A Tale of Two Cities

translator who brought something to his work besides mere dictionary
knowledge, young Mr. Darnay soon became known and encouraged.  He was
well acquainted, more-over, with the circumstances of his country,
and those were of ever-growing interest.  So, with great perseverance
and untiring industry, he prospered.

In London, he had expected neither to walk on pavements of gold, nor
to lie on beds of roses; if he had had any such exalted expectation,
he would not have prospered.  He had expected labour, and he found it,
and did it and made the best of it.  In this, his prosperity consisted.

A certain portion of his time was passed at Cambridge, where he read
with undergraduates as a sort of tolerated smuggler who drove a
contraband trade in European languages, instead of conveying Greek
and Latin through the Custom-house.  The rest of his time he passed
in London.

Now, from the days when it was always summer in Eden, to these days
when it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the world of a man has
invariably gone one way--Charles Darnay's way--the way of the love of
a woman.

He had loved Lucie Manette from the hour of his danger.  He had never
heard a sound so sweet and dear as the sound of her compassionate
voice; he had never seen a face so tenderly beautiful, as hers when
it was confronted with his own on the edge of the grave that had been
dug for him.  But, he had not yet spoken to her on the subject;
the assassination at the deserted chateau far away beyond the heaving
water and the long, long, dusty roads--the solid stone chateau which
had itself become the mere mist of a dream--had been done a year,
and he had never yet, by so much as a single spoken word, disclosed
to her the state of his heart.

That he had his reasons for this, he knew full well.  It was again a
summer day when, lately arrived in London from his college occupation,
he turned into the quiet corner in Soho, bent on seeking an opportunity
of opening his mind to Doctor Manette.  It was the close of the
summer day, and he knew Lucie to be out with Miss Pross.

He found the Doctor reading in his arm-chair at a window.  The energy
which had at once supported him under his old sufferings and aggravated
their sharpness, had been gradually restored to him.  He was now a
very energetic man indeed, with great firmness of purpose, strength
of resolution, and vigour of action.  In his recovered energy he was
sometimes a little fitful and sudden, as he had at first been in the
exercise of his other recovered faculties; but, this had never been
frequently observable, and had grown more and more rare.

He studied much, slept little, sustained a great deal of fatigue with
ease, and was equably cheerful.  To him, now entered Charles Darnay,
at sight of whom he laid aside his book and held out his hand.

"Charles Darnay!  I rejoice to see you.  We have been counting on your
return these three or four days past.  Mr. Stryver and Sydney Carton
were both here yesterday, and both made you out to be more than due."

"I am obliged to them for their interest in the matter," he answered,
a little coldly as to them, though very warmly as to the Doctor.
"Miss Manette--"

"Is well," said the Doctor, as he stopped short, "and your return
will delight us all.  She has gone out on some household matters,
but will soon be home."

"Doctor Manette, I knew she was from home.  I took the opportunity of
her being from home, to beg to speak to you."

There was a blank silence.

"Yes?" said the Doctor, with evident constraint.  "Bring your chair here,
and speak on."

He complied as to the chair, but appeared to find the speaking on
less easy.

"I have had the happiness, Doctor Manette, of being so intimate
here," so he at length began, "for some year and a half, that I hope
the topic on which I am about to touch may not--"

He was stayed by the Doctor's putting out his hand to stop him.
When he had kept it so a little while, he said, drawing it back:

"Is Lucie the topic?"

"She is."

"It is hard for me to speak of her at any time.  It is very hard for
me to hear her spoken of in that tone of yours, Charles Darnay."

"It is a tone of fervent admiration, true homage, and deep love,
Doctor Manette!" he said deferentially.

There was another blank silence before her father rejoined:

"I believe it.  I do you justice; I believe it."

His constraint was so manifest, and it was so manifest, too, that it
originated in an unwillingness to approach the subject, that Charles
Darnay hesitated.