0092 A TALE OF TWO CITIES: BOOK 2: CHAPTER 17

One Night


Never did the sun go down with a brighter glory on the quiet corner
in Soho, than one memorable evening when the Doctor and his daughter
sat under the plane-tree together. Never did the moon rise with a
milder radiance over great London, than on that night when it found
them still seated under the tree, and shone upon their faces
through its leaves.

Lucie was to be married to-morrow. She had reserved this last
evening for her father, and they sat alone under the plane-tree.

"You are happy, my dear father?"

"Quite, my child."

They had said little, though they had been there a long time. When
it was yet light enough to work and read, she had neither engaged
herself in her usual work, nor had she read to him. She had employed
herself in both ways, at his side under the tree, many and many a time;
but, this time was not quite like any other, and nothing could make it so.

"And I am very happy to-night, dear father. I am deeply happy in the
love that Heaven has so blessed--my love for Charles, and Charles's
love for me. But, if my life were not to be still consecrated to you,
or if my marriage were so arranged as that it would part us, even by
the length of a few of these streets, I should be more unhappy and
self-reproachful now than I can tell you. Even as it is--"

Even as it was, she could not command her voice.

In the sad moonlight, she clasped him by the neck, and laid her face
upon his breast. In the moonlight which is always sad, as the light
of the sun itself is--as the light called human life is--at its
coming and its going.

"Dearest dear! Can you tell me, this last time, that you feel quite,
quite sure, no new affections of mine, and no new duties of mine,
will ever interpose between us? _I_ know it well, but do you know it?
In your own heart, do you feel quite certain?"

Her father answered, with a cheerful firmness of conviction he could
scarcely have assumed, "Quite sure, my darling! More than that,"
he added, as he tenderly kissed her: "my future is far brighter,
Lucie, seen through your marriage, than it could have been--nay,
than it ever was--without it."

"If I could hope THAT, my father!--"

"Believe it, love! Indeed it is so. Consider how natural and how
plain it is, my dear, that it should be so. You, devoted and young,
cannot fully appreciate the anxiety I have felt that your life
should not be wasted--"

She moved her hand towards his lips, but he took it in his,
and repeated the word.

"--wasted, my child--should not be wasted, struck aside from the
natural order of things--for my sake. Your unselfishness cannot
entirely comprehend how much my mind has gone on this; but, only ask
yourself, how could my happiness be perfect, while yours was incomplete?"

"If I had never seen Charles, my father, I should have been quite
happy with you."

He smiled at her unconscious admission that she would have been unhappy
without Charles, having seen him; and replied:

"My child, you did see him, and it is Charles. If it had not been
Charles, it would have been another. Or, if it had been no other,
I should have been the cause, and then the dark part of my life would
have cast its shadow beyond myself, and would have fallen on you."

It was the first time, except at the trial, of her ever hearing him refer
to the period of his suffering. It gave her a strange and new sensation
while his words were in her ears; and she remembered it long afterwards.

"See!" said the Doctor of Beauvais, raising his hand towards the moon.
"I have looked at her from my prison-window, when I could not bear
her light. I have looked at her when it has been such torture to me
to think of her shining upon what I had lost, that I have beaten my
head against my prison-walls. I have looked at her, in a state so
dun and lethargic, that I have thought of nothing but the number of
horizontal lines I could draw across her at the full, and the number of
perpendicular lines with which I could intersect them." He added in his
inward and pondering manner, as he looked at the moon, "It was twenty
either way, I remember, and the twentieth was difficult to squeeze in."

The strange thrill with which she heard him go back to that time,
deepened as he dwelt upon it; but, there was nothing to shock her in
the manner of his reference. He only seemed to contrast his present
cheerfulness and felicity with the dire endurance that was over.

"I have looked at her, speculating thousands of times upon the unborn
child from whom I had been rent. Whether it was alive. Whether it had
been born alive, or the poor mother's shock had killed it. Whether it
was a son who would some day avenge his father. (There was a time in my
imprisonment, when my desire for vengeance was unbearable.) Whether it
was a son who would never know his father's story; who might even live
to weigh the possibility of his father's having disappeared of his own
will and act. Whether it was a daughter who would grow to be a woman."

She drew closer to him, and kissed his cheek and his hand.

"I have pictured my daughter, to myself, as perfectly forgetful of me
--rather, altogether ignorant of me, and unconscious of me. I have
cast up the years of her age, year after year. I have seen her married
to a man who knew nothing of my fate. I have altogether perished from
the remembrance of the living, and in the next generation my place
was a blank."

"My father! Even to hear that you had such thoughts of a daughter
who never existed, strikes to my heart as if I had been that child."

"You, Lucie? It is out of the Consolation and restoration you have
brought to me, that these remembrances arise, and pass between us and
the moon on this last night.--What did I say just now?"

"She knew nothing of you. She cared nothing for you."

"So! But on other moonlight nights, when the sadness and the silence
have touched me in a different way--have affected me with something as
like a sorrowful sense of peace, as any emotion that had pain for its
foundations could--I have imagined her as coming to me in my cell, and
leading me out into the freedom beyond the fortress. I have seen her
image in the moonlight often, as I now see you; except that I never held
her in my arms; it stood between the little grated window and the door.
But, you understand that that was not the child I am speaking of?"

"The figure was not; the--the--image; the fancy?"

"No. That was another thing. It stood before my disturbed sense of
sight, but it never moved. The phantom that my mind pursued, was
another and more real child. Of her outward appearance I know no more
than that she was like her mother. The other had that likeness too
--as you have--but was not the same. Can you follow me, Lucie?
Hardly, I think? I doubt you must have been a solitary prisoner to
understand these perplexed distinctions."

His collected and calm manner could not prevent her blood from running
cold, as he thus tried to anatomise his old condition.

"In that more peaceful state, I have imagined her, in the moonlight,
coming to me and taking me out to show me that the home of her married
life was full of her loving remembrance of her lost father. My picture
was in her room, and I was in her prayers. Her life was active,
cheerful, useful; but my poor history pervaded it all."

"I was that child, my father, I was not half so good, but in my love
that was I."

"And she showed me her children," said the Doctor of Beauvais, "and
they had heard of me, and had been taught to pity me. When they
passed a prison of the State, they kept far from its frowning walls,
and looked up at its bars, and spoke in whispers. She could never
deliver me; I imagined that she always brought me back after showing
me such things. But then, blessed with the relief of tears,
I fell upon my knees, and blessed her."

"I am that child, I hope, my father. O my dear, my dear, will you
bless me as fervently to-morrow?"

"Lucie, I recall these old troubles in the reason that I have to-night
for loving you better than words can tell, and thanking God for my
great happiness. My thoughts, when they were wildest, never rose near
the happiness that I have known with you, and that we have before us."

He embraced her, solemnly commended her to Heaven, and humbly thanked
Heaven for having bestowed her on him. By-and-bye, they went
into the house.

There was no one bidden to the marriage but Mr. Lorry; there was even
to be no bridesmaid but the gaunt Miss Pross. The marriage was to
make no change in their place of residence; they had been able to
extend it, by taking to themselves the upper rooms formerly belonging
to the apocryphal invisible lodger, and they desired nothing more.

Doctor Manette was very cheerful at the little supper. They were
only three at table, and Miss Pross made the third. He regretted that
Charles was not there; was more than half disposed to object to the
loving little plot that kept him away; and drank to him affectionately.

So, the time came for him to bid Lucie good night, and they separated.
But, in the stillness of the third hour of the morning, Lucie came
downstairs again, and stole into his room; not free from unshaped fears,
beforehand.

All things, however, were in their places; all was quiet; and he lay
asleep, his white hair picturesque on the untroubled pillow, and his
hands lying quiet on the coverlet. She put her needless candle in the
shadow at a distance, crept up to his bed, and put her lips to his;
then, leaned over him, and looked at him.

Into his handsome face, the bitter waters of captivity had worn; but,
he covered up their tracks with a determination so strong, that he held
the mastery of them even in his sleep. A more remarkable face in its
quiet, resolute, and guarded struggle with an unseen assailant, was
not to be beheld in all the wide dominions of sleep, that night.

She timidly laid her hand on his dear breast, and put up a prayer that
she might ever be as true to him as her love aspired to be, and as his
sorrows deserved. Then, she withdrew her hand, and kissed his lips
once more, and went away. So, the sunrise came, and the shadows of
the leaves of the plane-tree moved upon his face, as softly as her
lips had moved in praying for him.