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
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
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?
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.
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
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, 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—?"
"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."
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?"
"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.
"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."
"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
"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
"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 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
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
"To the first, then. He is of a studious habit, and unusually energetic;
he applies himself with great ardour 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
"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 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
"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.
"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
"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
He looked like his illustration, as he raised his eyes to Mr. Lorry's
"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
"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
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."
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
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.