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1Two Promises More months, to the number of twelve, had come and gone, and Mr. Charles Darnay was established in England
2as a higher teacher of the French language who was conversant with French literature. In this age, he would have been a
3Professor; in that age, he was a Tutor. He read with young men who could find any leisure and interest for the study of
4a living tongue spoken all over the world, and he cultivated a taste for its stores of knowledge and fancy. He could
5write of them, besides, in sound English, and render them into sound English. Such masters were not at that time easily
6found; Princes that had been, and Kings that were to be, were not yet of the Teacher class, and no ruined nobility had
7dropped out of Tellson's ledgers, to turn cooks and carpenters. As a tutor, whose attainments made the student's way
8unusually pleasant and profitable, and as an elegant translator who brought something to his work besides mere
9dictionary knowledge, young Mr. Darnay soon became known and encouraged. He was well acquainted, more-over, with the
10circumstances of his country, and those were of ever-growing interest. So, with great perseverance and untiring
11industry, he prospered. In London, he had expected neither to walk on pavements of gold, nor to lie on beds of roses; if
12he had had any such exalted expectation, he would not have prospered. He had expected labour, and he found it, and did
13it and made the best of it. In this, his prosperity consisted. A certain portion of his time was passed at Cambridge,
14where he read with undergraduates as a sort of tolerated smuggler who drove a contraband trade in European languages,
15instead of conveying Greek and Latin through the Custom-house. The rest of his time he passed in London. Now, from the
16days when it was always summer in Eden, to these days when it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the world of a man
17has invariably gone one way--Charles Darnay's way--the way of the love of a woman. He had loved Lucie Manette from the
18hour of his danger. He had never heard a sound so sweet and dear as the sound of her compassionate voice; he had never
19seen a face so tenderly beautiful, as hers when it was confronted with his own on the edge of the grave that had been
20dug for him. But, he had not yet spoken to her on the subject; the assassination at the deserted chateau far away beyond
21the heaving water and the long, long, dusty roads--the solid stone chateau which had itself become the mere mist of a
22dream--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
23heart. That he had his reasons for this, he knew full well. It was again a summer day when, lately arrived in London
24from his college occupation, he turned into the quiet corner in Soho, bent on seeking an opportunity of opening his mind
25to Doctor Manette. It was the close of the summer day, and he knew Lucie to be out with Miss Pross. He found the Doctor
26reading in his arm-chair at a window. The energy which had at once supported him under his old sufferings and aggravated
27their sharpness, had been gradually restored to him. He was now a very energetic man indeed, with great firmness of
28purpose, strength of resolution, and vigour of action. In his recovered energy he was sometimes a little fitful and
29sudden, as he had at first been in the exercise of his other recovered faculties; but, this had never been frequently
30observable, and had grown more and more rare. He studied much, slept little, sustained a great deal of fatigue with
31ease, and was equably cheerful. To him, now entered Charles Darnay, at sight of whom he laid aside his book and held out
32his hand. "Charles Darnay! I rejoice to see you. We have been counting on your return these three or four days past. Mr.
33Stryver and Sydney Carton were both here yesterday, and both made you out to be more than due." "I am obliged to them
34for their interest in the matter," he answered, a little coldly as to them, though very warmly as to the Doctor. "Miss
35Manette--" "Is well," said the Doctor, as he stopped short, "and your return will delight us all. She has gone out on
36some household matters, but will soon be home." "Doctor Manette, I knew she was from home. I took the opportunity of her
37being from home, to beg to speak to you." There was a blank silence. "Yes?" said the Doctor, with evident constraint.
38"Bring your chair here, and speak on." He complied as to the chair, but appeared to find the speaking on less easy. "I
39have had the happiness, Doctor Manette, of being so intimate here," so he at length began, "for some year and a half,
40that 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
41him. 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
42to 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
43a tone of fervent admiration, true homage, and deep love, Doctor Manette!" he said deferentially. There was another
44blank silence before her father rejoined: "I believe it. I do you justice; I believe it." His constraint was so
45manifest, and it was so manifest, too, that it originated in an unwillingness to approach the subject, that Charles
46Darnay hesitated. "Shall I go on, sir?" Another blank. "Yes, go on." "You anticipate what I would say, though you cannot
47know how earnestly I say it, how earnestly I feel it, without knowing my secret heart, and the hopes and fears and
48anxieties with which it has long been laden. Dear Doctor Manette, I love your daughter fondly, dearly, disinterestedly,
49devotedly. If ever there were love in the world, I love her. You have loved yourself; let your old love speak for me!"
50The Doctor sat with his face turned away, and his eyes bent on the ground. At the last words, he stretched out his hand
51again, hurriedly, and cried: "Not that, sir! Let that be! I adjure you, do not recall that!" His cry was so like a cry
52of actual pain, that it rang in Charles Darnay's ears long after he had ceased. He motioned with the hand he had
53extended, and it seemed to be an appeal to Darnay to pause. The latter so received it, and remained silent. "I ask your
54pardon," said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, after some moments. "I do not doubt your loving Lucie; you may be satisfied
55of it." He turned towards him in his chair, but did not look at him, or raise his eyes. His chin dropped upon his hand,
56and his white hair overshadowed his face: "Have you spoken to Lucie?" "No." "Nor written?" "Never." "It would be
57ungenerous to affect not to know that your self-denial is to be referred to your consideration for her father. Her
58father thanks you." He offered his hand; but his eyes did not go with it.
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