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Chapter LXVI
On awaking in the morning, Richard Swiveller became conscious, by
slow degrees, of whispering voices in his room. Looking out between
the curtains, he espied Mr Garland, Mr Abel, the notary, and the
single gentleman, gathered round the Marchioness, and talking to her
with great earnestness but in very subdued tones - fearing, no doubt,
to disturb him. He lost no time in letting them know that this
precaution was unnecessary, and all four gentlemen directly
approached his bedside. Old Mr Garland was the first to stretch out
his hand, and inquire how he felt.
Dick was about to answer that he felt much better, though still as
weak as need be, when his little nurse, pushing the visitors aside and
pressing up to his pillow as if in jealousy of their interference, set his
breakfast before him, and insisted on his taking it before he
underwent the fatigue of speaking or of being spoken to. Mr Swiveller,
who was perfectly ravenous, and had had, all night, amazingly distinct
and consistent dreams of mutton chops, double stout, and similar
delicacies, felt even the weak tea and dry toast such irresistible
temptations, that he consented to eat and drink on one condition.
'
'
And that is,' said Dick, returning the pressure of Mr Garland's hand,
that you answer me this question truly, before I take a bit or drop. Is
it too late?'
'For completing the work you began so well last night?' returned the
old gentleman. 'No. Set your mind at rest on that point. It is not, I
assure you.'
Comforted by this intelligence, the patient applied himself to his food
with a keen appetite, though evidently not with a greater zest in the
eating than his nurse appeared to have in seeing him eat. The manner
of this meal was this: - Mr Swiveller, holding the slice of toast or cup
of tea in his left hand, and taking a bite or drink, as the case might
be, constantly kept, in his right, one palm of the Marchioness tight
locked; and to shake, or even to kiss this imprisoned hand, he would
stop every now and then, in the very act of swallowing, with perfect
seriousness of intention, and the utmost gravity. As often as he put
anything into his mouth, whether for eating or drinking, the face of
the Marchioness lighted up beyond all description; but whenever he
gave her one or other of these tokens of recognition, her countenance
became overshadowed, and she began to sob. Now, whether she was
in her laughing joy, or in her crying one, the Marchioness could not
help turning to the visitors with an appealing look, which seemed to
say, 'You see this fellow - can I help this?' - and they, being thus
made, as it were, parties to the scene, as regularly answered by
another look, 'No. Certainly not.' This dumb-show, taking place during
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