Mugby Junction. Charles Dickens

for Somewhere; but I don’t yet know Where. You would never guess what I am travelling from. Shall I tell you? I am travelling from my birthday.”

      Her hands stopped in her work, and she looked at him with incredulous astonishment.

      “Yes,” said Barbox Brothers, not quite easy in his chair, “from my birthday. I am, to myself, an unintelligible book with the earlier chapters all torn out, and thrown away. My childhood had no grace of childhood, my youth had no charm of youth, and what can be expected from such a lost beginning?” His eyes meeting hers as they were addressed intently to him, something seemed to stir within his breast, whispering: “Was this bed a place for the graces of childhood and the charms of youth to take to, kindly? O shame, shame!”

      “It is a disease with me,” said Barbox Brothers, checking himself, and making as though he had a difficulty in swallowing something, “to go wrong about that. I don’t know how I came to speak of that. I hope it is because of an old misplaced confidence in one of your sex involving an old bitter treachery. I don’t know. I am all wrong together.”

      Her hands quietly and slowly resumed their work. Glancing at her, he saw that her eyes were thoughtfully following them.

      “I am travelling from my birthday,” he resumed, “because it has always been a dreary day to me. My first free birthday coming round some five or six weeks hence, I am travelling to put its predecessors far behind me, and to try to crush the day—or, at all events, put it out of my sight—by heaping new objects on it.”

      As he paused, she looked at him; but only shook her head as being quite at a loss.

      “This is unintelligible to your happy disposition,” he pursued, abiding by his former phrase as if there were some lingering virtue of self-defence in it: “I knew it would be, and am glad it is. However, on this travel of mine (in which I mean to pass the rest of my days, having abandoned all thought of a fixed home), I stopped, as you heard from your father, at the Junction here. The extent of its ramifications quite confused me as to whither I should go, from here. I have not yet settled, being still perplexed among so many roads. What do you think I mean to do? How many of the branching roads can you see from your window?”

      Looking out, full of interest, she answered, “Seven.”

      “Seven,” said Barbox Brothers, watching her with a grave smile. “Well! I propose to myself, at once to reduce the gross number to those very seven, and gradually to fine them down to one—the most promising for me—and to take that.”

      “But how will you know, sir, which is the most promising?” she asked, with her brightened eyes roving over the view.

      “Ah!” said Barbox Brothers, with another grave smile, and considerably improving in his ease of speech. “To be sure. In this way. Where your father can pick up so much every day for a good purpose, I may once and again pick up a little for an indifferent purpose. The gentleman for Nowhere must become still better known at the Junction. He shall continue to explore it, until he attaches something that he has seen, heard, or found out, at the head of each of the seven roads, to the road itself. And so his choice of a road shall be determined by his choice among his discoveries.”

      Her hands still busy, she again glanced at the prospect, as if it comprehended something that had not been in it before, and laughed as if it yielded her new pleasure.

      “But I must not forget,” said Barbox Brothers, “(having got so far) to ask a favour. I want your help in this expedient of mine. I want to bring you what I pick up at the heads of the seven roads that you lie here looking out at, and to compare notes with you about it. May I? They say two heads are better than one. I should say myself that probably depends upon the heads concerned. But I am quite sure, though we are so newly acquainted, that your head and your father’s have found out better things, Phœbe, than ever mine of itself discovered.”

      She gave him her sympathetic right hand, in perfect rapture with his proposal, and eagerly and gratefully thanked him.

      “That’s well!” said Barbox Brothers. “Again I must not forget (having got so far) to ask a favour. Will you shut your eyes?”

      Laughing playfully at the strange nature of the request, she did so.

      “Keep them shut,” said Barbox Brothers, going softly to the door, and coming back. “You are on your honour, mind, not to open your eyes until I tell you that you may?”

      “Yes! On my honour.”

      “Good. May I take your lace-pillow from you for a minute?”

      Still laughing and wondering, she removed her hands from it, and he put it aside.

      “Tell me. Did you see the puffs of smoke and steam made by the morning fast-train yesterday on road number seven from here?”

      “Behind the elm-trees and the spire?”

      “That’s the road,” said Barbox Brothers, directing his eyes towards it.

      “Yes. I watched them melt away.”

      “Anything unusual in what they expressed?”

      “No!” she answered merrily.

      “Not complimentary to me, for I was in that train. I went—don’t open your eyes—to fetch you this, from the great ingenious town. It is not half so large as your lace-pillow, and lies easily and lightly in its place. These little keys are like the keys of a miniature piano, and you supply the air required with your left hand. May you pick out delightful music from it, my dear! For the present—you can open your eyes now—good-bye!”

      In his embarrassed way, he closed the door upon himself, and only saw, in doing so, that she ecstatically took the present to her bosom and caressed it. The glimpse gladdened his heart, and yet saddened it; for so might she, if her youth had flourished in its natural course, have taken to her breast that day the slumbering music of her own child’s voice.