FIFTH CHAPTER

by Charles Dickens

　　WHAT do I know of Hoghton Towers? Very little; for I have beengratefully unwilling to disturb my first impressions. A house,centuries old, on high ground a mile or so removed from the roadbetween Preston and Blackburn, where the first James of England, inhis hurry to make money by making baronets, perhaps made some ofthose remunerative dignitaries. A house, centuries old, desertedand falling to pieces, its woods and gardens long since grass-landor ploughed up, the Rivers Ribble and Darwen glancing below it, anda vague haze of smoke, against which not even the supernaturalprescience of the first Stuart could foresee a counter-blast,hinting at steam-power, powerful in two distances. What did I know then of Hoghton Towers? When I first peeped in atthe gate of the lifeless quadrangle, and started from themouldering statue becoming visible to me like its guardian ghost;when I stole round by the back of the farm-house, and got in amongthe ancient rooms, many of them with their floors and ceilingsfalling, the beams and rafters hanging dangerously down, theplaster dropping as I trod, the oaken panels stripped away, thewindows half walled up, half broken; when I discovered a gallerycommanding the old kitchen, and looked down between balustradesupon a massive old table and benches, fearing to see I know notwhat dead-alive creatures come in and seat themselves, and look upwith I know not what dreadful eyes, or lack of eyes, at me; whenall over the house I was awed by gaps and chinks where the skystared sorrowfully at me, where the birds passed, and the ivyrustled, and the stains of winter weather blotched the rottenfloors; when down at the bottom of dark pits of staircase, intowhich the stairs had sunk, green leaves trembled, butterfliesfluttered, and bees hummed in and out through the broken door-ways;when encircling the whole ruin were sweet scents, and sights offresh green growth, and ever-renewing life, that I had neverdreamed of, - I say, when I passed into such clouded perception ofthese things as my dark soul could compass, what did I know then ofHoghton Towers? I have written that the sky stared sorrowfully at me. Therein haveI anticipated the answer. I knew that all these things lookedsorrowfully at me; that they seemed to sigh or whisper, not withoutpity for me, 'Alas! poor worldly little devil!' There were two or three rats at the bottom of one of the smallerpits of broken staircase when I craned over and looked in. Theywere scuffling for some prey that was there; and, when they startedand hid themselves close together in the dark, I thought of the oldlife (it had grown old already) in the cellar. How not to be this worldly little devil? how not to have arepugnance towards myself as I had towards the rats? I hid in acorner of one of the smaller chambers, frightened at myself, andcrying (it was the first time I had ever cried for any cause notpurely physical), and I tried to think about it. One of the farm-ploughs came into my range of view just then; and it seemed to helpme as it went on with its two horses up and down the field sopeacefully and quietly. There was a girl of about my own age in the farm-house family, andshe sat opposite to me at the narrow table at meal-times. It hadcome into my mind, at our first dinner, that she might take thefever from me. The thought had not disquieted me then. I had onlyspeculated how she would look under the altered circumstances, andwhether she would die. But it came into my mind now, that I mighttry to prevent her taking the fever by keeping away from her. Iknew I should have but scrambling board if I did; so much the lessworldly and less devilish the deed would be, I thought. From that hour, I withdrew myself at early morning into secretcorners of the ruined house, and remained hidden there until shewent to bed. At first, when meals were ready, I used to hear themcalling me; and then my resolution weakened. But I strengthened itagain by going farther off into the ruin, and getting out ofhearing. I often watched for her at the dim windows; and, when Isaw that she was fresh and rosy, felt much happier. Out of this holding her in my thoughts, to the humanising ofmyself, I suppose some childish love arose within me. I felt, insome sort, dignified by the pride of protecting her, - by the prideof making the sacrifice for her. As my heart swelled with that newfeeling, it insensibly softened about mother and father. It seemedto have been frozen before, and now to be thawed. The old ruin andall the lovely things that haunted it were not sorrowful for meonly, but sorrowful for mother and father as well. Therefore did Icry again, and often too. The farm-house family conceived me to be of a morose temper, andwere very short with me; though they never stinted me in suchbroken fare as was to be got out of regular hours. One night whenI lifted the kitchen latch at my usual time, Sylvia (that was herpretty name) had but just gone out of the room. Seeing herascending the opposite stairs, I stood still at the door. She hadheard the clink of the latch, and looked round. 'George,' she called to me in a pleased voice, 'to-morrow is mybirthday; and we are to have a fiddler, and there's a party of boysand girls coming in a cart, and we shall dance. I invite you. Besociable for once, George.' 'I am very sorry, miss,' I answered; 'but I - but, no; I can'tcome.' 'You are a disagreeable, ill-humoured lad,' she returneddisdainfully; 'and I ought not to have asked you. I shall neverspeak to you again.' As I stood with my eyes fixed on the fire, after she was gone, Ifelt that the farmer bent his brows upon me. 'Eh, lad!' said he; 'Sylvy's right. You're as moody and broody alad as never I set eyes on yet.' I tried to assure him that I meant no harm; but he only saidcoldly, 'Maybe not, maybe not! There, get thy supper, get thysupper; and then thou canst sulk to thy heart's content again.' Ah! if they could have seen me next day, in the ruin, watching forthe arrival of the cart full of merry young guests; if they couldhave seen me at night, gliding out from behind the ghostly statue,listening to the music and the fall of dancing feet, and watchingthe lighted farm-house windows from the quadrangle when all theruin was dark; if they could have read my heart, as I crept up tobed by the back way, comforting myself with the reflection, 'Theywill take no hurt from me,' - they would not have thought mine amorose or an unsocial nature. It was in these ways that I began to form a shy disposition; to beof a timidly silent character under misconstruction; to have aninexpressible, perhaps a morbid, dread of ever being sordid orworldly. It was in these ways that my nature came to shape itselfto such a mould, even before it was affected by the influences ofthe studious and retired life of a poor scholar.