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struggle she made as if she were rent by the Demons of old。
'I am younger than she is by two or three years； and yet it's me that
looks after her； as if I was old； and it's she that's always petted and
called Baby！ I detest the name。 I hate her！ They make a fool of her；
they spoil her。 She thinks of nothing but herself； she thinks no more of
me than if I was a stock and a stone！' So the girl went on。
'You must have patience。'
'I WON'T have patience！'
'If they take much care of themselves； and little or none of you； you
must not mind it。'
I WILL mind it。'
'Hush！ Be more prudent。 You forget your dependent position。'
'I don't care for that。 I'll run away。 I'll do some mischief。 I won't
bear it； I can't bear it； I shall die if I try to bear it！'
The observer stood with her hand upon her own bosom； looking at the
girl； as one afflicted with a diseased part might curiously watch the
dissection and exposition of an analogous case。
The girl raged and battled with all the force of her youth and fulness
of life； until by little and little her passionate exclamations trailed
off into broken murmurs as if she were in pain。 By corresponding degrees
she sank into a chair； then upon her knees； then upon the ground beside
the bed； drawing the coverlet with her； half to hide her shamed head and
wet hair in it； and half； as it seemed； to embrace it； rather than have
nothing to take to her repentant breast。
'Go away from me； go away from me！ When my temper es upon me； I
am mad。 I know I might keep it off if I only tried hard enough； and
sometimes I do try hard enough； and at other times I don't and won't。
What have I said！ I knew when I said it； it was all lies。 They think I
am being taken care of somewhere； and have all I want。
They are nothing but good to me。 I love them dearly； no people could
ever be kinder to a thankless creature than they always are to me。 Do；
do go away； for I am afraid of you。 I am afraid of myself when I feel my
temper ing； and I am as much afraid of you。 Go away from me； and let
me pray and cry myself better！' The day passed on； and again the wide
stare stared itself out； and the hot night was on Marseilles； and
through it the caravan of the morning； all dispersed； went their
appointed ways。 And thus ever by day and night； under the sun and under
the stars； climbing the dusty hills and toiling along the weary plains；
journeying by land and journeying by sea； ing and going so strangely；
to meet and to act and react on one another； move all we restless
travellers through the pilgrimage of life。
CHAPTER 3。 Home
It was a Sunday evening in London； gloomy； close； and stale。 Maddening
church bells of all degrees of dissonance； sharp and flat； cracked
and clear； fast and slow； made the brick…and…mortar echoes hideous。
Melancholy streets； in a penitential garb of soot； steeped the souls of
the people who were condemned to look at them out of windows； in dire
despondency。 In every thoroughfare； up almost every alley； and down
almost every turning； some doleful bell was throbbing； jerking； tolling；
as if the Plague were in the city and the dead…carts were going round。
Everything was bolted and barred that could by possibility furnish
relief to an overworked people。 No pictures； no unfamiliar animals； no
rare plants or flowers； no natural or artificial wonders of the ancient
world……all TABOO with that enlightened strictness； that the ugly South
Sea gods in the British Museum might have supposed themselves at home
again。 Nothing to see but streets； streets； streets。 Nothing to breathe
but streets； streets； streets。 Nothing to change the brooding mind；
or raise it up。 Nothing for the spent toiler to do； but to pare the
monotony of his seventh day with the monotony of his six days； think
what a weary life he led； and make the best of it……or the worst；
according to the probabilities。
At such a happy time； so propitious to the interests of religion and
morality； Mr Arthur Clennam； newly arrived from Marseilles by way of
Dover； and by Dover coach the Blue…eyed Maid； sat in the window of a
coffee…house on Ludgate Hill。 Ten thousand responsible houses surrounded
him； frowning as heavily on the streets they posed； as if they were
every one inhabited by the ten young men of the Calender's story； who
blackened their faces and bemoaned their miseries every night。 Fifty
thousand lairs surrounded him where people lived so unwholesomely that
fair water put into their crowded rooms on Saturday night； would be
corrupt on Sunday morning； albeit my lord； their county member； was
amazed that they failed to sleep in pany with their butcher's meat。
Miles of close wells and pits of houses； where the inhabitants gasped
for air； stretched far away towards every point of the pass。 Through
the heart of the town a deadly sewer ebbed and flowed； in the place of
a fine fresh river。 What secular want could the million or so of
human beings whose daily labour； six days in the week； lay among these
Arcadian objects； from the sweet sameness of which they had no escape
between the cradle and the grave……what secular want could they possibly
have upon their seventh day？ Clearly they could want nothing but a
stringent policeman。
Mr Arthur Clennam sat in the window of the coffee…house on Ludgate Hill；
counting one of the neighbouring bells； making sentences and burdens of
songs out of it in spite of himself； and wondering how many sick
people it might be the death of in the course of the year。 As the hour
approached； its changes of measure made it more and more exasperating。
At the quarter； it went off into a condition of deadly…lively
importunity； urging the populace in a voluble manner to e to church；
e to church； e to church！ At the ten minutes； it became aware
that the congregation would be scanty； and slowly hammered out in low
spirits； They WON'T e； they WON'T e； they WON'T e！ At the five
minutes； it abandoned hope； and shook every house in the neighbourhood
for three hundred seconds； with one dismal swing per second； as a groan
of despair。
'Thank Heaven！' said Clennam； when the hour struck； and the bell
stopped。
But its sound had revived a long train of miserable Sundays； and the
procession would not stop with the bell； but continued to march on。
'Heaven forgive me；' said he； 'and those who trained me。 How I have
hated this day！'
There was the dreary Sunday of his childhood； when he sat with his hands
before him； scared out of his senses by a horrible tract which menced
business with the poor child by asking him in its title； why he was
going to Perdition？……a piece of curiosity that he really； in a frock and
drawers； was not in a condition to satisfy……and which； for the further
attraction of his infant mind； had a parenthesis in every other line
with some such hiccupping reference as 2 Ep。 Thess。 c。 iii； v。 6 &
7。 There was the sleepy Sunday of his boyhood； when； like a military
deserter； he was marched to chapel by a picquet of teachers three times
a day； morally handcuffed to another boy； and when he would willingly
have bartered two meals of indigestible sermon for another ounce or
two of inferior mutton at his scanty dinner in the flesh。 There was the
interminable Sunday of his nonage； when his mother； stern of face and
unrelenting of heart； would sit all day behind a Bible……bound； like her
own construction of it； in the hardest； barest； and straitest boards；
with one dinted ornament on the cover like the drag of a chain； and a
wrathful sprinkling of red upon the edges of the leaves……as if it； of
all books！ were a fortification against sweetness of temper； natural
affection； and gentle intercourse。 There was the resentful Sunday of a
little later； when he sat down glowering and glooming through the tardy
length of the day； with a sullen sense of injury in his heart； and no
more real knowledge of the beneficent history of the New Testament than
if he had been bred among idolaters。 There was a legion of Sundays；
all days of unserviceable bitterness and mortification； slowly passing
before him。 'Beg pardon； sir；' said a brisk waiter； rubbing the table。
'Wish see bed…room？'
'Yes。 I have just made up m