XIX

An Opinion
Worn out by anxious watching, Mr. Lorry fell asleep at
his post. On the tenth morning of his suspense, he was
startled by the shining of the sun into the room where a
heavy slumber had overtaken him when it was dark night.
He rubbed his eyes and roused himself; but he doubted,
when he had done so, whether he was not still asleep. For,
going to the door of the Doctor’s room and looking in, he
perceived that the shoemaker’s bench and tools were put
aside again, and that the Doctor himself sat reading at the
window. He was in his usual morning dress, and his face
(which Mr. Lorry could distinctly see), though still very
pale, was calmly studious and attentive.
Even when he had satisfied himself that he was awake,
Mr. Lorry felt giddily uncertain for some few moments
whether the late shoemaking might not be a disturbed
dream of his own; for, did not his eyes show him his
friend before him in his accustomed clothing and aspect,
and employed as usual; and was there any sign within their
range, that the change of which he had so strong an
impression had actually happened?
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It was but the inquiry of his first confusion and
astonishment, the answer being obvious. If the impression
were not produced by a real corresponding and sufficient
cause, how came he, Jarvis Lorry, there? How came he to
have fallen asleep, in his clothes, on the sofa in Doctor
Manette’s consulting-room, and to be debating these
points outside the Doctor’s bedroom door in the early
morning?
Within a few minutes, Miss Pross stood whispering at
his side. If he had had any particle of doubt left, her talk
would of necessity have resolved it; but he was by that
time clear-headed, and had none. He advised that they
should let the time go by until the regular breakfast-hour,
and should then meet the Doctor as if nothing unusual
had occurred. If he appeared to be in his customary state
of mind, Mr. Lorry would then cautiously proceed to seek
direction and guidance from the opinion he had been, in
his anxiety, so anxious to obtain.
Miss Pross, submitting herself to his judgment, the
scheme was worked out with care. Having abundance of
time for his usual methodical toilette, Mr. Lorry presented
himself at the breakfast-hour in his usual white linen, and
with his usual neat leg. The Doctor was summoned in the
usual way, and came to breakfast.
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So far as it was possible to comprehend him without
overstepping those delicate and gradual approaches which
Mr. Lorry felt to be the only safe advance, he at first
supposed that his daughter’s marriage had taken place
yesterday. An incidental allusion, purposely thrown out, to
the day of the week, and the day of the month, set him
thinking and counting, and evidently made him uneasy. In
all other respects, however, he was so composedly himself,
that Mr. Lorry determined to have the aid he sought. And
that aid was his own.
Therefore, when the breakfast was done and cleared
away, and he and the Doctor were left together, Mr.
Lorry said, feelingly:
‘My dear Manette, I am anxious to have your opinion,
in confidence, on a very curious case in which I am deeply
interested; that is to say, it is very curious to me; perhaps,
to your better information it may be less so.’
Glancing at his hands, which were discoloured by his
late work, the Doctor looked troubled, and listened
attentively. He had already glanced at his hands more than
once.
‘Doctor Manette,’ said Mr. Lorry, touching him
affectionately on the arm, ‘the case is the case of a
particularly dear friend of mine. Pray give your mind to it,
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and advise me well for his sake—and above all, for his
daughter’s—his daughter’s, my dear Manette.’
‘If I understand,’ said the Doctor, in a subdued tone,
‘some mental shock—?’
‘Yes!’
‘Be explicit,’ said the Doctor. ‘Spare no detail.’
Mr. Lorry saw that they understood one another, and
proceeded.
‘My dear Manette, it is the case of an old and a
prolonged shock, of great acuteness and severity to the
affections, the feelings, the—the—as you express it—the
mind. The mind. It is the case of a shock under which the
sufferer was borne down, one cannot say for how long,
because I believe he cannot calculate the time himself, and
there are no other means of getting at it. It is the case of a
shock from which the sufferer recovered, by a process that
he cannot trace himself—as I once heard him publicly
relate in a striking manner. It is the case of a shock from
which he has recovered, so completely, as to be a highly
intelligent man, capable of close application of mind, and
great exertion of body, and of constantly making fresh
additions to his stock of knowledge, which was already
very large. But, unfortunately, there has been,’ he paused
and took a deep breath—‘a slight relapse.’
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The Doctor, in a low voice, asked, ‘Of how long
duration?’
‘Nine days and nights.’
‘How did it show itself? I infer,’ glancing at his hands
again, ‘in the resumption of some old pursuit connected
with the shock?’
‘That is the fact.’
‘Now, did you ever see him,’ asked the Doctor,
distinctly and collectedly, though in the same low voice,
‘engaged in that pursuit originally?’
‘Once.’
‘And when the relapse fell on him, was he in most
respects—or in all respects—as he was then?’
‘I think in all respects.’
‘You spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter know of
the relapse?’
‘No. It has been kept from her, and I hope will always
be kept from her. It is known only to myself, and to one
other who may be trusted.’
The Doctor grasped his hand, and murmured, ‘That
was very kind. That was very thoughtful!’ Mr. Lorry
grasped his hand in return, and neither of the two spoke
for a little while.
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‘Now, my dear Manette,’ said Mr. Lorry, at length, in
his most considerate and most affectionate way, ‘I am a
mere man of business, and unfit to cope with such
intricate and difficult matters. I do not possess the kind of
information necessary; I do not possess the kind of
intelligence; I want guiding. There is no man in this world
on whom I could so rely for right guidance, as on you.
Tell me, how does this relapse come about? Is there
danger of another? Could a repetition of it be prevented?
How should a repetition of it be treated? How does it
come about at all? What can I do for my friend? No man
ever can have been more desirous in his heart to serve a
friend, than I am to serve mine, if I knew how.
But I don’t know how to originate, in such a case. If
your sagacity, knowledge, and experience, could put me
on the right track, I might be able to do so much;
unenlightened and undirected, I can do so little. Pray
discuss it with me; pray enable me to see it a little more
clearly, and teach me how to be a little more useful.’
Doctor Manette sat meditating after these earnest words
were spoken, and Mr. Lorry did not press him.
‘I think it probable,’ said the Doctor, breaking silence
with an effort, ‘that the relapse you have described, my
dear friend, was not quite unforeseen by its subject.’
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‘Was it dreaded by him?’ Mr. Lorry ventured to ask.
‘Very much.’ He said it with an involuntary shudder.
‘You have no idea how such an apprehension weighs
on the sufferer’s mind, and how difficult—how almost
impossible—it is, for him to force himself to utter a word
upon the topic that oppresses him.’
‘Would he,’ asked Mr. Lorry, ‘be sensibly relieved if he
could prevail upon himself to impart that secret brooding
to any one, when it is on him?’
‘I think so. But it is, as I have told you, next to
impossible. I even believe it—in some cases—to be quite
impossible.’
‘Now,’ said Mr. Lorry, gently laying his hand on the
Doctor’s arm again, after a short silence on both sides, ‘to
what would you refer this attack? ‘
‘I believe,’ returned Doctor Manette, ‘that there had
been a strong and extraordinary revival of the train of
thought and remembrance that was the first cause of the
malady. Some intense associations of a most distressing
nature were vividly recalled, I think. It is probable that
there had long been a dread lurking in his mind, that those
associations would be recalled—say, under certain
circumstances—say, on a particular occasion. He tried to
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prepare himself in vain; perhaps the effort to prepare
himself made him less able to bear it.’
‘Would he remember what took place in the relapse?’
asked Mr. Lorry, with natural hesitation.
The Doctor looked desolately round the room, shook
his head, and answered, in a low voice, ‘Not at all.’
‘Now, as to the future,’ hinted Mr. Lorry.
‘As to the future,’ said the Doctor, recovering firmness,
‘I should have great hope. As it pleased Heaven in its
mercy to restore him so soon, I should have great hope.
He, yielding under the pressure of a complicated
something, long dreaded and long vaguely foreseen and
contended against, and recovering after the cloud had
burst and passed, I should hope that the worst was over.’
‘Well, well! That’s good comfort. I am thankful!’ said
Mr. Lorry.
‘I am thankful!’ repeated the Doctor, bending his head
with reverence.
‘There are two other points,’ said Mr. Lorry, ‘on which
I am anxious to be instructed. I may go on?’
‘You cannot do your friend a better service.’ The
Doctor gave him his hand.
‘To the first, then. He is of a studious habit, and
unusually energetic; he applies himself with great ardour
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to the acquisition of professional knowledge, to the
conducting of experiments, to many things. Now, does he
do too much?’
‘I think not. It may be the character of his mind, to be
always in singular need of occupation. That may be, in
part, natural to it; in part, the result of affliction. The less it
was occupied with healthy things, the more it would be in
danger of turning in the unhealthy direction. He may have
observed himself, and made the discovery.’
‘You are sure that he is not under too great a strain?’
‘I think I am quite sure of it.’
‘My dear Manette, if he were overworked now—‘
‘My dear Lorry, I doubt if that could easily be. There
has been a violent stress in one direction, and it needs a
counterweight.’
‘Excuse me, as a persistent man of business. Assuming
for a moment, that he WAS overworked; it would show
itself in some renewal of this disorder?’
‘I do not think so. I do not think,’ said Doctor Manette
with the firmness of self-conviction, ‘that anything but the
one train of association would renew it. I think that,
henceforth, nothing but some extraordinary jarring of that
chord could renew it. After what has happened, and after
his recovery, I find it difficult to imagine any such violent
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sounding of that string again. I trust, and I almost believe,
that the circumstances likely to renew it are exhausted.’
He spoke with the diffidence of a man who knew how
slight a thing would overset the delicate organisation of
the mind, and yet with the confidence of a man who had
slowly won his assurance out of personal endurance and
distress. It was not for his friend to abate that confidence.
He professed himself more relieved and encouraged than
he really was, and approached his second and last point.
He felt it to be the most difficult of all; but, remembering
his old Sunday morning conversation with Miss Pross, and
remembering what he had seen in the last nine days, he
knew that he must face it.
‘The occupation resumed under the influence of this
passing affliction so happily recovered from,’ said Mr.
Lorry, clearing his throat, ‘we will call—Blacksmith’s
work, Blacksmith’s work. We will say, to put a case and
for the sake of illustration, that he had been used, in his
bad time, to work at a little forge. We will say that he was
unexpectedly found at his forge again. Is it not a pity that
he should keep it by him?’
The Doctor shaded his forehead with his hand, and
beat his foot nervously on the ground.
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‘He has always kept it by him,’ said Mr. Lorry, with an
anxious look at his friend. ‘Now, would it not be better
that he should let it go?’
Still, the Doctor, with shaded forehead, beat his foot
nervously on the ground.
‘You do not find it easy to advise me?’ said Mr. Lorry.
‘I quite understand it to be a nice question. And yet I
think—’ And there he shook his head, and stopped.
‘You see,’ said Doctor Manette, turning to him after an
uneasy pause, ‘it is very hard to explain, consistently, the
innermost workings of this poor man’s mind. He once
yearned so frightfully for that occupation, and it was so
welcome when it came; no doubt it relieved his pain so
much, by substituting the perplexity of the fingers for the
perplexity of the brain, and by substituting, as he became
more practised, the ingenuity of the hands, for the
ingenuity of the mental torture; that he has never been
able to bear the thought of putting it quite out of his
reach. Even now, when I believe he is more hopeful of
himself than he has ever been, and even speaks of himself
with a kind of confidence, the idea that he might need
that old employment, and not find it, gives him a sudden
sense of terror, like that which one may fancy strikes to
the heart of a lost child.’
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He looked like his illustration, as he raised his eyes to
Mr. Lorry’s face.
‘But may not—mind! I ask for information, as a
plodding man of business who only deals with such
material objects as guineas, shillings, and bank-notes—may
not the retention of the thing involve the retention of the
idea? If the thing were gone, my dear Manette, might not
the fear go with it? In short, is it not a concession to the
misgiving, to keep the forge?’
There was another silence.
‘You see, too,’ said the Doctor, tremulously, ‘it is such
an old companion.’
‘I would not keep it,’ said Mr. Lorry, shaking his head;
for he gained in firmness as he saw the Doctor disquieted.
‘I would recommend him to sacrifice it. I only want your
authority. I am sure it does no good. Come! Give me your
authority, like a dear good man. For his daughter’s sake,
my dear Manette!’
Very strange to see what a struggle there was within
him!
‘In her name, then, let it be done; I sanction it. But, I
would not take it away while he was present. Let it be
removed when he is not there; let him miss his old
companion after an absence.’
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Mr. Lorry readily engaged for that, and the conference
was ended. They passed the day in the country, and the
Doctor was quite restored. On the three following days he
remained perfectly well, and on the fourteenth day he
went away to join Lucie and her husband. The precaution
that had been taken to account for his silence, Mr. Lorry
had previously explained to him, and he had written to
Lucie in accordance with it, and she had no suspicions.
On the night of the day on which he left the house,
Mr. Lorry went into his room with a chopper, saw, chisel,
and hammer, attended by Miss Pross carrying a light.
There, with closed doors, and in a mysterious and guilty
manner, Mr. Lorry hacked the shoemaker’s bench to
pieces, while Miss Pross held the candle as if she were
assisting at a murder—for which, indeed, in her grimness,
she was no unsuitable figure. The burning of the body
(previously reduced to pieces convenient for the purpose)
was commenced without delay in the kitchen fire; and the
tools, shoes, and leather, were buried in the garden. So
wicked do destruction and secrecy appear to honest minds,
that Mr. Lorry and Miss Pross, while engaged in the
commission of their deed and in the removal of its traces,
almost felt, and almost looked, like accomplices in a
horrible crime.