Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 724

We next turn to The Chimes, one of those delightful stories with which Dickens introduced to us those Christmas annuals, which now form so important a section of our periodical literature. This again is open at the commencement, where the author lays down the dogma that there are not many people who would care to sleep in a church: 'I don't mean at sermon-time in warm weather (when the thing has actually been done once or twice), but in the night, and alone.' This sentence originally finished with 'in the night;' but we can readily imagine the development of the idea in the brain of the writer; and the words 'and alone' suggesting themselves as lending an additional ground of fear for the situation. The manuscript of this page bears a moderate number of alterations.

In Dombey and Son we find a large number of alterations on the first page, the very title itself having been altered more than once. The sketch of the newly-born Paul, who was placed in front of the fire, 'as if his constitution were analogous to that of a muffin, and it was essential to toast him brown while he was very new,' is very good indeed; but it is evident that the passage was rather the result of careful elaboration than of spontaneous humour. And the same remark will apply to the opening chapter of David Copperfield, in which, although the passage descriptive of the birth of the hero is very neat and natural as it now stands, the same careful revision and alteration are again apparent.

Bleak House too is notably full of alterations on the first page, especially in the passage which tells us that in the muddy condition of the London streets 'it would not be wonderful to meet a Mesalosaurus forty feet long or so waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill.'

In Hard Times, where we are introduced to the gentleman who wants nothing but 'Facts,' and in the opening chapter of Little Dorrit, in which we have a description of Marseilles as it 'lay broiling in the sun one day,' we find a large number of alterations; but in these, as in most of the other instances, the primary words have been erased so carefully, that it is next to impossible to form an idea of how the passages originally stood. The Tale of Two Cities, on the contrary, contains remarkably few corrections; and the opening passage descriptive of 'The Period' is telling, and apparently written spontaneously. The Mystery of Edwin Drood has been opened with good judgment at the last page. The manuscript is very small, but fairly legible, and having but a moderate number of alterations. In a literary sense, it is not perhaps so interesting as some of the others; but it possesses a sad and melancholy claim upon our attention and sympathy, inasmuch as it is the last page of manuscript ever written by this gifted hand.

In the proof volumes with corrections in the handwriting of the author there is nothing which calls for especial note save an unimportant deletion in Bleak House, and a more interesting alteration in David Copperfield. In the former there is a passage marked 'out,' in which Sir Leicester Dedlock speaks to Mrs Rouncewell of her grandson in the following passage: 'If (he said) the boy could not settle down at Chesney Wold, in itself the most astonishing circumstance in the world, could he not serve his country in the ranks of her defenders, as his brother had done? Must he rush to her destruction at his early age and with his parricidal hand strike at her?'

In David Copperfield we find by a passage in which Mr Dick is referring to his Memorial that his original hallucination took the form of a 'bull in a china shop;' a rather trite idea, and it was not until after the proof had actually been submitted to him by the printers that Charles Dickens introduced the whimsical and happier notion of 'King Charles's Head.'

Before bringing our brief paper to a conclusion, we would venture to suggest to the gentleman or gentlemen to whom is intrusted the arrangement of these manuscripts, that the present positions of the manuscripts and printed volumes should be transposed, so that the manuscripts should occupy the lower half of the case, as in their present position it is rather difficult to decipher the caligraphy; and to any one below the ordinary height it must involve an amount of physical contortion as uncomfortable as it is inelegant. The manuscripts being of course of greater interest than the printed proofs, should certainly occupy the more prominent space, especially as the latter could be read without any difficulty if placed in the rear rank.

We have no doubt that many of those who read this short article will have seen the Dickens manuscripts for themselves; many more doubtless will see them; but there will still be a large number who will not have the opportunity; and while we think that our remarks will be endorsed by the first and second classes, we hope that they will prove interesting to the third less fortunate class, and will enable them to enjoy, at least in imagination, a somewhat closer intimacy than they have known before with that great and gifted man, whose books have effected so many beneficial changes both in society at large and in many an individual heart and life, uprooting and casting to the winds much that was base, worthless, and contemptible, and implanting in their stead the seeds of those gentler sympathies and nobler aspirations which find their fruition in a well-spent life.

THE ADMIRAL'S SECOND WIFE

CHAPTER XII. – OTHER EVENTS OF THAT EVENING

Lady Dillworth's reverie is doomed to be a short one. She feels a soft caressing touch on her arm, and looks up to see Miss Delmere close by her chair. Her long light hair is streaming over her shoulders, and an embroidered Indian dressing-gown covers her antique dress.

'Liddy, you quite frightened me! Why do you come creeping in like a mouse? You ought to be in bed.'

'I have something to tell you, Katie; something you will be so glad to hear, and something that makes me so happy. I cannot sleep till I tell you all about it.'

Miss Delmere flings herself on a low stool at Katie's feet, and looks up through her mass of sunny hair with flushed cheeks, glowing eyes, and lips that will form themselves into smiles. She cannot hide her joy.

'Walter Reeves has asked me to be his wife. Are you surprised, Katie?'

'Not exactly; I thought there must be some outcome from all that flirting. Do you know, Liddy, if he had not made you an offer, and if you had not accepted him, I should have been very angry, and should have given you a lecture.'

Liddy looks up at her friend with surprise, the words are so cold, the tone of voice so hard and unsympathising.

'Are you not glad about it, Katie?'

'Of course I am; and I hope you will both be happy.'

'I owe it all to you, darling Katie! Had it not been for this dear delightful charade party, I should never have found out that Walter really cared for me. How sudden it has all been! And what good news I shall have to carry home to-morrow! Little did I think when I came to stay with you, that my wedding was so near!' The words came out in joyous gasps between hugs and kisses, for Miss Delmere is demonstrative, and shews it.

Then Liddy flits away, radiant in her delight, never dreaming of the anguish in Katie's heart that constrains her again to bury her face in her hands, and utter short, eager, impassioned prayers for the poor sailors whom she believes are at that very hour in dire and mortal conflict with the winds and waves.

But we must take a glimpse at Sir Herbert's proceedings. He never even glances at the order after his wife's fingers have altered it to her will; he merely folds it up, puts it in the envelope, and despatches it to its destination. Though he decides the Leo shall proceed on the dangerous enterprise, no thought of malice towards Captain Reeves actuates him. It never enters his thought that it is a good way of getting rid of him for a while, and thus stopping the constant visits to Government House. The idea is altogether too paltry and despicable – it is beneath a man of Sir Herbert's tone of mind. He fixes on that particular ship simply because she is best fitted for the duty. Weighing anchor in such a storm near the Short Reefs on an iron-bound coast, and rendering assistance to a vessel in danger, is an undertaking that requires a good ship, a steady crew, and an able captain.

All these qualifications the Leo possesses to perfection. She is a well-built handsome craft; her hardy tars are smart and well disciplined; and there is no braver officer in the British navy than Walter Reeves. True, when on shore he seems rather too fond of amusement, and has been called 'conceited,' 'trifling,' 'frivolous,' 'dandified,' and what not, by men who are jealous of him; but let his foot once touch the quarter-deck, and even his enemies can never charge him with these questionable qualities. There all his frippery and nonsense vanish away like dew in the sunshine; and he becomes the true sailor, with courage to plan and carry out deeds of daring; he becomes the gallant officer fired with vigour and ambition. Never would he shirk a duty or hesitate to undertake any lawful enterprise even though it led to danger or death. Sir Herbert knows all this, and therefore he is right in selecting the Leo.

Hardly has he sent away the order when he is called off to Hillview; and when his duties there are over, he determines to pay a farewell visit to Lady Ribson. He thinks of Katie all the way he is going to Belton Park. But when is he not thinking of her? His love has not lessened, though he has begun to see her faults. He is sorry she is not with him, and that she has never paid the needful respect to his god-mother. He has often and often urged her to call, but his persuasions have failed. Whenever he has made the suggestion, Katie has been so overwhelmed with engagements that she has hardly given him a hearing, and of late he has dropped the subject. He goes towards Belton Park in rather a gloomy mood after all. Lady Ribson quite expects Katie on this last evening, and while she welcomes the Admiral, she looks over his shoulder inquiringly.

'Ah! I knew you would come to say "good-bye," Herbert. But where is the "gudewife," the bonnie Katie?'

'Miss Delmere is staying with her, and she has many engagements; besides, you could hardly expect her out in this storm.'

'Ah no, certainly not. There are many reasons for Lady Dillworth's staying at home, and but few inducements for her to come out to see an old woman like me.'

'Katie has often said how anxious she is to know you.'

'True, true, Herbert; so you must bring her to Scotland with you in the bright summer-time – that is, if I'm spared to see it; but life is uncertain, my friend, life is uncertain.'

Lady Ribson, who is the brightest, kindest, dearest old woman in the world, smiles on her god-son, and does not let him see how much she is hurt by Katie's neglect of her; but in her heart she is sorry for him, more sorry than she would like him to know. Bessie his first wife was in her opinion perfection; and Katie she suspects is very much the reverse.

To her old eyes, the Admiral is still young, and she thinks there is hardly a woman in the world good enough to mate with him. 'I can see Herbert is not happy; and Laura Best was right when she foretold the risk her father ran in marrying a mere frivolous girl,' she decides in her own mind; but none of her suspicions float to the surface, so gay, so kindly, so warm is her manner. The Admiral sets out early on his homeward journey; his thoughts still turn to Katie, but they have grown softer, more tender. The gloom has passed from his spirit; the interview with Lady Ribson has calmed his ruffled thoughts; his reserve and pride have altogether melted down, and he longs to press his darling wife to his heart and forgive all her follies. He feels, even with all her failings, he loves her more completely, more passionately than he has ever loved the dead Bessie.

When he reaches Government House, it is brilliantly lighted up. The guests are assembled, and fragments of song and melody are floating out on the rough night-wind. Sir Herbert makes his way at once to the scene of festivity, and pauses at the door, astonished at the unwonted appearance of the rooms. As he has not been initiated into the arrangements, nor witnessed the preparations, the merest stranger present is not more ignorant than he is of all that has been going on. So he looks on the scene with curiosity. The music-room has been turned into a raised stage, with painted wings and festoons of scarlet curtains. A crescent-shaped row of gas jets serves as foot-lights, and throws a soft clear brilliance on the performers. Wreaths of flowers, clusters of trailing evergreens, pots of rich exotics, groups of banners, add to the display. Nothing that taste, art, fancy, or money can accomplish is wanting. The Admiral looks at all this; then at the rows of spectators; then at his wife, who comes forward on the stage at that moment leaning on Liddy's arm. Presently their voices ring out through the rooms; then a solo falls to Katie's share, and her husband listens spell-bound to her singing. Her voice is tuned to the deepest pathos, and her face is sad as her song.

Never has he seen Katie look like that before. The curiously cut costume suits her wonderfully well; the dress of azure silk falls in rich bright folds; her bodice glitters with gold and gems; and her hair turned back in its own luxuriant wealth of tresses, has no ornament but a diamond cluster. The mellowed rays from gas jets, hidden by the curtains, fall full on her head, and she shines out as though surrounded by a strange unearthly glory.

She seems altered, spiritualised, refined, incorporealised in her marvellously weird-like beauty, and her husband cannot remove his rapt gaze from her. But presently a single turn of his head changes his glance of admiration into one of surprise and anger. In the shade of a gigantic azalea he spies Captain Walter Reeves, standing in an attitude of calm listening enjoyment. Instantly the Admiral's eye flashes with indignation. How dares Walter Reeves to be here, in his wife's drawing-room, when he ought to be miles away out on the stormy seas?

In an instant the offender is called out of the room, and Sir Herbert demands to know why he has disobeyed orders by staying on shore.

'I have had no orders to weigh anchor, Sir Herbert.'

'Perhaps the order is still lying on your cabin table; it was issued at ten o'clock this morning.'

'No despatch has reached the Leo, for I've been on board all day, Sir Herbert, and came direct to Government House.'

'Very strange, very! There must be some terrible mistake in the matter. Is Mr Grey here to-night?'

'No, Sir Herbert.'

'I must see him at once. The subject admits of no delay.'

'Shall I go to North Street, and fetch him here?'

The Admiral pauses for a moment, and takes a survey of Walter from head to foot. He notes the velvet suit, the delicate lace ruffles, the Montero cap, the large plume of feathers, the dark cloak set so jauntily on his shoulder, the thin shining shoes, and the huge glittering buckles; and a soupçon of contempt glances from his eyes, a slight sneer trembles on his lip. 'I think I am more fitted to brave the storm than you are to-night, so I'll go to Mr Grey myself.' Then without another word, he walks down the stairs, and passes out into the wind and rain. The house in North Street is closed for the night, and Mrs Grey and Helen are sleeping the sleep of the quiet-minded. Only the master of the house is still up, and he is finishing a cigar in his library. He starts up in alarm when he hears the authoritative knock at the door, and visions of fire and thieves start up before him. His alarm is in no whit lessened when he sees his august son-in-law on the steps.

'Sir Herbert! Who would have thought of seeing you so late! Is anything wrong? Is Katie ill?' 'No; your daughter is quite well. I left her just now dressed up like some medieval heroine, and lamenting her woes in song.'

'True; I recollect this is the night of Katie's charade party.'

They have both gone into the library now; Mr Grey has flung the stump of his cigar aside, and the Admiral speedily explains the cause of his late visit.

'I acted as your note directed, Sir Herbert, and at once sent off the Leoni to assist the Daring.'

'The Leoni! Were you mad, Grey?'

'I confess your order amazed me. I did all I could to consult with you about it, but you were gone to Hillview. Here is the order; you will see the Leoni's name written plainly.'

The Admiral takes the paper in his hand, holds it near his gaze, scrutinises it afar off, glances at it through his eye-glass; but the fact is indisputable – there is the word Leoni, apparently in his own writing.