The thunder rolled heavily, and the forked lightning seemed to make jagged rents in every part of the vast curtain without, as Riderhood sat by the window, glancing at the bed. Sometimes, he saw the man upon the bed, by a red light; sometimes, by a blue; sometimes, he scarcely saw him in the darkness of the storm; sometimes he saw nothing of him in the blinding glare of palpitating white fire. Anon, the rain would come again with a tremendous rush, and the river would seem to rise to meet it, and a blast of wind, bursting upon the door, would flutter the hair and dress of the man, as if invisible messengers were come around the bed to carry him away. From all these phases of the storm, Riderhood would turn, as if they were interruptions—rather striking interruptions possibly, but interruptions still—of his scrutiny of the sleeper.
“He sleeps sound,” he said within himself; “yet he’s that up to me and that noticing of me that my getting out of my chair may wake him, when a rattling peal won’t; let alone my touching of him.”
He very cautiously rose to his feet. “T’otherest,” he said, in a low, calm voice, “are you a lying easy? There’s a chill in the air, governor. Shall I put a coat over you?”
No answer.
“That’s about what it is a’ready, you see,” muttered Riderhood in a lower and a different voice; “a coat over you, a coat over you!”
The sleeper moving an arm, he sat down again in his chair, and feigned to watch the storm from the window. It was a grand spectacle, but not so grand as to keep his eyes, for half a minute together, from stealing a look at the man upon the bed.
It was at the concealed throat of the sleeper that Riderhood so often looked so curiously, until the sleep seemed to deepen into the stupor of the dead-tired in mind and body. Then, Riderhood came from the window cautiously, and stood by the bed.
“Poor man!” he murmured in a low tone, with a crafty face, and a very watchful eye and ready foot, lest he should start up; “this here coat of his must make him uneasy in his sleep. Shall I loosen it for him, and make him more comfortable? Ah! I think I ought to do it, poor man. I think I will.”
He touched the first button with a very cautious hand, and a step backward. But, the sleeper remaining in profound unconsciousness, he touched the other buttons with a more assured hand, and perhaps the more lightly on that account. Softly and slowly, he opened the coat and drew it back.
The draggling ends of a bright-red neckerchief were then disclosed, and he had even been at the pains of dipping parts of it in some liquid, to give it the appearance of having become stained by wear. With a much-perplexed face, Riderhood looked from it to the sleeper, and from the sleeper to it, and finally crept back to his chair, and there, with his hand to his chin, sat long in a brown study, looking at both.
II
The Golden Dustman Rises a Little
Mr. and Mrs. Lammle had come to breakfast with Mr. and Mrs. Boffin. They were not absolutely uninvited, but had pressed themselves with so much urgency on the golden couple, that evasion of the honour and pleasure of their company would have been difficult, if desired. They were in a charming state of mind, were Mr. and Mrs. Lammle, and almost as fond of Mr. and Mrs. Boffin as of one another.
“My dear Mrs. Boffin,” said Mrs. Lammle, “it imparts new life to me, to see my Alfred in confidential communication with Mr. Boffin. The two were formed to become intimate. So much simplicity combined with so much force of character, such natural sagacity united to such amiability and gentleness—these are the distinguishing characteristics of both.”
This being said aloud, gave Mr. Lammle an opportunity, as he came with Mr. Boffin from the window to the breakfast table, of taking up his dear and honoured wife.
“My Sophronia,” said that gentleman, “your too partial estimate of your husband’s character—”
“No! Not too partial, Alfred,” urged the lady, tenderly moved; “never say that.”
“My child, your favourable opinion, then, of your husband—you don’t object to that phrase, darling?”
“How can I, Alfred?”
“Your favourable opinion then, my Precious, does less than justice to Mr. Boffin, and more than justice to me.”
“To the first charge, Alfred, I plead guilty. But to the second, oh no, no!”
“Less than justice to Mr. Boffin, Sophronia,” said Mr. Lammle, soaring into a tone of moral grandeur, “because it represents Mr. Boffin as on my lower level; more than justice to me, Sophronia, because it represents me as on Mr. Boffin’s higher level. Mr. Boffin bears and forbears far more than I could.”
“Far more than you could for yourself, Alfred?”
“My love, that is not the question.”
“Not the question, lawyer?” said Mrs. Lammle, archly.
“No, dear Sophronia. From my lower level, I regard Mr. Boffin as too generous, as possessed of too much clemency, as being too good to persons who are unworthy of him and ungrateful to him. To those noble qualities I can lay no claim. On the contrary, they rouse my indignation when I see them in action.”
“Alfred!”
“They rouse my indignation, my dear, against the unworthy persons, and give me a combative desire to stand between Mr. Boffin and all such persons. Why? Because, in my lower nature I am more worldly and less delicate. Not being so magnanimous as Mr. Boffin, I feel his injuries more than he
