Now, who do you think?”
“It was Kit, it must have been the boy; he played the spy and you tampered with him?” said the old man.
“How came you to think of him?” said the dwarf in a tone of great commiseration. “Yes it was Kit. Poor Kit!”
So saying, he nodded in a friendly manner, and took his leave, stopping when he had passed the outer door a little distance, and grinning with extraordinary delight.
“Poor Kit!” muttered Quilp. “I think it was Kit who said I was an uglier dwarf than could be seen anywhere for a penny, wasn’t it. Ha ha ha! Poor Kit!”
And with that he went his way, still chuckling as he went.
X
Daniel Quilp neither entered nor left the old man’s house, unobserved. In the shadow of an archway nearly opposite, leading to one of the many passages which diverged from the main street, there lingered one who having taken up his position when the twilight first came on, still maintained it with undiminished patience, and leaning against the wall with the manner of one who had a long time to wait, and being well used to it was quite resigned, scarcely changed his attitude for the hour together.
This patient lounger attracted little attention from any of those who passed, and bestowed as little upon them. His eyes were constantly directed towards one object, the window at which the child was accustomed to sit. If he withdrew them for a moment, it was only to glance at a clock in some neighbouring shop, and then to strain his sight once more in the old quarter with increased earnestness and attention.
It has been remarked that this personage evinced no weariness in his place of concealment, nor did he, long as his waiting was. But as the time went on, he manifested some anxiety and surprise, glancing at the clock more frequently and at the window less hopefully than before. At length the clock was hidden from his sight by some envious shutters, then the church steeples proclaimed eleven at night, then the quarter past, and then the conviction
