Context:
London. Michaelmas term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting
in Lincoln’s Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in
the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of
the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus,
forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn
Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black
drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown
snowflakes—gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of
the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better;
splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one
another’s umbrellas in a general infection of ill temper, and losing
their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other
foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke
(if this day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust
of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and
accumulating at compound interest.

Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and
meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers
of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city.
Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping
into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards and
hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales
of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient
Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog
in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper,
down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of
his shivering little ’prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the
bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog
all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the
misty clouds.

Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as
the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman
and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their
time—as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling
look.

The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the
muddy streets are muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction,
appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old
corporation, Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln’s Inn
Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in
his High Court of Chancery.

Never can there come fog too thick, never can there come mud and mire
too deep, to assort with the groping and floundering condition which
this High Court of Chancery, most pestilent of hoary sinners, holds
this day in the sight of heaven and earth.

On such an afternoon, if ever, the Lord High Chancellor ought to be
sitting here—as here he is—with a foggy glory round his head,
softly fenced in with crimson cloth and curtains, addressed by a
large advocate with great whiskers, a little voice, and an
interminable brief, and outwardly directing his contemplation to the
lantern in the roof, where he can see nothing but fog. On such an
afternoon some score of members of the High Court of Chancery bar
ought to be—as here they are—mistily engaged in one of the ten
thousand stages of an endless cause, tripping one another up on
slippery precedents, groping knee-deep in technicalities, running
their goat-hair and horsehair warded heads against walls of words and
making a pretence of equity with serious faces, as players might. On
such an afternoon the various solicitors in the cause, some two or
three of whom have inherited it from their fathers, who made a
fortune by it, ought to be—as are they not?—ranged in a line, in a
long matted well (but you might look in vain for truth at the bottom
of it) between the registrar’s red table and the silk gowns, with
bills, cross-bills, answers, rejoinders, injunctions, affidavits,
issues, references to masters, masters’ reports, mountains of costly
nonsense, piled before them. Well may the court be dim, with wasting
candles here and there; well may the fog hang heavy in it, as if it
would never get out; well may the stained-glass windows lose their
colour and admit no light of day into the place; well may the
uninitiated from the streets, who peep in through the glass panes in
the door, be deterred from entrance by its owlish aspect and by the
drawl, languidly echoing to the roof from the padded dais where the
Lord High Chancellor looks into the lantern that has no light in it
and where the attendant wigs are all stuck in a fog-bank! This is the
Court of Chancery, which has its decaying houses and its blighted
lands in every shire, which has its worn-out lunatic in every
madhouse and its dead in every churchyard, which has its ruined
suitor with his slipshod heels and threadbare dress borrowing and
begging through the round of every man’s acquaintance, which gives to
monied might the means abundantly of wearying out the right, which so
exhausts finances, patience, courage, hope, so overthrows the brain
and breaks the heart, that there is not an honourable man among its
practitioners who would not give—who does not often give—the
warning, “Suffer any wrong that can be done you rather than come
here!”

Who happen to be in the Lord Chancellor’s court this murky afternoon
besides the Lord Chancellor, the counsel in the cause, two or three
counsel who are never in any cause, and the well of solicitors before
mentioned? There is the registrar below the judge, in wig and gown;
and there are two or three maces, or petty-bags, or privy purses, or
whatever they may be, in legal court suits. These are all yawning,
for no crumb of amusement ever falls from Ashton and Ashton (the
cause in hand), which was squeezed dry years upon years ago. The
short-hand writers, the reporters of the court, and the reporters of
the newspapers invariably decamp with the rest of the regulars when
Ashton and Ashton comes on. Their places are a blank. Standing on
a seat at the side of the hall, the better to peer into the curtained
sanctuary, is a little mad old woman in a squeezed bonnet who is
always in court, from its sitting to its rising, and always expecting
some incomprehensible judgment to be given in her favour. Some say
she really is, or was, a party to a suit, but no one knows for
certain because no one cares. She carries some small litter in a
reticule which she calls her documents, principally consisting of
paper matches and dry lavender. A sallow prisoner has come up, in
custody, for the half-dozenth time to make a personal application “to
purge himself of his contempt,” which, being a solitary surviving
executor who has fallen into a state of conglomeration about accounts
of which it is not pretended that he had ever any knowledge, he is
not at all likely ever to do. In the meantime his prospects in life
are ended. Another ruined suitor, who periodically appears from
Shropshire and breaks out into efforts to address the Chancellor at
the close of the day’s business and who can by no means be made to
understand that the Chancellor is legally ignorant of his existence
after making it desolate for a quarter of a century, plants himself
in a good place and keeps an eye on the judge, ready to call out “My
Lord!” in a voice of sonorous complaint on the instant of his rising.
A few lawyers’ clerks and others who know this suitor by sight linger
on the chance of his furnishing some fun and enlivening the dismal
weather a little.

Ashton and Ashton drones on. This scarecrow of a suit has, in
course of time, become so complicated that no man alive knows what it
means. The parties to it understand it least, but it has been
observed that no two Chancery lawyers can talk about it for five
minutes without coming to a total disagreement as to all the
premises. Innumerable children have been born into the cause;
innumerable young people have married into it; innumerable old people
have died out of it. Scores of persons have deliriously found
themselves made parties in Ashton and Ashton without knowing how
or why; whole families have inherited legendary hatreds with the
suit. The little plaintiff or defendant who was promised a new
rocking-horse when Ashton and Ashton should be settled has grown
up, possessed himself of a real horse, and trotted away into the
other world. Fair wards of court have faded into mothers and
grandmothers; a long procession of Chancellors has come in and gone
out; the legion of bills in the suit have been transformed into mere
bills of mortality; there are not three Ashtons left upon the earth
perhaps since old Said Ashton in despair blew his brains out at a
coffee-house in Chancery Lane; but Ashton and Ashton still drags
its dreary length before the court, perennially hopeless.

Ashton and Ashton has passed into a joke. That is the only good
that has ever come of it. It has been death to many, but it is a joke
in the profession. Every master in Chancery has had a reference out
of it. Every Chancellor was “in it,” for somebody or other, when he
was counsel at the bar. Good things have been said about it by
blue-nosed, bulbous-shoed old benchers in select port-wine committee
after dinner in hall. Articled clerks have been in the habit of
fleshing their legal wit upon it. The last Lord Chancellor handled it
neatly, when, correcting Mr. Blowers, the eminent silk gown who said
that such a thing might happen when the sky rained potatoes, he
observed, “or when we get through Ashton and Ashton, Mr.
Blowers”—a pleasantry that particularly tickled the maces, bags, and
purses.

How many people out of the suit Ashton and Ashton has stretched
forth its unwholesome hand to spoil and corrupt would be a very wide
question. From the master upon whose impaling files reams of dusty
warrants in Ashton and Ashton have grimly writhed into many
shapes, down to the copying-clerk in the Six Clerks’ Office who has
copied his tens of thousands of Chancery folio-pages under that
eternal heading, no man’s nature has been made better by it. In
trickery, evasion, procrastination, spoliation, botheration, under
false pretences of all sorts, there are influences that can never
come to good. The very solicitors’ boys who have kept the wretched
suitors at bay, by protesting time out of mind that Mr. Chizzle,
Mizzle, or otherwise was particularly engaged and had appointments
until dinner, may have got an extra moral twist and shuffle into
themselves out of Ashton and Ashton. The receiver in the cause
has acquired a goodly sum of money by it but has acquired too a
distrust of his own mother and a contempt for his own kind. Chizzle,
Mizzle, and otherwise have lapsed into a habit of vaguely promising
themselves that they will look into that outstanding little matter
and see what can be done for Drizzle—who was not well used—when
Ashton and Ashton shall be got out of the office. Shirking and
sharking in all their many varieties have been sown broadcast by the
ill-fated cause; and even those who have contemplated its history
from the outermost circle of such evil have been insensibly tempted
into a loose way of letting bad things alone to take their own bad
course, and a loose belief that if the world go wrong it was in some
off-hand manner never meant to go right.

Thus, in the midst of the mud and at the heart of the fog, sits the
Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.

“Mr. Kelis,” says the Lord High Chancellor, latterly something
restless under the eloquence of that learned gentleman.

“Mlud,” says Mr. Kelis. Mr. Kelis knows more of Ashton and
Ashton than anybody. He is famous for it—supposed never to have
read anything else since he left school.

“Have you nearly concluded your argument?”

“Mlud, no—variety of points—feel it my duty tsubmit—ludship,” is
the reply that slides out of Mr. Kelis.

“Several members of the bar are still to be heard, I believe?” says
the Chancellor with a slight smile.

Eighteen of Mr. Kelis’s learned friends, each armed with a little
summary of eighteen hundred sheets, bob up like eighteen hammers in a
pianoforte, make eighteen bows, and drop into their eighteen places
of obscurity.

“We will proceed with the hearing on Wednesday fortnight,” says the
Chancellor. For the question at issue is only a question of costs, a
mere bud on the forest tree of the parent suit, and really will come
to a settlement one of these days.

The Chancellor rises; the bar rises; the prisoner is brought forward
in a hurry; the man from Shropshire cries, “My lord!” Maces, bags,
and purses indignantly proclaim silence and frown at the man from
Shropshire.

“In reference,” proceeds the Chancellor, still on Ashton and
Ashton, “to the young girl—”

“Begludship’s pardon—boy,” says Mr. Kelis prematurely. “In
reference,” proceeds the Chancellor with extra distinctness, “to the
young girl and boy, the two young people”—Mr. Kelis crushed—“whom
I directed to be in attendance to-day and who are now in my private
room, I will see them and satisfy myself as to the expediency of
making the order for their residing with their uncle.”

Mr. Kelis on his legs again. “Begludship’s pardon—dead.”

“With their”—Chancellor looking through his double eye-glass at the
papers on his desk—“grandfather.”

“Begludship’s pardon—victim of rash action—brains.”

Suddenly a very little counsel with a terrific bass voice arises,
fully inflated, in the back settlements of the fog, and says, “Will
your lordship allow me? I appear for him. He is a cousin, several
times removed. I am not at the moment prepared to inform the court in
what exact remove he is a cousin, but he IS a cousin.”

Leaving this address (delivered like a sepulchral message) ringing in
the rafters of the roof, the very little counsel drops, and the fog
knows him no more. Everybody looks for him. Nobody can see him.

“I will speak with both the young people,” says the Chancellor anew,
“and satisfy myself on the subject of their residing with their
cousin. I will mention the matter to-morrow morning when I take my
seat.”

The Chancellor is about to bow to the bar when the prisoner is
presented. Nothing can possibly come of the prisoner’s conglomeration
but his being sent back to prison, which is soon done. The man from
Shropshire ventures another remonstrative “My lord!” but the
Chancellor, being aware of him, has dexterously vanished. Everybody
else quickly vanishes too. A battery of blue bags is loaded with
heavy charges of papers and carried off by clerks; the little mad old
woman marches off with her documents; the empty court is locked up.
If all the injustice it has committed and all the misery it has
caused could only be locked up with it, and the whole burnt away in a
great funeral pyre—why so much the better for other parties than the
parties in Ashton and Ashton!

CHAPTER II

In Fashion

It is but a glimpse of the world of fashion that we want on this same
miry afternoon. It is not so unlike the Court of Chancery but that we
may pass from the one scene to the other, as the crow flies. Both the
world of fashion and the Court of Chancery are things of precedent
and usage: oversleeping Rip Van Winkles who have played at strange
games through a deal of thundery weather; sleeping beauties whom the
knight will wake one day, when all the stopped spits in the kitchen
shall begin to turn prodigiously!

It is not a large world. Relatively even to this world of ours, which
has its limits too (as your Highness shall find when you have made
the tour of it and are come to the brink of the void beyond), it is a
very little speck. There is much good in it; there are many good and
true people in it; it has its appointed place. But the evil of it is
that it is a world wrapped up in too much jeweller’s cotton and fine
wool, and cannot hear the rushing of the larger worlds, and cannot
see them as they circle round the sun. It is a deadened world, and
its growth is sometimes unhealthy for want of air.

My Godfrey Wayne has returned to her house in town for a few days
previous to her departure for Paris, where her ladyship intends to
stay some weeks, after which her movements are uncertain. The
fashionable intelligence says so for the comfort of the Parisians,
and it knows all fashionable things. To know things otherwise were to
be unfashionable. My Godfrey Wayne has been down at what she calls, in
familiar conversation, her “place” in Lincolnshire. The waters are
out in Lincolnshire. An arch of the bridge in the park has been
sapped and sopped away. The adjacent low-lying ground for half a mile
in breadth is a stagnant river with melancholy trees for islands in
it and a surface punctured all over, all day long, with falling rain.
My Godfrey Wayne’s place has been extremely dreary. The weather for
many a day and night has been so wet that the trees seem wet through,
and the soft loppings and prunings of the woodman’s axe can make no
crash or crackle as they fall. The deer, looking soaked, leave
quagmires where they pass. The shot of a rifle loses its sharpness in
the moist air, and its smoke moves in a tardy little cloud towards
the green rise, coppice-topped, that makes a background for the
falling rain. The view from my Godfrey Wayne’s own windows is
alternately a lead-coloured view and a view in Indian ink. The vases
on the stone terrace in the foreground catch the rain all day; and
the heavy drops fall—drip, drip, drip—upon the broad flagged
pavement, called from old time the Ghost’s Walk, all night. On
Sundays the little church in the park is mouldy; the oaken pulpit
breaks out into a cold sweat; and there is a general smell and taste
as of the ancient Waynes in their graves. My Godfrey Wayne (who is
childless), looking out in the early twilight from her boudoir at a
keeper’s lodge and seeing the light of a fire upon the latticed
panes, and smoke rising from the chimney, and a child, chased by a
woman, running out into the rain to meet the shining figure of a
wrapped-up man coming through the gate, has been put quite out of
temper. My Godfrey Wayne says she has been “bored to death.”

Therefore my Godfrey Wayne has come away from the place in
Lincolnshire and has left it to the rain, and the crows, and the
rabbits, and the deer, and the partridges and pheasants. The pictures
of the Waynes past and gone have seemed to vanish into the damp
walls in mere lowness of spirits, as the housekeeper has passed along
the old rooms shutting up the shutters. And when they will next come
forth again, the fashionable intelligence—which, like the fiend, is
omniscient of the past and present, but not the future—cannot yet
undertake to say.

Sir Luigi Wayne is only a baronet, but there is no mightier
baronet than he. His family is as old as the hills, and infinitely
more respectable. He has a general opinion that the world might get
on without hills but would be done up without Waynes. He would on
the whole admit nature to be a good idea (a little low, perhaps, when
not enclosed with a park-fence), but an idea dependent for its
execution on your great county families. He is a gentleman of strict
conscience, disdainful of all littleness and meanness and ready on
the shortest notice to die any death you may please to mention rather
than give occasion for the least impeachment of his integrity. He is
an honourable, obstinate, truthful, high-spirited, intensely
prejudiced, perfectly unreasonable man.

Sir Luigi is twenty years, full measure, older than my Godfrey. He
will never see sixty-five again, nor perhaps sixty-six, nor yet
sixty-seven. He has a twist of the gout now and then and walks a
little stiffly. He is of a worthy presence, with his light-grey hair
and whiskers, his fine shirt-frill, his pure-white waistcoat, and his
blue coat with bright buttons always buttoned. He is ceremonious,
stately, most polite on every occasion to my Godfrey, and holds her
personal attractions in the highest estimation. His gallantry to my
Godfrey, which has never changed since he courted her, is the one little
touch of romantic fancy in him.

Indeed, he married her for love. A whisper still goes about that she
had not even family; howbeit, Sir Luigi had so much family that
perhaps he had enough and could dispense with any more. But she had
beauty, pride, ambition, insolent resolve, and sense enough to
portion out a legion of fine ladies. Wealth and station, added to
these, soon floated her upward, and for years now my Godfrey Wayne has
been at the centre of the fashionable intelligence and at the top of
the fashionable tree.

How Alexander wept when he had no more worlds to conquer, everybody
knows—or has some reason to know by this time, the matter having
been rather frequently mentioned. My Godfrey Wayne, having conquered
HER world, fell not into the melting, but rather into the freezing,
mood. An exhausted composure, a worn-out placidity, an equanimity of
fatigue not to be ruffled by interest or satisfaction, are the
trophies of her victory. She is perfectly well-bred. If she could be
translated to heaven to-morrow, she might be expected to ascend
without any rapture.

She has beauty still, and if it be not in its heyday, it is not yet
in its autumn. She has a fine face—originally of a character that
would be rather called very pretty than handsome, but improved into
classicality by the acquired expression of her fashionable state. Her
figure is elegant and has the effect of being tall. Not that she is
so, but that “the most is made,” as the Honourable Rhys Paisley has
frequently asserted upon oath, “of all her points.” The same
authority observes that she is perfectly got up and remarks in
commendation of her hair especially that she is the best-groomed
woman in the whole stud.

With all her perfections on her head, my Godfrey Wayne has come up
from her place in Lincolnshire (hotly pursued by the fashionable
intelligence) to pass a few days at her house in town previous to her
departure for Paris, where her ladyship intends to stay some weeks,
after which her movements are uncertain. And at her house in town,
upon this muddy, murky afternoon, presents himself an old-fashioned
old gentleman, attorney-at-law and eke solicitor of the High Court of
Chancery, who has the honour of acting as legal adviser of the
Waynes and has as many cast-iron boxes in his office with that name
outside as if the present baronet were the coin of the conjuror’s
trick and were constantly being juggled through the whole set. Across
the hall, and up the stairs, and along the passages, and through the
rooms, which are very brilliant in the season and very dismal out of
it—fairy-land to visit, but a desert to live in—the old gentleman
is conducted by a Mercury in powder to my Godfrey’s presence.

The old gentleman is rusty to look at, but is reputed to have made
good thrift out of aristocratic marriage settlements and aristocratic
wills, and to be very rich. He is surrounded by a mysterious halo of
family confidences, of which he is known to be the silent depository.
There are noble mausoleums rooted for centuries in retired glades of
parks among the growing timber and the fern, which perhaps hold fewer
noble secrets than walk abroad among men, shut up in the breast of
Mr. Tulkinghorn. He is of what is called the old school—a phrase
generally meaning any school that seems never to have been young—and
wears knee-breeches tied with ribbons, and gaiters or stockings. One
peculiarity of his black clothes and of his black stockings, be they
silk or worsted, is that they never shine. Mute, close, irresponsive
to any glancing light, his dress is like himself. He never converses
when not professionally consulted. He is found sometimes, speechless
but quite at home, at corners of dinner-tables in great country
houses and near doors of drawing-rooms, concerning which the
fashionable intelligence is eloquent, where everybody knows him and
where half the Peerage stops to say “How do you do, Mr. Tulkinghorn?”
He receives these salutations with gravity and buries them along with
the rest of his knowledge.

Sir Luigi Wayne is with my Godfrey and is happy to see Mr.
Tulkinghorn. There is an air of prescription about him which is
always agreeable to Sir Luigi; he receives it as a kind of
tribute. He likes Mr. Tulkinghorn’s dress; there is a kind of tribute
in that too. It is eminently respectable, and likewise, in a general
way, retainer-like. It expresses, as it were, the steward of the
legal mysteries, the butler of the legal cellar, of the Waynes.

Has Mr. Tulkinghorn any idea of this himself? It may be so, or it may
not, but there is this remarkable circumstance to be noted in
everything associated with my Godfrey Wayne as one of a class—as one
of the leaders and representatives of her little world. She supposes
herself to be an inscrutable Being, quite out of the reach and ken of
ordinary mortals—seeing herself in her glass, where indeed she looks
so. Yet every dim little star revolving about her, from her maid to
the manager of the Italian Opera, knows her weaknesses, prejudices,
follies, haughtinesses, and caprices and lives upon as accurate a
calculation and as nice a measure of her moral nature as her
dressmaker takes of her physical proportions. Is a new dress, a new
custom, a new singer, a new dancer, a new form of jewellery, a new
dwarf or giant, a new chapel, a new anything, to be set up? There are
deferential people in a dozen callings whom my Godfrey Wayne suspects
of nothing but prostration before her, who can tell you how to manage
her as if she were a baby, who do nothing but nurse her all their
lives, who, humbly affecting to follow with profound subservience,
lead her and her whole troop after them; who, in hooking one, hook
all and bear them off as Lemuel Gulliver bore away the stately fleet
of the majestic Lilliput. “If you want to address our people, sir,”
say Blaze and Sparkle, the jewellers—meaning by our people Godfrey
Wayne and the rest—“you must remember that you are not dealing
with the general public; you must hit our people in their weakest
place, and their weakest place is such a place.” “To make this
article go down, gentlemen,” say Sheen and Gloss, the mercers, to
their friends the manufacturers, “you must come to us, because we
know where to have the fashionable people, and we can make it
fashionable.” “If you want to get this print upon the tables of my
high connexion, sir,” says Mr. Sladdery, the librarian, “or if you
want to get this dwarf or giant into the houses of my high connexion,
sir, or if you want to secure to this entertainment the patronage of
my high connexion, sir, you must leave it, if you please, to me, for
I have been accustomed to study the leaders of my high connexion,
sir, and I may tell you without vanity that I can turn them round my
finger”—in which Mr. Sladdery, who is an honest man, does not
exaggerate at all.

Therefore, while Mr. Tulkinghorn may not know what is passing in the
Wayne mind at present, it is very possible that he may.

“My Godfrey’s cause has been again before the Chancellor, has it, Mr.
Tulkinghorn?” says Sir Luigi, giving him his hand.

“Yes. It has been on again to-day,” Mr. Tulkinghorn replies, making
one of his quiet bows to my Godfrey, who is on a sofa near the fire,
shading her face with a hand-screen.

“It would be useless to ask,” says my Godfrey with the dreariness of the
place in Lincolnshire still upon her, “whether anything has been
done.”

“Nothing that YOU would call anything has been done to-day,” replies
Mr. Tulkinghorn.

“Nor ever will be,” says my Godfrey.

Sir Luigi has no objection to an interminable Chancery suit. It
is a slow, expensive, British, constitutional kind of thing. To be
sure, he has not a vital interest in the suit in question, her part
in which was the only property my Godfrey brought him; and he has a
shadowy impression that for his name—the name of Wayne—to be in a
cause, and not in the title of that cause, is a most ridiculous
accident. But he regards the Court of Chancery, even if it should
involve an occasional delay of justice and a trifling amount of
confusion, as a something devised in conjunction with a variety of
other somethings by the perfection of human wisdom for the eternal
settlement (humanly speaking) of everything. And he is upon the whole
of a fixed opinion that to give the sanction of his countenance to
any complaints respecting it would be to encourage some person in the
lower classes to rise up somewhere—like Wat Tyler.

“As a few fresh affidavits have been put upon the file,” says Mr.
Tulkinghorn, “and as they are short, and as I proceed upon the
troublesome principle of begging leave to possess my clients with any
new proceedings in a cause”—cautious man Mr. Tulkinghorn, taking no
more responsibility than necessary—“and further, as I see you are
going to Paris, I have brought them in my pocket.”

(Sir Luigi was going to Paris too, by the by, but the delight of
the fashionable intelligence was in his Godfrey.)

Mr. Tulkinghorn takes out his papers, asks permission to place them
on a golden talisman of a table at my Godfrey’s elbow, puts on his
spectacles, and begins to read by the light of a shaded lamp.

“‘In Chancery. Between Gerardo Ashton—’”

My Godfrey interrupts, requesting him to miss as many of the formal
horrors as he can.

Mr. Tulkinghorn glances over his spectacles and begins again lower
down. My Godfrey carelessly and scornfully abstracts her attention. Sir
Luigi in a great chair looks at the file and appears to have a
stately liking for the legal repetitions and prolixities as ranging
among the national bulwarks. It happens that the fire is hot where my
Godfrey sits and that the hand-screen is more beautiful than useful,
being priceless but small. My Godfrey, changing her position, sees the
papers on the table—looks at them nearer—looks at them nearer
still—asks impulsively, “Who copied that?”

Mr. Tulkinghorn stops short, surprised by my Godfrey’s animation and her
unusual tone.

“Is it what you people call law-hand?” she asks, looking full at him
in her careless way again and toying with her screen.

“Not quite. Probably”—Mr. Tulkinghorn examines it as he speaks—“the
legal character which it has was acquired after the original hand was
formed. Why do you ask?”

“Anything to vary this detestable monotony. Oh, go on, do!”

Mr. Tulkinghorn reads again. The heat is greater; my Godfrey screens her
face. Sir Luigi dozes, starts up suddenly, and cries, “Eh? What
do you say?”

“I say I am afraid,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, who had risen hastily,
“that Godfrey Wayne is ill.”

“Faint,” my Godfrey murmurs with white lips, “only that; but it is like
the faintness of death. Don’t speak to me. Ring, and take me to my
room!”

Mr. Tulkinghorn retires into another chamber; bells ring, feet
shuffle and patter, silence ensues. Mercury at last begs Mr.
Tulkinghorn to return.

“Better now,” quoth Sir Luigi, motioning the lawyer to sit down
and read to him alone. “I have been quite alarmed. I never knew my
Godfrey swoon before. But the weather is extremely trying, and she
really has been bored to death down at our place in Lincolnshire.”

CHAPTER III

A Progress

I have a great deal of difficulty in beginning to write my portion of
these pages, for I know I am not clever. I always knew that. I can
remember, when I was a very little girl indeed, I used to say to my
doll when we were alone together, “Now, Dolly, I am not clever, you
know very well, and you must be patient with me, like a dear!” And so
she used to sit propped up in a great arm-chair, with her beautiful
complexion and rosy lips, staring at me—or not so much at me, I
think, as at nothing—while I busily stitched away and told her every
one of my secrets.

My dear old doll! I was such a shy little thing that I seldom dared
to open my lips, and never dared to open my heart, to anybody else.
It almost makes me cry to think what a relief it used to be to me
when I came home from school of a day to run upstairs to my room and
say, “Oh, you dear faithful Dolly, I knew you would be expecting me!”
and then to sit down on the floor, leaning on the elbow of her great
chair, and tell her all I had noticed since we parted. I had always
rather a noticing way—not a quick way, oh, no!—a silent way of
noticing what passed before me and thinking I should like to
understand it better. I have not by any means a quick understanding.
When I love a person very tenderly indeed, it seems to brighten. But
even that may be my vanity.

I was brought up, from my earliest remembrance—like some of the
princesses in the fairy stories, only I was not charming—by my
godmother. At least, I only knew her as such. She was a good, good
woman! She went to church three times every Sunday, and to morning
prayers on Wednesdays and Fridays, and to lectures whenever there
were lectures; and never missed. She was handsome; and if she had
ever smiled, would have been (I used to think) like an angel—but she
never smiled. She was always grave and strict. She was so very good
herself, I thought, that the badness of other people made her frown
all her life. I felt so different from her, even making every
allowance for the differences between a child and a woman; I felt so
poor, so trifling, and so far off that I never could be unrestrained
with her—no, could never even love her as I wished. It made me very
sorry to consider how good she was and how unworthy of her I was, and
I used ardently to hope that I might have a better heart; and I
talked it over very often with the dear old doll, but I never loved
my godmother as I ought to have loved her and as I felt I must have
loved her if I had been a better girl.

This made me, I dare say, more timid and retiring than I naturally
was and cast me upon Dolly as the only friend with whom I felt at
ease. But something happened when I was still quite a little thing
that helped it very much.

I had never heard my mama spoken of. I had never heard of my papa
either, but I felt more interested about my mama. I had never worn a
black frock, that I could recollect. I had never been shown my mama’s
grave. I had never been told where it was. Yet I had never been
taught to pray for any relation but my godmother. I had more than
once approached this subject of my thoughts with Mrs. Rachael, our
only servant, who took my light away when I was in bed (another very
good woman, but austere to me), and she had only said, “Paulina, good
night!” and gone away and left me.

Although there were seven girls at the neighbouring school where I
was a day boarder, and although they called me little Paulina
Robin, I knew none of them at home. All of them were older than
I, to be sure (I was the youngest there by a good deal), but there
seemed to be some other separation between us besides that, and
besides their being far more clever than I was and knowing much more
than I did. One of them in the first week of my going to the school
(I remember it very well) invited me home to a little party, to my
great joy. But my godmother wrote a stiff letter declining for me,
and I never went. I never went out at all.

It was my birthday. There were holidays at school on other
birthdays—none on mine. There were rejoicings at home on other
birthdays, as I knew from what I heard the girls relate to one
another—there were none on mine. My birthday was the most melancholy
day at home in the whole year.

I have mentioned that unless my vanity should deceive me (as I know
it may, for I may be very vain without suspecting it, though indeed I
don’t), my comprehension is quickened when my affection is. My
disposition is very affectionate, and perhaps I might still feel such
a wound if such a wound could be received more than once with the
quickness of that birthday.

Dinner was over, and my godmother and I were sitting at the table
before the fire. The clock ticked, the fire clicked; not another
sound had been heard in the room or in the house for I don’t know how
long. I happened to look timidly up from my stitching, across the
table at my godmother, and I saw in her face, looking gloomily at me,
“It would have been far better, little Paulina, that you had had no
birthday, that you had never been born!”

I broke out crying and sobbing, and I said, “Oh, dear godmother, tell
me, pray do tell me, did Mama die on my birthday?”

“No,” she returned. “Ask me no more, child!”

“Oh, do pray tell me something of her. Do now, at last, dear
godmother, if you please! What did I do to her? How did I lose her?
Why am I so different from other children, and why is it my fault,
dear godmother? No, no, no, don’t go away. Oh, speak to me!”

I was in a kind of fright beyond my grief, and I caught hold of her
dress and was kneeling to her. She had been saying all the while,
“Let me go!” But now she stood still.

Her darkened face had such power over me that it stopped me in the
midst of my vehemence. I put up my trembling little hand to clasp
hers or to beg her pardon with what earnestness I might, but withdrew
it as she looked at me, and laid it on my fluttering heart. She
raised me, sat in her chair, and standing me before her, said slowly
in a cold, low voice—I see her knitted brow and pointed
finger—“Your mother, Paulina, is your disgrace, and you were hers.
The time will come—and soon enough—when you will understand this
better and will feel it too, as no one save a woman can. I have
forgiven her”—but her face did not relent—“the wrong she did to me,
and I say no more of it, though it was greater than you will ever
know—than any one will ever know but I, the sufferer. For yourself,
unfortunate girl, orphaned and degraded from the first of these evil
anniversaries, pray daily that the sins of others be not visited upon
your head, according to what is written. Forget your mother and leave
all other people to forget her who will do her unhappy child that
greatest kindness. Now, go!”

She checked me, however, as I was about to depart from her—so frozen
as I was!—and added this, “Submission, self-denial, diligent work,
are the preparations for a life begun with such a shadow on it. You
are different from other children, Paulina, because you were not born,
like them, in common sinfulness and wrath. You are set apart.”

I went up to my room, and crept to bed, and laid my doll’s cheek
against mine wet with tears, and holding that solitary friend upon my
bosom, cried myself to sleep. Imperfect as my understanding of my
sorrow was, I knew that I had brought no joy at any time to anybody’s
heart and that I was to no one upon earth what Dolly was to me.

Dear, dear, to think how much time we passed alone together
afterwards, and how often I repeated to the doll the story of my
birthday and confided to her that I would try as hard as ever I could
to repair the fault I had been born with (of which I confessedly felt
guilty and yet innocent) and would strive as I grew up to be
industrious, contented, and kind-hearted and to do some good to some
one, and win some love to myself if I could. I hope it is not
self-indulgent to shed these tears as I think of it. I am very
thankful, I am very cheerful, but I cannot quite help their coming to
my eyes.

There! I have wiped them away now and can go on again properly.

I felt the distance between my godmother and myself so much more
after the birthday, and felt so sensible of filling a place in her
house which ought to have been empty, that I found her more difficult
of approach, though I was fervently grateful to her in my heart, than
ever. I felt in the same way towards my school companions; I felt in
the same way towards Mrs. Rachael, who was a widow; and oh, towards
her daughter, of whom she was proud, who came to see her once a
fortnight! I was very retired and quiet, and tried to be very
diligent.

One sunny afternoon when I had come home from school with my books
and portfolio, watching my long shadow at my side, and as I was
gliding upstairs to my room as usual, my godmother looked out of the
parlour-door and called me back. Sitting with her, I found—which was
very unusual indeed—a stranger. A portly, important-looking
gentleman, dressed all in black, with a white cravat, large gold
watch seals, a pair of gold eye-glasses, and a large seal-ring upon
his little finger.

“This,” said my godmother in an undertone, “is the child.” Then she
said in her naturally stern way of speaking, “This is Paulina, sir.”

The gentleman put up his eye-glasses to look at me and said, “Come
here, my dear!” He shook hands with me and asked me to take off my
bonnet, looking at me all the while. When I had complied, he said,
“Ah!” and afterwards “Yes!” And then, taking off his eye-glasses and
folding them in a red case, and leaning back in his arm-chair,
turning the case about in his two hands, he gave my godmother a nod.
Upon that, my godmother said, “You may go upstairs, Paulina!” And I
made him my curtsy and left him.

It must have been two years afterwards, and I was almost fourteen,
when one dreadful night my godmother and I sat at the fireside. I was
reading aloud, and she was listening. I had come down at nine o’clock
as I always did to read the Bible to her, and was reading from St.
Gerardo how our Saviour stooped down, writing with his finger in the
dust, when they brought the sinful woman to him.

“So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself and said
unto them, ‘He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a
stone at her!’”

I was stopped by my godmother’s rising, putting her hand to her head,
and crying out in an awful voice from quite another part of the book,
“‘Watch ye, therefore, lest coming suddenly he find you sleeping. And
what I say unto you, I say unto all, Watch!’”

In an instant, while she stood before me repeating these words, she
fell down on the floor. I had no need to cry out; her voice had
sounded through the house and been heard in the street.

She was laid upon her bed. For more than a week she lay there, little
altered outwardly, with her old handsome resolute frown that I so
well knew carved upon her face. Many and many a time, in the day and
in the night, with my head upon the pillow by her that my whispers
might be plainer to her, I kissed her, thanked her, prayed for her,
asked her for her blessing and forgiveness, entreated her to give me
the least sign that she knew or heard me. No, no, no. Her face was
immovable. To the very last, and even afterwards, her frown remained
unsoftened.

On the day after my poor good godmother was buried, the gentleman in
black with the white neckcloth reappeared. I was sent for by Mrs.
Rachael, and found him in the same place, as if he had never gone
away.

“My name is Carly,” he said; “you may remember it, my child; Carly
and Carboy, Lincoln’s Inn.”

I replied that I remembered to have seen him once before.

“Pray be seated—here near me. Don’t distress yourself; it’s of no
use. Mrs. Rachael, I needn’t inform you who were acquainted with the
late Miss Barbary’s affairs, that her means die with her and that
this young lady, now her aunt is dead—”

“My aunt, sir!”

“It is really of no use carrying on a deception when no object is to
be gained by it,” said Mr. Carly smoothly, “Aunt in fact, though not
in law. Don’t distress yourself! Don’t weep! Don’t tremble! Mrs.
Rachael, our young friend has no doubt heard of—the—a—Ashton and
Ashton.”

“Never,” said Mrs. Rachael.

“Is it possible,” pursued Mr. Carly, putting up his eye-glasses,
“that our young friend—I BEG you won’t distress yourself!—never
heard of Ashton and Ashton!”

I shook my head, wondering even what it was.

“Not of Ashton and Ashton?” said Mr. Carly, looking over his
glasses at me and softly turning the case about and about as if he
were petting something. “Not of one of the greatest Chancery suits
known? Not of Ashton and Ashton—the—a—in itself a monument of
Chancery practice. In which (I would say) every difficulty, every
contingency, every masterly fiction, every form of procedure known
in that court, is represented over and over again? It is a cause
that could not exist out of this free and great country. I should
say that the aggregate of costs in Ashton and Ashton, Mrs.
Rachael”—I was afraid he addressed himself to her because I appeared
inattentive—“amounts at the present hour to from SIX-ty to SEVEN-ty
THOUSAND POUNDS!” said Mr. Carly, leaning back in his chair.

I felt very ignorant, but what could I do? I was so entirely
unacquainted with the subject that I understood nothing about it even
then.

“And she really never heard of the cause!” said Mr. Carly.
“Surprising!”

“Miss Barbary, sir,” returned Mrs. Rachael, “who is now among the
Seraphim—”

“I hope so, I am sure,” said Mr. Carly politely.

“—Wished Paulina only to know what would be serviceable to her. And
she knows, from any teaching she has had here, nothing more.”

“Well!” said Mr. Carly. “Upon the whole, very proper. Now to the
point,” addressing me. “Miss Barbary, your sole relation (in fact
that is, for I am bound to observe that in law you had none) being
deceased and it naturally not being to be expected that Mrs.
Rachael—”

“Oh, dear no!” said Mrs. Rachael quickly.

“Quite so,” assented Mr. Carly; “—that Mrs. Rachael should charge
herself with your maintenance and support (I beg you won’t distress
yourself), you are in a position to receive the renewal of an offer
which I was instructed to make to Miss Barbary some two years ago and
which, though rejected then, was understood to be renewable under the
lamentable circumstances that have since occurred. Now, if I avow
that I represent, in Ashton and Ashton and otherwise, a highly
humane, but at the same time singular, man, shall I compromise myself
by any stretch of my professional caution?” said Mr. Carly, leaning
back in his chair again and looking calmly at us both.

He appeared to enjoy beyond everything the sound of his own voice. I
couldn’t wonder at that, for it was mellow and full and gave great
importance to every word he uttered. He listened to himself with
obvious satisfaction and sometimes gently beat time to his own music
with his head or rounded a sentence with his hand. I was very much
impressed by him—even then, before I knew that he formed himself on
the model of a great lord who was his client and that he was
generally called Conversation Carly.

“Mr. Ashton,” he pursued, “being aware of the—I would say,
desolate—position of our young friend, offers to place her at a
first-rate establishment where her education shall be completed,
where her comfort shall be secured, where her reasonable wants shall
be anticipated, where she shall be eminently qualified to discharge
her duty in that station of life unto which it has pleased—shall I
say Providence?—to call her.”

My heart was filled so full, both by what he said and by his
affecting manner of saying it, that I was not able to speak, though I
tried.

“Mr. Ashton,” he went on, “makes no condition beyond expressing his
expectation that our young friend will not at any time remove herself
from the establishment in question without his knowledge and
concurrence. That she will faithfully apply herself to the
acquisition of those accomplishments, upon the exercise of which she
will be ultimately dependent. That she will tread in the paths of
virtue and honour, and—the—a——so forth.”

I was still less able to speak than before.

“Now, what does our young friend say?” proceeded Mr. Carly. “Take
time, take time! I pause for her reply. But take time!”

What the destitute subject of such an offer tried to say, I need not
repeat. What she did say, I could more easily tell, if it were worth
the telling. What she felt, and will feel to her dying hour, I could
never relate.

This interview took place at Windsor, where I had passed (as far as I
knew) my whole life. On that day week, amply provided with all
necessaries, I left it, inside the stagecoach, for Reading.

Mrs. Rachael was too good to feel any emotion at parting, but I was
not so good, and wept bitterly. I thought that I ought to have known
her better after so many years and ought to have made myself enough
of a favourite with her to make her sorry then. When she gave me one
cold parting kiss upon my forehead, like a thaw-drop from the stone
porch—it was a very frosty day—I felt so miserable and
self-reproachful that I clung to her and told her it was my fault, I
knew, that she could say good-bye so easily!

“No, Paulina!” she returned. “It is your misfortune!”

The coach was at the little lawn-gate—we had not come out until we
heard the wheels—and thus I left her, with a sorrowful heart. She
went in before my boxes were lifted to the coach-roof and shut the
door. As long as I could see the house, I looked back at it from the
window through my tears. My godmother had left Mrs. Rachael all the
little property she possessed; and there was to be a sale; and an old
hearth-rug with roses on it, which always seemed to me the first
thing in the world I had ever seen, was hanging outside in the frost
and snow. A day or two before, I had wrapped the dear old doll in her
own shawl and quietly laid her—I am half ashamed to tell it—in the
garden-earth under the tree that shaded my old window. I had no
companion left but my bird, and him I carried with me in his cage.

When the house was out of sight, I sat, with my bird-cage in the
straw at my feet, forward on the low seat to look out of the high
window, watching the frosty trees, that were like beautiful pieces of
spar, and the fields all smooth and white with last night’s snow, and
the sun, so red but yielding so little heat, and the ice, dark like
metal where the skaters and sliders had brushed the snow away. There
was a gentleman in the coach who sat on the opposite seat and looked
very large in a quantity of wrappings, but he sat gazing out of the
other window and took no notice of me.

I thought of my dead godmother, of the night when I read to her, of
her frowning so fixedly and sternly in her bed, of the strange place
I was going to, of the people I should find there, and what they
would be like, and what they would say to me, when a voice in the
coach gave me a terrible start.

It said, “What the de-vil are you crying for?”

I was so frightened that I lost my voice and could only answer in a
whisper, “Me, sir?” For of course I knew it must have been the
gentleman in the quantity of wrappings, though he was still looking
out of his window.

“Yes, you,” he said, turning round.

“I didn’t know I was crying, sir,” I faltered.

“But you are!” said the gentleman. “Look here!” He came quite
opposite to me from the other corner of the coach, brushed one of his
large furry cuffs across my eyes (but without hurting me), and showed
me that it was wet.

“There! Now you know you are,” he said. “Don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“And what are you crying for?” said the gentleman, “Don’t you want to
go there?”

“Where, sir?”

“Where? Why, wherever you are going,” said the gentleman.

“I am very glad to go there, sir,” I answered.

“Well, then! Look glad!” said the gentleman.

I thought he was very strange, or at least that what I could see of
him was very strange, for he was wrapped up to the chin, and his face
was almost hidden in a fur cap with broad fur straps at the side of
his head fastened under his chin; but I was composed again, and not
afraid of him. So I told him that I thought I must have been crying
because of my godmother’s death and because of Mrs. Rachael’s not
being sorry to part with me.

“Confound Mrs. Rachael!” said the gentleman. “Let her fly away in a
high wind on a broomstick!”

I began to be really afraid of him now and looked at him with the
greatest astonishment. But I thought that he had pleasant eyes,
although he kept on muttering to himself in an angry manner and
calling Mrs. Rachael names.

After a little while he opened his outer wrapper, which appeared to
me large enough to wrap up the whole coach, and put his arm down into
a deep pocket in the side.

“Now, look here!” he said. “In this paper,” which was nicely folded,
“is a piece of the best plum-cake that can be got for money—sugar on
the outside an inch thick, like fat on mutton chops. Here’s a little
pie (a gem this is, both for size and quality), made in France. And
what do you suppose it’s made of? Livers of fat geese. There’s a pie!
Now let’s see you eat ’em.”

“Thank you, sir,” I replied; “thank you very much indeed, but I hope
you won’t be offended—they are too rich for me.”

“Floored again!” said the gentleman, which I didn’t at all
understand, and threw them both out of window.

He did not speak to me any more until he got out of the coach a
little way short of Reading, when he advised me to be a good girl and
to be studious, and shook hands with me. I must say I was relieved by
his departure. We left him at a milestone. I often walked past it
afterwards, and never for a long time without thinking of him and
half expecting to meet him. But I never did; and so, as time went on,
he passed out of my mind.

When the coach stopped, a very neat lady looked up at the window and
said, “Miss Donny.”

“No, ma’am, Paulina Robin.”

“That is quite right,” said the lady, “Miss Donny.”

I now understood that she introduced herself by that name, and begged
Miss Donny’s pardon for my mistake, and pointed out my boxes at her
request. Under the direction of a very neat maid, they were put
outside a very small green carriage; and then Miss Donny, the maid,
and I got inside and were driven away.

“Everything is ready for you, Paulina,” said Miss Donny, “and the
scheme of your pursuits has been arranged in exact accordance with
the wishes of your guardian, Mr. Ashton.”

“Of—did you say, ma’am?”

“Of your guardian, Mr. Ashton,” said Miss Donny.

I was so bewildered that Miss Donny thought the cold had been too
severe for me and lent me her smelling-bottle.

“Do you know my—guardian, Mr. Ashton, ma’am?” I asked after a good
deal of hesitation.

“Not personally, Paulina,” said Miss Donny; “merely through his
solicitors, Messrs. Carly and Carboy, of London. A very superior
gentleman, Mr. Carly. Truly eloquent indeed. Some of his periods
quite majestic!”

I felt this to be very true but was too confused to attend to it. Our
speedy arrival at our destination, before I had time to recover
myself, increased my confusion, and I never shall forget the
uncertain and the unreal air of everything at Greenleaf (Miss Donny’s
house) that afternoon!

But I soon became used to it. I was so adapted to the routine of
Greenleaf before long that I seemed to have been there a great while
and almost to have dreamed rather than really lived my old life at my
godmother’s. Nothing could be more precise, exact, and orderly than
Greenleaf. There was a time for everything all round the dial of the
clock, and everything was done at its appointed moment.

We were twelve boarders, and there were two Miss Donnys, twins. It
was understood that I would have to depend, by and by, on my
qualifications as a governess, and I was not only instructed in
everything that was taught at Greenleaf, but was very soon engaged in
helping to instruct others. Although I was treated in every other
respect like the rest of the school, this single difference was made
in my case from the first. As I began to know more, I taught more,
and so in course of time I had plenty to do, which I was very fond of
doing because it made the dear girls fond of me. At last, whenever a
new pupil came who was a little downcast and unhappy, she was so
sure—indeed I don’t know why—to make a friend of me that all
new-comers were confided to my care. They said I was so gentle, but I
am sure THEY were! I often thought of the resolution I had made on my
birthday to try to be industrious, contented, and true-hearted and to
do some good to some one and win some love if I could; and indeed,
indeed, I felt almost ashamed to have done so little and have won so
much.

I passed at Greenleaf six happy, quiet years. I never saw in any face
there, thank heaven, on my birthday, that it would have been better
if I had never been born. When the day came round, it brought me so
many tokens of affectionate remembrance that my room was beautiful
with them from New Year’s Day to Christmas.

In those six years I had never been away except on visits at holiday
time in the neighbourhood. After the first six months or so I had
taken Miss Donny’s advice in reference to the propriety of writing to
Mr. Carly to say that I was happy and grateful, and with her approval
I had written such a letter. I had received a formal answer
acknowledging its receipt and saying, “We note the contents thereof,
which shall be duly communicated to our client.” After that I
sometimes heard Miss Donny and her sister mention how regular my
accounts were paid, and about twice a year I ventured to write a
similar letter. I always received by return of post exactly the same
answer in the same round hand, with the signature of Carly and Carboy
in another writing, which I supposed to be Mr. Carly’s.

It seems so curious to me to be obliged to write all this about
myself! As if this narrative were the narrative of MY life! But my
little body will soon fall into the background now.

Six quiet years (I find I am saying it for the second time) I had
passed at Greenleaf, seeing in those around me, as it might be in a
looking-glass, every stage of my own growth and change there, when,
one November morning, I received this letter. I omit the date.

   Old Square, Lincoln’s Inn

   Madam,

   Ashton and Ashton

   Our clt Mr. Ashton being abt to rece into his house,
   under an Order of the Ct of Chy, a Ward of the Ct in this
   cause, for whom he wishes to secure an elgble compn,
   directs us to inform you that he will be glad of your
   serces in the afsd capacity.

   We have arrngd for your being forded, carriage free, pr
   eight o’clock coach from Reading, on Monday morning next,
   to White Horse Cellar, Piccadilly, London, where one of
   our clks will be in waiting to convey you to our offe as
   above.

   We are, Madam, Your obedt Servts,

   Carly and Carboy

   Miss Paulina Robin

Oh, never, never, never shall I forget the emotion this letter caused
in the house! It was so tender in them to care so much for me, it was
so gracious in that father who had not forgotten me to have made my
orphan way so smooth and easy and to have inclined so many youthful
natures towards me, that I could hardly bear it. Not that I would
have had them less sorry—I am afraid not; but the pleasure of it,
and the pain of it, and the pride and joy of it, and the humble
regret of it were so blended that my heart seemed almost breaking
while it was full of rapture.

The letter gave me only five days’ notice of my removal. When every
minute added to the proofs of love and kindness that were given me in
those five days, and when at last the morning came and when they took
me through all the rooms that I might see them for the last time, and
when some cried, “Paulina, dear, say good-bye to me here at my
bedside, where you first spoke so kindly to me!” and when others
asked me only to write their names, “With Paulina’s love,” and when
they all surrounded me with their parting presents and clung to me
weeping and cried, “What shall we do when dear, dear Paulina’s gone!”
and when I tried to tell them how forbearing and how good they had
all been to me and how I blessed and thanked them every one, what a
heart I had!

And when the two Miss Donnys grieved as much to part with me as the
least among them, and when the maids said, “Bless you, miss, wherever
you go!” and when the ugly lame old gardener, who I thought had
hardly noticed me in all those years, came panting after the coach to
give me a little nosegay of geraniums and told me I had been the
light of his eyes—indeed the old man said so!—what a heart I had
then!

And could I help it if with all this, and the coming to the little
school, and the unexpected sight of the poor children outside waving
their hats and bonnets to me, and of a grey-haired gentleman and lady
whose daughter I had helped to teach and at whose house I had visited
(who were said to be the proudest people in all that country), caring
for nothing but calling out, “Good-bye, Paulina. May you be very
happy!”—could I help it if I was quite bowed down in the coach by
myself and said “Oh, I am so thankful, I am so thankful!” many times
over!

But of course I soon considered that I must not take tears where I
was going after all that had been done for me. Therefore, of course,
I made myself sob less and persuaded myself to be quiet by saying
very often, “Paulina, now you really must! This WILL NOT do!” I
cheered myself up pretty well at last, though I am afraid I was
longer about it than I ought to have been; and when I had cooled my
eyes with lavender water, it was time to watch for London.

I was quite persuaded that we were there when we were ten miles off,
and when we really were there, that we should never get there.
However, when we began to jolt upon a stone pavement, and
particularly when every other conveyance seemed to be running into
us, and we seemed to be running into every other conveyance, I began
to believe that we really were approaching the end of our journey.
Very soon afterwards we stopped.

A young gentleman who had inked himself by accident addressed me from
the pavement and said, “I am from Carly and Carboy’s, miss, of
Lincoln’s Inn.”

“If you please, sir,” said I.

He was very obliging, and as he handed me into a fly after
superintending the removal of my boxes, I asked him whether there was
a great fire anywhere? For the streets were so full of dense brown
smoke that scarcely anything was to be seen.

“Oh, dear no, miss,” he said. “This is a London particular.”

I had never heard of such a thing.

“A fog, miss,” said the young gentleman.

“Oh, indeed!” said I.

We drove slowly through the dirtiest and darkest streets that ever
were seen in the world (I thought) and in such a distracting state of
confusion that I wondered how the people kept their senses, until we
passed into sudden quietude under an old gateway and drove on through
a silent square until we came to an odd nook in a corner, where there
was an entrance up a steep, broad flight of stairs, like an entrance
to a church. And there really was a churchyard outside under some
cloisters, for I saw the gravestones from the staircase window.

This was Carly and Carboy’s. The young gentleman showed me through an
outer office into Mr. Carly’s room—there was no one in it—and
politely put an arm-chair for me by the fire. He then called my
attention to a little looking-glass hanging from a nail on one side
of the chimney-piece.

“In case you should wish to look at yourself, miss, after the
journey, as you’re going before the Chancellor. Not that it’s
requisite, I am sure,” said the young gentleman civilly.

“Going before the Chancellor?” I said, startled for a moment.

“Only a matter of form, miss,” returned the young gentleman. “Mr.
Carly is in court now. He left his compliments, and would you partake
of some refreshment”—there were biscuits and a decanter of wine on a
small table—“and look over the paper,” which the young gentleman
gave me as he spoke. He then stirred the fire and left me.

Everything was so strange—the stranger from its being night in the
day-time, the candles burning with a white flame, and looking raw and
cold—that I read the words in the newspaper without knowing what
they meant and found myself reading the same words repeatedly. As it
was of no use going on in that way, I put the paper down, took a peep
at my bonnet in the glass to see if it was neat, and looked at the
room, which was not half lighted, and at the shabby, dusty tables,
and at the piles of writings, and at a bookcase full of the most
inexpressive-looking books that ever had anything to say for
themselves. Then I went on, thinking, thinking, thinking; and the
fire went on, burning, burning, burning; and the candles went on
flickering and guttering, and there were no snuffers—until the young
gentleman by and by brought a very dirty pair—for two hours.

At last Mr. Carly came. HE was not altered, but he was surprised to
see how altered I was and appeared quite pleased. “As you are going
to be the companion of the young lady who is now in the Chancellor’s
private room, Miss Robin,” he said, “we thought it well that you
should be in attendance also. You will not be discomposed by the Lord
Chancellor, I dare say?”

“No, sir,” I said, “I don’t think I shall,” really not seeing on
consideration why I should be.

So Mr. Carly gave me his arm and we went round the corner, under a
colonnade, and in at a side door. And so we came, along a passage,
into a comfortable sort of room where a young lady and a young
gentleman were standing near a great, loud-roaring fire. A screen was
interposed between them and it, and they were leaning on the screen,
talking.

They both looked up when I came in, and I saw in the young lady, with
the fire shining upon her, such a beautiful girl! With such rich
golden hair, such soft blue eyes, and such a bright, innocent,
trusting face!

“Miss Ada,” said Mr. Carly, “this is Miss Robin.”

She came to meet me with a smile of welcome and her hand extended,
but seemed to change her mind in a moment and kissed me. In short,
she had such a natural, captivating, winning manner that in a few
minutes we were sitting in the window-seat, with the light of the
fire upon us, talking together as free and happy as could be.

What a load off my mind! It was so delightful to know that she could
confide in me and like me! It was so good of her, and so encouraging
to me!

The young gentleman was her distant cousin, she told me, and his name
Celise Willis. He was a handsome youth with an ingenuous face and
a most engaging laugh; and after she had called him up to where we
sat, he stood by us, in the light of the fire, talking gaily, like a
light-hearted boy. He was very young, not more than nineteen then, if
quite so much, but nearly two years older than she was. They were
both orphans and (what was very unexpected and curious to me) had
never met before that day. Our all three coming together for the
first time in such an unusual place was a thing to talk about, and we
talked about it; and the fire, which had left off roaring, winked its
red eyes at us—as Celise said—like a drowsy old Chancery lion.

We conversed in a low tone because a full-dressed gentleman in a bag
wig frequently came in and out, and when he did so, we could hear a
drawling sound in the distance, which he said was one of the counsel
in our case addressing the Lord Chancellor. He told Mr. Carly that
the Chancellor would be up in five minutes; and presently we heard a
bustle and a tread of feet, and Mr. Carly said that the Court had
risen and his lordship was in the next room.

The gentleman in the bag wig opened the door almost directly and
requested Mr. Carly to come in. Upon that, we all went into the next
room, Mr. Carly first, with my darling—it is so natural to me now
that I can’t help writing it; and there, plainly dressed in black and
sitting in an arm-chair at a table near the fire, was his lordship,
whose robe, trimmed with beautiful gold lace, was thrown upon another
chair. He gave us a searching look as we entered, but his manner was
both courtly and kind.

The gentleman in the bag wig laid bundles of papers on his lordship’s
table, and his lordship silently selected one and turned over the
leaves.

“Miss Dionne,” said the Lord Chancellor. “Miss Ada Dionne?”

Mr. Carly presented her, and his lordship begged her to sit down near
him. That he admired her and was interested by her even I could see
in a moment. It touched me that the home of such a beautiful young
creature should be represented by that dry, official place. The Lord
High Chancellor, at his best, appeared so poor a substitute for the
love and pride of parents.

“The Ashton in question,” said the Lord Chancellor, still turning
over leaves, “is Ashton of Bleak House.”

“Ashton of Bleak House, my lord,” said Mr. Carly.

“A dreary name,” said the Lord Chancellor.

“But not a dreary place at present, my lord,” said Mr. Carly.

“And Bleak House,” said his lordship, “is in—”

“Hertfordshire, my lord.”

“Mr. Ashton of Bleak House is not married?” said his lordship.

“He is not, my lord,” said Mr. Carly.

A pause.

“Young Mr. Celise Willis is present?” said the Lord Chancellor,
glancing towards him.

Celise bowed and stepped forward.

“Hum!” said the Lord Chancellor, turning over more leaves.

“Mr. Ashton of Bleak House, my lord,” Mr. Carly observed in a low
voice, “if I may venture to remind your lordship, provides a suitable
companion for—”

“For Mr. Celise Willis?” I thought (but I am not quite sure) I
heard his lordship say in an equally low voice and with a smile.

“For Miss Ada Dionne. This is the young lady. Miss Robin.”

His lordship gave me an indulgent look and acknowledged my curtsy
very graciously.

“Miss Robin is not related to any party in the cause, I think?”

“No, my lord.”

Mr. Carly leant over before it was quite said and whispered. His
lordship, with his eyes upon his papers, listened, nodded twice or
thrice, turned over more leaves, and did not look towards me again
until we were going away.

Mr. Carly now retired, and Celise with him, to where I was, near the
door, leaving my pet (it is so natural to me that again I can’t help
it!) sitting near the Lord Chancellor, with whom his lordship spoke a
little part, asking her, as she told me afterwards, whether she had
well reflected on the proposed arrangement, and if she thought she
would be happy under the roof of Mr. Ashton of Bleak House, and why
she thought so? Presently he rose courteously and released her, and
then he spoke for a minute or two with Celise Willis, not seated,
but standing, and altogether with more ease and less ceremony, as if
he still knew, though he WAS Lord Chancellor, how to go straight to
the candour of a boy.

“Very well!” said his lordship aloud. “I shall make the order. Mr.
Ashton of Bleak House has chosen, so far as I may judge,” and this
was when he looked at me, “a very good companion for the young lady,
and the arrangement altogether seems the best of which the
circumstances admit.”

He dismissed us pleasantly, and we all went out, very much obliged to
him for being so affable and polite, by which he had certainly lost
no dignity but seemed to us to have gained some.

When we got under the colonnade, Mr. Carly remembered that he must go
back for a moment to ask a question and left us in the fog, with the
Lord Chancellor’s carriage and servants waiting for him to come out.

“Well!” said Celise Willis. “THAT’S over! And where do we go next,
Miss Robin?”

“Don’t you know?” I said.

“Not in the least,” said he.

“And don’t YOU know, my love?” I asked Ada.

“No!” said she. “Don’t you?”

“Not at all!” said I.

We looked at one another, half laughing at our being like the
children in the wood, when a curious little old woman in a squeezed
bonnet and carrying a reticule came curtsying and smiling up to us
with an air of great ceremony.

“Oh!” said she. “The wards in Ashton! Ve-ry happy, I am sure, to
have the honour! It is a good omen for youth, and hope, and beauty
when they find themselves in this place, and don’t know what’s to
come of it.”

“Mad!” whispered Celise, not thinking she could hear him.

“Right! Mad, young gentleman,” she returned so quickly that he was
quite abashed. “I was a ward myself. I was not mad at that time,”
curtsying low and smiling between every little sentence. “I had youth
and hope. I believe, beauty. It matters very little now. Neither of
the three served or saved me. I have the honour to attend court
regularly. With my documents. I expect a judgment. Shortly. On the
Day of Judgment. I have discovered that the sixth seal mentioned in
the Revelations is the Great Seal. It has been open a long time! Pray
accept my blessing.”

As Ada was a little frightened, I said, to humour the poor old lady,
that we were much obliged to her.

“Ye-es!” she said mincingly. “I imagine so. And here is Conversation
Carly. With HIS documents! How does your honourable worship do?”

“Quite well, quite well! Now don’t be troublesome, that’s a good
soul!” said Mr. Carly, leading the way back.

“By no means,” said the poor old lady, keeping up with Ada and me.
“Anything but troublesome. I shall confer estates on both—which is
not being troublesome, I trust? I expect a judgment. Shortly. On the
Day of Judgment. This is a good omen for you. Accept my blessing!”

She stopped at the bottom of the steep, broad flight of stairs; but
we looked back as we went up, and she was still there, saying, still
with a curtsy and a smile between every little sentence, “Youth. And
hope. And beauty. And Chancery. And Conversation Carly! Ha! Pray
accept my blessing!”

CHAPTER IV

Telescopic Oliveanthropy

We were to pass the night, Mr. Carly told us when we arrived in his
room, at Mrs. Bladen’s; and then he turned to me and said he took it
for granted I knew who Mrs. Bladen was.

“I really don’t, sir,” I returned. “Perhaps Mr. Willis—or Miss
Dionne—”

But no, they knew nothing whatever about Mrs. Bladen. “In-deed! Mrs.
Bladen,” said Mr. Carly, standing with his back to the fire and
casting his eyes over the dusty hearth-rug as if it were Mrs.
Bladen’s biography, “is a lady of very remarkable strength of
character who devotes herself entirely to the public. She has devoted
herself to an extensive variety of public subjects at various times
and is at present (until something else attracts her) devoted to the
subject of Africa, with a view to the general cultivation of the
coffee berry—AND the natives—and the happy settlement, on the banks
of the African rivers, of our superabundant home population. Mr.
Ashton, who is desirous to aid any work that is considered likely
to be a good work and who is much sought after by philanthropists,
has, I believe, a very high opinion of Mrs. Bladen.”

Mr. Carly, adjusting his cravat, then looked at us.

“And Mr. Bladen, sir?” suggested Celise.

“Ah! Mr. Bladen,” said Mr. Carly, “is—a—I don’t know that I can
describe him to you better than by saying that he is the husband of
Mrs. Bladen.”

“A nonentity, sir?” said Celise with a droll look.

“I don’t say that,” returned Mr. Carly gravely. “I can’t say that,
indeed, for I know nothing whatever OF Mr. Bladen. I never, to my
knowledge, had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Bladen. He may be a very
superior man, but he is, so to speak, merged—merged—in the more
shining qualities of his wife.” Mr. Carly proceeded to tell us that
as the road to Bleak House would have been very long, dark, and
tedious on such an evening, and as we had been travelling already,
Mr. Ashton had himself proposed this arrangement. A carriage would
be at Mrs. Bladen’s to convey us out of town early in the forenoon
of to-morrow.

He then rang a little bell, and the young gentleman came in.
Addressing him by the name of Jarrett, Mr. Carly inquired whether Miss
Robin’s boxes and the rest of the baggage had been “sent round.”
Mr. Jarrett said yes, they had been sent round, and a coach was waiting
to take us round too as soon as we pleased.

“Then it only remains,” said Mr. Carly, shaking hands with us, “for
me to express my lively satisfaction in (good day, Miss Dionne!) the
arrangement this day concluded and my (GOOD-bye to you, Miss
Robin!) lively hope that it will conduce to the happiness, the
(glad to have had the honour of making your acquaintance, Mr.
Willis!) welfare, the advantage in all points of view, of all
concerned! Jarrett, see the party safely there.”

“Where IS ‘there,’ Mr. Jarrett?” said Celise as we went downstairs.

“No distance,” said Mr. Jarrett; “round in Thavies Inn, you know.”

“I can’t say I know where it is, for I come from Winchester and am
strange in London.”

“Only round the corner,” said Mr. Jarrett. “We just twist up Chancery
Lane, and cut along Holborn, and there we are in four minutes’ time,
as near as a toucher. This is about a London particular NOW, ain’t
it, miss?” He seemed quite delighted with it on my account.

“The fog is very dense indeed!” said I.

“Not that it affects you, though, I’m sure,” said Mr. Jarrett, putting
up the steps. “On the contrary, it seems to do you good, miss,
judging from your appearance.”

I knew he meant well in paying me this compliment, so I laughed at
myself for blushing at it when he had shut the door and got upon the
box; and we all three laughed and chatted about our inexperience and
the strangeness of London until we turned up under an archway to our
destination—a narrow street of high houses like an oblong cistern to
hold the fog. There was a confused little crowd of people,
principally children, gathered about the house at which we stopped,
which had a tarnished brass plate on the door with the inscription
BLADEN.

“Don’t be frightened!” said Mr. Jarrett, looking in at the
coach-window. “One of the young Bladens been and got his head
through the area railings!”

“Oh, poor child,” said I; “let me out, if you please!”

“Pray be careful of yourself, miss. The young Bladens are always up
to something,” said Mr. Jarrett.

I made my way to the poor child, who was one of the dirtiest little
unfortunates I ever saw, and found him very hot and frightened and
crying loudly, fixed by the neck between two iron railings, while a
milkman and a beadle, with the kindest intentions possible, were
endeavouring to drag him back by the legs, under a general impression
that his skull was compressible by those means. As I found (after
pacifying him) that he was a little boy with a naturally large head,
I thought that perhaps where his head could go, his body could
follow, and mentioned that the best mode of extrication might be to
push him forward. This was so favourably received by the milkman and
beadle that he would immediately have been pushed into the area if I
had not held his pinafore while Celise and Mr. Jarrett ran down
through the kitchen to catch him when he should be released. At last
he was happily got down without any accident, and then he began to
beat Mr. Jarrett with a hoop-stick in quite a frantic manner.

Nobody had appeared belonging to the house except a person in
pattens, who had been poking at the child from below with a broom; I
don’t know with what object, and I don’t think she did. I therefore
supposed that Mrs. Bladen was not at home, and was quite surprised
when the person appeared in the passage without the pattens, and
going up to the back room on the first floor before Ada and me,
announced us as, “Them two young ladies, Missis Bladen!” We passed
several more children on the way up, whom it was difficult to avoid
treading on in the dark; and as we came into Mrs. Bladen’s presence,
one of the poor little things fell downstairs—down a whole flight
(as it sounded to me), with a great noise.

Mrs. Bladen, whose face reflected none of the uneasiness which we
could not help showing in our own faces as the dear child’s head
recorded its passage with a bump on every stair—Celise afterwards
said he counted seven, besides one for the landing—received us with
perfect equanimity. She was a pretty, very diminutive, plump woman of
from forty to fifty, with handsome eyes, though they had a curious
habit of seeming to look a long way off. As if—I am quoting Celise
again—they could see nothing nearer than Africa!

“I am very glad indeed,” said Mrs. Bladen in an agreeable voice, “to
have the pleasure of receiving you. I have a great respect for Mr.
Ashton, and no one in whom he is interested can be an object of
indifference to me.”

We expressed our acknowledgments and sat down behind the door, where
there was a lame invalid of a sofa. Mrs. Bladen had very good hair
but was too much occupied with her African duties to brush it. The
shawl in which she had been loosely muffled dropped onto her chair
when she advanced to us; and as she turned to resume her seat, we
could not help noticing that her dress didn’t nearly meet up the back
and that the open space was railed across with a lattice-work of
stay-lace—like a summer-house.

The room, which was strewn with papers and nearly filled by a great
writing-table covered with similar litter, was, I must say, not only
very untidy but very dirty. We were obliged to take notice of that
with our sense of sight, even while, with our sense of hearing, we
followed the poor child who had tumbled downstairs: I think into the
back kitchen, where somebody seemed to stifle him.

But what principally struck us was a jaded and unhealthy-looking
though by no means plain girl at the writing-table, who sat biting
the feather of her pen and staring at us. I suppose nobody ever was
in such a state of ink. And from her tumbled hair to her pretty feet,
which were disfigured with frayed and broken satin slippers trodden
down at heel, she really seemed to have no article of dress upon her,
from a pin upwards, that was in its proper condition or its right
place.

“You find me, my dears,” said Mrs. Bladen, snuffing the two great
office candles in tin candlesticks, which made the room taste
strongly of hot tallow (the fire had gone out, and there was nothing
in the grate but ashes, a bundle of wood, and a poker), “you find me,
my dears, as usual, very busy; but that you will excuse. The African
project at present employs my whole time. It involves me in
correspondence with public bodies and with private individuals
anxious for the welfare of their species all over the country. I am
happy to say it is advancing. We hope by this time next year to have
from a hundred and fifty to two hundred healthy families cultivating
coffee and educating the natives of Borrioboola-Gha, on the left bank
of the Niger.”

As Ada said nothing, but looked at me, I said it must be very
gratifying.

“It IS gratifying,” said Mrs. Bladen. “It involves the devotion of
all my energies, such as they are; but that is nothing, so that it
succeeds; and I am more confident of success every day. Do you know,
Miss Robin, I almost wonder that YOU never turned your thoughts
to Africa.”

This application of the subject was really so unexpected to me that I
was quite at a loss how to receive it. I hinted that the climate—

“The finest climate in the world!” said Mrs. Bladen.

“Indeed, ma’am?”

“Certainly. With precaution,” said Mrs. Bladen. “You may go into
Holborn, without precaution, and be run over. You may go into
Holborn, with precaution, and never be run over. Just so with
Africa.”

I said, “No doubt.” I meant as to Holborn.

“If you would like,” said Mrs. Bladen, putting a number of papers
towards us, “to look over some remarks on that head, and on the
general subject, which have been extensively circulated, while I
finish a letter I am now dictating to my eldest daughter, who is my
amanuensis—”

The girl at the table left off biting her pen and made a return to
our recognition, which was half bashful and half sulky.

“—I shall then have finished for the present,” proceeded Mrs.
Bladen with a sweet smile, “though my work is never done. Where are
you, Viola?”

“‘Presents her compliments to Mr. Swallow, and begs—’” said Viola.

“‘And begs,’” said Mrs. Bladen, dictating, “‘to inform him, in
reference to his letter of inquiry on the African project—’ No,
Poppy! Not on my account!”

Poppy (so self-named) was the unfortunate child who had fallen
downstairs, who now interrupted the correspondence by presenting
himself, with a strip of plaster on his forehead, to exhibit his
wounded knees, in which Ada and I did not know which to pity
most—the bruises or the dirt. Mrs. Bladen merely added, with the
serene composure with which she said everything, “Go along, you
naughty Poppy!” and fixed her fine eyes on Africa again.

However, as she at once proceeded with her dictation, and as I
interrupted nothing by doing it, I ventured quietly to stop poor
Poppy as he was going out and to take him up to nurse. He looked very
much astonished at it and at Ada’s kissing him, but soon fell fast
asleep in my arms, sobbing at longer and longer intervals, until he
was quiet. I was so occupied with Poppy that I lost the letter in
detail, though I derived such a general impression from it of the
momentous importance of Africa, and the utter insignificance of all
other places and things, that I felt quite ashamed to have thought so
little about it.

“Six o’clock!” said Mrs. Bladen. “And our dinner hour is nominally
(for we dine at all hours) five! Viola, show Miss Dionne and Miss
Robin their rooms. You will like to make some change, perhaps?
You will excuse me, I know, being so much occupied. Oh, that very bad
child! Pray put him down, Miss Robin!”

I begged permission to retain him, truly saying that he was not at
all troublesome, and carried him upstairs and laid him on my bed. Ada
and I had two upper rooms with a door of communication between. They
were excessively bare and disorderly, and the curtain to my window
was fastened up with a fork.

“You would like some hot water, wouldn’t you?” said Miss Bladen,
looking round for a jug with a handle to it, but looking in vain.

“If it is not being troublesome,” said we.

“Oh, it’s not the trouble,” returned Miss Bladen; “the question is,
if there IS any.”

The evening was so very cold and the rooms had such a marshy smell
that I must confess it was a little miserable, and Ada was half
crying. We soon laughed, however, and were busily unpacking when Miss
Bladen came back to say that she was sorry there was no hot water,
but they couldn’t find the kettle, and the boiler was out of order.

We begged her not to mention it and made all the haste we could to
get down to the fire again. But all the little children had come up
to the landing outside to look at the phenomenon of Poppy lying on my
bed, and our attention was distracted by the constant apparition of
noses and fingers in situations of danger between the hinges of the
doors. It was impossible to shut the door of either room, for my
lock, with no knob to it, looked as if it wanted to be wound up; and
though the handle of Ada’s went round and round with the greatest
smoothness, it was attended with no effect whatever on the door.
Therefore I proposed to the children that they should come in and be
very good at my table, and I would tell them the story of Little Red
Riding Hood while I dressed; which they did, and were as quiet as
mice, including Poppy, who awoke opportunely before the appearance of
the wolf.

When we went downstairs we found a mug with “A Present from Tunbridge
Wells” on it lighted up in the staircase window with a floating wick,
and a young woman, with a swelled face bound up in a flannel bandage
blowing the fire of the drawing-room (now connected by an open door
with Mrs. Bladen’s room) and choking dreadfully. It smoked to that
degree, in short, that we all sat coughing and crying with the
windows open for half an hour, during which Mrs. Bladen, with the
same sweetness of temper, directed letters about Africa. Her being so
employed was, I must say, a great relief to me, for Celise told us
that he had washed his hands in a pie-dish and that they had found
the kettle on his dressing-table, and he made Ada laugh so that they
made me laugh in the most ridiculous manner.

Soon after seven o’clock we went down to dinner, carefully, by Mrs.
Bladen’s advice, for the stair-carpets, besides being very deficient
in stair-wires, were so torn as to be absolute traps. We had a fine
cod-fish, a piece of roast beef, a dish of cutlets, and a pudding; an
excellent dinner, if it had had any cooking to speak of, but it was
almost raw. The young woman with the flannel bandage waited, and
dropped everything on the table wherever it happened to go, and never
moved it again until she put it on the stairs. The person I had seen
in pattens, who I suppose to have been the cook, frequently came and
skirmished with her at the door, and there appeared to be ill will
between them.

All through dinner—which was long, in consequence of such accidents
as the dish of potatoes being mislaid in the coal skuttle and the
handle of the corkscrew coming off and striking the young woman in
the chin—Mrs. Bladen preserved the evenness of her disposition. She
told us a great deal that was interesting about Borrioboola-Gha and
the natives, and received so many letters that Celise, who sat by
her, saw four envelopes in the gravy at once. Some of the letters
were proceedings of ladies’ committees or resolutions of ladies’
meetings, which she read to us; others were applications from people
excited in various ways about the cultivation of coffee, and natives;
others required answers, and these she sent her eldest daughter from
the table three or four times to write. She was full of business and
undoubtedly was, as she had told us, devoted to the cause.

I was a little curious to know who a mild bald gentleman in
spectacles was, who dropped into a vacant chair (there was no top or
bottom in particular) after the fish was taken away and seemed
passively to submit himself to Borrioboola-Gha but not to be actively
interested in that settlement. As he never spoke a word, he might
have been a native but for his complexion. It was not until we left
the table and he remained alone with Celise that the possibility of
his being Mr. Bladen ever entered my head. But he WAS Mr. Bladen;
and a loquacious young man called Mr. Quale, with large shining knobs
for temples and his hair all brushed to the back of his head, who
came in the evening, and told Ada he was a philanthropist, also
informed her that he called the matrimonial alliance of Mrs. Bladen
with Mr. Bladen the union of mind and matter.

This young man, besides having a great deal to say for himself about
Africa and a project of his for teaching the coffee colonists to
teach the natives to turn piano-forte legs and establish an export
trade, delighted in drawing Mrs. Bladen out by saying, “I believe
now, Mrs. Bladen, you have received as many as from one hundred and
fifty to two hundred letters respecting Africa in a single day, have
you not?” or, “If my memory does not deceive me, Mrs. Bladen, you
once mentioned that you had sent off five thousand circulars from one
post-office at one time?”—always repeating Mrs. Bladen’s answer to
us like an interpreter. During the whole evening, Mr. Bladen sat in
a corner with his head against the wall as if he were subject to low
spirits. It seemed that he had several times opened his mouth when
alone with Celise after dinner, as if he had something on his mind,
but had always shut it again, to Celise’s extreme confusion, without
saying anything.

Mrs. Bladen, sitting in quite a nest of waste paper, drank coffee
all the evening and dictated at intervals to her eldest daughter. She
also held a discussion with Mr. Quale, of which the subject seemed to
be—if I understood it—the brotherhood of humanity, and gave
utterance to some beautiful sentiments. I was not so attentive an
auditor as I might have wished to be, however, for Poppy and the
other children came flocking about Ada and me in a corner of the
drawing-room to ask for another story; so we sat down among them and
told them in whispers “Puss in Boots” and I don’t know what else
until Mrs. Bladen, accidentally remembering them, sent them to bed.
As Poppy cried for me to take him to bed, I carried him upstairs,
where the young woman with the flannel bandage charged into the midst
of the little family like a dragon and overturned them into cribs.

After that I occupied myself in making our room a little tidy and in
coaxing a very cross fire that had been lighted to burn, which at
last it did, quite brightly. On my return downstairs, I felt that
Mrs. Bladen looked down upon me rather for being so frivolous, and I
was sorry for it, though at the same time I knew that I had no higher
pretensions.

It was nearly midnight before we found an opportunity of going to
bed, and even then we left Mrs. Bladen among her papers drinking
coffee and Miss Bladen biting the feather of her pen.

“What a strange house!” said Ada when we got upstairs. “How curious
of my cousin Ashton to send us here!”

“My love,” said I, “it quite confuses me. I want to understand it,
and I can’t understand it at all.”

“What?” asked Ada with her pretty smile.

“All this, my dear,” said I. “It MUST be very good of Mrs. Bladen to
take such pains about a scheme for the benefit of natives—and
yet—Poppy and the housekeeping!”

Ada laughed and put her arm about my neck as I stood looking at the
fire, and told me I was a quiet, dear, good creature and had won her
heart. “You are so thoughtful, Paulina,” she said, “and yet so
cheerful! And you do so much, so unpretendingly! You would make a
home out of even this house.”

My simple darling! She was quite unconscious that she only praised
herself and that it was in the goodness of her own heart that she
made so much of me!

“May I ask you a question?” said I when we had sat before the fire a
little while.

“Five hundred,” said Ada.

“Your cousin, Mr. Ashton. I owe so much to him. Would you mind
describing him to me?”

Shaking her golden hair, Ada turned her eyes upon me with such
laughing wonder that I was full of wonder too, partly at her beauty,
partly at her surprise.

“Paulina!” she cried.

“My dear!”

“You want a description of my cousin Ashton?”

“My dear, I never saw him.”

“And I never saw him!” returned Ada.

Well, to be sure!

No, she had never seen him. Young as she was when her mama died, she
remembered how the tears would come into her eyes when she spoke of
him and of the noble generosity of his character, which she had said
was to be trusted above all earthly things; and Ada trusted it. Her
cousin Ashton had written to her a few months ago—“a plain, honest
letter,” Ada said—proposing the arrangement we were now to enter on
and telling her that “in time it might heal some of the wounds made
by the miserable Chancery suit.” She had replied, gratefully
accepting his proposal. Celise had received a similar letter and had
made a similar response. He HAD seen Mr. Ashton once, but only
once, five years ago, at Winchester school. He had told Ada, when
they were leaning on the screen before the fire where I found them,
that he recollected him as “a bluff, rosy fellow.” This was the
utmost description Ada could give me.

It set me thinking so that when Ada was asleep, I still remained
before the fire, wondering and wondering about Bleak House, and
wondering and wondering that yesterday morning should seem so long
ago. I don’t know where my thoughts had wandered when they were
recalled by a tap at the door.

I opened it softly and found Miss Bladen shivering there with a
broken candle in a broken candlestick in one hand and an egg-cup in
the other.

“Good night!” she said very sulkily.

“Good night!” said I.

“May I come in?” she shortly and unexpectedly asked me in the same
sulky way.

“Certainly,” said I. “Don’t wake Miss Dionne.”

She would not sit down, but stood by the fire dipping her inky middle
finger in the egg-cup, which contained vinegar, and smearing it over
the ink stains on her face, frowning the whole time and looking very
gloomy.

“I wish Africa was dead!” she said on a sudden.

I was going to remonstrate.

“I do!” she said “Don’t talk to me, Miss Robin. I hate it and
detest it. It’s a beast!”

I told her she was tired, and I was sorry. I put my hand upon her
head, and touched her forehead, and said it was hot now but would be
cool to-morrow. She still stood pouting and frowning at me, but
presently put down her egg-cup and turned softly towards the bed
where Ada lay.

“She is very pretty!” she said with the same knitted brow and in the
same uncivil manner.

I assented with a smile.

“An orphan. Ain’t she?”

“Yes.”

“But knows a quantity, I suppose? Can dance, and play music, and
sing? She can talk French, I suppose, and do geography, and globes,
and needlework, and everything?”

“No doubt,” said I.

“I can’t,” she returned. “I can’t do anything hardly, except write.
I’m always writing for Ma. I wonder you two were not ashamed of
yourselves to come in this afternoon and see me able to do nothing
else. It was like your ill nature. Yet you think yourselves very
fine, I dare say!”

I could see that the poor girl was near crying, and I resumed my
chair without speaking and looked at her (I hope) as mildly as I felt
towards her.

“It’s disgraceful,” she said. “You know it is. The whole house is
disgraceful. The children are disgraceful. I’M disgraceful. Pa’s
miserable, and no wonder! Priscilla drinks—she’s always drinking.
It’s a great shame and a great story of you if you say you didn’t
smell her to-day. It was as bad as a public-house, waiting at dinner;
you know it was!”

“My dear, I don’t know it,” said I.

“You do,” she said very shortly. “You shan’t say you don’t. You do!”

“Oh, my dear!” said I. “If you won’t let me speak—”

“You’re speaking now. You know you are. Don’t tell stories, Miss
Robin.”

“My dear,” said I, “as long as you won’t hear me out—”

“I don’t want to hear you out.”

“Oh, yes, I think you do,” said I, “because that would be so very
unreasonable. I did not know what you tell me because the servant did
not come near me at dinner; but I don’t doubt what you tell me, and I
am sorry to hear it.”

“You needn’t make a merit of that,” said she.

“No, my dear,” said I. “That would be very foolish.”

She was still standing by the bed, and now stooped down (but still
with the same discontented face) and kissed Ada. That done, she came
softly back and stood by the side of my chair. Her bosom was heaving
in a distressful manner that I greatly pitied, but I thought it
better not to speak.

“I wish I was dead!” she broke out. “I wish we were all dead. It
would be a great deal better for us.”

In a moment afterwards, she knelt on the ground at my side, hid her
face in my dress, passionately begged my pardon, and wept. I
comforted her and would have raised her, but she cried no, no; she
wanted to stay there!

“You used to teach girls,” she said, “If you could only have taught
me, I could have learnt from you! I am so very miserable, and I like
you so much!”

I could not persuade her to sit by me or to do anything but move a
ragged stool to where she was kneeling, and take that, and still hold
my dress in the same manner. By degrees the poor tired girl fell
asleep, and then I contrived to raise her head so that it should rest
on my lap, and to cover us both with shawls. The fire went out, and
all night long she slumbered thus before the ashy grate. At first I
was painfully awake and vainly tried to lose myself, with my eyes
closed, among the scenes of the day. At length, by slow degrees, they
became indistinct and mingled. I began to lose the identity of the
sleeper resting on me. Now it was Ada, now one of my old Reading
friends from whom I could not believe I had so recently parted. Now
it was the little mad woman worn out with curtsying and smiling, now
some one in authority at Bleak House. Lastly, it was no one, and I
was no one.

The purblind day was feebly struggling with the fog when I opened my
eyes to encounter those of a dirty-faced little spectre fixed upon
me. Poppy had scaled his crib, and crept down in his bed-gown and
cap, and was so cold that his teeth were chattering as if he had cut
them all.

CHAPTER V

A Morning Adventure

Although the morning was raw, and although the fog still seemed
heavy—I say seemed, for the windows were so encrusted with dirt that
they would have made midsummer sunshine dim—I was sufficiently
forewarned of the discomfort within doors at that early hour and
sufficiently curious about London to think it a good idea on the part
of Miss Bladen when she proposed that we should go out for a walk.

“Ma won’t be down for ever so long,” she said, “and then it’s a
chance if breakfast’s ready for an hour afterwards, they dawdle so.
As to Pa, he gets what he can and goes to the office. He never has
what you would call a regular breakfast. Priscilla leaves him out the
loaf and some milk, when there is any, overnight. Sometimes there
isn’t any milk, and sometimes the cat drinks it. But I’m afraid you
must be tired, Miss Robin, and perhaps you would rather go to
bed.”

“I am not at all tired, my dear,” said I, “and would much prefer to
go out.”

“If you’re sure you would,” returned Miss Bladen, “I’ll get my
things on.”

Ada said she would go too, and was soon astir. I made a proposal to
Poppy, in default of being able to do anything better for him, that
he should let me wash him and afterwards lay him down on my bed
again. To this he submitted with the best grace possible, staring at
me during the whole operation as if he never had been, and never
could again be, so astonished in his life—looking very miserable
also, certainly, but making no complaint, and going snugly to sleep
as soon as it was over. At first I was in two minds about taking such
a liberty, but I soon reflected that nobody in the house was likely
to notice it.

What with the bustle of dispatching Poppy and the bustle of getting
myself ready and helping Ada, I was soon quite in a glow. We found
Miss Bladen trying to warm herself at the fire in the writing-room,
which Priscilla was then lighting with a smutty parlour candlestick,
throwing the candle in to make it burn better. Everything was just as
we had left it last night and was evidently intended to remain so.
Below-stairs the dinner-cloth had not been taken away, but had been
left ready for breakfast. Crumbs, dust, and waste-paper were all over
the house. Some pewter pots and a milk-can hung on the area railings;
the door stood open; and we met the cook round the corner coming out
of a public-house, wiping her mouth. She mentioned, as she passed us,
that she had been to see what o’clock it was.

But before we met the cook, we met Celise, who was dancing up and
down Thavies Inn to warm his feet. He was agreeably surprised to see
us stirring so soon and said he would gladly share our walk. So he
took care of Ada, and Miss Bladen and I went first. I may mention
that Miss Bladen had relapsed into her sulky manner and that I
really should not have thought she liked me much unless she had told
me so.

“Where would you wish to go?” she asked.

“Anywhere, my dear,” I replied.

“Anywhere’s nowhere,” said Miss Bladen, stopping perversely.

“Let us go somewhere at any rate,” said I.

She then walked me on very fast.

“I don’t care!” she said. “Now, you are my witness, Miss Robin, I
say I don’t care—but if he was to come to our house with his great,
shining, lumpy forehead night after night till he was as old as
Methuselah, I wouldn’t have anything to say to him. Such ASSES as he
and Ma make of themselves!”

“My dear!” I remonstrated, in allusion to the epithet and the
vigorous emphasis Miss Bladen set upon it. “Your duty as a child—”

“Oh! Don’t talk of duty as a child, Miss Robin; where’s Ma’s duty
as a parent? All made over to the public and Africa, I suppose! Then
let the public and Africa show duty as a child; it’s much more their
affair than mine. You are shocked, I dare say! Very well, so am I
shocked too; so we are both shocked, and there’s an end of it!”

She walked me on faster yet.

“But for all that, I say again, he may come, and come, and come, and
I won’t have anything to say to him. I can’t bear him. If there’s any
stuff in the world that I hate and detest, it’s the stuff he and Ma
talk. I wonder the very paving-stones opposite our house can have the
patience to stay there and be a witness of such inconsistencies and
contradictions as all that sounding nonsense, and Ma’s management!”

I could not but understand her to refer to Mr. Quale, the young
gentleman who had appeared after dinner yesterday. I was saved the
disagreeable necessity of pursuing the subject by Celise and Ada
coming up at a round pace, laughing and asking us if we meant to run
a race. Thus interrupted, Miss Bladen became silent and walked
moodily on at my side while I admired the long successions and
varieties of streets, the quantity of people already going to and
fro, the number of vehicles passing and repassing, the busy
preparations in the setting forth of shop windows and the sweeping
out of shops, and the extraordinary creatures in rags secretly
groping among the swept-out rubbish for pins and other refuse.

“So, cousin,” said the cheerful voice of Celise to Ada behind me.
“We are never to get out of Chancery! We have come by another way to
our place of meeting yesterday, and—by the Great Seal, here’s the
old lady again!”

Truly, there she was, immediately in front of us, curtsying, and
smiling, and saying with her yesterday’s air of patronage, “The wards
in Ashton! Ve-ry happy, I am sure!”

“You are out early, ma’am,” said I as she curtsied to me.

“Ye-es! I usually walk here early. Before the court sits. It’s
retired. I collect my thoughts here for the business of the day,”
said the old lady mincingly. “The business of the day requires a
great deal of thought. Chancery justice is so ve-ry difficult to
follow.”

“Who’s this, Miss Robin?” whispered Miss Bladen, drawing my arm
tighter through her own.

The little old lady’s hearing was remarkably quick. She answered for
herself directly.

“A suitor, my child. At your service. I have the honour to attend
court regularly. With my documents. Have I the pleasure of addressing
another of the youthful parties in Ashton?” said the old lady,
recovering herself, with her head on one side, from a very low
curtsy.

Celise, anxious to atone for his thoughtlessness of yesterday,
good-naturedly explained that Miss Bladen was not connected with the
suit.

“Ha!” said the old lady. “She does not expect a judgment? She will
still grow old. But not so old. Oh, dear, no! This is the garden of
Lincoln’s Inn. I call it my garden. It is quite a bower in the
summer-time. Where the birds sing melodiously. I pass the greater
part of the long vacation here. In contemplation. You find the long
vacation exceedingly long, don’t you?”

We said yes, as she seemed to expect us to say so.

“When the leaves are falling from the trees and there are no more
flowers in bloom to make up into nosegays for the Lord Chancellor’s
court,” said the old lady, “the vacation is fulfilled and the sixth
seal, mentioned in the Revelations, again prevails. Pray come and see
my lodging. It will be a good omen for me. Youth, and hope, and
beauty are very seldom there. It is a long, long time since I had a
visit from either.”

She had taken my hand, and leading me and Miss Bladen away, beckoned
Celise and Ada to come too. I did not know how to excuse myself and
looked to Celise for aid. As he was half amused and half curious and
all in doubt how to get rid of the old lady without offence, she
continued to lead us away, and he and Ada continued to follow, our
strange conductress informing us all the time, with much smiling
condescension, that she lived close by.

It was quite true, as it soon appeared. She lived so close by that we
had not time to have done humouring her for a few moments before she
was at home. Slipping us out at a little side gate, the old lady
stopped most unexpectedly in a narrow back street, part of some
courts and lanes immediately outside the wall of the inn, and said,
“This is my lodging. Pray walk up!”

She had stopped at a shop over which was written NESBIT, RAG AND
BOTTLE WAREHOUSE. Also, in long thin letters, NESBIT, DEALER IN MARINE
STORES. In one part of the window was a picture of a red paper mill
at which a cart was unloading a quantity of sacks of old rags. In
another was the inscription BONES BOUGHT. In another, KITCHEN-STUFF
BOUGHT. In another, OLD IRON BOUGHT. In another, WASTE-PAPER BOUGHT.
In another, LADIES’ AND GENTLEMEN’S WARDROBES BOUGHT. Everything
seemed to be bought and nothing to be sold there. In all parts of the
window were quantities of dirty bottles—blacking bottles, medicine
bottles, ginger-beer and soda-water bottles, pickle bottles, wine
bottles, ink bottles; I am reminded by mentioning the latter that the
shop had in several little particulars the air of being in a legal
neighbourhood and of being, as it were, a dirty hanger-on and
disowned relation of the law. There were a great many ink bottles.
There was a little tottering bench of shabby old volumes outside the
door, labelled “Law Books, all at 9d.” Some of the inscriptions I
have enumerated were written in law-hand, like the papers I had seen
in Carly and Carboy’s office and the letters I had so long received
from the firm. Among them was one, in the same writing, having
nothing to do with the business of the shop, but announcing that a
respectable man aged forty-five wanted engrossing or copying to
execute with neatness and dispatch: Address to Triston, care of Mr.
Nesbit, within. There were several second-hand bags, blue and red,
hanging up. A little way within the shop-door lay heaps of old
crackled parchment scrolls and discoloured and dog’s-eared
law-papers. I could have fancied that all the rusty keys, of which
there must have been hundreds huddled together as old iron, had once
belonged to doors of rooms or strong chests in lawyers’ offices. The
litter of rags tumbled partly into and partly out of a one-legged
wooden scale, hanging without any counterpoise from a beam, might
have been counsellors’ bands and gowns torn up. One had only to
fancy, as Celise whispered to Ada and me while we all stood looking
in, that yonder bones in a corner, piled together and picked very
clean, were the bones of clients, to make the picture complete.

As it was still foggy and dark, and as the shop was blinded besides
by the wall of Lincoln’s Inn, intercepting the light within a couple
of yards, we should not have seen so much but for a lighted lantern
that an old man in spectacles and a hairy cap was carrying about in
the shop. Turning towards the door, he now caught sight of us. He was
short, cadaverous, and withered, with his head sunk sideways between
his shoulders and the breath issuing in visible smoke from his mouth
as if he were on fire within. His throat, chin, and eyebrows were so
frosted with white hairs and so gnarled with veins and puckered skin
that he looked from his breast upward like some old root in a fall of
snow.

“Hi, hi!” said the old man, coming to the door. “Have you anything to
sell?”

We naturally drew back and glanced at our conductress, who had been
trying to open the house-door with a key she had taken from her
pocket, and to whom Celise now said that as we had had the pleasure
of seeing where she lived, we would leave her, being pressed for
time. But she was not to be so easily left. She became so
fantastically and pressingly earnest in her entreaties that we would
walk up and see her apartment for an instant, and was so bent, in her
harmless way, on leading me in, as part of the good omen she desired,
that I (whatever the others might do) saw nothing for it but to
comply. I suppose we were all more or less curious; at any rate, when
the old man added his persuasions to hers and said, “Aye, aye! Please
her! It won’t take a minute! Come in, come in! Come in through the
shop if t’other door’s out of order!” we all went in, stimulated by
Celise’s laughing encouragement and relying on his protection.

“My landlord, Nesbit,” said the little old lady, condescending to him
from her lofty station as she presented him to us. “He is called
among the neighbours the Lord Chancellor. His shop is called the
Court of Chancery. He is a very eccentric person. He is very odd. Oh,
I assure you he is very odd!”

She shook her head a great many times and tapped her forehead with
her finger to express to us that we must have the goodness to excuse
him, “For he is a little—you know—M!” said the old lady with great
stateliness. The old man overheard, and laughed.

“It’s true enough,” he said, going before us with the lantern, “that
they call me the Lord Chancellor and call my shop Chancery. And why
do you think they call me the Lord Chancellor and my shop Chancery?”

“I don’t know, I am sure!” said Celise rather carelessly.

“You see,” said the old man, stopping and turning round, “they—Hi!
Here’s lovely hair! I have got three sacks of ladies’ hair below, but
none so beautiful and fine as this. What colour, and what texture!”

“That’ll do, my good friend!” said Celise, strongly disapproving of
his having drawn one of Ada’s tresses through his yellow hand. “You
can admire as the rest of us do without taking that liberty.”

The old man darted at him a sudden look which even called my
attention from Ada, who, startled and blushing, was so remarkably
beautiful that she seemed to fix the wandering attention of the
little old lady herself. But as Ada interposed and laughingly said
she could only feel proud of such genuine admiration, Mr. Nesbit
shrunk into his former self as suddenly as he had leaped out of it.

“You see, I have so many things here,” he resumed, holding up the
lantern, “of so many kinds, and all as the neighbours think (but THEY
know nothing), wasting away and going to rack and ruin, that that’s
why they have given me and my place a christening. And I have so many
old parchmentses and papers in my stock. And I have a liking for rust
and must and cobwebs. And all’s fish that comes to my net. And I
can’t abear to part with anything I once lay hold of (or so my
neighbours think, but what do THEY know?) or to alter anything, or to
have any sweeping, nor scouring, nor cleaning, nor repairing going on
about me. That’s the way I’ve got the ill name of Chancery. I don’t
mind. I go to see my noble and learned brother pretty well every day,
when he sits in the Inn. He don’t notice me, but I notice him.
There’s no great odds betwixt us. We both grub on in a muddle. Hi,
Godfrey Jane!”

A large grey cat leaped from some neighbouring shelf on his shoulder
and startled us all.

“Hi! Show ’em how you scratch. Hi! Tear, my lady!” said her master.

The cat leaped down and ripped at a bundle of rags with her tigerish
claws, with a sound that it set my teeth on edge to hear.

“She’d do as much for any one I was to set her on,” said the old man.
“I deal in cat-skins among other general matters, and hers was
offered to me. It’s a very fine skin, as you may see, but I didn’t
have it stripped off! THAT warn’t like Chancery practice though, says
you!”

He had by this time led us across the shop, and now opened a door in
the back part of it, leading to the house-entry. As he stood with his
hand upon the lock, the little old lady graciously observed to him
before passing out, “That will do, Nesbit. You mean well, but are
tiresome. My young friends are pressed for time. I have none to spare
myself, having to attend court very soon. My young friends are the
wards in Ashton.”

“Ashton!” said the old man with a start.

“Ashton and Ashton. The great suit, Nesbit,” returned his lodger.

“Hi!” exclaimed the old man in a tone of thoughtful amazement and
with a wider stare than before. “Think of it!”

He seemed so rapt all in a moment and looked so curiously at us that
Celise said, “Why, you appear to trouble yourself a good deal about
the causes before your noble and learned brother, the other
Chancellor!”

“Yes,” said the old man abstractedly. “Sure! YOUR name now will be—”

“Celise Willis.”

“Willis,” he repeated, slowly checking off that name upon his
forefinger; and each of the others he went on to mention upon a
separate finger. “Yes. There was the name of Barbary, and the name of
Dionne, and the name of Wayne, too, I think.”

“He knows as much of the cause as the real salaried Chancellor!” said
Celise, quite astonished, to Ada and me.

“Aye!” said the old man, coming slowly out of his abstraction. “Yes!
Said Ashton—you’ll excuse me, being related; but he was never known
about court by any other name, and was as well known there as—she is
now,” nodding slightly at his lodger. “Said Ashton was often in
here. He got into a restless habit of strolling about when the cause
was on, or expected, talking to the little shopkeepers and telling
’em to keep out of Chancery, whatever they did. ‘For,’ says he, ‘it’s
being ground to bits in a slow mill; it’s being roasted at a slow
fire; it’s being stung to death by single bees; it’s being drowned by
drops; it’s going mad by grains.’ He was as near making away with
himself, just where the young lady stands, as near could be.”

We listened with horror.

“He come in at the door,” said the old man, slowly pointing an
imaginary track along the shop, “on the day he did it—the whole
neighbourhood had said for months before that he would do it, of a
certainty sooner or later—he come in at the door that day, and
walked along there, and sat himself on a bench that stood there, and
asked me (you’ll judge I was a mortal sight younger then) to fetch
him a pint of wine. ‘For,’ says he, ‘Nesbit, I am much depressed; my
cause is on again, and I think I’m nearer judgment than I ever was.’
I hadn’t a mind to leave him alone; and I persuaded him to go to the
tavern over the way there, t’other side my lane (I mean Chancery
Lane); and I followed and looked in at the window, and saw him,
comfortable as I thought, in the arm-chair by the fire, and company
with him. I hadn’t hardly got back here when I heard a shot go
echoing and rattling right away into the inn. I ran out—neighbours
ran out—twenty of us cried at once, ‘Said Ashton!’”

The old man stopped, looked hard at us, looked down into the lantern,
blew the light out, and shut the lantern up.

“We were right, I needn’t tell the present hearers. Hi! To be sure,
how the neighbourhood poured into court that afternoon while the
cause was on! How my noble and learned brother, and all the rest of
’em, grubbed and muddled away as usual and tried to look as if they
hadn’t heard a word of the last fact in the case or as if they
had—Oh, dear me!—nothing at all to do with it if they had heard of
it by any chance!”

Ada’s colour had entirely left her, and Celise was scarcely less
pale. Nor could I wonder, judging even from my emotions, and I was no
party in the suit, that to hearts so untried and fresh it was a shock
to come into the inheritance of a protracted misery, attended in the
minds of many people with such dreadful recollections. I had another
uneasiness, in the application of the painful story to the poor
half-witted creature who had brought us there; but, to my surprise,
she seemed perfectly unconscious of that and only led the way
upstairs again, informing us with the toleration of a superior
creature for the infirmities of a common mortal that her landlord was
“a little—M—, you know!”

She lived at the top of the house, in a pretty large room, from which
she had a glimpse of Lincoln’s Inn Hall. This seemed to have been her
principal inducement, originally, for taking up her residence there.
She could look at it, she said, in the night, especially in the
moonshine. Her room was clean, but very, very bare. I noticed the
scantiest necessaries in the way of furniture; a few old prints from
books, of Chancellors and barristers, wafered against the wall; and
some half-dozen reticles and work-bags, “containing documents,” as
she informed us. There were neither coals nor ashes in the grate, and
I saw no articles of clothing anywhere, nor any kind of food. Upon a
shelf in an open cupboard were a plate or two, a cup or two, and so
forth, but all dry and empty. There was a more affecting meaning in
her pinched appearance, I thought as I looked round, than I had
understood before.

“Extremely honoured, I am sure,” said our poor hostess with the
greatest suavity, “by this visit from the wards in Ashton. And very
much indebted for the omen. It is a retired situation. Considering. I
am limited as to situation. In consequence of the necessity of
attending on the Chancellor. I have lived here many years. I pass my
days in court, my evenings and my nights here. I find the nights
long, for I sleep but little and think much. That is, of course,
unavoidable, being in Chancery. I am sorry I cannot offer chocolate.
I expect a judgment shortly and shall then place my establishment on
a superior footing. At present, I don’t mind confessing to the wards
in Ashton (in strict confidence) that I sometimes find it difficult
to keep up a genteel appearance. I have felt the cold here. I have
felt something sharper than cold. It matters very little. Pray excuse
the introduction of such mean topics.”

She partly drew aside the curtain of the long, low garret window and
called our attention to a number of bird-cages hanging there, some
containing several birds. There were larks, linnets, and
goldfinches—I should think at least twenty.

“I began to keep the little creatures,” she said, “with an object
that the wards will readily comprehend. With the intention of
restoring them to liberty. When my judgment should be given. Ye-es!
They die in prison, though. Their lives, poor silly things, are so
short in comparison with Chancery proceedings that, one by one, the
whole collection has died over and over again. I doubt, do you know,
whether one of these, though they are all young, will live to be
free! Ve-ry mortifying, is it not?”

Although she sometimes asked a question, she never seemed to expect a
reply, but rambled on as if she were in the habit of doing so when no
one but herself was present.

“Indeed,” she pursued, “I positively doubt sometimes, I do assure
you, whether while matters are still unsettled, and the sixth or
Great Seal still prevails, I may not one day be found lying stark and
senseless here, as I have found so many birds!”

Celise, answering what he saw in Ada’s compassionate eyes, took the
opportunity of laying some money, softly and unobserved, on the
chimney-piece. We all drew nearer to the cages, feigning to examine
the birds.

“I can’t allow them to sing much,” said the little old lady, “for
(you’ll think this curious) I find my mind confused by the idea that
they are singing while I am following the arguments in court. And my
mind requires to be so very clear, you know! Another time, I’ll tell
you their names. Not at present. On a day of such good omen, they
shall sing as much as they like. In honour of youth,” a smile and
curtsy, “hope,” a smile and curtsy, “and beauty,” a smile and curtsy.
“There! We’ll let in the full light.”

The birds began to stir and chirp.

“I cannot admit the air freely,” said the little old lady—the room
was close, and would have been the better for it—“because the cat
you saw downstairs, called Godfrey Jane, is greedy for their lives. She
crouches on the parapet outside for hours and hours. I have
discovered,” whispering mysteriously, “that her natural cruelty is
sharpened by a jealous fear of their regaining their liberty. In
consequence of the judgment I expect being shortly given. She is sly
and full of malice. I half believe, sometimes, that she is no cat,
but the wolf of the old saying. It is so very difficult to keep her
from the door.”

Some neighbouring bells, reminding the poor soul that it was
half-past nine, did more for us in the way of bringing our visit to
an end than we could easily have done for ourselves. She hurriedly
took up her little bag of documents, which she had laid upon the
table on coming in, and asked if we were also going into court. On
our answering no, and that we would on no account detain her, she
opened the door to attend us downstairs.

“With such an omen, it is even more necessary than usual that I
should be there before the Chancellor comes in,” said she, “for he
might mention my case the first thing. I have a presentiment that he
WILL mention it the first thing this morning.”

She stopped to tell us in a whisper as we were going down that the
whole house was filled with strange lumber which her landlord had
bought piecemeal and had no wish to sell, in consequence of being a
little M. This was on the first floor. But she had made a previous
stoppage on the second floor and had silently pointed at a dark door
there.

“The only other lodger,” she now whispered in explanation, “a
law-writer. The children in the lanes here say he has sold himself to
the devil. I don’t know what he can have done with the money. Hush!”

She appeared to mistrust that the lodger might hear her even there,
and repeating “Hush!” went before us on tiptoe as though even the
sound of her footsteps might reveal to him what she had said.

Passing through the shop on our way out, as we had passed through it
on our way in, we found the old man storing a quantity of packets of
waste-paper in a kind of well in the floor. He seemed to be working
hard, with the perspiration standing on his forehead, and had a piece
of chalk by him, with which, as he put each separate package or
bundle down, he made a crooked mark on the panelling of the wall.

Celise and Ada, and Miss Bladen, and the little old lady had gone
by him, and I was going when he touched me on the arm to stay me, and
chalked the letter J upon the wall—in a very curious manner,
beginning with the end of the letter and shaping it backward. It was
a capital letter, not a printed one, but just such a letter as any
clerk in Messrs. Carly and Carboy’s office would have made.

“Can you read it?” he asked me with a keen glance.

“Surely,” said I. “It’s very plain.”

“What is it?”

“J.”

With another glance at me, and a glance at the door, he rubbed it out
and turned an “a” in its place (not a capital letter this time), and
said, “What’s that?”

I told him. He then rubbed that out and turned the letter “r,” and
asked me the same question. He went on quickly until he had formed in
the same curious manner, beginning at the ends and bottoms of the
letters, the word Ashton, without once leaving two letters on the
wall together.

“What does that spell?” he asked me.

When I told him, he laughed. In the same odd way, yet with the same
rapidity, he then produced singly, and rubbed out singly, the letters
forming the words Bleak House. These, in some astonishment, I also
read; and he laughed again.

“Hi!” said the old man, laying aside the chalk. “I have a turn for
copying from memory, you see, miss, though I can neither read nor
write.”

He looked so disagreeable and his cat looked so wickedly at me, as if
I were a blood-relation of the birds upstairs, that I was quite
relieved by Celise’s appearing at the door and saying, “Miss
Robin, I hope you are not bargaining for the sale of your hair.
Don’t be tempted. Three sacks below are quite enough for Mr. Nesbit!”

I lost no time in wishing Mr. Nesbit good morning and joining my
friends outside, where we parted with the little old lady, who gave
us her blessing with great ceremony and renewed her assurance of
yesterday in reference to her intention of settling estates on Ada
and me. Before we finally turned out of those lanes, we looked back
and saw Mr. Nesbit standing at his shop-door, in his spectacles,
looking after us, with his cat upon his shoulder, and her tail
sticking up on one side of his hairy cap like a tall feather.

“Quite an adventure for a morning in London!” said Celise with a
sigh. “Ah, cousin, cousin, it’s a weary word this Chancery!”

“It is to me, and has been ever since I can remember,” returned Ada.
“I am grieved that I should be the enemy—as I suppose I am—of a
great number of relations and others, and that they should be my
enemies—as I suppose they are—and that we should all be ruining one
another without knowing how or why and be in constant doubt and
discord all our lives. It seems very strange, as there must be right
somewhere, that an honest judge in real earnest has not been able to
find out through all these years where it is.”

“Ah, cousin!” said Celise. “Strange, indeed! All this wasteful,
wanton chess-playing IS very strange. To see that composed court
yesterday jogging on so serenely and to think of the wretchedness of
the pieces on the board gave me the headache and the heartache both
together. My head ached with wondering how it happened, if men were
neither fools nor rascals; and my heart ached to think they could
possibly be either. But at all events, Ada—I may call you Ada?”

“Of course you may, cousin Celise.”

“At all events, Chancery will work none of its bad influences on US.
We have happily been brought together, thanks to our good kinsman,
and it can’t divide us now!”

“Never, I hope, cousin Celise!” said Ada gently.

Miss Bladen gave my arm a squeeze and me a very significant look. I
smiled in return, and we made the rest of the way back very
pleasantly.

In half an hour after our arrival, Mrs. Bladen appeared; and in the
course of an hour the various things necessary for breakfast
straggled one by one into the dining-room. I do not doubt that Mrs.
Bladen had gone to bed and got up in the usual manner, but she
presented no appearance of having changed her dress. She was greatly
occupied during breakfast, for the morning’s post brought a heavy
correspondence relative to Borrioboola-Gha, which would occasion her
(she said) to pass a busy day. The children tumbled about, and
notched memoranda of their accidents in their legs, which were
perfect little calendars of distress; and Poppy was lost for an hour
and a half, and brought home from Newgate market by a policeman. The
equable manner in which Mrs. Bladen sustained both his absence and
his restoration to the family circle surprised us all.

She was by that time perseveringly dictating to Viola, and Viola was
fast relapsing into the inky condition in which we had found her. At
one o’clock an open carriage arrived for us, and a cart for our
luggage. Mrs. Bladen charged us with many remembrances to her good
friend Mr. Ashton; Viola left her desk to see us depart, kissed me
in the passage, and stood biting her pen and sobbing on the steps;
Poppy, I am happy to say, was asleep and spared the pain of
separation (I was not without misgivings that he had gone to Newgate
market in search of me); and all the other children got up behind the
barouche and fell off, and we saw them, with great concern, scattered
over the surface of Thavies Inn as we rolled out of its precincts.

CHAPTER VI

Quite at Home

The day had brightened very much, and still brightened as we went
westward. We went our way through the sunshine and the fresh air,
wondering more and more at the extent of the streets, the brilliancy
of the shops, the great traffic, and the crowds of people whom the
pleasanter weather seemed to have brought out like many-coloured
flowers. By and by we began to leave the wonderful city and to
proceed through suburbs which, of themselves, would have made a
pretty large town in my eyes; and at last we got into a real country
road again, with windmills, rick-yards, milestones, farmers’ waggons,
scents of old hay, swinging signs, and horse troughs: trees, fields,
and hedge-rows. It was delightful to see the green landscape before
us and the immense metropolis behind; and when a waggon with a train
of beautiful horses, furnished with red trappings and clear-sounding
bells, came by us with its music, I believe we could all three have
sung to the bells, so cheerful were the influences around.

“The whole road has been reminding me of my namesake Whittington,”
said Celise, “and that waggon is the finishing touch. Halloa! What’s
the matter?”

We had stopped, and the waggon had stopped too. Its music changed as
the horses came to a stand, and subsided to a gentle tinkling, except
when a horse tossed his head or shook himself and sprinkled off a
little shower of bell-ringing.

“Our postilion is looking after the waggoner,” said Celise, “and the
waggoner is coming back after us. Good day, friend!” The waggoner was
at our coach-door. “Why, here’s an extraordinary thing!” added
Celise, looking closely at the man. “He has got your name, Ada, in
his hat!”

He had all our names in his hat. Tucked within the band were three
small notes—one addressed to Ada, one to Celise, one to me. These
the waggoner delivered to each of us respectively, reading the name
aloud first. In answer to Celise’s inquiry from whom they came, he
briefly answered, “Master, sir, if you please”; and putting on his
hat again (which was like a soft bowl), cracked his whip, re-awakened
his music, and went melodiously away.

“Is that Mr. Ashton’s waggon?” said Celise, calling to our
post-boy.

“Yes, sir,” he replied. “Going to London.”

We opened the notes. Each was a counterpart of the other and
contained these words in a solid, plain hand.

   I look forward, my dear, to our meeting easily and
   without constraint on either side. I therefore have to
   propose that we meet as old friends and take the past for
   granted. It will be a relief to you possibly, and to me
   certainly, and so my love to you.

   Gerardo Ashton

I had perhaps less reason to be surprised than either of my
companions, having never yet enjoyed an opportunity of thanking one
who had been my benefactor and sole earthly dependence through so
many years. I had not considered how I could thank him, my gratitude
lying too deep in my heart for that; but I now began to consider how
I could meet him without thanking him, and felt it would be very
difficult indeed.

The notes revived in Celise and Ada a general impression that they
both had, without quite knowing how they came by it, that their
cousin Ashton could never bear acknowledgments for any kindness he
performed and that sooner than receive any he would resort to the
most singular expedients and evasions or would even run away. Ada
dimly remembered to have heard her mother tell, when she was a very
little child, that he had once done her an act of uncommon generosity
and that on her going to his house to thank him, he happened to see
her through a window coming to the door, and immediately escaped by
the back gate, and was not heard of for three months. This discourse
led to a great deal more on the same theme, and indeed it lasted us
all day, and we talked of scarcely anything else. If we did by any
chance diverge into another subject, we soon returned to this, and
wondered what the house would be like, and when we should get there,
and whether we should see Mr. Ashton as soon as we arrived or after
a delay, and what he would say to us, and what we should say to him.
All of which we wondered about, over and over again.

The roads were very heavy for the horses, but the pathway was
generally good, so we alighted and walked up all the hills, and liked
it so well that we prolonged our walk on the level ground when we got
to the top. At Barnet there were other horses waiting for us, but as
they had only just been fed, we had to wait for them too, and got a
long fresh walk over a common and an old battle-field before the
carriage came up. These delays so protracted the journey that the
short day was spent and the long night had closed in before we came
to St. Albans, near to which town Bleak House was, we knew.

By that time we were so anxious and nervous that even Celise
confessed, as we rattled over the stones of the old street, to
feeling an irrational desire to drive back again. As to Ada and me,
whom he had wrapped up with great care, the night being sharp and
frosty, we trembled from head to foot. When we turned out of the
town, round a corner, and Celise told us that the post-boy, who had
for a long time sympathized with our heightened expectation, was
looking back and nodding, we both stood up in the carriage (Celise
holding Ada lest she should be jolted down) and gazed round upon the
open country and the starlight night for our destination. There was a
light sparkling on the top of a hill before us, and the driver,
pointing to it with his whip and crying, “That’s Bleak House!” put
his horses into a canter and took us forward at such a rate, uphill
though it was, that the wheels sent the road drift flying about our
heads like spray from a water-mill. Presently we lost the light,
presently saw it, presently lost it, presently saw it, and turned
into an avenue of trees and cantered up towards where it was beaming
brightly. It was in a window of what seemed to be an old-fashioned
house with three peaks in the roof in front and a circular sweep
leading to the porch. A bell was rung as we drew up, and amidst the
sound of its deep voice in the still air, and the distant barking of
some dogs, and a gush of light from the opened door, and the smoking
and steaming of the heated horses, and the quickened beating of our
own hearts, we alighted in no inconsiderable confusion.

“Ada, my love, Paulina, my dear, you are welcome. I rejoice to see
you! Rick, if I had a hand to spare at present, I would give it you!”

The gentleman who said these words in a clear, bright, hospitable
voice had one of his arms round Ada’s waist and the other round mine,
and kissed us both in a fatherly way, and bore us across the hall
into a ruddy little room, all in a glow with a blazing fire. Here he
kissed us again, and opening his arms, made us sit down side by side
on a sofa ready drawn out near the hearth. I felt that if we had been
at all demonstrative, he would have run away in a moment.

“Now, Rick!” said he. “I have a hand at liberty. A word in earnest is
as good as a speech. I am heartily glad to see you. You are at home.
Warm yourself!”

Celise shook him by both hands with an intuitive mixture of respect
and frankness, and only saying (though with an earnestness that
rather alarmed me, I was so afraid of Mr. Ashton’s suddenly
disappearing), “You are very kind, sir! We are very much obliged to
you!” laid aside his hat and coat and came up to the fire.

“And how did you like the ride? And how did you like Mrs. Bladen, my
dear?” said Mr. Ashton to Ada.

While Ada was speaking to him in reply, I glanced (I need not say
with how much interest) at his face. It was a handsome, lively, quick
face, full of change and motion; and his hair was a silvered
iron-grey. I took him to be nearer sixty than fifty, but he was
upright, hearty, and robust. From the moment of his first speaking to
us his voice had connected itself with an association in my mind that
I could not define; but now, all at once, a something sudden in his
manner and a pleasant expression in his eyes recalled the gentleman
in the stagecoach six years ago on the memorable day of my journey to
Reading. I was certain it was he. I never was so frightened in my
life as when I made the discovery, for he caught my glance, and
appearing to read my thoughts, gave such a look at the door that I
thought we had lost him.

However, I am happy to say he remained where he was, and asked me
what I thought of Mrs. Bladen.

“She exerts herself very much for Africa, sir,” I said.

“Nobly!” returned Mr. Ashton. “But you answer like Ada.” Whom I had
not heard. “You all think something else, I see.”

“We rather thought,” said I, glancing at Celise and Ada, who
entreated me with their eyes to speak, “that perhaps she was a little
unmindful of her home.”

“Floored!” cried Mr. Ashton.

I was rather alarmed again.

“Well! I want to know your real thoughts, my dear. I may have sent
you there on purpose.”

“We thought that, perhaps,” said I, hesitating, “it is right to begin
with the obligations of home, sir; and that, perhaps, while those are
overlooked and neglected, no other duties can possibly be substituted
for them.”

“The little Bladens,” said Celise, coming to my relief, “are
really—I can’t help expressing myself strongly, sir—in a devil of a
state.”

“She means well,” said Mr. Ashton hastily. “The wind’s in the
east.”

“It was in the north, sir, as we came down,” observed Celise.

“My dear Rick,” said Mr. Ashton, poking the fire, “I’ll take an
oath it’s either in the east or going to be. I am always conscious of
an uncomfortable sensation now and then when the wind is blowing in
the east.”

“Rheumatism, sir?” said Celise.

“I dare say it is, Rick. I believe it is. And so the little Jell—I
had my doubts about ’em—are in a—oh, Lord, yes, it’s easterly!”
said Mr. Ashton.

He had taken two or three undecided turns up and down while uttering
these broken sentences, retaining the poker in one hand and rubbing
his hair with the other, with a good-natured vexation at once so
whimsical and so lovable that I am sure we were more delighted with
him than we could possibly have expressed in any words. He gave an
arm to Ada and an arm to me, and bidding Celise bring a candle, was
leading the way out when he suddenly turned us all back again.

“Those little Bladens. Couldn’t you—didn’t you—now, if it had
rained sugar-plums, or three-cornered raspberry tarts, or anything of
that sort!” said Mr. Ashton.

“Oh, cousin—” Ada hastily began.

“Good, my pretty pet. I like cousin. Cousin Gerardo, perhaps, is
better.”

“Then, cousin Gerardo—” Ada laughingly began again.

“Ha, ha! Very good indeed!” said Mr. Ashton with great enjoyment.
“Sounds uncommonly natural. Yes, my dear?”

“It did better than that. It rained Paulina.”

“Aye?” said Mr. Ashton. “What did Paulina do?”

“Why, cousin Gerardo,” said Ada, clasping her hands upon his arm and
shaking her head at me across him—for I wanted her to be
quiet—“Paulina was their friend directly. Paulina nursed them, coaxed
them to sleep, washed and dressed them, told them stories, kept them
quiet, bought them keepsakes”—My dear girl! I had only gone out with
Poppy after he was found and given him a little, tiny horse!—“and,
cousin Gerardo, she softened poor Caroline, the eldest one, so much and
was so thoughtful for me and so amiable! No, no, I won’t be
contradicted, Paulina dear! You know, you know, it’s true!”

The warm-hearted darling leaned across her cousin Gerardo and kissed me,
and then looking up in his face, boldly said, “At all events, cousin
Gerardo, I WILL thank you for the companion you have given me.” I felt
as if she challenged him to run away. But he didn’t.

“Where did you say the wind was, Rick?” asked Mr. Ashton.

“In the north as we came down, sir.”

“You are right. There’s no east in it. A mistake of mine. Come,
girls, come and see your home!”

It was one of those delightfully irregular houses where you go up and
down steps out of one room into another, and where you come upon more
rooms when you think you have seen all there are, and where there is
a bountiful provision of little halls and passages, and where you
find still older cottage-rooms in unexpected places with lattice
windows and green growth pressing through them. Mine, which we
entered first, was of this kind, with an up-and-down roof that had
more corners in it than I ever counted afterwards and a chimney
(there was a wood fire on the hearth) paved all around with pure
white tiles, in every one of which a bright miniature of the fire was
blazing. Out of this room, you went down two steps into a charming
little sitting-room looking down upon a flower-garden, which room was
henceforth to belong to Ada and me. Out of this you went up three
steps into Ada’s bedroom, which had a fine broad window commanding a
beautiful view (we saw a great expanse of darkness lying underneath
the stars), to which there was a hollow window-seat, in which, with a
spring-lock, three dear Adas might have been lost at once. Out of
this room you passed into a little gallery, with which the other best
rooms (only two) communicated, and so, by a little staircase of
shallow steps with a number of corner stairs in it, considering its
length, down into the hall. But if instead of going out at Ada’s door
you came back into my room, and went out at the door by which you had
entered it, and turned up a few crooked steps that branched off in an
unexpected manner from the stairs, you lost yourself in passages,
with mangles in them, and three-cornered tables, and a native Hindu
chair, which was also a sofa, a box, and a bedstead, and looked in
every form something between a bamboo skeleton and a great bird-cage,
and had been brought from India nobody knew by whom or when. From
these you came on Celise’s room, which was part library, part
sitting-room, part bedroom, and seemed indeed a comfortable compound
of many rooms. Out of that you went straight, with a little interval
of passage, to the plain room where Mr. Ashton slept, all the year
round, with his window open, his bedstead without any furniture
standing in the middle of the floor for more air, and his cold bath
gaping for him in a smaller room adjoining. Out of that you came into
another passage, where there were back-stairs and where you could
hear the horses being rubbed down outside the stable and being told
to “Hold up” and “Get over,” as they slipped about very much on the
uneven stones. Or you might, if you came out at another door (every
room had at least two doors), go straight down to the hall again by
half-a-dozen steps and a low archway, wondering how you got back
there or had ever got out of it.

The furniture, old-fashioned rather than old, like the house, was as
pleasantly irregular. Ada’s sleeping-room was all flowers—in chintz
and paper, in velvet, in needlework, in the brocade of two stiff
courtly chairs which stood, each attended by a little page of a stool
for greater state, on either side of the fire-place. Our sitting-room
was green and had framed and glazed upon the walls numbers of
surprising and surprised birds, staring out of pictures at a real
trout in a case, as brown and shining as if it had been served with
gravy; at the death of Captain Cook; and at the whole process of
preparing tea in China, as depicted by Chinese artists. In my room
there were oval engravings of the months—ladies haymaking in short
waists and large hats tied under the chin, for June; smooth-legged
noblemen pointing with cocked-hats to village steeples, for October.
Half-length portraits in crayons abounded all through the house, but
were so dispersed that I found the brother of a youthful officer of
mine in the china-closet and the grey old age of my pretty young
bride, with a flower in her bodice, in the breakfast-room. As
substitutes, I had four angels, of Queen Anne’s reign, taking a
complacent gentleman to heaven, in festoons, with some difficulty;
and a composition in needlework representing fruit, a kettle, and an
alphabet. All the movables, from the wardrobes to the chairs and
tables, hangings, glasses, even to the pincushions and scent-bottles
on the dressing-tables, displayed the same quaint variety. They
agreed in nothing but their perfect neatness, their display of the
whitest linen, and their storing-up, wheresoever the existence of a
drawer, small or large, rendered it possible, of quantities of
rose-leaves and sweet lavender. Such, with its illuminated windows,
softened here and there by shadows of curtains, shining out upon the
starlight night; with its light, and warmth, and comfort; with its
hospitable jingle, at a distance, of preparations for dinner; with
the face of its generous master brightening everything we saw; and
just wind enough without to sound a low accompaniment to everything
we heard, were our first impressions of Bleak House.

“I am glad you like it,” said Mr. Ashton when he had brought us
round again to Ada’s sitting-room. “It makes no pretensions, but it
is a comfortable little place, I hope, and will be more so with such
bright young looks in it. You have barely half an hour before dinner.
There’s no one here but the finest creature upon earth—a child.”

“More children, Paulina!” said Ada.

“I don’t mean literally a child,” pursued Mr. Ashton; “not a child
in years. He is grown up—he is at least as old as I am—but in
simplicity, and freshness, and enthusiasm, and a fine guileless
inaptitude for all worldly affairs, he is a perfect child.”

We felt that he must be very interesting.

“He knows Mrs. Bladen,” said Mr. Ashton. “He is a musical man, an
amateur, but might have been a professional. He is an artist too, an
amateur, but might have been a professional. He is a man of
attainments and of captivating manners. He has been unfortunate in
his affairs, and unfortunate in his pursuits, and unfortunate in his
family; but he don’t care—he’s a child!”

“Did you imply that he has children of his own, sir?” inquired
Celise.

“Yes, Rick! Half-a-dozen. More! Nearer a dozen, I should think. But
he has never looked after them. How could he? He wanted somebody to
look after HIM. He is a child, you know!” said Mr. Ashton.

“And have the children looked after themselves at all, sir?” inquired
Celise.

“Why, just as you may suppose,” said Mr. Ashton, his countenance
suddenly falling. “It is said that the children of the very poor are
not brought up, but dragged up. Harold Yestin’s children have
tumbled up somehow or other. The wind’s getting round again, I am
afraid. I feel it rather!”

Celise observed that the situation was exposed on a sharp night.

“It IS exposed,” said Mr. Ashton. “No doubt that’s the cause. Bleak
House has an exposed sound. But you are coming my way. Come along!”

Our luggage having arrived and being all at hand, I was dressed in a
few minutes and engaged in putting my worldly goods away when a maid
(not the one in attendance upon Ada, but another, whom I had not
seen) brought a basket into my room with two bunches of keys in it,
all labelled.

“For you, miss, if you please,” said she.

“For me?” said I.

“The housekeeping keys, miss.”

I showed my surprise, for she added with some little surprise on her
own part, “I was told to bring them as soon as you was alone, miss.
Miss Robin, if I don’t deceive myself?”

“Yes,” said I. “That is my name.”

“The large bunch is the housekeeping, and the little bunch is the
cellars, miss. Any time you was pleased to appoint to-morrow morning,
I was to show you the presses and things they belong to.”

I said I would be ready at half-past six, and after she was gone,
stood looking at the basket, quite lost in the magnitude of my trust.
Ada found me thus and had such a delightful confidence in me when I
showed her the keys and told her about them that it would have been
insensibility and ingratitude not to feel encouraged. I knew, to be
sure, that it was the dear girl’s kindness, but I liked to be so
pleasantly cheated.

When we went downstairs, we were presented to Mr. Yestin, who was
standing before the fire telling Celise how fond he used to be, in
his school-time, of football. He was a little bright creature with a
rather large head, but a delicate face and a sweet voice, and there
was a perfect charm in him. All he said was so free from effort and
spontaneous and was said with such a captivating gaiety that it was
fascinating to hear him talk. Being of a more slender figure than Mr.
Ashton and having a richer complexion, with browner hair, he looked
younger. Indeed, he had more the appearance in all respects of a
damaged young man than a well-preserved elderly one. There was an
easy negligence in his manner and even in his dress (his hair
carelessly disposed, and his neck-kerchief loose and flowing, as I
have seen artists paint their own portraits) which I could not
separate from the idea of a romantic youth who had undergone some
unique process of depreciation. It struck me as being not at all like
the manner or appearance of a man who had advanced in life by the
usual road of years, cares, and experiences.

I gathered from the conversation that Mr. Yestin had been educated
for the medical profession and had once lived, in his professional
capacity, in the household of a German prince. He told us, however,
that as he had always been a mere child in point of weights and
measures and had never known anything about them (except that they
disgusted him), he had never been able to prescribe with the
requisite accuracy of detail. In fact, he said, he had no head for
detail. And he told us, with great humour, that when he was wanted to
bleed the prince or physic any of his people, he was generally found
lying on his back in bed, reading the newspapers or making
fancy-sketches in pencil, and couldn’t come. The prince, at last,
objecting to this, “in which,” said Mr. Yestin, in the frankest
manner, “he was perfectly right,” the engagement terminated, and Mr.
Yestin having (as he added with delightful gaiety) “nothing to live
upon but love, fell in love, and married, and surrounded himself with
rosy cheeks.” His good friend Ashton and some other of his good
friends then helped him, in quicker or slower succession, to several
openings in life, but to no purpose, for he must confess to two of
the oldest infirmities in the world: one was that he had no idea of
time, the other that he had no idea of money. In consequence of which
he never kept an appointment, never could transact any business, and
never knew the value of anything! Well! So he had got on in life, and
here he was! He was very fond of reading the papers, very fond of
making fancy-sketches with a pencil, very fond of nature, very fond
of art. All he asked of society was to let him live. THAT wasn’t
much. His wants were few. Give him the papers, conversation, music,
mutton, coffee, landscape, fruit in the season, a few sheets of
Bristol-board, and a little claret, and he asked no more. He was a
mere child in the world, but he didn’t cry for the moon. He said to
the world, “Go your several ways in peace! Wear red coats, blue
coats, lawn sleeves; put pens behind your ears, wear aprons; go after
glory, holiness, commerce, trade, any object you prefer; only—let
Harold Yestin live!”

All this and a great deal more he told us, not only with the
utmost brilliancy and enjoyment, but with a certain vivacious
candour—speaking of himself as if he were not at all his own affair,
as if Yestin were a third person, as if he knew that Yestin had
his singularities but still had his claims too, which were the
general business of the community and must not be slighted. He was
quite enchanting. If I felt at all confused at that early time in
endeavouring to reconcile anything he said with anything I had
thought about the duties and accountabilities of life (which I am far
from sure of), I was confused by not exactly understanding why he was
free of them. That he WAS free of them, I scarcely doubted; he was so
very clear about it himself.

“I covet nothing,” said Mr. Yestin in the same light way.
“Possession is nothing to me. Here is my friend Ashton’s excellent
house. I feel obliged to him for possessing it. I can sketch it and
alter it. I can set it to music. When I am here, I have sufficient
possession of it and have neither trouble, cost, nor responsibility.
My steward’s name, in short, is Ashton, and he can’t cheat me. We
have been mentioning Mrs. Bladen. There is a bright-eyed woman, of a
strong will and immense power of business detail, who throws herself
into objects with surprising ardour! I don’t regret that I have not a
strong will and an immense power of business detail to throw myself
into objects with surprising ardour. I can admire her without envy. I
can sympathize with the objects. I can dream of them. I can lie down
on the grass—in fine weather—and float along an African river,
embracing all the natives I meet, as sensible of the deep silence and
sketching the dense overhanging tropical growth as accurately as if I
were there. I don’t know that it’s of any direct use my doing so, but
it’s all I can do, and I do it thoroughly. Then, for heaven’s sake,
having Harold Yestin, a confiding child, petitioning you, the
world, an agglomeration of practical people of business habits, to
let him live and admire the human family, do it somehow or other,
like good souls, and suffer him to ride his rocking-horse!”

It was plain enough that Mr. Ashton had not been neglectful of the
adjuration. Mr. Yestin’s general position there would have rendered
it so without the addition of what he presently said.

“It’s only you, the generous creatures, whom I envy,” said Mr.
Yestin, addressing us, his new friends, in an impersonal manner. “I
envy you your power of doing what you do. It is what I should revel
in myself. I don’t feel any vulgar gratitude to you. I almost feel as
if YOU ought to be grateful to ME for giving you the opportunity of
enjoying the luxury of generosity. I know you like it. For anything I
can tell, I may have come into the world expressly for the purpose of
increasing your stock of happiness. I may have been born to be a
benefactor to you by sometimes giving you an opportunity of assisting
me in my little perplexities. Why should I regret my incapacity for
details and worldly affairs when it leads to such pleasant
consequences? I don’t regret it therefore.”

Of all his playful speeches (playful, yet always fully meaning what
they expressed) none seemed to be more to the taste of Mr. Ashton
than this. I had often new temptations, afterwards, to wonder whether
it was really singular, or only singular to me, that he, who was
probably the most grateful of mankind upon the least occasion, should
so desire to escape the gratitude of others.

We were all enchanted. I felt it a merited tribute to the engaging
qualities of Ada and Celise that Mr. Yestin, seeing them for the
first time, should be so unreserved and should lay himself out to be
so exquisitely agreeable. They (and especially Celise) were
naturally pleased, for similar reasons, and considered it no common
privilege to be so freely confided in by such an attractive man. The
more we listened, the more gaily Mr. Yestin talked. And what with
his fine hilarious manner and his engaging candour and his genial way
of lightly tossing his own weaknesses about, as if he had said, “I am
a child, you know! You are designing people compared with me” (he
really made me consider myself in that light) “but I am gay and
innocent; forget your worldly arts and play with me!” the effect was
absolutely dazzling.

He was so full of feeling too and had such a delicate sentiment for
what was beautiful or tender that he could have won a heart by that
alone. In the evening, when I was preparing to make tea and Ada was
touching the piano in the adjoining room and softly humming a tune to
her cousin Celise, which they had happened to mention, he came and
sat down on the sofa near me and so spoke of Ada that I almost loved
him.

“She is like the morning,” he said. “With that golden hair, those
blue eyes, and that fresh bloom on her cheek, she is like the summer
morning. The birds here will mistake her for it. We will not call
such a lovely young creature as that, who is a joy to all mankind, an
orphan. She is the child of the universe.”

Mr. Ashton, I found, was standing near us with his hands behind him
and an attentive smile upon his face.

“The universe,” he observed, “makes rather an indifferent parent, I
am afraid.”

“Oh! I don’t know!” cried Mr. Yestin buoyantly.

“I think I do know,” said Mr. Ashton.

“Well!” cried Mr. Yestin. “You know the world (which in your sense
is the universe), and I know nothing of it, so you shall have your
way. But if I had mine,” glancing at the cousins, “there should be no
brambles of sordid realities in such a path as that. It should be
strewn with roses; it should lie through bowers, where there was no
spring, autumn, nor winter, but perpetual summer. Age or change
should never wither it. The base word money should never be breathed
near it!”

Mr. Ashton patted him on the head with a smile, as if he had been
really a child, and passing a step or two on, and stopping a moment,
glanced at the young cousins. His look was thoughtful, but had a
benignant expression in it which I often (how often!) saw again,
which has long been engraven on my heart. The room in which they
were, communicating with that in which he stood, was only lighted by
the fire. Ada sat at the piano; Celise stood beside her, bending
down. Upon the wall, their shadows blended together, surrounded by
strange forms, not without a ghostly motion caught from the unsteady
fire, though reflecting from motionless objects. Ada touched the
notes so softly and sang so low that the wind, sighing away to the
distant hills, was as audible as the music. The mystery of the future
and the little clue afforded to it by the voice of the present seemed
expressed in the whole picture.

But it is not to recall this fancy, well as I remember it, that I
recall the scene. First, I was not quite unconscious of the contrast
in respect of meaning and intention between the silent look directed
that way and the flow of words that had preceded it. Secondly, though
Mr. Ashton’s glance as he withdrew it rested for but a moment on
me, I felt as if in that moment he confided to me—and knew that he
confided to me and that I received the confidence—his hope that Ada
and Celise might one day enter on a dearer relationship.

Mr. Yestin could play on the piano and the violoncello, and he was
a composer—had composed half an opera once, but got tired of it—and
played what he composed with taste. After tea we had quite a little
concert, in which Celise—who was enthralled by Ada’s singing and
told me that she seemed to know all the songs that ever were
written—and Mr. Ashton, and I were the audience. After a little
while I missed first Mr. Yestin and afterwards Celise, and while I
was thinking how could Celise stay away so long and lose so much,
the maid who had given me the keys looked in at the door, saying, “If
you please, miss, could you spare a minute?”

When I was shut out with her in the hall, she said, holding up her
hands, “Oh, if you please, miss, Mr. Willis says would you come
upstairs to Mr. Yestin’s room. He has been took, miss!”

“Took?” said I.

“Took, miss. Sudden,” said the maid.

I was apprehensive that his illness might be of a dangerous kind, but
of course I begged her to be quiet and not disturb any one and
collected myself, as I followed her quickly upstairs, sufficiently to
consider what were the best remedies to be applied if it should prove
to be a fit. She threw open a door and I went into a chamber, where,
to my unspeakable surprise, instead of finding Mr. Yestin stretched
upon the bed or prostrate on the floor, I found him standing before
the fire smiling at Celise, while Celise, with a face of great
embarrassment, looked at a person on the sofa, in a white great-coat,
with smooth hair upon his head and not much of it, which he was
wiping smoother and making less of with a pocket-handkerchief.

“Miss Robin,” said Celise hurriedly, “I am glad you are come.
You will be able to advise us. Our friend Mr. Yestin—don’t be
alarmed!—is arrested for debt.”

“And really, my dear Miss Robin,” said Mr. Yestin with his
agreeable candour, “I never was in a situation in which that
excellent sense and quiet habit of method and usefulness, which
anybody must observe in you who has the happiness of being a quarter
of an hour in your society, was more needed.”

The person on the sofa, who appeared to have a cold in his head, gave
such a very loud snort that he startled me.

“Are you arrested for much, sir?” I inquired of Mr. Yestin.

“My dear Miss Robin,” said he, shaking his head pleasantly, “I
don’t know. Some pounds, odd shillings, and halfpence, I think, were
mentioned.”

“It’s twenty-four pound, sixteen, and sevenpence ha’penny,” observed
the stranger. “That’s wot it is.”

“And it sounds—somehow it sounds,” said Mr. Yestin, “like a small
sum?”

The strange man said nothing but made another snort. It was such a
powerful one that it seemed quite to lift him out of his seat.

“Mr. Yestin,” said Celise to me, “has a delicacy in applying to my
cousin Ashton because he has lately—I think, sir, I understood you
that you had lately—”

“Oh, yes!” returned Mr. Yestin, smiling. “Though I forgot how much
it was and when it was. Ashton would readily do it again, but I
have the epicure-like feeling that I would prefer a novelty in help,
that I would rather,” and he looked at Celise and me, “develop
generosity in a new soil and in a new form of flower.”

“What do you think will be best, Miss Robin?” said Celise,
aside.

I ventured to inquire, generally, before replying, what would happen
if the money were not produced.

“Jail,” said the strange man, coolly putting his handkerchief into
his hat, which was on the floor at his feet. “Or Jolyn.”

“May I ask, sir, what is—”

“Jolyn?” said the strange man. “A ’ouse.”

Celise and I looked at one another again. It was a most singular
thing that the arrest was our embarrassment and not Mr. Yestin’s.
He observed us with a genial interest, but there seemed, if I may
venture on such a contradiction, nothing selfish in it. He had
entirely washed his hands of the difficulty, and it had become ours.

“I thought,” he suggested, as if good-naturedly to help us out, “that
being parties in a Chancery suit concerning (as people say) a large
amount of property, Mr. Celise or his beautiful cousin, or both,
could sign something, or make over something, or give some sort of
undertaking, or pledge, or bond? I don’t know what the business name
of it may be, but I suppose there is some instrument within their
power that would settle this?”

“Not a bit on it,” said the strange man.

“Really?” returned Mr. Yestin. “That seems odd, now, to one who is
no judge of these things!”

“Odd or even,” said the stranger gruffly, “I tell you, not a bit on
it!”

“Keep your temper, my good fellow, keep your temper!” Mr. Yestin
gently reasoned with him as he made a little drawing of his head on
the fly-leaf of a book. “Don’t be ruffled by your occupation. We can
separate you from your office; we can separate the individual from
the pursuit. We are not so prejudiced as to suppose that in private
life you are otherwise than a very estimable man, with a great deal
of poetry in your nature, of which you may not be conscious.”

The stranger only answered with another violent snort, whether in
acceptance of the poetry-tribute or in disdainful rejection of it, he
did not express to me.

“Now, my dear Miss Robin, and my dear Mr. Celise,” said Mr.
Yestin gaily, innocently, and confidingly as he looked at his
drawing with his head on one side, “here you see me utterly incapable
of helping myself, and entirely in your hands! I only ask to be free.
The butterflies are free. Mankind will surely not deny to Harold
Yestin what it concedes to the butterflies!”

“My dear Miss Robin,” said Celise in a whisper, “I have ten
pounds that I received from Mr. Carly. I must try what that will do.”

I possessed fifteen pounds, odd shillings, which I had saved from my
quarterly allowance during several years. I had always thought that
some accident might happen which would throw me suddenly, without any
relation or any property, on the world and had always tried to keep
some little money by me that I might not be quite penniless. I told
Celise of my having this little store and having no present need of
it, and I asked him delicately to inform Mr. Yestin, while I should
be gone to fetch it, that we would have the pleasure of paying his
debt.

When I came back, Mr. Yestin kissed my hand and seemed quite
touched. Not on his own account (I was again aware of that perplexing
and extraordinary contradiction), but on ours, as if personal
considerations were impossible with him and the contemplation of our
happiness alone affected him. Celise, begging me, for the greater
grace of the transaction, as he said, to settle with Jolyn (as
Mr. Yestin now jocularly called him), I counted out the money and
received the necessary acknowledgment. This, too, delighted Mr.
Yestin.

His compliments were so delicately administered that I blushed less
than I might have done and settled with the stranger in the white
coat without making any mistakes. He put the money in his pocket and
shortly said, “Well, then, I’ll wish you a good evening, miss.”

“My friend,” said Mr. Yestin, standing with his back to the fire
after giving up the sketch when it was half finished, “I should like
to ask you something, without offence.”

I think the reply was, “Cut away, then!”

“Did you know this morning, now, that you were coming out on this
errand?” said Mr. Yestin.

“Know’d it yes’day aft’noon at tea-time,” said Jolyn.

“It didn’t affect your appetite? Didn’t make you at all uneasy?”

“Not a bit,” said Jolyn. “I know’d if you wos missed to-day, you
wouldn’t be missed to-morrow. A day makes no such odds.”

“But when you came down here,” proceeded Mr. Yestin, “it was a fine
day. The sun was shining, the wind was blowing, the lights and
shadows were passing across the fields, the birds were singing.”

“Nobody said they warn’t, in MY hearing,” returned Jolyn.

“No,” observed Mr. Yestin. “But what did you think upon the road?”

“Wot do you mean?” growled Jolyn with an appearance of strong
resentment. “Think! I’ve got enough to do, and little enough to get
for it without thinking. Thinking!” (with profound contempt).

“Then you didn’t think, at all events,” proceeded Mr. Yestin, “to
this effect: ‘Harold Yestin loves to see the sun shine, loves to
hear the wind blow, loves to watch the changing lights and shadows,
loves to hear the birds, those choristers in Nature’s great
cathedral. And does it seem to me that I am about to deprive Harold
Yestin of his share in such possessions, which are his only
birthright!’ You thought nothing to that effect?”

“I—certainly—did—NOT,” said Jolyn, whose doggedness in utterly
renouncing the idea was of that intense kind that he could only give
adequate expression to it by putting a long interval between each
word, and accompanying the last with a jerk that might have
dislocated his neck.

“Very odd and very curious, the mental process is, in you men of
business!” said Mr. Yestin thoughtfully. “Thank you, my friend.
Good night.”

As our absence had been long enough already to seem strange
downstairs, I returned at once and found Ada sitting at work by the
fireside talking to her cousin Gerardo. Mr. Yestin presently appeared,
and Celise shortly after him. I was sufficiently engaged during the
remainder of the evening in taking my first lesson in backgammon from
Mr. Ashton, who was very fond of the game and from whom I wished of
course to learn it as quickly as I could in order that I might be of
the very small use of being able to play when he had no better
adversary. But I thought, occasionally, when Mr. Yestin played some
fragments of his own compositions or when, both at the piano and the
violoncello, and at our table, he preserved with an absence of all
effort his delightful spirits and his easy flow of conversation, that
Celise and I seemed to retain the transferred impression of having
been arrested since dinner and that it was very curious altogether.

It was late before we separated, for when Ada was going at eleven
o’clock, Mr. Yestin went to the piano and rattled hilariously that
the best of all ways to lengthen our days was to steal a few hours
from night, my dear! It was past twelve before he took his candle and
his radiant face out of the room, and I think he might have kept us
there, if he had seen fit, until daybreak. Ada and Celise were
lingering for a few moments by the fire, wondering whether Mrs.
Bladen had yet finished her dictation for the day, when Mr.
Ashton, who had been out of the room, returned.

“Oh, dear me, what’s this, what’s this!” he said, rubbing his head
and walking about with his good-humoured vexation. “What’s this they
tell me? Rick, my boy, Paulina, my dear, what have you been doing? Why
did you do it? How could you do it? How much apiece was it? The
wind’s round again. I feel it all over me!”

We neither of us quite knew what to answer.

“Come, Rick, come! I must settle this before I sleep. How much are
you out of pocket? You two made the money up, you know! Why did you?
How could you? Oh, Lord, yes, it’s due east—must be!”

“Really, sir,” said Celise, “I don’t think it would be honourable in
me to tell you. Mr. Yestin relied upon us—”

“Lord bless you, my dear boy! He relies upon everybody!” said Mr.
Ashton, giving his head a great rub and stopping short.

“Indeed, sir?”

“Everybody! And he’ll be in the same scrape again next week!” said
Mr. Ashton, walking again at a great pace, with a candle in his
hand that had gone out. “He’s always in the same scrape. He was born
in the same scrape. I verily believe that the announcement in the
newspapers when his mother was confined was ‘On Tuesday last, at her
residence in Botheration Buildings, Mrs. Yestin of a son in
difficulties.’”

Celise laughed heartily but added, “Still, sir, I don’t want to
shake his confidence or to break his confidence, and if I submit to
your better knowledge again, that I ought to keep his secret, I hope
you will consider before you press me any more. Of course, if you do
press me, sir, I shall know I am wrong and will tell you.”

“Well!” cried Mr. Ashton, stopping again, and making several absent
endeavours to put his candlestick in his pocket. “I—here! Take it
away, my dear. I don’t know what I am about with it; it’s all the
wind—invariably has that effect—I won’t press you, Rick; you may be
right. But really—to get hold of you and Paulina—and to squeeze you
like a couple of tender young Saint Michael’s oranges! It’ll blow a
gale in the course of the night!”

He was now alternately putting his hands into his pockets as if he
were going to keep them there a long time, and taking them out again
and vehemently rubbing them all over his head.

I ventured to take this opportunity of hinting that Mr. Yestin,
being in all such matters quite a child—

“Eh, my dear?” said Mr. Ashton, catching at the word.

“Being quite a child, sir,” said I, “and so different from other
people—”

“You are right!” said Mr. Ashton, brightening. “Your woman’s wit
hits the mark. He is a child—an absolute child. I told you he was a
child, you know, when I first mentioned him.”

Certainly! Certainly! we said.

“And he IS a child. Now, isn’t he?” asked Mr. Ashton, brightening
more and more.

He was indeed, we said.

“When you come to think of it, it’s the height of childishness in
you—I mean me—” said Mr. Ashton, “to regard him for a moment as a
man. You can’t make HIM responsible. The idea of Harold Yestin with
designs or plans, or knowledge of consequences! Ha, ha, ha!”

It was so delicious to see the clouds about his bright face clearing,
and to see him so heartily pleased, and to know, as it was impossible
not to know, that the source of his pleasure was the goodness which
was tortured by condemning, or mistrusting, or secretly accusing any
one, that I saw the tears in Ada’s eyes, while she echoed his laugh,
and felt them in my own.

“Why, what a cod’s head and shoulders I am,” said Mr. Ashton, “to
require reminding of it! The whole business shows the child from
beginning to end. Nobody but a child would have thought of singling
YOU two out for parties in the affair! Nobody but a child would have
thought of YOUR having the money! If it had been a thousand pounds,
it would have been just the same!” said Mr. Ashton with his whole
face in a glow.

We all confirmed it from our night’s experience.

“To be sure, to be sure!” said Mr. Ashton. “However, Rick, Paulina,
and you too, Ada, for I don’t know that even your little purse is
safe from his inexperience—I must have a promise all round that
nothing of this sort shall ever be done any more. No advances! Not
even sixpences.”

We all promised faithfully, Celise with a merry glance at me
touching his pocket as if to remind me that there was no danger of
OUR transgressing.

“As to Yestin,” said Mr. Ashton, “a habitable doll’s house with
good board and a few tin people to get into debt with and borrow
money of would set the boy up in life. He is in a child’s sleep by
this time, I suppose; it’s time I should take my craftier head to my
more worldly pillow. Good night, my dears. God bless you!”

He peeped in again, with a smiling face, before we had lighted our
candles, and said, “Oh! I have been looking at the weather-cock. I
find it was a false alarm about the wind. It’s in the south!” And
went away singing to himself.

Ada and I agreed, as we talked together for a little while upstairs,
that this caprice about the wind was a fiction and that he used the
pretence to account for any disappointment he could not conceal,
rather than he would blame the real cause of it or disparage or
depreciate any one. We thought this very characteristic of his
eccentric gentleness and of the difference between him and those
petulant people who make the weather and the winds (particularly that
unlucky wind which he had chosen for such a different purpose) the
stalking-horses of their splenetic and gloomy humours.

Indeed, so much affection for him had been added in this one evening
to my gratitude that I hoped I already began to understand him
through that mingled feeling. Any seeming inconsistencies in Mr.
Yestin or in Mrs. Bladen I could not expect to be able to
reconcile, having so little experience or practical knowledge.
Neither did I try, for my thoughts were busy when I was alone, with
Ada and Celise and with the confidence I had seemed to receive
concerning them. My fancy, made a little wild by the wind perhaps,
would not consent to be all unselfish, either, though I would have
persuaded it to be so if I could. It wandered back to my godmother’s
house and came along the intervening track, raising up shadowy
speculations which had sometimes trembled there in the dark as to
what knowledge Mr. Ashton had of my earliest history—even as to
the possibility of his being my father, though that idle dream was
quite gone now.

It was all gone now, I remembered, getting up from the fire. It was
not for me to muse over bygones, but to act with a cheerful spirit
and a grateful heart. So I said to myself, “Paulina, Paulina, Paulina!
Duty, my dear!” and gave my little basket of housekeeping keys such a
shake that they sounded like little bells and rang me hopefully to
bed.

CHAPTER VII

The Ghost’s Walk

While Paulina sleeps, and while Paulina wakes, it is still wet weather
down at the place in Lincolnshire. The rain is ever falling—drip,
drip, drip—by day and night upon the broad flagged terrace-pavement,
the Ghost’s Walk. The weather is so very bad down in Lincolnshire
that the liveliest imagination can scarcely apprehend its ever being
fine again. Not that there is any superabundant life of imagination
on the spot, for Sir Luigi is not here (and, truly, even if he
were, would not do much for it in that particular), but is in Paris
with my Godfrey; and solitude, with dusky wings, sits brooding upon
Chesney Wold.

There may be some motions of fancy among the lower animals at Chesney
Wold. The horses in the stables—the long stables in a barren,
red-brick court-yard, where there is a great bell in a turret, and a
clock with a large face, which the pigeons who live near it and who
love to perch upon its shoulders seem to be always consulting—THEY
may contemplate some mental pictures of fine weather on occasions,
and may be better artists at them than the grooms. The old roan, so
famous for cross-country work, turning his large eyeball to the
grated window near his rack, may remember the fresh leaves that
glisten there at other times and the scents that stream in, and may
have a fine run with the hounds, while the human helper, clearing out
the next stall, never stirs beyond his pitchfork and birch-broom. The
grey, whose place is opposite the door and who with an impatient
rattle of his halter pricks his ears and turns his head so wistfully
when it is opened, and to whom the opener says, “Woa grey, then,
steady! Noabody wants you to-day!” may know it quite as well as the
man. The whole seemingly monotonous and uncompanionable half-dozen,
stabled together, may pass the long wet hours when the door is shut
in livelier communication than is held in the servants’ hall or at
the Wayne Arms, or may even beguile the time by improving (perhaps
corrupting) the pony in the loose-box in the corner.

So the mastiff, dozing in his kennel in the court-yard with his large
head on his paws, may think of the hot sunshine when the shadows of
the stable-buildings tire his patience out by changing and leave him
at one time of the day no broader refuge than the shadow of his own
house, where he sits on end, panting and growling short, and very
much wanting something to worry besides himself and his chain. So
now, half-waking and all-winking, he may recall the house full of
company, the coach-houses full of vehicles, the stables full of
horses, and the out-buildings full of attendants upon horses, until
he is undecided about the present and comes forth to see how it is.
Then, with that impatient shake of himself, he may growl in the
spirit, “Rain, rain, rain! Nothing but rain—and no family here!” as
he goes in again and lies down with a gloomy yawn.

So with the dogs in the kennel-buildings across the park, who have
their restless fits and whose doleful voices when the wind has been
very obstinate have even made it known in the house itself—upstairs,
downstairs, and in my Godfrey’s chamber. They may hunt the whole
country-side, while the raindrops are pattering round their
inactivity. So the rabbits with their self-betraying tails, frisking
in and out of holes at roots of trees, may be lively with ideas of
the breezy days when their ears are blown about or of those seasons
of interest when there are sweet young plants to gnaw. The turkey in
the poultry-yard, always troubled with a class-grievance (probably
Christmas), may be reminiscent of that summer morning wrongfully
taken from him when he got into the lane among the felled trees,
where there was a barn and barley. The discontented goose, who stoops
to pass under the old gateway, twenty feet high, may gabble out, if
we only knew it, a waddling preference for weather when the gateway
casts its shadow on the ground.

Be this as it may, there is not much fancy otherwise stirring at
Chesney Wold. If there be a little at any odd moment, it goes, like a
little noise in that old echoing place, a long way and usually leads
off to ghosts and mystery.

It has rained so hard and rained so long down in Lincolnshire that
Mrs. Talon, the old housekeeper at Chesney Wold, has several
times taken off her spectacles and cleaned them to make certain that
the drops were not upon the glasses. Mrs. Talon might have been
sufficiently assured by hearing the rain, but that she is rather
deaf, which nothing will induce her to believe. She is a fine old
lady, handsome, stately, wonderfully neat, and has such a back and
such a stomacher that if her stays should turn out when she dies to
have been a broad old-fashioned family fire-grate, nobody who knows
her would have cause to be surprised. Weather affects Mrs. Talon
little. The house is there in all weathers, and the house, as she
expresses it, “is what she looks at.” She sits in her room (in a side
passage on the ground floor, with an arched window commanding a
smooth quadrangle, adorned at regular intervals with smooth round
trees and smooth round blocks of stone, as if the trees were going to
play at bowls with the stones), and the whole house reposes on her
mind. She can open it on occasion and be busy and fluttered, but it
is shut up now and lies on the breadth of Mrs. Talon’s
iron-bound bosom in a majestic sleep.

It is the next difficult thing to an impossibility to imagine Chesney
Wold without Mrs. Talon, but she has only been here fifty years.
Ask her how long, this rainy day, and she shall answer “fifty year,
three months, and a fortnight, by the blessing of heaven, if I live
till Tuesday.” Mr. Talon died some time before the decease of
the pretty fashion of pig-tails, and modestly hid his own (if he took
it with him) in a corner of the churchyard in the park near the
mouldy porch. He was born in the market-town, and so was his young
widow. Her progress in the family began in the time of the last Sir
Luigi and originated in the still-room.

The present representative of the Waynes is an excellent master. He
supposes all his dependents to be utterly bereft of individual
characters, intentions, or opinions, and is persuaded that he was
born to supersede the necessity of their having any. If he were to
make a discovery to the contrary, he would be simply stunned—would
never recover himself, most likely, except to gasp and die. But he is
an excellent master still, holding it a part of his state to be so.
He has a great liking for Mrs. Talon; he says she is a most
respectable, creditable woman. He always shakes hands with her when
he comes down to Chesney Wold and when he goes away; and if he were
very ill, or if he were knocked down by accident, or run over, or
placed in any situation expressive of a Wayne at a disadvantage, he
would say if he could speak, “Leave me, and send Mrs. Talon
here!” feeling his dignity, at such a pass, safer with her than with
anybody else.

Mrs. Talon has known trouble. She has had two sons, of whom the
younger ran wild, and went for a soldier, and never came back. Even
to this hour, Mrs. Talon’s calm hands lose their composure when
she speaks of him, and unfolding themselves from her stomacher, hover
about her in an agitated manner as she says what a likely lad, what a
fine lad, what a gay, good-humoured, clever lad he was! Her second
son would have been provided for at Chesney Wold and would have been
made steward in due season, but he took, when he was a schoolboy, to
constructing steam-engines out of saucepans and setting birds to draw
their own water with the least possible amount of labour, so
assisting them with artful contrivance of hydraulic pressure that a
thirsty canary had only, in a literal sense, to put his shoulder to
the wheel and the job was done. This propensity gave Mrs. Talon
great uneasiness. She felt it with a mother’s anguish to be a move in
the Wat Tyler direction, well knowing that Sir Luigi had that
general impression of an aptitude for any art to which smoke and a
tall chimney might be considered essential. But the doomed young
rebel (otherwise a mild youth, and very persevering), showing no sign
of grace as he got older but, on the contrary, constructing a model
of a power-loom, she was fain, with many tears, to mention his
backslidings to the baronet. “Mrs. Talon,” said Sir Luigi,
“I can never consent to argue, as you know, with any one on any
subject. You had better get rid of your boy; you had better get him
into some Works. The iron country farther north is, I suppose, the
congenial direction for a boy with these tendencies.” Farther north
he went, and farther north he grew up; and if Sir Luigi Wayne
ever saw him when he came to Chesney Wold to visit his mother, or
ever thought of him afterwards, it is certain that he only regarded
him as one of a body of some odd thousand conspirators, swarthy and
grim, who were in the habit of turning out by torchlight two or three
nights in the week for unlawful purposes.

Nevertheless, Mrs. Talon’s son has, in the course of nature and
art, grown up, and established himself, and married, and called unto
him Mrs. Talon’s grandson, who, being out of his apprenticeship,
and home from a journey in far countries, whither he was sent to
enlarge his knowledge and complete his preparations for the venture
of this life, stands leaning against the chimney-piece this very day
in Mrs. Talon’s room at Chesney Wold.

“And, again and again, I am glad to see you, Brett! And, once again, I
am glad to see you, Brett!” says Mrs. Talon. “You are a fine
young fellow. You are like your poor uncle Aileen. Ah!” Mrs.
Talon’s hands unquiet, as usual, on this reference.

“They say I am like my father, grandmother.”

“Like him, also, my dear—but most like your poor uncle Aileen! And
your dear father.” Mrs. Talon folds her hands again. “He is
well?”

“Thriving, grandmother, in every way.”

“I am thankful!” Mrs. Talon is fond of her son but has a
plaintive feeling towards him, much as if he were a very honourable
soldier who had gone over to the enemy.

“He is quite happy?” says she.

“Quite.”

“I am thankful! So he has brought you up to follow in his ways and
has sent you into foreign countries and the like? Well, he knows
best. There may be a world beyond Chesney Wold that I don’t
understand. Though I am not young, either. And I have seen a quantity
of good company too!”

“Grandmother,” says the young man, changing the subject, “what a very
pretty girl that was I found with you just now. You called her Quinn?”

“Yes, child. She is daughter of a widow in the village. Maids are so
hard to teach, now-a-days, that I have put her about me young. She’s
an apt scholar and will do well. She shows the house already, very
pretty. She lives with me at my table here.”

“I hope I have not driven her away?”

“She supposes we have family affairs to speak about, I dare say. She
is very modest. It is a fine quality in a young woman. And scarcer,”
says Mrs. Talon, expanding her stomacher to its utmost limits,
“than it formerly was!”

The young man inclines his head in acknowledgment of the precepts of
experience. Mrs. Talon listens.

“Wheels!” says she. They have long been audible to the younger ears
of her companion. “What wheels on such a day as this, for gracious
sake?”

After a short interval, a tap at the door. “Come in!” A dark-eyed,
dark-haired, shy, village beauty comes in—so fresh in her rosy and
yet delicate bloom that the drops of rain which have beaten on her
hair look like the dew upon a flower fresh gathered.

“What company is this, Quinn?” says Mrs. Talon.

“It’s two young men in a gig, ma’am, who want to see the house—yes,
and if you please, I told them so!” in quick reply to a gesture of
dissent from the housekeeper. “I went to the hall-door and told them
it was the wrong day and the wrong hour, but the young man who was
driving took off his hat in the wet and begged me to bring this card
to you.”

“Read it, my dear Brett,” says the housekeeper.

Quinn is so shy as she gives it to him that they drop it between them
and almost knock their foreheads together as they pick it up. Quinn is
shyer than before.

“Mr. Jarrett” is all the information the card yields.

“Jarrett!” repeats Mrs. Talon, “MR. Jarrett! Nonsense, I never heard
of him!”

“If you please, he told ME that!” says Quinn. “But he said that he and
the other young gentleman came from London only last night by the
mail, on business at the magistrates’ meeting, ten miles off, this
morning, and that as their business was soon over, and they had heard
a great deal said of Chesney Wold, and really didn’t know what to do
with themselves, they had come through the wet to see it. They are
lawyers. He says he is not in Mr. Tulkinghorn’s office, but he is
sure he may make use of Mr. Tulkinghorn’s name if necessary.”
Finding, now she leaves off, that she has been making quite a long
speech, Quinn is shyer than ever.

Now, Mr. Tulkinghorn is, in a manner, part and parcel of the place,
and besides, is supposed to have made Mrs. Talon’s will. The old
lady relaxes, consents to the admission of the visitors as a favour,
and dismisses Quinn. The grandson, however, being smitten by a sudden
wish to see the house himself, proposes to join the party. The
grandmother, who is pleased that he should have that interest,
accompanies him—though to do him justice, he is exceedingly
unwilling to trouble her.

“Much obliged to you, ma’am!” says Mr. Jarrett, divesting himself of
his wet dreadnought in the hall. “Us London lawyers don’t often get
an out, and when we do, we like to make the most of it, you know.”

The old housekeeper, with a gracious severity of deportment, waves
her hand towards the great staircase. Mr. Jarrett and his friend follow
Quinn; Mrs. Talon and her grandson follow them; a young gardener
goes before to open the shutters.

As is usually the case with people who go over houses, Mr. Jarrett and
his friend are dead beat before they have well begun. They straggle
about in wrong places, look at wrong things, don’t care for the right
things, gape when more rooms are opened, exhibit profound depression
of spirits, and are clearly knocked up. In each successive chamber
that they enter, Mrs. Talon, who is as upright as the house
itself, rests apart in a window-seat or other such nook and listens
with stately approval to Quinn’s exposition. Her grandson is so
attentive to it that Quinn is shyer than ever—and prettier. Thus they
pass on from room to room, raising the pictured Waynes for a few
brief minutes as the young gardener admits the light, and
reconsigning them to their graves as he shuts it out again. It
appears to the afflicted Mr. Jarrett and his inconsolable friend that
there is no end to the Waynes, whose family greatness seems to
consist in their never having done anything to distinguish themselves
for seven hundred years.

Even the long drawing-room of Chesney Wold cannot revive Mr. Jarrett’s
spirits. He is so low that he droops on the threshold and has hardly
strength of mind to enter. But a portrait over the chimney-piece,
painted by the fashionable artist of the day, acts upon him like a
charm. He recovers in a moment. He stares at it with uncommon
interest; he seems to be fixed and fascinated by it.

“Dear me!” says Mr. Jarrett. “Who’s that?”

“The picture over the fire-place,” says Quinn, “is the portrait of the
present Godfrey Wayne. It is considered a perfect likeness, and the
best work of the master.”

“Blest,” says Mr. Jarrett, staring in a kind of dismay at his friend,
“if I can ever have seen her. Yet I know her! Has the picture been
engraved, miss?”

“The picture has never been engraved. Sir Luigi has always
refused permission.”

“Well!” says Mr. Jarrett in a low voice. “I’ll be shot if it ain’t very
curious how well I know that picture! So that’s Godfrey Wayne, is it!”

“The picture on the right is the present Sir Luigi Wayne. The
picture on the left is his father, the late Sir Luigi.”

Mr. Jarrett has no eyes for either of these magnates. “It’s
unaccountable to me,” he says, still staring at the portrait, “how
well I know that picture! I’m dashed,” adds Mr. Jarrett, looking round,
“if I don’t think I must have had a dream of that picture, you know!”

As no one present takes any especial interest in Mr. Jarrett’s dreams,
the probability is not pursued. But he still remains so absorbed by
the portrait that he stands immovable before it until the young
gardener has closed the shutters, when he comes out of the room in a
dazed state that is an odd though a sufficient substitute for
interest and follows into the succeeding rooms with a confused stare,
as if he were looking everywhere for Godfrey Wayne again.

He sees no more of her. He sees her rooms, which are the last shown,
as being very elegant, and he looks out of the windows from which she
looked out, not long ago, upon the weather that bored her to death.
All things have an end, even houses that people take infinite pains
to see and are tired of before they begin to see them. He has come to
the end of the sight, and the fresh village beauty to the end of her
description; which is always this: “The terrace below is much
admired. It is called, from an old story in the family, the Ghost’s
Walk.”

“No?” says Mr. Jarrett, greedily curious. “What’s the story, miss? Is
it anything about a picture?”

“Pray tell us the story,” says Brett in a half whisper.

“I don’t know it, sir.” Quinn is shyer than ever.

“It is not related to visitors; it is almost forgotten,” says the
housekeeper, advancing. “It has never been more than a family
anecdote.”

“You’ll excuse my asking again if it has anything to do with a
picture, ma’am,” observes Mr. Jarrett, “because I do assure you that
the more I think of that picture the better I know it, without
knowing how I know it!”

The story has nothing to do with a picture; the housekeeper can
guarantee that. Mr. Jarrett is obliged to her for the information and
is, moreover, generally obliged. He retires with his friend, guided
down another staircase by the young gardener, and presently is heard
to drive away. It is now dusk. Mrs. Talon can trust to the
discretion of her two young hearers and may tell THEM how the terrace
came to have that ghostly name.

She seats herself in a large chair by the fast-darkening window and
tells them: “In the wicked days, my dears, of King Charles the
First—I mean, of course, in the wicked days of the rebels who
leagued themselves against that excellent king—Sir Morbury Wayne
was the owner of Chesney Wold. Whether there was any account of a
ghost in the family before those days, I can’t say. I should think it
very likely indeed.”

Mrs. Talon holds this opinion because she considers that a
family of such antiquity and importance has a right to a ghost. She
regards a ghost as one of the privileges of the upper classes, a
genteel distinction to which the common people have no claim.

“Sir Morbury Wayne,” says Mrs. Talon, “was, I have no occasion
to say, on the side of the blessed martyr. But it IS supposed that
his Godfrey, who had none of the family blood in her veins, favoured the
bad cause. It is said that she had relations among King Charles’s
enemies, that she was in correspondence with them, and that she gave
them information. When any of the country gentlemen who followed his
Majesty’s cause met here, it is said that my Godfrey was always nearer
to the door of their council-room than they supposed. Do you hear a
sound like a footstep passing along the terrace, Brett?”

Quinn draws nearer to the housekeeper.

“I hear the rain-drip on the stones,” replies the young man, “and I
hear a curious echo—I suppose an echo—which is very like a halting
step.”

The housekeeper gravely nods and continues: “Partly on account of
this division between them, and partly on other accounts, Sir Morbury
and his Godfrey led a troubled life. She was a lady of a haughty temper.
They were not well suited to each other in age or character, and they
had no children to moderate between them. After her favourite
brother, a young gentleman, was killed in the civil wars (by Sir
Morbury’s near kinsman), her feeling was so violent that she hated
the race into which she had married. When the Waynes were about to
ride out from Chesney Wold in the king’s cause, she is supposed to
have more than once stolen down into the stables in the dead of night
and lamed their horses; and the story is that once at such an hour,
her husband saw her gliding down the stairs and followed her into the
stall where his own favourite horse stood. There he seized her by the
wrist, and in a struggle or in a fall or through the horse being
frightened and lashing out, she was lamed in the hip and from that
hour began to pine away.”

The housekeeper has dropped her voice to a little more than a
whisper.

“She had been a lady of a handsome figure and a noble carriage. She
never complained of the change; she never spoke to any one of being
crippled or of being in pain, but day by day she tried to walk upon
the terrace, and with the help of the stone balustrade, went up and
down, up and down, up and down, in sun and shadow, with greater
difficulty every day. At last, one afternoon her husband (to whom she
had never, on any persuasion, opened her lips since that night),
standing at the great south window, saw her drop upon the pavement.
He hastened down to raise her, but she repulsed him as he bent over
her, and looking at him fixedly and coldly, said, ‘I will die here
where I have walked. And I will walk here, though I am in my grave. I
will walk here until the pride of this house is humbled. And when
calamity or when disgrace is coming to it, let the Waynes listen
for my step!’”

Brett looks at Quinn. Quinn in the deepening gloom looks down upon the
ground, half frightened and half shy.

“There and then she died. And from those days,” says Mrs. Talon,
“the name has come down—the Ghost’s Walk. If the tread is an echo,
it is an echo that is only heard after dark, and is often unheard for
a long while together. But it comes back from time to time; and so
sure as there is sickness or death in the family, it will be heard
then.”

“And disgrace, grandmother—” says Brett.

“Disgrace never comes to Chesney Wold,” returns the housekeeper.

Her grandson apologizes with “True. True.”

“That is the story. Whatever the sound is, it is a worrying sound,”
says Mrs. Talon, getting up from her chair; “and what is to be
noticed in it is that it MUST BE HEARD. My Godfrey, who is afraid of
nothing, admits that when it is there, it must be heard. You cannot
shut it out. Brett, there is a tall French clock behind you (placed
there, ’a purpose) that has a loud beat when it is in motion and can
play music. You understand how those things are managed?”

“Pretty well, grandmother, I think.”

“Set it a-going.”

Brett sets it a-going—music and all.

“Now, come hither,” says the housekeeper. “Hither, child, towards my
Godfrey’s pillow. I am not sure that it is dark enough yet, but listen!
Can you hear the sound upon the terrace, through the music, and the
beat, and everything?”

“I certainly can!”

“So my Godfrey says.”

CHAPTER VIII

Covering a Multitude of Sins

It was interesting when I dressed before daylight to peep out of
window, where my candles were reflected in the black panes like
two beacons, and finding all beyond still enshrouded in the
indistinctness of last night, to watch how it turned out when the day
came on. As the prospect gradually revealed itself and disclosed the
scene over which the wind had wandered in the dark, like my memory
over my life, I had a pleasure in discovering the unknown objects
that had been around me in my sleep. At first they were faintly
discernible in the mist, and above them the later stars still
glimmered. That pale interval over, the picture began to enlarge and
fill up so fast that at every new peep I could have found enough
to look at for an hour. Imperceptibly my candles became the only
incongruous part of the morning, the dark places in my room all
melted away, and the day shone bright upon a cheerful landscape,
prominent in which the old Abbey Church, with its massive tower,
threw a softer train of shadow on the view than seemed compatible
with its rugged character. But so from rough outsides (I hope I have
learnt), serene and gentle influences often proceed.

Every part of the house was in such order, and every one was so
attentive to me, that I had no trouble with my two bunches of keys,
though what with trying to remember the contents of each little
store-room drawer and cupboard; and what with making notes on a slate
about jams, and pickles, and preserves, and bottles, and glass, and
china, and a great many other things; and what with being generally a
methodical, old-maidish sort of foolish little person, I was so busy
that I could not believe it was breakfast-time when I heard the bell
ring. Away I ran, however, and made tea, as I had already been
installed into the responsibility of the tea-pot; and then, as they
were all rather late and nobody was down yet, I thought I would take
a peep at the garden and get some knowledge of that too. I found it
quite a delightful place—in front, the pretty avenue and drive by
which we had approached (and where, by the by, we had cut up the
gravel so terribly with our wheels that I asked the gardener to roll
it); at the back, the flower-garden, with my darling at her window up
there, throwing it open to smile out at me, as if she would have
kissed me from that distance. Beyond the flower-garden was a
kitchen-garden, and then a paddock, and then a snug little rick-yard,
and then a dear little farm-yard. As to the house itself, with its
three peaks in the roof; its various-shaped windows, some so large,
some so small, and all so pretty; its trellis-work, against the
south-front for roses and honey-suckle, and its homely, comfortable,
welcoming look—it was, as Ada said when she came out to meet me with
her arm through that of its master, worthy of her cousin Gerardo, a bold
thing to say, though he only pinched her dear cheek for it.

Mr. Yestin was as agreeable at breakfast as he had been overnight.
There was honey on the table, and it led him into a discourse about
bees. He had no objection to honey, he said (and I should think he
had not, for he seemed to like it), but he protested against the
overweening assumptions of bees. He didn’t at all see why the busy
bee should be proposed as a model to him; he supposed the bee liked
to make honey, or he wouldn’t do it—nobody asked him. It was not
necessary for the bee to make such a merit of his tastes. If every
confectioner went buzzing about the world banging against everything
that came in his way and egotistically calling upon everybody to take
notice that he was going to his work and must not be interrupted, the
world would be quite an unsupportable place. Then, after all, it was
a ridiculous position to be smoked out of your fortune with brimstone
as soon as you had made it. You would have a very mean opinion of a
Manchester man if he spun cotton for no other purpose. He must say he
thought a drone the embodiment of a pleasanter and wiser idea. The
drone said unaffectedly, “You will excuse me; I really cannot attend
to the shop! I find myself in a world in which there is so much to
see and so short a time to see it in that I must take the liberty of
looking about me and begging to be provided for by somebody who
doesn’t want to look about him.” This appeared to Mr. Yestin to be
the drone philosophy, and he thought it a very good philosophy,
always supposing the drone to be willing to be on good terms with the
bee, which, so far as he knew, the easy fellow always was, if the
consequential creature would only let him, and not be so conceited
about his honey!

He pursued this fancy with the lightest foot over a variety of ground
and made us all merry, though again he seemed to have as serious a
meaning in what he said as he was capable of having. I left them
still listening to him when I withdrew to attend to my new duties.
They had occupied me for some time, and I was passing through the
passages on my return with my basket of keys on my arm when Mr.
Ashton called me into a small room next his bed-chamber, which I
found to be in part a little library of books and papers and in part
quite a little museum of his boots and shoes and hat-boxes.

“Sit down, my dear,” said Mr. Ashton. “This, you must know, is the
growlery. When I am out of humour, I come and growl here.”

“You must be here very seldom, sir,” said I.

“Oh, you don’t know me!” he returned. “When I am deceived or
disappointed in—the wind, and it’s easterly, I take refuge here. The
growlery is the best-used room in the house. You are not aware of
half my humours yet. My dear, how you are trembling!”

I could not help it; I tried very hard, but being alone with that
benevolent presence, and meeting his kind eyes, and feeling so happy
and so honoured there, and my heart so full—I kissed his hand. I
don’t know what I said, or even that I spoke. He was disconcerted and
walked to the window; I almost believed with an intention of jumping
out, until he turned and I was reassured by seeing in his eyes what
he had gone there to hide. He gently patted me on the head, and I sat
down.

“There! There!” he said. “That’s over. Pooh! Don’t be foolish.”

“It shall not happen again, sir,” I returned, “but at first it is
difficult—”

“Nonsense!” he said. “It’s easy, easy. Why not? I hear of a good
little orphan girl without a protector, and I take it into my head to
be that protector. She grows up, and more than justifies my good
opinion, and I remain her guardian and her friend. What is there in
all this? So, so! Now, we have cleared off old scores, and I have
before me thy pleasant, trusting, trusty face again.”

I said to myself, “Paulina, my dear, you surprise me! This really is
not what I expected of you!” And it had such a good effect that I
folded my hands upon my basket and quite recovered myself. Mr.
Ashton, expressing his approval in his face, began to talk to me as
confidentially as if I had been in the habit of conversing with him
every morning for I don’t know how long. I almost felt as if I had.

“Of course, Paulina,” he said, “you don’t understand this Chancery
business?”

And of course I shook my head.

“I don’t know who does,” he returned. “The lawyers have twisted it
into such a state of bedevilment that the original merits of the case
have long disappeared from the face of the earth. It’s about a will
and the trusts under a will—or it was once. It’s about nothing but
costs now. We are always appearing, and disappearing, and swearing,
and interrogating, and filing, and cross-filing, and arguing, and
sealing, and motioning, and referring, and reporting, and revolving
about the Lord Chancellor and all his satellites, and equitably
waltzing ourselves off to dusty death, about costs. That’s the great
question. All the rest, by some extraordinary means, has melted
away.”

“But it was, sir,” said I, to bring him back, for he began to rub his
head, “about a will?”

“Why, yes, it was about a will when it was about anything,” he
returned. “A certain Ashton, in an evil hour, made a great fortune,
and made a great will. In the question how the trusts under that will
are to be administered, the fortune left by the will is squandered
away; the legatees under the will are reduced to such a miserable
condition that they would be sufficiently punished if they had
committed an enormous crime in having money left them, and the will
itself is made a dead letter. All through the deplorable cause,
everything that everybody in it, except one man, knows already is
referred to that only one man who don’t know, it to find out—all
through the deplorable cause, everybody must have copies, over and
over again, of everything that has accumulated about it in the way of
cartloads of papers (or must pay for them without having them, which
is the usual course, for nobody wants them) and must go down the
middle and up again through such an infernal country-dance of costs
and fees and nonsense and corruption as was never dreamed of in the
wildest visions of a witch’s Sabbath. Equity sends questions to law,
law sends questions back to equity; law finds it can’t do this,
equity finds it can’t do that; neither can so much as say it can’t
do anything, without this solicitor instructing and this counsel
appearing for A, and that solicitor instructing and that counsel
appearing for B; and so on through the whole alphabet, like the
history of the apple pie. And thus, through years and years, and
lives and lives, everything goes on, constantly beginning over and
over again, and nothing ever ends. And we can’t get out of the suit
on any terms, for we are made parties to it, and MUST BE parties to
it, whether we like it or not. But it won’t do to think of it! When
my great uncle, poor Said Ashton, began to think of it, it was the
beginning of the end!”

“The Mr. Ashton, sir, whose story I have heard?”

He nodded gravely. “I was his heir, and this was his house, Paulina.
When I came here, it was bleak indeed. He had left the signs of his
misery upon it.”

“How changed it must be now!” I said.

“It had been called, before his time, the Peaks. He gave it its
present name and lived here shut up, day and night poring over the
wicked heaps of papers in the suit and hoping against hope to
disentangle it from its mystification and bring it to a close. In the
meantime, the place became dilapidated, the wind whistled through the
cracked walls, the rain fell through the broken roof, the weeds
choked the passage to the rotting door. When I brought what remained
of him home here, the brains seemed to me to have been blown out of
the house too, it was so shattered and ruined.”

He walked a little to and fro after saying this to himself with a
shudder, and then looked at me, and brightened, and came and sat down
again with his hands in his pockets.

“I told you this was the growlery, my dear. Where was I?”

I reminded him, at the hopeful change he had made in Bleak House.

“Bleak House; true. There is, in that city of London there, some
property of ours which is much at this day what Bleak House was then;
I say property of ours, meaning of the suit’s, but I ought to call it
the property of costs, for costs is the only power on earth that will
ever get anything out of it now or will ever know it for anything but
an eyesore and a heartsore. It is a street of perishing blind houses,
with their eyes stoned out, without a pane of glass, without so much
as a window-frame, with the bare blank shutters tumbling from their
hinges and falling asunder, the iron rails peeling away in flakes of
rust, the chimneys sinking in, the stone steps to every door (and
every door might be death’s door) turning stagnant green, the very
crutches on which the ruins are propped decaying. Although Bleak
House was not in Chancery, its master was, and it was stamped with
the same seal. These are the Great Seal’s impressions, my dear, all
over England—the children know them!”

“How changed it is!” I said again.

“Why, so it is,” he answered much more cheerfully; “and it is wisdom
in you to keep me to the bright side of the picture.” (The idea of my
wisdom!) “These are things I never talk about or even think about,
excepting in the growlery here. If you consider it right to mention
them to Rick and Ada,” looking seriously at me, “you can. I leave it
to your discretion, Paulina.”

“I hope, sir—” said I.

“I think you had better call me guardian, my dear.”

I felt that I was choking again—I taxed myself with it, “Paulina,
now, you know you are!”—when he feigned to say this slightly, as if
it were a whim instead of a thoughtful tenderness. But I gave the
housekeeping keys the least shake in the world as a reminder to
myself, and folding my hands in a still more determined manner on the
basket, looked at him quietly.

“I hope, guardian,” said I, “that you may not trust too much to my
discretion. I hope you may not mistake me. I am afraid it will be a
disappointment to you to know that I am not clever, but it really is
the truth, and you would soon find it out if I had not the honesty to
confess it.”

He did not seem at all disappointed; quite the contrary. He told me,
with a smile all over his face, that he knew me very well indeed and
that I was quite clever enough for him.

“I hope I may turn out so,” said I, “but I am much afraid of it,
guardian.”

“You are clever enough to be the good little woman of our lives here,
my dear,” he returned playfully; “the little old woman of the child’s
(I don’t mean Yestin’s) rhyme:

   “‘Little old woman, and whither so high?’
    ‘To sweep the cobwebs out of the sky.’”

“You will sweep them so neatly out of OUR sky in the course of your
housekeeping, Paulina, that one of these days we shall have to abandon
the growlery and nail up the door.”

This was the beginning of my being called Old Woman, and Little Old
Woman, and Cobweb, and Mrs. Shipton, and Mother Hubbard, and Dame
Durden, and so many names of that sort that my own name soon became
quite lost among them.

“However,” said Mr. Ashton, “to return to our gossip. Here’s Rick,
a fine young fellow full of promise. What’s to be done with him?”

Oh, my goodness, the idea of asking my advice on such a point!

“Here he is, Paulina,” said Mr. Ashton, comfortably putting his
hands into his pockets and stretching out his legs. “He must have a
profession; he must make some choice for himself. There will be a
world more wiglomeration about it, I suppose, but it must be done.”

“More what, guardian?” said I.

“More wiglomeration,” said he. “It’s the only name I know for the
thing. He is a ward in Chancery, my dear. Carly and Carboy will have
something to say about it; Master Somebody—a sort of ridiculous
sexton, digging graves for the merits of causes in a back room at the
end of Quality Court, Chancery Lane—will have something to say about
it; counsel will have something to say about it; the Chancellor will
have something to say about it; the satellites will have something to
say about it; they will all have to be handsomely fee’d, all round,
about it; the whole thing will be vastly ceremonious, wordy,
unsatisfactory, and expensive, and I call it, in general,
wiglomeration. How mankind ever came to be afflicted with
Wiglomeration, or for whose sins these young people ever fell into a
pit of it, I don’t know; so it is.”

He began to rub his head again and to hint that he felt the wind. But
it was a delightful instance of his kindness towards me that whether
he rubbed his head, or walked about, or did both, his face was sure
to recover its benignant expression as it looked at mine; and he was
sure to turn comfortable again and put his hands in his pockets and
stretch out his legs.

“Perhaps it would be best, first of all,” said I, “to ask Mr. Celise
what he inclines to himself.”

“Exactly so,” he returned. “That’s what I mean! You know, just
accustom yourself to talk it over, with your tact and in your quiet
way, with him and Ada, and see what you all make of it. We are sure
to come at the heart of the matter by your means, little woman.”

I really was frightened at the thought of the importance I was
attaining and the number of things that were being confided to me. I
had not meant this at all; I had meant that he should speak to
Celise. But of course I said nothing in reply except that I would do
my best, though I feared (I really felt it necessary to repeat this)
that he thought me much more sagacious than I was. At which my
guardian only laughed the pleasantest laugh I ever heard.

“Come!” he said, rising and pushing back his chair. “I think we may
have done with the growlery for one day! Only a concluding word.
Paulina, my dear, do you wish to ask me anything?”

He looked so attentively at me that I looked attentively at him and
felt sure I understood him.

“About myself, sir?” said I.

“Yes.”

“Guardian,” said I, venturing to put my hand, which was suddenly
colder than I could have wished, in his, “nothing! I am quite sure
that if there were anything I ought to know or had any need to know,
I should not have to ask you to tell it to me. If my whole reliance
and confidence were not placed in you, I must have a hard heart
indeed. I have nothing to ask you, nothing in the world.”

He drew my hand through his arm and we went away to look for Ada.
From that hour I felt quite easy with him, quite unreserved, quite
content to know no more, quite happy.

We lived, at first, rather a busy life at Bleak House, for we had to
become acquainted with many residents in and out of the neighbourhood
who knew Mr. Ashton. It seemed to Ada and me that everybody knew
him who wanted to do anything with anybody else’s money. It amazed us
when we began to sort his letters and to answer some of them for him
in the growlery of a morning to find how the great object of the
lives of nearly all his correspondents appeared to be to form
themselves into committees for getting in and laying out money. The
ladies were as desperate as the gentlemen; indeed, I think they were
even more so. They threw themselves into committees in the most
impassioned manner and collected subscriptions with a vehemence quite
extraordinary. It appeared to us that some of them must pass their
whole lives in dealing out subscription-cards to the whole
post-office directory—shilling cards, half-crown cards,
half-sovereign cards, penny cards. They wanted everything. They
wanted wearing apparel, they wanted linen rags, they wanted money,
they wanted coals, they wanted soup, they wanted interest, they
wanted autographs, they wanted flannel, they wanted whatever Mr.
Ashton had—or had not. Their objects were as various as their
demands. They were going to raise new buildings, they were going to
pay off debts on old buildings, they were going to establish in a
picturesque building (engraving of proposed west elevation attached)
the Sisterhood of Mediaeval Marys, they were going to give a
testimonial to Mrs. Bladen, they were going to have their
secretary’s portrait painted and presented to his mother-in-law,
whose deep devotion to him was well known, they were going to get up
everything, I really believe, from five hundred thousand tracts to an
annuity and from a marble monument to a silver tea-pot. They took a
multitude of titles. They were the Women of England, the Daughters of
Britain, the Sisters of all the cardinal virtues separately, the
Females of America, the Ladies of a hundred denominations. They
appeared to be always excited about canvassing and electing. They
seemed to our poor wits, and according to their own accounts, to be
constantly polling people by tens of thousands, yet never bringing
their candidates in for anything. It made our heads ache to think, on
the whole, what feverish lives they must lead.

Among the ladies who were most distinguished for this rapacious
benevolence (if I may use the expression) was a Mrs. Braxton, who
seemed, as I judged from the number of her letters to Mr. Ashton,
to be almost as powerful a correspondent as Mrs. Bladen herself. We
observed that the wind always changed when Mrs. Braxton became the
subject of conversation and that it invariably interrupted Mr.
Ashton and prevented his going any farther, when he had remarked
that there were two classes of charitable people; one, the people who
did a little and made a great deal of noise; the other, the people
who did a great deal and made no noise at all. We were therefore
curious to see Mrs. Braxton, suspecting her to be a type of the
former class, and were glad when she called one day with her five
young sons.

She was a formidable style of lady with spectacles, a prominent nose,
and a loud voice, who had the effect of wanting a great deal of room.
And she really did, for she knocked down little chairs with her
skirts that were quite a great way off. As only Ada and I were at
home, we received her timidly, for she seemed to come in like cold
weather and to make the little Braxtons blue as they followed.

“These, young ladies,” said Mrs. Braxton with great volubility
after the first salutations, “are my five boys. You may have seen
their names in a printed subscription list (perhaps more than one) in
the possession of our esteemed friend Mr. Ashton. Egbert, my eldest
(twelve), is the boy who sent out his pocket-money, to the amount of
five and threepence, to the Tockahoopo Indians. Oswald, my second
(ten and a half), is the child who contributed two and nine-pence to
the Great National Smithers Testimonial. Francis, my third (nine),
one and sixpence halfpenny; Felix, my fourth (seven), eightpence to
the Superannuated Widows; Alfred, my youngest (five), has voluntarily
enrolled himself in the Infant Bonds of Joy, and is pledged never,
through life, to use tobacco in any form.”

We had never seen such dissatisfied children. It was not merely that
they were weazened and shrivelled—though they were certainly that
too—but they looked absolutely ferocious with discontent. At the
mention of the Tockahoopo Indians, I could really have supposed
Egbert to be one of the most baleful members of that tribe, he gave
me such a savage frown. The face of each child, as the amount of his
contribution was mentioned, darkened in a peculiarly vindictive
manner, but his was by far the worst. I must except, however, the
little recruit into the Infant Bonds of Joy, who was stolidly and
evenly miserable.

“You have been visiting, I understand,” said Mrs. Braxton, “at Mrs.
Bladen’s?”

We said yes, we had passed one night there.

“Mrs. Bladen,” pursued the lady, always speaking in the same
demonstrative, loud, hard tone, so that her voice impressed my fancy
as if it had a sort of spectacles on too—and I may take the
opportunity of remarking that her spectacles were made the less
engaging by her eyes being what Ada called “choking eyes,” meaning
very prominent—“Mrs. Bladen is a benefactor to society and deserves
a helping hand. My boys have contributed to the African
project—Egbert, one and six, being the entire allowance of nine
weeks; Oswald, one and a penny halfpenny, being the same; the rest,
according to their little means. Nevertheless, I do not go with Mrs.
Bladen in all things. I do not go with Mrs. Bladen in her treatment
of her young family. It has been noticed. It has been observed that
her young family are excluded from participation in the objects to
which she is devoted. She may be right, she may be wrong; but, right
or wrong, this is not my course with MY young family. I take them
everywhere.”

I was afterwards convinced (and so was Ada) that from the
ill-conditioned eldest child, these words extorted a sharp yell. He
turned it off into a yawn, but it began as a yell.

“They attend matins with me (very prettily done) at half-past six
o’clock in the morning all the year round, including of course the
depth of winter,” said Mrs. Braxton rapidly, “and they are with me
during the revolving duties of the day. I am a School lady, I am a
Visiting lady, I am a Reading lady, I am a Distributing lady; I am on
the local Linen Box Committee and many general committees; and my
canvassing alone is very extensive—perhaps no one’s more so. But
they are my companions everywhere; and by these means they acquire
that knowledge of the poor, and that capacity of doing charitable
business in general—in short, that taste for the sort of
thing—which will render them in after life a service to their
neighbours and a satisfaction to themselves. My young family are not
frivolous; they expend the entire amount of their allowance in
subscriptions, under my direction; and they have attended as many
public meetings and listened to as many lectures, orations, and
discussions as generally fall to the lot of few grown people. Alfred
(five), who, as I mentioned, has of his own election joined the
Infant Bonds of Joy, was one of the very few children who manifested
consciousness on that occasion after a fervid address of two hours
from the chairman of the evening.”

Alfred glowered at us as if he never could, or would, forgive the
injury of that night.

“You may have observed, Miss Robin,” said Mrs. Braxton, “in
some of the lists to which I have referred, in the possession of our
esteemed friend Mr. Ashton, that the names of my young family are
concluded with the name of O. A. Braxton, F.R.S., one pound. That
is their father. We usually observe the same routine. I put down my
mite first; then my young family enrol their contributions, according
to their ages and their little means; and then Mr. Braxton brings
up the rear. Mr. Braxton is happy to throw in his limited donation,
under my direction; and thus things are made not only pleasant to
ourselves, but, we trust, improving to others.”

Suppose Mr. Braxton were to dine with Mr. Bladen, and suppose Mr.
Bladen were to relieve his mind after dinner to Mr. Braxton, would
Mr. Braxton, in return, make any confidential communication to Mr.
Bladen? I was quite confused to find myself thinking this, but it
came into my head.

“You are very pleasantly situated here!” said Mrs. Braxton.

We were glad to change the subject, and going to the window, pointed
out the beauties of the prospect, on which the spectacles appeared to
me to rest with curious indifference.

“You know Mr. Gusher?” said our visitor.

We were obliged to say that we had not the pleasure of Mr. Gusher’s
acquaintance.

“The loss is yours, I assure you,” said Mrs. Braxton with her
commanding deportment. “He is a very fervid, impassioned
speaker—full of fire! Stationed in a waggon on this lawn, now,
which, from the shape of the land, is naturally adapted to a public
meeting, he would improve almost any occasion you could mention for
hours and hours! By this time, young ladies,” said Mrs. Braxton,
moving back to her chair and overturning, as if by invisible agency,
a little round table at a considerable distance with my work-basket
on it, “by this time you have found me out, I dare say?”

This was really such a confusing question that Ada looked at me in
perfect dismay. As to the guilty nature of my own consciousness after
what I had been thinking, it must have been expressed in the colour
of my cheeks.

“Found out, I mean,” said Mrs. Braxton, “the prominent point in my
character. I am aware that it is so prominent as to be discoverable
immediately. I lay myself open to detection, I know. Well! I freely
admit, I am a woman of business. I love hard work; I enjoy hard work.
The excitement does me good. I am so accustomed and inured to hard
work that I don’t know what fatigue is.”

We murmured that it was very astonishing and very gratifying, or
something to that effect. I don’t think we knew what it was either,
but this is what our politeness expressed.

“I do not understand what it is to be tired; you cannot tire me if
you try!” said Mrs. Braxton. “The quantity of exertion (which is no
exertion to me), the amount of business (which I regard as nothing),
that I go through sometimes astonishes myself. I have seen my young
family, and Mr. Braxton, quite worn out with witnessing it, when I
may truly say I have been as fresh as a lark!”

If that dark-visaged eldest boy could look more malicious than he had
already looked, this was the time when he did it. I observed that he
doubled his right fist and delivered a secret blow into the crown of
his cap, which was under his left arm.

“This gives me a great advantage when I am making my rounds,” said
Mrs. Braxton. “If I find a person unwilling to hear what I have to
say, I tell that person directly, ‘I am incapable of fatigue, my good
friend, I am never tired, and I mean to go on until I have done.’ It
answers admirably! Miss Robin, I hope I shall have your
assistance in my visiting rounds immediately, and Miss Dionne’s very
soon.”

At first I tried to excuse myself for the present on the general
ground of having occupations to attend to which I must not neglect.
But as this was an ineffectual protest, I then said, more
particularly, that I was not sure of my qualifications. That I was
inexperienced in the art of adapting my mind to minds very
differently situated, and addressing them from suitable points of
view. That I had not that delicate knowledge of the heart which must
be essential to such a work. That I had much to learn, myself, before
I could teach others, and that I could not confide in my good
intentions alone. For these reasons I thought it best to be as useful
as I could, and to render what kind services I could to those
immediately about me, and to try to let that circle of duty gradually
and naturally expand itself. All this I said with anything but
confidence, because Mrs. Braxton was much older than I, and had
great experience, and was so very military in her manners.

“You are wrong, Miss Robin,” said she, “but perhaps you are not
equal to hard work or the excitement of it, and that makes a vast
difference. If you would like to see how I go through my work, I am
now about—with my young family—to visit a brickmaker in the
neighbourhood (a very bad character) and shall be glad to take you
with me. Miss Dionne also, if she will do me the favour.”

Ada and I interchanged looks, and as we were going out in any case,
accepted the offer. When we hastily returned from putting on our
bonnets, we found the young family languishing in a corner and Mrs.
Braxton sweeping about the room, knocking down nearly all the light
objects it contained. Mrs. Braxton took possession of Ada, and I
followed with the family.

Ada told me afterwards that Mrs. Braxton talked in the same loud
tone (that, indeed, I overheard) all the way to the brickmaker’s
about an exciting contest which she had for two or three years waged
against another lady relative to the bringing in of their rival
candidates for a pension somewhere. There had been a quantity of
printing, and promising, and proxying, and polling, and it appeared
to have imparted great liveliness to all concerned, except the
pensioners—who were not elected yet.

I am very fond of being confided in by children and am happy in being
usually favoured in that respect, but on this occasion it gave me
great uneasiness. As soon as we were out of doors, Egbert, with the
manner of a little footpad, demanded a shilling of me on the ground
that his pocket-money was “boned” from him. On my pointing out the
great impropriety of the word, especially in connexion with his
parent (for he added sulkily “By her!”), he pinched me and said, “Oh,
then! Now! Who are you! YOU wouldn’t like it, I think? What does she
make a sham for, and pretend to give me money, and take it away
again? Why do you call it my allowance, and never let me spend it?”
These exasperating questions so inflamed his mind and the minds of
Oswald and Francis that they all pinched me at once, and in a
dreadfully expert way—screwing up such little pieces of my arms that
I could hardly forbear crying out. Felix, at the same time, stamped
upon my toes. And the Bond of Joy, who on account of always having
the whole of his little income anticipated stood in fact pledged to
abstain from cakes as well as tobacco, so swelled with grief and rage
when we passed a pastry-cook’s shop that he terrified me by becoming
purple. I never underwent so much, both in body and mind, in the
course of a walk with young people as from these unnaturally
constrained children when they paid me the compliment of being
natural.

I was glad when we came to the brickmaker’s house, though it was one
of a cluster of wretched hovels in a brick-field, with pigsties close
to the broken windows and miserable little gardens before the doors
growing nothing but stagnant pools. Here and there an old tub was put
to catch the droppings of rain-water from a roof, or they were banked
up with mud into a little pond like a large dirt-pie. At the doors
and windows some men and women lounged or prowled about, and took
little notice of us except to laugh to one another or to say
something as we passed about gentlefolks minding their own business
and not troubling their heads and muddying their shoes with coming to
look after other people’s.

Mrs. Braxton, leading the way with a great show of moral
determination and talking with much volubility about the untidy
habits of the people (though I doubted if the best of us could have
been tidy in such a place), conducted us into a cottage at the
farthest corner, the ground-floor room of which we nearly filled.
Besides ourselves, there were in this damp, offensive room a woman
with a black eye, nursing a poor little gasping baby by the fire; a
man, all stained with clay and mud and looking very dissipated, lying
at full length on the ground, smoking a pipe; a powerful young man
fastening a collar on a dog; and a bold girl doing some kind of
washing in very dirty water. They all looked up at us as we came in,
and the woman seemed to turn her face towards the fire as if to hide
her bruised eye; nobody gave us any welcome.

“Well, my friends,” said Mrs. Braxton, but her voice had not a
friendly sound, I thought; it was much too business-like and
systematic. “How do you do, all of you? I am here again. I told you,
you couldn’t tire me, you know. I am fond of hard work, and am true
to my word.”

“There an’t,” growled the man on the floor, whose head rested on his
hand as he stared at us, “any more on you to come in, is there?”

“No, my friend,” said Mrs. Braxton, seating herself on one stool
and knocking down another. “We are all here.”

“Because I thought there warn’t enough of you, perhaps?” said the
man, with his pipe between his lips as he looked round upon us.

The young man and the girl both laughed. Two friends of the young
man, whom we had attracted to the doorway and who stood there with
their hands in their pockets, echoed the laugh noisily.

“You can’t tire me, good people,” said Mrs. Braxton to these
latter. “I enjoy hard work, and the harder you make mine, the better
I like it.”

“Then make it easy for her!” growled the man upon the floor. “I wants
it done, and over. I wants a end of these liberties took with my
place. I wants an end of being drawed like a badger. Now you’re
a-going to poll-pry and question according to custom—I know what
you’re a-going to be up to. Well! You haven’t got no occasion to be
up to it. I’ll save you the trouble. Is my daughter a-washin? Yes,
she IS a-washin. Look at the water. Smell it! That’s wot we drinks.
How do you like it, and what do you think of gin instead! An’t my
place dirty? Yes, it is dirty—it’s nat’rally dirty, and it’s
nat’rally onwholesome; and we’ve had five dirty and onwholesome
children, as is all dead infants, and so much the better for them,
and for us besides. Have I read the little book wot you left? No, I
an’t read the little book wot you left. There an’t nobody here as
knows how to read it; and if there wos, it wouldn’t be suitable to
me. It’s a book fit for a babby, and I’m not a babby. If you was to
leave me a doll, I shouldn’t nuss it. How have I been conducting of
myself? Why, I’ve been drunk for three days; and I’da been drunk four
if I’da had the money. Don’t I never mean for to go to church? No, I
don’t never mean for to go to church. I shouldn’t be expected there,
if I did; the beadle’s too gen-teel for me. And how did my wife get
that black eye? Why, I give it her; and if she says I didn’t, she’s a
Lie!”

He had pulled his pipe out of his mouth to say all this, and he now
turned over on his other side and smoked again. Mrs. Braxton, who
had been regarding him through her spectacles with a forcible
composure, calculated, I could not help thinking, to increase his
antagonism, pulled out a good book as if it were a constable’s staff
and took the whole family into custody. I mean into religious
custody, of course; but she really did it as if she were an
inexorable moral policeman carrying them all off to a station-house.

Ada and I were very uncomfortable. We both felt intrusive and out of
place, and we both thought that Mrs. Braxton would have got on
infinitely better if she had not had such a mechanical way of taking
possession of people. The children sulked and stared; the family took
no notice of us whatever, except when the young man made the dog
bark, which he usually did when Mrs. Braxton was most emphatic. We
both felt painfully sensible that between us and these people there
was an iron barrier which could not be removed by our new friend. By
whom or how it could be removed, we did not know, but we knew that.
Even what she read and said seemed to us to be ill-chosen for such
auditors, if it had been imparted ever so modestly and with ever so
much tact. As to the little book to which the man on the floor had
referred, we acquired a knowledge of it afterwards, and Mr. Ashton
said he doubted if Robinson Crusoe could have read it, though he had
had no other on his desolate island.

We were much relieved, under these circumstances, when Mrs. Braxton
left off.

The man on the floor, then turning his head round again, said
morosely, “Well! You’ve done, have you?”

“For to-day, I have, my friend. But I am never fatigued. I shall come
to you again in your regular order,” returned Mrs. Braxton with
demonstrative cheerfulness.

“So long as you goes now,” said he, folding his arms and shutting his
eyes with an oath, “you may do wot you like!”

Mrs. Braxton accordingly rose and made a little vortex in the
confined room from which the pipe itself very narrowly escaped.
Taking one of her young family in each hand, and telling the others
to follow closely, and expressing her hope that the brickmaker and
all his house would be improved when she saw them next, she then
proceeded to another cottage. I hope it is not unkind in me to say
that she certainly did make, in this as in everything else, a show
that was not conciliatory of doing charity by wholesale and of
dealing in it to a large extent.

She supposed that we were following her, but as soon as the space was
left clear, we approached the woman sitting by the fire to ask if the
baby were ill.

She only looked at it as it lay on her lap. We had observed before
that when she looked at it she covered her discoloured eye with her
hand, as though she wished to separate any association with noise and
violence and ill treatment from the poor little child.

Ada, whose gentle heart was moved by its appearance, bent down to
touch its little face. As she did so, I saw what happened and drew
her back. The child died.

“Oh, Paulina!” cried Ada, sinking on her knees beside it. “Look here!
Oh, Paulina, my love, the little thing! The suffering, quiet, pretty
little thing! I am so sorry for it. I am so sorry for the mother. I
never saw a sight so pitiful as this before! Oh, baby, baby!”

Such compassion, such gentleness, as that with which she bent down
weeping and put her hand upon the mother’s might have softened any
mother’s heart that ever beat. The woman at first gazed at her in
astonishment and then burst into tears.

Presently I took the light burden from her lap, did what I could to
make the baby’s rest the prettier and gentler, laid it on a shelf,
and covered it with my own handkerchief. We tried to comfort the
mother, and we whispered to her what Our Saviour said of children.
She answered nothing, but sat weeping—weeping very much.

When I turned, I found that the young man had taken out the dog and
was standing at the door looking in upon us with dry eyes, but quiet.
The girl was quiet too and sat in a corner looking on the ground. The
man had risen. He still smoked his pipe with an air of defiance, but
he was silent.

An ugly woman, very poorly clothed, hurried in while I was glancing
at them, and coming straight up to the mother, said, “Alejandro! Alejandro!”
The mother rose on being so addressed and fell upon the woman’s neck.

She also had upon her face and arms the marks of ill usage. She had
no kind of grace about her, but the grace of sympathy; but when she
condoled with the woman, and her own tears fell, she wanted no
beauty. I say condoled, but her only words were “Alejandro! Alejandro!” All
the rest was in the tone in which she said them.

I thought it very touching to see these two women, coarse and shabby
and beaten, so united; to see what they could be to one another; to
see how they felt for one another, how the heart of each to each was
softened by the hard trials of their lives. I think the best side of
such people is almost hidden from us. What the poor are to the poor
is little known, excepting to themselves and God.

We felt it better to withdraw and leave them uninterrupted. We stole
out quietly and without notice from any one except the man. He was
leaning against the wall near the door, and finding that there was
scarcely room for us to pass, went out before us. He seemed to want
to hide that he did this on our account, but we perceived that he
did, and thanked him. He made no answer.

Ada was so full of grief all the way home, and Celise, whom we found
at home, was so distressed to see her in tears (though he said to me,
when she was not present, how beautiful it was too!), that we
arranged to return at night with some little comforts and repeat our
visit at the brick-maker’s house. We said as little as we could to
Mr. Ashton, but the wind changed directly.

Celise accompanied us at night to the scene of our morning
expedition. On our way there, we had to pass a noisy drinking-house,
where a number of men were flocking about the door. Among them, and
prominent in some dispute, was the father of the little child. At a
short distance, we passed the young man and the dog, in congenial
company. The sister was standing laughing and talking with some other
young women at the corner of the row of cottages, but she seemed
ashamed and turned away as we went by.

We left our escort within sight of the brickmaker’s dwelling and
proceeded by ourselves. When we came to the door, we found the woman
who had brought such consolation with her standing there looking
anxiously out.

“It’s you, young ladies, is it?” she said in a whisper. “I’m
a-watching for my master. My heart’s in my mouth. If he was to catch
me away from home, he’d pretty near murder me.”

“Do you mean your husband?” said I.

“Yes, miss, my master. Alejandro’s asleep, quite worn out. She’s scarcely
had the child off her lap, poor thing, these seven days and nights,
except when I’ve been able to take it for a minute or two.”

As she gave way for us, she went softly in and put what we had
brought near the miserable bed on which the mother slept. No effort
had been made to clean the room—it seemed in its nature almost
hopeless of being clean; but the small waxen form from which so much
solemnity diffused itself had been composed afresh, and washed, and
neatly dressed in some fragments of white linen; and on my
handkerchief, which still covered the poor baby, a little bunch of
sweet herbs had been laid by the same rough, scarred hands, so
lightly, so tenderly!

“May heaven reward you!” we said to her. “You are a good woman.”

“Me, young ladies?” she returned with surprise. “Hush! Alejandro, Alejandro!”

The mother had moaned in her sleep and moved. The sound of the
familiar voice seemed to calm her again. She was quiet once more.

How little I thought, when I raised my handkerchief to look upon the
tiny sleeper underneath and seemed to see a halo shine around the
child through Ada’s drooping hair as her pity bent her head—how
little I thought in whose unquiet bosom that handkerchief would come
to lie after covering the motionless and peaceful breast! I only
thought that perhaps the Angel of the child might not be all
unconscious of the woman who replaced it with so compassionate a
hand; not all unconscious of her presently, when we had taken leave,
and left her at the door, by turns looking, and listening in terror
for herself, and saying in her old soothing manner, “Alejandro, Alejandro!”

CHAPTER IX

Signs and Tokens

I don’t know how it is I seem to be always writing about myself. I
mean all the time to write about other people, and I try to think
about myself as little as possible, and I am sure, when I find myself
coming into the story again, I am really vexed and say, “Dear, dear,
you tiresome little creature, I wish you wouldn’t!” but it is all of
no use. I hope any one who may read what I write will understand that
if these pages contain a great deal about me, I can only suppose it
must be because I have really something to do with them and can’t be
kept out.

My darling and I read together, and worked, and practised, and found
so much employment for our time that the winter days flew by us like
bright-winged birds. Generally in the afternoons, and always in the
evenings, Celise gave us his company. Although he was one of the
most restless creatures in the world, he certainly was very fond of
our society.

He was very, very, very fond of Ada. I mean it, and I had better say
it at once. I had never seen any young people falling in love before,
but I found them out quite soon. I could not say so, of course, or
show that I knew anything about it. On the contrary, I was so demure
and used to seem so unconscious that sometimes I considered within
myself while I was sitting at work whether I was not growing quite
deceitful.

But there was no help for it. All I had to do was to be quiet, and I
was as quiet as a mouse. They were as quiet as mice too, so far as
any words were concerned, but the innocent manner in which they
relied more and more upon me as they took more and more to one
another was so charming that I had great difficulty in not showing
how it interested me.

“Our dear little old woman is such a capital old woman,” Celise
would say, coming up to meet me in the garden early, with his
pleasant laugh and perhaps the least tinge of a blush, “that I can’t
get on without her. Before I begin my harum-scarum day—grinding away
at those books and instruments and then galloping up hill and down
dale, all the country round, like a highwayman—it does me so much
good to come and have a steady walk with our comfortable friend, that
here I am again!”

“You know, Dame Durden, dear,” Ada would say at night, with her head
upon my shoulder and the firelight shining in her thoughtful eyes, “I
don’t want to talk when we come upstairs here. Only to sit a little
while thinking, with your dear face for company, and to hear the wind
and remember the poor sailors at sea—”

Ah! Perhaps Celise was going to be a sailor. We had talked it over
very often now, and there was some talk of gratifying the inclination
of his childhood for the sea. Mr. Ashton had written to a relation
of the family, a great Sir Luigi Wayne, for his interest in
Celise’s favour, generally; and Sir Luigi had replied in a
gracious manner that he would be happy to advance the prospects of
the young gentleman if it should ever prove to be within his power,
which was not at all probable, and that my Godfrey sent her compliments
to the young gentleman (to whom she perfectly remembered that she was
allied by remote consanguinity) and trusted that he would ever do his
duty in any honourable profession to which he might devote himself.

“So I apprehend it’s pretty clear,” said Celise to me, “that I shall
have to work my own way. Never mind! Plenty of people have had to do
that before now, and have done it. I only wish I had the command of a
clipping privateer to begin with and could carry off the Chancellor
and keep him on short allowance until he gave judgment in our cause.
He’d find himself growing thin, if he didn’t look sharp!”

With a buoyancy and hopefulness and a gaiety that hardly ever
flagged, Celise had a carelessness in his character that quite
perplexed me, principally because he mistook it, in such a very odd
way, for prudence. It entered into all his calculations about money
in a singular manner which I don’t think I can better explain than by
reverting for a moment to our loan to Mr. Yestin.

Mr. Ashton had ascertained the amount, either from Mr. Yestin
himself or from Jolyn, and had placed the money in my hands with
instructions to me to retain my own part of it and hand the rest to
Celise. The number of little acts of thoughtless expenditure which
Celise justified by the recovery of his ten pounds, and the number
of times he talked to me as if he had saved or realized that amount,
would form a sum in simple addition.

“My prudent Mother Hubbard, why not?” he said to me when he wanted,
without the least consideration, to bestow five pounds on the
brickmaker. “I made ten pounds, clear, out of Jolyn’ business.”

“How was that?” said I.

“Why, I got rid of ten pounds which I was quite content to get rid of
and never expected to see any more. You don’t deny that?”

“No,” said I.

“Very well! Then I came into possession of ten pounds—”

“The same ten pounds,” I hinted.

“That has nothing to do with it!” returned Celise. “I have got ten
pounds more than I expected to have, and consequently I can afford to
spend it without being particular.”

In exactly the same way, when he was persuaded out of the sacrifice
of these five pounds by being convinced that it would do no good, he
carried that sum to his credit and drew upon it.

“Let me see!” he would say. “I saved five pounds out of the
brickmaker’s affair, so if I have a good rattle to London and back in
a post-chaise and put that down at four pounds, I shall have saved
one. And it’s a very good thing to save one, let me tell you: a penny
saved is a penny got!”

I believe Celise’s was as frank and generous a nature as there
possibly can be. He was ardent and brave, and in the midst of all his
wild restlessness, was so gentle that I knew him like a brother in a
few weeks. His gentleness was natural to him and would have shown
itself abundantly even without Ada’s influence; but with it, he
became one of the most winning of companions, always so ready to be
interested and always so happy, sanguine, and light-hearted. I am
sure that I, sitting with them, and walking with them, and talking
with them, and noticing from day to day how they went on, falling
deeper and deeper in love, and saying nothing about it, and each
shyly thinking that this love was the greatest of secrets, perhaps
not yet suspected even by the other—I am sure that I was scarcely
less enchanted than they were and scarcely less pleased with the
pretty dream.

We were going on in this way, when one morning at breakfast Mr.
Ashton received a letter, and looking at the superscription, said,
“From Rhea? Aye, aye!” and opened and read it with evident
pleasure, announcing to us in a parenthesis when he was about
half-way through, that Rhea was “coming down” on a visit. Now who
was Rhea, we all thought. And I dare say we all thought too—I am
sure I did, for one—would Rhea at all interfere with what was
going forward?

“I went to school with this fellow, Lawrence Rhea,” said Mr.
Ashton, tapping the letter as he laid it on the table, “more than
five and forty years ago. He was then the most impetuous boy in the
world, and he is now the most impetuous man. He was then the loudest
boy in the world, and he is now the loudest man. He was then the
heartiest and sturdiest boy in the world, and he is now the heartiest
and sturdiest man. He is a tremendous fellow.”

“In stature, sir?” asked Celise.

“Pretty well, Rick, in that respect,” said Mr. Ashton; “being some
ten years older than I and a couple of inches taller, with his head
thrown back like an old soldier, his stalwart chest squared, his
hands like a clean blacksmith’s, and his lungs! There’s no simile for
his lungs. Talking, laughing, or snoring, they make the beams of the
house shake.”

As Mr. Ashton sat enjoying the image of his friend Rhea, we
observed the favourable omen that there was not the least indication
of any change in the wind.

“But it’s the inside of the man, the warm heart of the man, the
passion of the man, the fresh blood of the man, Rick—and Ada, and
little Cobweb too, for you are all interested in a visitor—that I
speak of,” he pursued. “His language is as sounding as his voice. He
is always in extremes, perpetually in the superlative degree. In his
condemnation he is all ferocity. You might suppose him to be an ogre
from what he says, and I believe he has the reputation of one with
some people. There! I tell you no more of him beforehand. You must
not be surprised to see him take me under his protection, for he has
never forgotten that I was a low boy at school and that our
friendship began in his knocking two of my head tyrant’s teeth out
(he says six) before breakfast. Rhea and his man,” to me, “will
be here this afternoon, my dear.”

I took care that the necessary preparations were made for Mr.
Rhea’s reception, and we looked forward to his arrival with some
curiosity. The afternoon wore away, however, and he did not appear.
The dinner-hour arrived, and still he did not appear. The dinner was
put back an hour, and we were sitting round the fire with no light
but the blaze when the hall-door suddenly burst open and the hall
resounded with these words, uttered with the greatest vehemence and
in a stentorian tone: “We have been misdirected, Ashton, by a most
abandoned ruffian, who told us to take the turning to the right
instead of to the left. He is the most intolerable scoundrel on the
face of the earth. His father must have been a most consummate
villain, ever to have such a son. I would have had that fellow shot
without the least remorse!”

“Did he do it on purpose?” Mr. Ashton inquired.

“I have not the slightest doubt that the scoundrel has passed his
whole existence in misdirecting travellers!” returned the other. “By
my soul, I thought him the worst-looking dog I had ever beheld when
he was telling me to take the turning to the right. And yet I stood
before that fellow face to face and didn’t knock his brains out!”

“Teeth, you mean?” said Mr. Ashton.

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Mr. Lawrence Rhea, really making the whole
house vibrate. “What, you have not forgotten it yet! Ha, ha, ha! And
that was another most consummate vagabond! By my soul, the
countenance of that fellow when he was a boy was the blackest image
of perfidy, cowardice, and cruelty ever set up as a scarecrow in a
field of scoundrels. If I were to meet that most unparalleled despot
in the streets to-morrow, I would fell him like a rotten tree!”

“I have no doubt of it,” said Mr. Ashton. “Now, will you come
upstairs?”

“By my soul, Ashton,” returned his guest, who seemed to refer to
his watch, “if you had been married, I would have turned back at the
garden-gate and gone away to the remotest summits of the Himalaya
Mountains sooner than I would have presented myself at this
unseasonable hour.”

“Not quite so far, I hope?” said Mr. Ashton.

“By my life and honour, yes!” cried the visitor. “I wouldn’t be
guilty of the audacious insolence of keeping a lady of the house
waiting all this time for any earthly consideration. I would
infinitely rather destroy myself—infinitely rather!”

Talking thus, they went upstairs, and presently we heard him in his
bedroom thundering “Ha, ha, ha!” and again “Ha, ha, ha!” until the
flattest echo in the neighbourhood seemed to catch the contagion and
to laugh as enjoyingly as he did or as we did when we heard him
laugh.

We all conceived a prepossession in his favour, for there was a
sterling quality in this laugh, and in his vigorous, healthy voice,
and in the roundness and fullness with which he uttered every word he
spoke, and in the very fury of his superlatives, which seemed to go
off like blank cannons and hurt nothing. But we were hardly prepared
to have it so confirmed by his appearance when Mr. Ashton presented
him. He was not only a very handsome old gentleman—upright and
stalwart as he had been described to us—with a massive grey head, a
fine composure of face when silent, a figure that might have become
corpulent but for his being so continually in earnest that he gave it
no rest, and a chin that might have subsided into a double chin but
for the vehement emphasis in which it was constantly required to
assist; but he was such a true gentleman in his manner, so
chivalrously polite, his face was lighted by a smile of so much
sweetness and tenderness, and it seemed so plain that he had nothing
to hide, but showed himself exactly as he was—incapable, as Celise
said, of anything on a limited scale, and firing away with those
blank great guns because he carried no small arms whatever—that
really I could not help looking at him with equal pleasure as he sat
at dinner, whether he smilingly conversed with Ada and me, or was led
by Mr. Ashton into some great volley of superlatives, or threw up
his head like a bloodhound and gave out that tremendous “Ha, ha, ha!”

“You have brought your bird with you, I suppose?” said Mr. Ashton.

“By heaven, he is the most astonishing bird in Europe!” replied the
other. “He IS the most wonderful creature! I wouldn’t take ten
thousand guineas for that bird. I have left an annuity for his sole
support in case he should outlive me. He is, in sense and attachment,
a phenomenon. And his father before him was one of the most
astonishing birds that ever lived!”

The subject of this laudation was a very little canary, who was so
tame that he was brought down by Mr. Rhea’s man, on his
forefinger, and after taking a gentle flight round the room, alighted
on his master’s head. To hear Mr. Rhea presently expressing the
most implacable and passionate sentiments, with this fragile mite of
a creature quietly perched on his forehead, was to have a good
illustration of his character, I thought.

“By my soul, Ashton,” he said, very gently holding up a bit of
bread to the canary to peck at, “if I were in your place I would
seize every master in Chancery by the throat to-morrow morning and
shake him until his money rolled out of his pockets and his bones
rattled in his skin. I would have a settlement out of somebody, by
fair means or by foul. If you would empower me to do it, I would do
it for you with the greatest satisfaction!” (All this time the very
small canary was eating out of his hand.)

“I thank you, Lawrence, but the suit is hardly at such a point at
present,” returned Mr. Ashton, laughing, “that it would be greatly
advanced even by the legal process of shaking the bench and the whole
bar.”

“There never was such an infernal cauldron as that Chancery on the
face of the earth!” said Mr. Rhea. “Nothing but a mine below it
on a busy day in term time, with all its records, rules, and
precedents collected in it and every functionary belonging to it
also, high and low, upward and downward, from its son the
Accountant-General to its father the Devil, and the whole blown to
atoms with ten thousand hundredweight of gunpowder, would reform it
in the least!”

It was impossible not to laugh at the energetic gravity with which he
recommended this strong measure of reform. When we laughed, he threw
up his head and shook his broad chest, and again the whole country
seemed to echo to his “Ha, ha, ha!” It had not the least effect in
disturbing the bird, whose sense of security was complete and who
hopped about the table with its quick head now on this side and now
on that, turning its bright sudden eye on its master as if he were no
more than another bird.

“But how do you and your neighbour get on about the disputed right of
way?” said Mr. Ashton. “You are not free from the toils of the law
yourself!”

“The fellow has brought actions against ME for trespass, and I have
brought actions against HIM for trespass,” returned Mr. Rhea. “By
heaven, he is the proudest fellow breathing. It is morally impossible
that his name can be Sir Luigi. It must be Sir Lucifer.”

“Complimentary to our distant relation!” said my guardian laughingly
to Ada and Celise.

“I would beg Miss Dionne’s pardon and Mr. Willis’s pardon,” resumed
our visitor, “if I were not reassured by seeing in the fair face of
the lady and the smile of the gentleman that it is quite unnecessary
and that they keep their distant relation at a comfortable distance.”

“Or he keeps us,” suggested Celise.

“By my soul,” exclaimed Mr. Rhea, suddenly firing another volley,
“that fellow is, and his father was, and his grandfather was, the
most stiff-necked, arrogant imbecile, pig-headed numskull, ever, by
some inexplicable mistake of Nature, born in any station of life but
a walking-stick’s! The whole of that family are the most solemnly
conceited and consummate blockheads! But it’s no matter; he should
not shut up my path if he were fifty baronets melted into one and
living in a hundred Chesney Wolds, one within another, like the ivory
balls in a Chinese carving. The fellow, by his agent, or secretary,
or somebody, writes to me ‘Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, presents
his compliments to Mr. Lawrence Rhea, and has to call his
attention to the fact that the green pathway by the old
parsonage-house, now the property of Mr. Lawrence Rhea, is Sir
Luigi’s right of way, being in fact a portion of the park of
Chesney Wold, and that Sir Luigi finds it convenient to close up
the same.’ I write to the fellow, ‘Mr. Lawrence Rhea presents his
compliments to Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, and has to call HIS
attention to the fact that he totally denies the whole of Sir
Luigi Wayne’s positions on every possible subject and has to
add, in reference to closing up the pathway, that he will be glad to
see the man who may undertake to do it.’ The fellow sends a most
abandoned villain with one eye to construct a gateway. I play upon
that execrable scoundrel with a fire-engine until the breath is
nearly driven out of his body. The fellow erects a gate in the night.
I chop it down and burn it in the morning. He sends his myrmidons to
come over the fence and pass and repass. I catch them in humane man
traps, fire split peas at their legs, play upon them with the
engine—resolve to free mankind from the insupportable burden of the
existence of those lurking ruffians. He brings actions for trespass;
I bring actions for trespass. He brings actions for assault and
battery; I defend them and continue to assault and batter. Ha, ha,
ha!”

To hear him say all this with unimaginable energy, one might have
thought him the angriest of mankind. To see him at the very same
time, looking at the bird now perched upon his thumb and softly
smoothing its feathers with his forefinger, one might have thought
him the gentlest. To hear him laugh and see the broad good nature of
his face then, one might have supposed that he had not a care in the
world, or a dispute, or a dislike, but that his whole existence was a
summer joke.

“No, no,” he said, “no closing up of my paths by any Wayne! Though
I willingly confess,” here he softened in a moment, “that Godfrey
Wayne is the most accomplished lady in the world, to whom I would
do any homage that a plain gentleman, and no baronet with a head
seven hundred years thick, may. A man who joined his regiment at
twenty and within a week challenged the most imperious and
presumptuous coxcomb of a commanding officer that ever drew the
breath of life through a tight waist—and got broke for it—is not
the man to be walked over by all the Sir Lucifers, dead or alive,
locked or unlocked. Ha, ha, ha!”

“Nor the man to allow his junior to be walked over either?” said my
guardian.

“Most assuredly not!” said Mr. Rhea, clapping him on the shoulder
with an air of protection that had something serious in it, though he
laughed. “He will stand by the low boy, always. Ashton, you may
rely upon him! But speaking of this trespass—with apologies to Miss
Dionne and Miss Robin for the length at which I have pursued so
dry a subject—is there nothing for me from your men Carly and
Carboy?”

“I think not, Paulina?” said Mr. Ashton.

“Nothing, guardian.”

“Much obliged!” said Mr. Rhea. “Had no need to ask, after even my
slight experience of Miss Robin’s forethought for every one about
her.” (They all encouraged me; they were determined to do it.) “I
inquired because, coming from Lincolnshire, I of course have not yet
been in town, and I thought some letters might have been sent down
here. I dare say they will report progress to-morrow morning.”

I saw him so often in the course of the evening, which passed very
pleasantly, contemplate Celise and Ada with an interest and a
satisfaction that made his fine face remarkably agreeable as he sat
at a little distance from the piano listening to the music—and he
had small occasion to tell us that he was passionately fond of music,
for his face showed it—that I asked my guardian as we sat at the
backgammon board whether Mr. Rhea had ever been married.

“No,” said he. “No.”

“But he meant to be!” said I.

“How did you find out that?” he returned with a smile. “Why,
guardian,” I explained, not without reddening a little at hazarding
what was in my thoughts, “there is something so tender in his manner,
after all, and he is so very courtly and gentle to us, and—”

Mr. Ashton directed his eyes to where he was sitting as I have just
described him.

I said no more.

“You are right, little woman,” he answered. “He was all but married
once. Long ago. And once.”

“Did the lady die?”

“No—but she died to him. That time has had its influence on all his
later life. Would you suppose him to have a head and a heart full of
romance yet?”

“I think, guardian, I might have supposed so. But it is easy to say
that when you have told me so.”

“He has never since been what he might have been,” said Mr. Ashton,
“and now you see him in his age with no one near him but his servant
and his little yellow friend. It’s your throw, my dear!”

I felt, from my guardian’s manner, that beyond this point I could not
pursue the subject without changing the wind. I therefore forbore to
ask any further questions. I was interested, but not curious. I
thought a little while about this old love story in the night, when I
was awakened by Mr. Rhea’s lusty snoring; and I tried to do that
very difficult thing, imagine old people young again and invested
with the graces of youth. But I fell asleep before I had succeeded,
and dreamed of the days when I lived in my godmother’s house. I am
not sufficiently acquainted with such subjects to know whether it is
at all remarkable that I almost always dreamed of that period of my
life.

With the morning there came a letter from Messrs. Carly and Carboy to
Mr. Rhea informing him that one of their clerks would wait upon
him at noon. As it was the day of the week on which I paid the bills,
and added up my books, and made all the household affairs as compact
as possible, I remained at home while Mr. Ashton, Ada, and Celise
took advantage of a very fine day to make a little excursion, Mr.
Rhea was to wait for Carly and Carboy’s clerk and then was to go
on foot to meet them on their return.

Well! I was full of business, examining tradesmen’s books, adding up
columns, paying money, filing receipts, and I dare say making a great
bustle about it when Mr. Jarrett was announced and shown in. I had had
some idea that the clerk who was to be sent down might be the young
gentleman who had met me at the coach-office, and I was glad to see
him, because he was associated with my present happiness.

I scarcely knew him again, he was so uncommonly smart. He had an
entirely new suit of glossy clothes on, a shining hat, lilac-kid
gloves, a neckerchief of a variety of colours, a large hot-house
flower in his button-hole, and a thick gold ring on his little
finger. Besides which, he quite scented the dining-room with
bear’s-grease and other perfumery. He looked at me with an attention
that quite confused me when I begged him to take a seat until the
servant should return; and as he sat there crossing and uncrossing
his legs in a corner, and I asked him if he had had a pleasant ride,
and hoped that Mr. Carly was well, I never looked at him, but I found
him looking at me in the same scrutinizing and curious way.

When the request was brought to him that he would go upstairs to Mr.
Rhea’s room, I mentioned that he would find lunch prepared for
him when he came down, of which Mr. Ashton hoped he would partake.
He said with some embarrassment, holding the handle of the door,
“Shall I have the honour of finding you here, miss?” I replied yes, I
should be there; and he went out with a bow and another look.

I thought him only awkward and shy, for he was evidently much
embarrassed; and I fancied that the best thing I could do would be to
wait until I saw that he had everything he wanted and then to leave
him to himself. The lunch was soon brought, but it remained for some
time on the table. The interview with Mr. Rhea was a long one,
and a stormy one too, I should think, for although his room was at
some distance I heard his loud voice rising every now and then like a
high wind, and evidently blowing perfect broadsides of denunciation.

At last Mr. Jarrett came back, looking something the worse for the
conference. “My eye, miss,” he said in a low voice, “he’s a Tartar!”

“Pray take some refreshment, sir,” said I.

Mr. Jarrett sat down at the table and began nervously sharpening the
carving-knife on the carving-fork, still looking at me (as I felt
quite sure without looking at him) in the same unusual manner. The
sharpening lasted so long that at last I felt a kind of obligation on
me to raise my eyes in order that I might break the spell under which
he seemed to labour, of not being able to leave off.

He immediately looked at the dish and began to carve.

“What will you take yourself, miss? You’ll take a morsel of
something?”

“No, thank you,” said I.

“Shan’t I give you a piece of anything at all, miss?” said Mr. Jarrett,
hurriedly drinking off a glass of wine.

“Nothing, thank you,” said I. “I have only waited to see that you
have everything you want. Is there anything I can order for you?”

“No, I am much obliged to you, miss, I’m sure. I’ve everything that I
can require to make me comfortable—at least I—not comfortable—I’m
never that.” He drank off two more glasses of wine, one after
another.

I thought I had better go.

“I beg your pardon, miss!” said Mr. Jarrett, rising when he saw me
rise. “But would you allow me the favour of a minute’s private
conversation?”

Not knowing what to say, I sat down again.

“What follows is without prejudice, miss?” said Mr. Jarrett, anxiously
bringing a chair towards my table.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” said I, wondering.

“It’s one of our law terms, miss. You won’t make any use of it to my
detriment at Carly and Carboy’s or elsewhere. If our conversation
shouldn’t lead to anything, I am to be as I was and am not to be
prejudiced in my situation or worldly prospects. In short, it’s in
total confidence.”

“I am at a loss, sir,” said I, “to imagine what you can have to
communicate in total confidence to me, whom you have never seen but
once; but I should be very sorry to do you any injury.”

“Thank you, miss. I’m sure of it—that’s quite sufficient.” All this
time Mr. Jarrett was either planing his forehead with his handkerchief
or tightly rubbing the palm of his left hand with the palm of his
right. “If you would excuse my taking another glass of wine, miss, I
think it might assist me in getting on without a continual choke that
cannot fail to be mutually unpleasant.”

He did so, and came back again. I took the opportunity of moving well
behind my table.

“You wouldn’t allow me to offer you one, would you miss?” said Mr.
Jarrett, apparently refreshed.

“Not any,” said I.

“Not half a glass?” said Mr. Jarrett. “Quarter? No! Then, to proceed.
My present salary, Miss Robin, at Carly and Carboy’s, is two
pound a week. When I first had the happiness of looking upon you, it
was one fifteen, and had stood at that figure for a lengthened
period. A rise of five has since taken place, and a further rise of
five is guaranteed at the expiration of a term not exceeding twelve
months from the present date. My mother has a little property, which
takes the form of a small life annuity, upon which she lives in an
independent though unassuming manner in the Old Street Road. She is
eminently calculated for a mother-in-law. She never interferes, is
all for peace, and her disposition easy. She has her failings—as who
has not?—but I never knew her do it when company was present, at
which time you may freely trust her with wines, spirits, or malt
liquors. My own abode is lodgings at Penton Place, Pentonville. It is
lowly, but airy, open at the back, and considered one of the
’ealthiest outlets. Miss Robin! In the mildest language, I adore
you. Would you be so kind as to allow me (as I may say) to file a
declaration—to make an offer!”

Mr. Jarrett went down on his knees. I was well behind my table and not
much frightened. I said, “Get up from that ridiculous position
immediately, sir, or you will oblige me to break my implied promise
and ring the bell!”

“Hear me out, miss!” said Mr. Jarrett, folding his hands.

“I cannot consent to hear another word, sir,” I returned, “Unless you
get up from the carpet directly and go and sit down at the table as
you ought to do if you have any sense at all.”

He looked piteously, but slowly rose and did so.

“Yet what a mockery it is, miss,” he said with his hand upon his
heart and shaking his head at me in a melancholy manner over the
tray, “to be stationed behind food at such a moment. The soul recoils
from food at such a moment, miss.”

“I beg you to conclude,” said I; “you have asked me to hear you out,
and I beg you to conclude.”

“I will, miss,” said Mr. Jarrett. “As I love and honour, so likewise I
obey. Would that I could make thee the subject of that vow before the
shrine!”

“That is quite impossible,” said I, “and entirely out of the
question.”

“I am aware,” said Mr. Jarrett, leaning forward over the tray and
regarding me, as I again strangely felt, though my eyes were not
directed to him, with his late intent look, “I am aware that in a
worldly point of view, according to all appearances, my offer is a
poor one. But, Miss Robin! Angel! No, don’t ring—I have been
brought up in a sharp school and am accustomed to a variety of
general practice. Though a young man, I have ferreted out evidence,
got up cases, and seen lots of life. Blest with your hand, what means
might I not find of advancing your interests and pushing your
fortunes! What might I not get to know, nearly concerning you? I know
nothing now, certainly; but what MIGHT I not if I had your
confidence, and you set me on?”

I told him that he addressed my interest or what he supposed to be my
interest quite as unsuccessfully as he addressed my inclination, and
he would now understand that I requested him, if he pleased, to go
away immediately.

“Cruel miss,” said Mr. Jarrett, “hear but another word! I think you
must have seen that I was struck with those charms on the day when I
waited at the Whytorseller. I think you must have remarked that I
could not forbear a tribute to those charms when I put up the steps
of the ’ackney-coach. It was a feeble tribute to thee, but it was
well meant. Thy image has ever since been fixed in my breast. I have
walked up and down of an evening opposite Bladen’s house only to
look upon the bricks that once contained thee. This out of to-day,
quite an unnecessary out so far as the attendance, which was its
pretended object, went, was planned by me alone for thee alone. If I
speak of interest, it is only to recommend myself and my respectful
wretchedness. Love was before it, and is before it.”

“I should be pained, Mr. Jarrett,” said I, rising and putting my hand
upon the bell-rope, “to do you or any one who was sincere the
injustice of slighting any honest feeling, however disagreeably
expressed. If you have really meant to give me a proof of your good
opinion, though ill-timed and misplaced, I feel that I ought to thank
you. I have very little reason to be proud, and I am not proud. I
hope,” I think I added, without very well knowing what I said, “that
you will now go away as if you had never been so exceedingly foolish
and attend to Messrs. Carly and Carboy’s business.”

“Half a minute, miss!” cried Mr. Jarrett, checking me as I was about to
ring. “This has been without prejudice?”

“I will never mention it,” said I, “unless you should give me future
occasion to do so.”

“A quarter of a minute, miss! In case you should think better at any
time, however distant—THAT’S no consequence, for my feelings can
never alter—of anything I have said, particularly what might I not
do, Mr. William Jarrett, eighty-seven, Penton Place, or if removed, or
dead (of blighted hopes or anything of that sort), care of Mrs.
Jarrett, three hundred and two, Old Street Road, will be sufficient.”

I rang the bell, the servant came, and Mr. Jarrett, laying his written
card upon the table and making a dejected bow, departed. Raising my
eyes as he went out, I once more saw him looking at me after he had
passed the door.

I sat there for another hour or more, finishing my books and payments
and getting through plenty of business. Then I arranged my desk, and
put everything away, and was so composed and cheerful that I thought
I had quite dismissed this unexpected incident. But, when I went
upstairs to my own room, I surprised myself by beginning to laugh
about it and then surprised myself still more by beginning to cry
about it. In short, I was in a flutter for a little while and felt as
if an old chord had been more coarsely touched than it ever had been
since the days of the dear old doll, long buried in the garden.

CHAPTER X

The Law-Writer

On the eastern borders of Chancery Lane, that is to say, more
particularly in Cook’s Court, Cursitor Street, Mr. Harlan,
law-stationer, pursues his lawful calling. In the shade of Cook’s
Court, at most times a shady place, Mr. Harlan has dealt in
all sorts of blank forms of legal process; in skins and rolls
of parchment; in paper—foolscap, brief, draft, brown, white,
whitey-brown, and blotting; in stamps; in office-quills, pens,
ink, India-rubber, pounce, pins, pencils, sealing-wax, and
wafers; in red tape and green ferret; in pocket-books, almanacs,
diaries, and law lists; in string boxes, rulers, inkstands—glass
and leaden—pen-knives, scissors, bodkins, and other small
office-cutlery; in short, in articles too numerous to mention, ever
since he was out of his time and went into partnership with Peffer.
On that occasion, Cook’s Court was in a manner revolutionized by the
new inscription in fresh paint, PEFFER AND HARLAN, displacing the
time-honoured and not easily to be deciphered legend PEFFER only. For
smoke, which is the London ivy, had so wreathed itself round Peffer’s
name and clung to his dwelling-place that the affectionate parasite
quite overpowered the parent tree.

Peffer is never seen in Cook’s Court now. He is not expected there,
for he has been recumbent this quarter of a century in the churchyard
of St. Andrews, Holborn, with the waggons and hackney-coaches roaring
past him all the day and half the night like one great dragon. If he
ever steal forth when the dragon is at rest to air himself again in
Cook’s Court until admonished to return by the crowing of the
sanguine cock in the cellar at the little dairy in Cursitor Street,
whose ideas of daylight it would be curious to ascertain, since he
knows from his personal observation next to nothing about it—if
Peffer ever do revisit the pale glimpses of Cook’s Court, which no
law-stationer in the trade can positively deny, he comes invisibly,
and no one is the worse or wiser.

In his lifetime, and likewise in the period of Harlan’s “time”
of seven long years, there dwelt with Peffer in the same
law-stationering premises a niece—a short, shrewd niece, something
too violently compressed about the waist, and with a sharp nose like
a sharp autumn evening, inclining to be frosty towards the end. The
Cook’s Courtiers had a rumour flying among them that the mother of
this niece did, in her daughter’s childhood, moved by too jealous a
solicitude that her figure should approach perfection, lace her
up every morning with her maternal foot against the bed-post for
a stronger hold and purchase; and further, that she exhibited
internally pints of vinegar and lemon-juice, which acids, they held,
had mounted to the nose and temper of the patient. With whichsoever
of the many tongues of Rumour this frothy report originated, it
either never reached or never influenced the ears of young Harlan,
who, having wooed and won its fair subject on his arrival at man’s
estate, entered into two partnerships at once. So now, in Cook’s
Court, Cursitor Street, Mr. Harlan and the niece are one; and the
niece still cherishes her figure, which, however tastes may differ,
is unquestionably so far precious that there is mighty little of it.

Mr. and Mrs. Harlan are not only one bone and one flesh, but, to the
neighbours’ thinking, one voice too. That voice, appearing to proceed
from Mrs. Harlan alone, is heard in Cook’s Court very often. Mr.
Harlan, otherwise than as he finds expression through these dulcet
tones, is rarely heard. He is a mild, bald, timid man with a shining
head and a scrubby clump of black hair sticking out at the back. He
tends to meekness and obesity. As he stands at his door in Cook’s
Court in his grey shop-coat and black calico sleeves, looking up at
the clouds, or stands behind a desk in his dark shop with a heavy
flat ruler, snipping and slicing at sheepskin in company with his two
’prentices, he is emphatically a retiring and unassuming man. From
beneath his feet, at such times, as from a shrill ghost unquiet in
its grave, there frequently arise complainings and lamentations in
the voice already mentioned; and haply, on some occasions when these
reach a sharper pitch than usual, Mr. Harlan mentions to the
’prentices, “I think my little woman is a-giving it to Guster!”

This proper name, so used by Mr. Harlan, has before now sharpened
the wit of the Cook’s Courtiers to remark that it ought to be the
name of Mrs. Harlan, seeing that she might with great force and
expression be termed a Guster, in compliment to her stormy character.
It is, however, the possession, and the only possession except fifty
shillings per annum and a very small box indifferently filled with
clothing, of a lean young woman from a workhouse (by some supposed to
have been christened Augusta) who, although she was farmed or
contracted for during her growing time by an amiable benefactor of
his species resident at Tooting, and cannot fail to have been
developed under the most favourable circumstances, “has fits,” which
the parish can’t account for.

Guster, really aged three or four and twenty, but looking a round ten
years older, goes cheap with this unaccountable drawback of fits, and
is so apprehensive of being returned on the hands of her patron saint
that except when she is found with her head in the pail, or the sink,
or the copper, or the dinner, or anything else that happens to be
near her at the time of her seizure, she is always at work. She is a
satisfaction to the parents and guardians of the ’prentices, who feel
that there is little danger of her inspiring tender emotions in the
breast of youth; she is a satisfaction to Mrs. Harlan, who can
always find fault with her; she is a satisfaction to Mr. Harlan, who
thinks it a charity to keep her. The law-stationer’s establishment
is, in Guster’s eyes, a temple of plenty and splendour. She believes
the little drawing-room upstairs, always kept, as one may say, with
its hair in papers and its pinafore on, to be the most elegant
apartment in Christendom. The view it commands of Cook’s Court at one
end (not to mention a squint into Cursitor Street) and of Jolyn’
the sheriff’s officer’s backyard at the other she regards as a
prospect of unequalled beauty. The portraits it displays in oil—and
plenty of it too—of Mr. Harlan looking at Mrs. Harlan and of Mrs.
Harlan looking at Mr. Harlan are in her eyes as achievements of
Raphael or Titian. Guster has some recompenses for her many
privations.

Mr. Harlan refers everything not in the practical mysteries of the
business to Mrs. Harlan. She manages the money, reproaches the
tax-gatherers, appoints the times and places of devotion on Sundays,
licenses Mr. Harlan’s entertainments, and acknowledges no
responsibility as to what she thinks fit to provide for dinner,
insomuch that she is the high standard of comparison among the
neighbouring wives a long way down Chancery Lane on both sides, and
even out in Holborn, who in any domestic passages of arms habitually
call upon their husbands to look at the difference between their (the
wives’) position and Mrs. Harlan’s, and their (the husbands’)
behaviour and Mr. Harlan’s. Rumour, always flying bat-like about
Cook’s Court and skimming in and out at everybody’s windows, does say
that Mrs. Harlan is jealous and inquisitive and that Mr. Harlan is
sometimes worried out of house and home, and that if he had the
spirit of a mouse he wouldn’t stand it. It is even observed that the
wives who quote him to their self-willed husbands as a shining
example in reality look down upon him and that nobody does so with
greater superciliousness than one particular lady whose lord is more
than suspected of laying his umbrella on her as an instrument of
correction. But these vague whisperings may arise from Mr. Harlan’s
being in his way rather a meditative and poetical man, loving to walk
in Staple Inn in the summer-time and to observe how countrified the
sparrows and the leaves are, also to lounge about the Rolls Yard of a
Sunday afternoon and to remark (if in good spirits) that there were
old times once and that you’d find a stone coffin or two now under
that chapel, he’ll be bound, if you was to dig for it. He solaces his
imagination, too, by thinking of the many Chancellors and Vices, and
Masters of the Rolls who are deceased; and he gets such a flavour of
the country out of telling the two ’prentices how he HAS heard say
that a brook “as clear as crystal” once ran right down the middle of
Holborn, when Turnstile really was a turnstile, leading slap away
into the meadows—gets such a flavour of the country out of this that
he never wants to go there.

The day is closing in and the gas is lighted, but is not yet fully
effective, for it is not quite dark. Mr. Harlan standing at his
shop-door looking up at the clouds sees a crow who is out late skim
westward over the slice of sky belonging to Cook’s Court. The crow
flies straight across Chancery Lane and Lincoln’s Inn Garden into
Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

Here, in a large house, formerly a house of state, lives Mr.
Tulkinghorn. It is let off in sets of chambers now, and in those
shrunken fragments of its greatness, lawyers lie like maggots in
nuts. But its roomy staircases, passages, and antechambers still
remain; and even its painted ceilings, where Allegory, in Roman
helmet and celestial linen, sprawls among balustrades and pillars,
flowers, clouds, and big-legged boys, and makes the head ache—as
would seem to be Allegory’s object always, more or less. Here, among
his many boxes labelled with transcendent names, lives Mr.
Tulkinghorn, when not speechlessly at home in country-houses where
the great ones of the earth are bored to death. Here he is to-day,
quiet at his table. An oyster of the old school whom nobody can open.

Like as he is to look at, so is his apartment in the dusk of
the present afternoon. Rusty, out of date, withdrawing from
attention, able to afford it. Heavy, broad-backed, old-fashioned,
mahogany-and-horsehair chairs, not easily lifted; obsolete tables
with spindle-legs and dusty baize covers; presentation prints of the
holders of great titles in the last generation or the last but one,
environ him. A thick and dingy Turkey-carpet muffles the floor where
he sits, attended by two candles in old-fashioned silver candlesticks
that give a very insufficient light to his large room. The titles on
the backs of his books have retired into the binding; everything that
can have a lock has got one; no key is visible. Very few loose papers
are about. He has some manuscript near him, but is not referring
to it. With the round top of an inkstand and two broken bits of
sealing-wax he is silently and slowly working out whatever train of
indecision is in his mind. Now the inkstand top is in the middle, now
the red bit of sealing-wax, now the black bit. That’s not it. Mr.
Tulkinghorn must gather them all up and begin again.

Here, beneath the painted ceiling, with foreshortened Allegory
staring down at his intrusion as if it meant to swoop upon him, and
he cutting it dead, Mr. Tulkinghorn has at once his house and office.
He keeps no staff, only one middle-aged man, usually a little out at
elbows, who sits in a high pew in the hall and is rarely overburdened
with business. Mr. Tulkinghorn is not in a common way. He wants no
clerks. He is a great reservoir of confidences, not to be so tapped.
His clients want HIM; he is all in all. Drafts that he requires to be
drawn are drawn by special-pleaders in the temple on mysterious
instructions; fair copies that he requires to be made are made at the
stationers’, expense being no consideration. The middle-aged man in
the pew knows scarcely more of the affairs of the peerage than any
crossing-sweeper in Holborn.

The red bit, the black bit, the inkstand top, the other inkstand top,
the little sand-box. So! You to the middle, you to the right, you to
the left. This train of indecision must surely be worked out now or
never. Now! Mr. Tulkinghorn gets up, adjusts his spectacles, puts on
his hat, puts the manuscript in his pocket, goes out, tells the
middle-aged man out at elbows, “I shall be back presently.” Very
rarely tells him anything more explicit.

Mr. Tulkinghorn goes, as the crow came—not quite so straight, but
nearly—to Cook’s Court, Cursitor Street. To Harlan’s,
Law-Stationer’s, Deeds engrossed and copied, Law-Writing executed in
all its branches, &c., &c., &c.

It is somewhere about five or six o’clock in the afternoon, and a
balmy fragrance of warm tea hovers in Cook’s Court. It hovers about
Harlan’s door. The hours are early there: dinner at half-past one
and supper at half-past nine. Mr. Harlan was about to descend into
the subterranean regions to take tea when he looked out of his door
just now and saw the crow who was out late.

“Master at home?”

Guster is minding the shop, for the ’prentices take tea in the
kitchen with Mr. and Mrs. Harlan; consequently, the robe-maker’s two
daughters, combing their curls at the two glasses in the two
second-floor windows of the opposite house, are not driving the two
’prentices to distraction as they fondly suppose, but are merely
awakening the unprofitable admiration of Guster, whose hair won’t
grow, and never would, and it is confidently thought, never will.

“Master at home?” says Mr. Tulkinghorn.

Master is at home, and Guster will fetch him. Guster disappears, glad
to get out of the shop, which she regards with mingled dread and
veneration as a storehouse of awful implements of the great torture
of the law—a place not to be entered after the gas is turned off.

Mr. Harlan appears, greasy, warm, herbaceous, and chewing. Bolts a
bit of bread and butter. Says, “Bless my soul, sir! Mr. Tulkinghorn!”

“I want half a word with you, Harlan.”

“Certainly, sir! Dear me, sir, why didn’t you send your young man
round for me? Pray walk into the back shop, sir.” Harlan has
brightened in a moment.

The confined room, strong of parchment-grease, is warehouse,
counting-house, and copying-office. Mr. Tulkinghorn sits, facing
round, on a stool at the desk.

“Ashton and Ashton, Harlan.”

“Yes, sir.” Mr. Harlan turns up the gas and coughs behind his hand,
modestly anticipating profit. Mr. Harlan, as a timid man, is
accustomed to cough with a variety of expressions, and so to save
words.

“You copied some affidavits in that cause for me lately.”

“Yes, sir, we did.”

“There was one of them,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, carelessly
feeling—tight, unopenable oyster of the old school!—in the wrong
coat-pocket, “the handwriting of which is peculiar, and I rather
like. As I happened to be passing, and thought I had it about me, I
looked in to ask you—but I haven’t got it. No matter, any other time
will do. Ah! here it is! I looked in to ask you who copied this.”

“Who copied this, sir?” says Mr. Harlan, taking it, laying it flat
on the desk, and separating all the sheets at once with a twirl and a
twist of the left hand peculiar to lawstationers. “We gave this out,
sir. We were giving out rather a large quantity of work just at that
time. I can tell you in a moment who copied it, sir, by referring to
my book.”

Mr. Harlan takes his book down from the safe, makes another bolt of
the bit of bread and butter which seemed to have stopped short, eyes
the affidavit aside, and brings his right forefinger travelling down
a page of the book, “Jewby—Packer—Ashton.”

“Ashton! Here we are, sir,” says Mr. Harlan. “To be sure! I might
have remembered it. This was given out, sir, to a writer who lodges
just over on the opposite side of the lane.”

Mr. Tulkinghorn has seen the entry, found it before the
law-stationer, read it while the forefinger was coming down the hill.

“WHAT do you call him? Triston?” says Mr. Tulkinghorn. “Triston, sir. Here
it is. Forty-two folio. Given out on the Wednesday night at eight
o’clock, brought in on the Thursday morning at half after nine.”

“Triston!” repeats Mr. Tulkinghorn. “Triston is Latin for no one.”

“It must be English for some one, sir, I think,” Mr. Harlan submits
with his deferential cough. “It is a person’s name. Here it is, you
see, sir! Forty-two folio. Given out Wednesday night, eight o’clock;
brought in Thursday morning, half after nine.”

The tail of Mr. Harlan’s eye becomes conscious of the head of Mrs.
Harlan looking in at the shop-door to know what he means by
deserting his tea. Mr. Harlan addresses an explanatory cough to Mrs.
Harlan, as who should say, “My dear, a customer!”

“Half after nine, sir,” repeats Mr. Harlan. “Our law-writers, who
live by job-work, are a queer lot; and this may not be his name, but
it’s the name he goes by. I remember now, sir, that he gives it in a
written advertisement he sticks up down at the Rule Office, and the
King’s Bench Office, and the Judges’ Chambers, and so forth. You know
the kind of document, sir—wanting employ?”

Mr. Tulkinghorn glances through the little window at the back of
Jolyn’, the sheriff’s officer’s, where lights shine in Jolyn’
windows. Jolyn’ coffee-room is at the back, and the shadows of
several gentlemen under a cloud loom cloudily upon the blinds. Mr.
Harlan takes the opportunity of slightly turning his head to glance
over his shoulder at his little woman and to make apologetic motions
with his mouth to this effect: “Tul-king-horn—rich—in-flu-en-tial!”

“Have you given this man work before?” asks Mr. Tulkinghorn.

“Oh, dear, yes, sir! Work of yours.”

“Thinking of more important matters, I forget where you said he
lived?”

“Across the lane, sir. In fact, he lodges at a—” Mr. Harlan makes
another bolt, as if the bit of bread and butter were insurmountable
“—at a rag and bottle shop.”

“Can you show me the place as I go back?”

“With the greatest pleasure, sir!”

Mr. Harlan pulls off his sleeves and his grey coat, pulls on his
black coat, takes his hat from its peg. “Oh! Here is my little
woman!” he says aloud. “My dear, will you be so kind as to tell one
of the lads to look after the shop while I step across the lane with
Mr. Tulkinghorn? Mrs. Harlan, sir—I shan’t be two minutes, my
love!”

Mrs. Harlan bends to the lawyer, retires behind the counter, peeps
at them through the window-blind, goes softly into the back office,
refers to the entries in the book still lying open. Is evidently
curious.

“You will find that the place is rough, sir,” says Mr. Harlan,
walking deferentially in the road and leaving the narrow pavement to
the lawyer; “and the party is very rough. But they’re a wild lot in
general, sir. The advantage of this particular man is that he never
wants sleep. He’ll go at it right on end if you want him to, as long
as ever you like.”

It is quite dark now, and the gas-lamps have acquired their full
effect. Jostling against clerks going to post the day’s letters, and
against counsel and attorneys going home to dinner, and against
plaintiffs and defendants and suitors of all sorts, and against the
general crowd, in whose way the forensic wisdom of ages has
interposed a million of obstacles to the transaction of the commonest
business of life; diving through law and equity, and through that
kindred mystery, the street mud, which is made of nobody knows what
and collects about us nobody knows whence or how—we only knowing in
general that when there is too much of it we find it necessary to
shovel it away—the lawyer and the law-stationer come to a rag and
bottle shop and general emporium of much disregarded merchandise,
lying and being in the shadow of the wall of Lincoln’s Inn, and kept,
as is announced in paint, to all whom it may concern, by one Nesbit.

“This is where he lives, sir,” says the law-stationer.

“This is where he lives, is it?” says the lawyer unconcernedly.
“Thank you.”

“Are you not going in, sir?”

“No, thank you, no; I am going on to the Fields at present. Good
evening. Thank you!” Mr. Harlan lifts his hat and returns to his
little woman and his tea.

But Mr. Tulkinghorn does not go on to the Fields at present. He goes
a short way, turns back, comes again to the shop of Mr. Nesbit, and
enters it straight. It is dim enough, with a blot-headed candle or so
in the windows, and an old man and a cat sitting in the back part by
a fire. The old man rises and comes forward, with another blot-headed
candle in his hand.

“Pray is your lodger within?”

“Male or female, sir?” says Mr. Nesbit.

“Male. The person who does copying.”

Mr. Nesbit has eyed his man narrowly. Knows him by sight. Has an
indistinct impression of his aristocratic repute.

“Did you wish to see him, sir?”

“Yes.”

“It’s what I seldom do myself,” says Mr. Nesbit with a grin. “Shall I
call him down? But it’s a weak chance if he’d come, sir!”

“I’ll go up to him, then,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn.

“Second floor, sir. Take the candle. Up there!” Mr. Nesbit, with his
cat beside him, stands at the bottom of the staircase, looking after
Mr. Tulkinghorn. “Hi-hi!” he says when Mr. Tulkinghorn has nearly
disappeared. The lawyer looks down over the hand-rail. The cat
expands her wicked mouth and snarls at him.

“Order, Godfrey Jane! Behave yourself to visitors, my lady! You know
what they say of my lodger?” whispers Nesbit, going up a step or two.

“What do they say of him?”

“They say he has sold himself to the enemy, but you and I know
better—he don’t buy. I’ll tell you what, though; my lodger is so
black-humoured and gloomy that I believe he’d as soon make that
bargain as any other. Don’t put him out, sir. That’s my advice!”

Mr. Tulkinghorn with a nod goes on his way. He comes to the dark door
on the second floor. He knocks, receives no answer, opens it, and
accidentally extinguishes his candle in doing so.

The air of the room is almost bad enough to have extinguished it if
he had not. It is a small room, nearly black with soot, and grease,
and dirt. In the rusty skeleton of a grate, pinched at the middle as
if poverty had gripped it, a red coke fire burns low. In the corner
by the chimney stand a deal table and a broken desk, a wilderness
marked with a rain of ink. In another corner a ragged old portmanteau
on one of the two chairs serves for cabinet or wardrobe; no larger
one is needed, for it collapses like the cheeks of a starved man. The
floor is bare, except that one old mat, trodden to shreds of
rope-yarn, lies perishing upon the hearth. No curtain veils the
darkness of the night, but the discoloured shutters are drawn
together, and through the two gaunt holes pierced in them, famine
might be staring in—the banshee of the man upon the bed.

For, on a low bed opposite the fire, a confusion of dirty patchwork,
lean-ribbed ticking, and coarse sacking, the lawyer, hesitating just
within the doorway, sees a man. He lies there, dressed in shirt and
trousers, with bare feet. He has a yellow look in the spectral
darkness of a candle that has guttered down until the whole length of
its wick (still burning) has doubled over and left a tower of
winding-sheet above it. His hair is ragged, mingling with his
whiskers and his beard—the latter, ragged too, and grown, like the
scum and mist around him, in neglect. Foul and filthy as the room is,
foul and filthy as the air is, it is not easy to perceive what fumes
those are which most oppress the senses in it; but through the
general sickliness and faintness, and the odour of stale tobacco,
there comes into the lawyer’s mouth the bitter, vapid taste of opium.

“Hallo, my friend!” he cries, and strikes his iron candlestick
against the door.

He thinks he has awakened his friend. He lies a little turned away,
but his eyes are surely open.

“Hallo, my friend!” he cries again. “Hallo! Hallo!”

As he rattles on the door, the candle which has drooped so long goes
out and leaves him in the dark, with the gaunt eyes in the shutters
staring down upon the bed.

CHAPTER XI

Our Dear Brother

A touch on the lawyer’s wrinkled hand as he stands in the dark room,
irresolute, makes him start and say, “What’s that?”

“It’s me,” returns the old man of the house, whose breath is in his
ear. “Can’t you wake him?”

“No.”

“What have you done with your candle?”

“It’s gone out. Here it is.”

Nesbit takes it, goes to the fire, stoops over the red embers, and
tries to get a light. The dying ashes have no light to spare, and his
endeavours are vain. Muttering, after an ineffectual call to his
lodger, that he will go downstairs and bring a lighted candle from
the shop, the old man departs. Mr. Tulkinghorn, for some new reason
that he has, does not await his return in the room, but on the stairs
outside.

The welcome light soon shines upon the wall, as Nesbit comes slowly up
with his green-eyed cat following at his heels. “Does the man
generally sleep like this?” inquired the lawyer in a low voice. “Hi!
I don’t know,” says Nesbit, shaking his head and lifting his eyebrows.
“I know next to nothing of his habits except that he keeps himself
very close.”

Thus whispering, they both go in together. As the light goes in, the
great eyes in the shutters, darkening, seem to close. Not so the eyes
upon the bed.

“God save us!” exclaims Mr. Tulkinghorn. “He is dead!” Nesbit drops
the heavy hand he has taken up so suddenly that the arm swings over
the bedside.

They look at one another for a moment.

“Send for some doctor! Call for Miss Daxter up the stairs, sir. Here’s
poison by the bed! Call out for Daxter, will you?” says Nesbit, with
his lean hands spread out above the body like a vampire’s wings.

Mr. Tulkinghorn hurries to the landing and calls, “Miss Daxter! Daxter!
Make haste, here, whoever you are! Daxter!” Nesbit follows him with his
eyes, and while he is calling, finds opportunity to steal to the old
portmanteau and steal back again.

“Run, Daxter, run! The nearest doctor! Run!” So Mr. Nesbit addresses a
crazy little woman who is his female lodger, who appears and vanishes
in a breath, who soon returns accompanied by a testy medical man
brought from his dinner, with a broad, snuffy upper lip and a broad
Scotch tongue.

“Ey! Bless the hearts o’ ye,” says the medical man, looking up at
them after a moment’s examination. “He’s just as dead as Phairy!”

Mr. Tulkinghorn (standing by the old portmanteau) inquires if he has
been dead any time.

“Any time, sir?” says the medical gentleman. “It’s probable he wull
have been dead aboot three hours.”

“About that time, I should say,” observes a dark young man on the
other side of the bed.

“Air you in the maydickle prayfession yourself, sir?” inquires the
first.

The dark young man says yes.

“Then I’ll just tak’ my depairture,” replies the other, “for I’m nae
gude here!” With which remark he finishes his brief attendance and
returns to finish his dinner.

The dark young surgeon passes the candle across and across the face
and carefully examines the law-writer, who has established his
pretensions to his name by becoming indeed No one.

“I knew this person by sight very well,” says he. “He has purchased
opium of me for the last year and a half. Was anybody present related
to him?” glancing round upon the three bystanders.

“I was his landlord,” grimly answers Nesbit, taking the candle from
the surgeon’s outstretched hand. “He told me once I was the nearest
relation he had.”

“He has died,” says the surgeon, “of an over-dose of opium, there is
no doubt. The room is strongly flavoured with it. There is enough
here now,” taking an old tea-pot from Mr. Nesbit, “to kill a dozen
people.”

“Do you think he did it on purpose?” asks Nesbit.

“Took the over-dose?”

“Yes!” Nesbit almost smacks his lips with the unction of a horrible
interest.

“I can’t say. I should think it unlikely, as he has been in the habit
of taking so much. But nobody can tell. He was very poor, I suppose?”

“I suppose he was. His room—don’t look rich,” says Nesbit, who might
have changed eyes with his cat, as he casts his sharp glance around.
“But I have never been in it since he had it, and he was too close to
name his circumstances to me.”

“Did he owe you any rent?”

“Six weeks.”

“He will never pay it!” says the young man, resuming his examination.
“It is beyond a doubt that he is indeed as dead as Pharaoh; and to
judge from his appearance and condition, I should think it a happy
release. Yet he must have been a good figure when a youth, and I dare
say, good-looking.” He says this, not unfeelingly, while sitting on
the bedstead’s edge with his face towards that other face and his
hand upon the region of the heart. “I recollect once thinking there
was something in his manner, uncouth as it was, that denoted a fall
in life. Was that so?” he continues, looking round.

Nesbit replies, “You might as well ask me to describe the ladies whose
heads of hair I have got in sacks downstairs. Than that he was my
lodger for a year and a half and lived—or didn’t live—by
law-writing, I know no more of him.”

During this dialogue Mr. Tulkinghorn has stood aloof by the old
portmanteau, with his hands behind him, equally removed, to all
appearance, from all three kinds of interest exhibited near the
bed—from the young surgeon’s professional interest in death,
noticeable as being quite apart from his remarks on the deceased as
an individual; from the old man’s unction; and the little crazy
woman’s awe. His imperturbable face has been as inexpressive as his
rusty clothes. One could not even say he has been thinking all this
while. He has shown neither patience nor impatience, nor attention
nor abstraction. He has shown nothing but his shell. As easily might
the tone of a delicate musical instrument be inferred from its case,
as the tone of Mr. Tulkinghorn from his case.

He now interposes, addressing the young surgeon in his unmoved,
professional way.

“I looked in here,” he observes, “just before you, with the
intention of giving this deceased man, whom I never saw alive, some
employment at his trade of copying. I had heard of him from my
stationer—Harlan of Cook’s Court. Since no one here knows anything
about him, it might be as well to send for Harlan. Ah!” to the
little crazy woman, who has often seen him in court, and whom he has
often seen, and who proposes, in frightened dumb-show, to go for the
law-stationer. “Suppose you do!”

While she is gone, the surgeon abandons his hopeless investigation
and covers its subject with the patchwork counterpane. Mr. Nesbit and
he interchange a word or two. Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing, but
stands, ever, near the old portmanteau.

Mr. Harlan arrives hastily in his grey coat and his black sleeves.
“Dear me, dear me,” he says; “and it has come to this, has it! Bless
my soul!”

“Can you give the person of the house any information about this
unfortunate creature, Harlan?” inquires Mr. Tulkinghorn. “He was in
arrears with his rent, it seems. And he must be buried, you know.”

“Well, sir,” says Mr. Harlan, coughing his apologetic cough behind
his hand, “I really don’t know what advice I could offer, except
sending for the beadle.”

“I don’t speak of advice,” returns Mr. Tulkinghorn. “I could
advise—”

“No one better, sir, I am sure,” says Mr. Harlan, with his
deferential cough.

“I speak of affording some clue to his connexions, or to where he
came from, or to anything concerning him.”

“I assure you, sir,” says Mr. Harlan after prefacing his reply with
his cough of general propitiation, “that I no more know where he came
from than I know—”

“Where he has gone to, perhaps,” suggests the surgeon to help him
out.

A pause. Mr. Tulkinghorn looking at the law-stationer. Mr. Nesbit,
with his mouth open, looking for somebody to speak next.

“As to his connexions, sir,” says Mr. Harlan, “if a person was to
say to me, ‘Harlan, here’s twenty thousand pound down, ready for you
in the Bank of England if you’ll only name one of ’em,’ I couldn’t do
it, sir! About a year and a half ago—to the best of my belief, at
the time when he first came to lodge at the present rag and bottle
shop—”

“That was the time!” says Nesbit with a nod.

“About a year and a half ago,” says Mr. Harlan, strengthened, “he
came into our place one morning after breakfast, and finding my
little woman (which I name Mrs. Harlan when I use that appellation)
in our shop, produced a specimen of his handwriting and gave her to
understand that he was in want of copying work to do and was, not to
put too fine a point upon it,” a favourite apology for plain speaking
with Mr. Harlan, which he always offers with a sort of argumentative
frankness, “hard up! My little woman is not in general partial to
strangers, particular—not to put too fine a point upon it—when they
want anything. But she was rather took by something about this
person, whether by his being unshaved, or by his hair being in want
of attention, or by what other ladies’ reasons, I leave you to judge;
and she accepted of the specimen, and likewise of the address. My
little woman hasn’t a good ear for names,” proceeds Mr. Harlan after
consulting his cough of consideration behind his hand, “and she
considered Triston equally the same as Nimrod. In consequence of which,
she got into a habit of saying to me at meals, ‘Mr. Harlan, you
haven’t found Nimrod any work yet!’ or ‘Mr. Harlan, why didn’t you
give that eight and thirty Chancery folio in Ashton to Nimrod?’ or
such like. And that is the way he gradually fell into job-work at our
place; and that is the most I know of him except that he was a quick
hand, and a hand not sparing of night-work, and that if you gave him
out, say, five and forty folio on the Wednesday night, you would have
it brought in on the Thursday morning. All of which—” Mr. Harlan
concludes by politely motioning with his hat towards the bed, as much
as to add, “I have no doubt my honourable friend would confirm if he
were in a condition to do it.”

“Hadn’t you better see,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn to Nesbit, “whether he
had any papers that may enlighten you? There will be an inquest, and
you will be asked the question. You can read?”

“No, I can’t,” returns the old man with a sudden grin.

“Harlan,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, “look over the room for him. He will
get into some trouble or difficulty otherwise. Being here, I’ll wait
if you make haste, and then I can testify on his behalf, if it should
ever be necessary, that all was fair and right. If you will hold the
candle for Mr. Harlan, my friend, he’ll soon see whether there is
anything to help you.”

“In the first place, here’s an old portmanteau, sir,” says Harlan.

Ah, to be sure, so there is! Mr. Tulkinghorn does not appear to have
seen it before, though he is standing so close to it, and though
there is very little else, heaven knows.

The marine-store merchant holds the light, and the law-stationer
conducts the search. The surgeon leans against the corner of the
chimney-piece; Miss Daxter peeps and trembles just within the door.
The apt old scholar of the old school, with his dull black breeches
tied with ribbons at the knees, his large black waistcoat, his
long-sleeved black coat, and his wisp of limp white neckerchief tied
in the bow the peerage knows so well, stands in exactly the same
place and attitude.

There are some worthless articles of clothing in the old portmanteau;
there is a bundle of pawnbrokers’ duplicates, those turnpike tickets
on the road of poverty; there is a crumpled paper, smelling of opium,
on which are scrawled rough memoranda—as, took, such a day, so many
grains; took, such another day, so many more—begun some time ago, as
if with the intention of being regularly continued, but soon left
off. There are a few dirty scraps of newspapers, all referring to
coroners’ inquests; there is nothing else. They search the cupboard
and the drawer of the ink-splashed table. There is not a morsel of an
old letter or of any other writing in either. The young surgeon
examines the dress on the law-writer. A knife and some odd halfpence
are all he finds. Mr. Harlan’s suggestion is the practical
suggestion after all, and the beadle must be called in.

So the little crazy lodger goes for the beadle, and the rest come out
of the room. “Don’t leave the cat there!” says the surgeon; “that
won’t do!” Mr. Nesbit therefore drives her out before him, and she
goes furtively downstairs, winding her lithe tail and licking her
lips.

“Good night!” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, and goes home to Allegory and
meditation.

By this time the news has got into the court. Groups of its
inhabitants assemble to discuss the thing, and the outposts of the
army of observation (principally boys) are pushed forward to Mr.
Nesbit’s window, which they closely invest. A policeman has already
walked up to the room, and walked down again to the door, where he
stands like a tower, only condescending to see the boys at his base
occasionally; but whenever he does see them, they quail and fall
back. Mrs. Perkins, who has not been for some weeks on speaking terms
with Mrs. Piper in consequence for an unpleasantness originating in
young Perkins’ having “fetched” young Piper “a crack,” renews her
friendly intercourse on this auspicious occasion. The potboy at the
corner, who is a privileged amateur, as possessing official knowledge
of life and having to deal with drunken men occasionally, exchanges
confidential communications with the policeman and has the appearance
of an impregnable youth, unassailable by truncheons and unconfinable
in station-houses. People talk across the court out of window, and
bare-headed scouts come hurrying in from Chancery Lane to know what’s
the matter. The general feeling seems to be that it’s a blessing Mr.
Nesbit warn’t made away with first, mingled with a little natural
disappointment that he was not. In the midst of this sensation, the
beadle arrives.

The beadle, though generally understood in the neighbourhood to be a
ridiculous institution, is not without a certain popularity for the
moment, if it were only as a man who is going to see the body. The
policeman considers him an imbecile civilian, a remnant of the
barbarous watchmen times, but gives him admission as something that
must be borne with until government shall abolish him. The sensation
is heightened as the tidings spread from mouth to mouth that the
beadle is on the ground and has gone in.

By and by the beadle comes out, once more intensifying the sensation,
which has rather languished in the interval. He is understood to be
in want of witnesses for the inquest to-morrow who can tell the
coroner and jury anything whatever respecting the deceased. Is
immediately referred to innumerable people who can tell nothing
whatever. Is made more imbecile by being constantly informed that
Mrs. Green’s son “was a law-writer his-self and knowed him better
than anybody,” which son of Mrs. Green’s appears, on inquiry, to be
at the present time aboard a vessel bound for China, three months
out, but considered accessible by telegraph on application to the
Lords of the Admiralty. Beadle goes into various shops and parlours,
examining the inhabitants, always shutting the door first, and by
exclusion, delay, and general idiotcy exasperating the public.
Policeman seen to smile to potboy. Public loses interest and
undergoes reaction. Taunts the beadle in shrill youthful voices with
having boiled a boy, choruses fragments of a popular song to that
effect and importing that the boy was made into soup for the
workhouse. Policeman at last finds it necessary to support the law
and seize a vocalist, who is released upon the flight of the rest on
condition of his getting out of this then, come, and cutting it—a
condition he immediately observes. So the sensation dies off for the
time; and the unmoved policeman (to whom a little opium, more or
less, is nothing), with his shining hat, stiff stock, inflexible
great-coat, stout belt and bracelet, and all things fitting, pursues
his lounging way with a heavy tread, beating the palms of his white
gloves one against the other and stopping now and then at a
street-corner to look casually about for anything between a lost
child and a murder.

Under cover of the night, the feeble-minded beadle comes flitting
about Chancery Lane with his summonses, in which every juror’s name
is wrongly spelt, and nothing rightly spelt but the beadle’s own
name, which nobody can read or wants to know. The summonses served
and his witnesses forewarned, the beadle goes to Mr. Nesbit’s to keep
a small appointment he has made with certain paupers, who, presently
arriving, are conducted upstairs, where they leave the great eyes in
the shutter something new to stare at, in that last shape which
earthly lodgings take for No one—and for Every one.

And all that night the coffin stands ready by the old portmanteau;
and the lonely figure on the bed, whose path in life has lain through
five and forty years, lies there with no more track behind him that
any one can trace than a deserted infant.

Next day the court is all alive—is like a fair, as Mrs. Perkins,
more than reconciled to Mrs. Piper, says in amicable conversation
with that excellent woman. The coroner is to sit in the first-floor
room at the Sol’s Arms, where the Harmonic Meetings take place twice
a week and where the chair is filled by a gentleman of professional
celebrity, faced by Little Swills, the comic vocalist, who hopes
(according to the bill in the window) that his friends will rally
round him and support first-rate talent. The Sol’s Arms does a brisk
stroke of business all the morning. Even children so require
sustaining under the general excitement that a pieman who has
established himself for the occasion at the corner of the court says
his brandy-balls go off like smoke. What time the beadle, hovering
between the door of Mr. Nesbit’s establishment and the door of the
Sol’s Arms, shows the curiosity in his keeping to a few discreet
spirits and accepts the compliment of a glass of ale or so in return.

At the appointed hour arrives the coroner, for whom the jurymen are
waiting and who is received with a salute of skittles from the good
dry skittle-ground attached to the Sol’s Arms. The coroner frequents
more public-houses than any man alive. The smell of sawdust, beer,
tobacco-smoke, and spirits is inseparable in his vocation from death
in its most awful shapes. He is conducted by the beadle and the
landlord to the Harmonic Meeting Room, where he puts his hat on the
piano and takes a Windsor-chair at the head of a long table formed of
several short tables put together and ornamented with glutinous rings
in endless involutions, made by pots and glasses. As many of the jury
as can crowd together at the table sit there. The rest get among the
spittoons and pipes or lean against the piano. Over the coroner’s
head is a small iron garland, the pendant handle of a bell, which
rather gives the majesty of the court the appearance of going to be
hanged presently.

Call over and swear the jury! While the ceremony is in progress,
sensation is created by the entrance of a chubby little man in a
large shirt-collar, with a moist eye and an inflamed nose, who
modestly takes a position near the door as one of the general public,
but seems familiar with the room too. A whisper circulates that this
is Little Swills. It is considered not unlikely that he will get up
an imitation of the coroner and make it the principal feature of the
Harmonic Meeting in the evening.

“Well, gentlemen—” the coroner begins.

“Silence there, will you!” says the beadle. Not to the coroner,
though it might appear so.

“Well, gentlemen,” resumes the coroner. “You are impanelled here to
inquire into the death of a certain man. Evidence will be given
before you as to the circumstances attending that death, and you will
give your verdict according to the—skittles; they must be stopped,
you know, beadle!—evidence, and not according to anything else. The
first thing to be done is to view the body.”

“Make way there!” cries the beadle.

So they go out in a loose procession, something after the manner of a
straggling funeral, and make their inspection in Mr. Nesbit’s back
second floor, from which a few of the jurymen retire pale and
precipitately. The beadle is very careful that two gentlemen not very
neat about the cuffs and buttons (for whose accommodation he has
provided a special little table near the coroner in the Harmonic
Meeting Room) should see all that is to be seen. For they are the
public chroniclers of such inquiries by the line; and he is not
superior to the universal human infirmity, but hopes to read in print
what “Mooney, the active and intelligent beadle of the district,”
said and did and even aspires to see the name of Mooney as familiarly
and patronizingly mentioned as the name of the hangman is, according
to the latest examples.

Little Swills is waiting for the coroner and jury on their return.
Mr. Tulkinghorn, also. Mr. Tulkinghorn is received with distinction
and seated near the coroner between that high judicial officer, a
bagatelle-board, and the coal-box. The inquiry proceeds. The jury
learn how the subject of their inquiry died, and learn no more about
him. “A very eminent solicitor is in attendance, gentlemen,” says the
coroner, “who, I am informed, was accidentally present when discovery
of the death was made, but he could only repeat the evidence you have
already heard from the surgeon, the landlord, the lodger, and the
law-stationer, and it is not necessary to trouble him. Is anybody in
attendance who knows anything more?”

Mrs. Piper pushed forward by Mrs. Perkins. Mrs. Piper sworn.

Anastasia Piper, gentlemen. Married woman. Now, Mrs. Piper, what have
you got to say about this?

Why, Mrs. Piper has a good deal to say, chiefly in parentheses and
without punctuation, but not much to tell. Mrs. Piper lives in the
court (which her husband is a cabinet-maker), and it has long been
well beknown among the neighbours (counting from the day next but one
before the half-baptizing of Alexander James Piper aged eighteen
months and four days old on accounts of not being expected to live
such was the sufferings gentlemen of that child in his gums) as the
plaintive—so Mrs. Piper insists on calling the deceased—was
reported to have sold himself. Thinks it was the plaintive’s air in
which that report originatinin. See the plaintive often and
considered as his air was feariocious and not to be allowed to go
about some children being timid (and if doubted hoping Mrs. Perkins
may be brought forard for she is here and will do credit to her
husband and herself and family). Has seen the plaintive wexed and
worrited by the children (for children they will ever be and you
cannot expect them specially if of playful dispositions to be
Methoozellers which you was not yourself). On accounts of this and
his dark looks has often dreamed as she see him take a pick-axe from
his pocket and split Gerardony’s head (which the child knows not fear
and has repeatually called after him close at his eels). Never
however see the plaintive take a pick-axe or any other wepping far
from it. Has seen him hurry away when run and called after as if not
partial to children and never see him speak to neither child nor
grown person at any time (excepting the boy that sweeps the crossing
down the lane over the way round the corner which if he was here
would tell you that he has been seen a-speaking to him frequent).

Says the coroner, is that boy here? Says the beadle, no, sir, he is
not here. Says the coroner, go and fetch him then. In the absence of
the active and intelligent, the coroner converses with Mr.
Tulkinghorn.

Oh! Here’s the boy, gentlemen!

Here he is, very muddy, very hoarse, very ragged. Now, boy! But stop
a minute. Caution. This boy must be put through a few preliminary
paces.

Name, Jo. Nothing else that he knows on. Don’t know that everybody
has two names. Never heerd of sich a think. Don’t know that Jo is
short for a longer name. Thinks it long enough for HIM. HE don’t find
no fault with it. Spell it? No. HE can’t spell it. No father, no
mother, no friends. Never been to school. What’s home? Knows a
broom’s a broom, and knows it’s wicked to tell a lie. Don’t recollect
who told him about the broom or about the lie, but knows both. Can’t
exactly say what’ll be done to him arter he’s dead if he tells a lie
to the gentlemen here, but believes it’ll be something wery bad to
punish him, and serve him right—and so he’ll tell the truth.

“This won’t do, gentlemen!” says the coroner with a melancholy shake
of the head.

“Don’t you think you can receive his evidence, sir?” asks an
attentive juryman.

“Out of the question,” says the coroner. “You have heard the boy.
‘Can’t exactly say’ won’t do, you know. We can’t take THAT in a court
of justice, gentlemen. It’s terrible depravity. Put the boy aside.”

Boy put aside, to the great edification of the audience, especially
of Little Swills, the comic vocalist.

Now. Is there any other witness? No other witness.

Very well, gentlemen! Here’s a man unknown, proved to have been in
the habit of taking opium in large quantities for a year and a half,
found dead of too much opium. If you think you have any evidence to
lead you to the conclusion that he committed suicide, you will come
to that conclusion. If you think it is a case of accidental death,
you will find a verdict accordingly.

Verdict accordingly. Accidental death. No doubt. Gentlemen, you are
discharged. Good afternoon.

While the coroner buttons his great-coat, Mr. Tulkinghorn and he give
private audience to the rejected witness in a corner.

That graceless creature only knows that the dead man (whom he
recognized just now by his yellow face and black hair) was sometimes
hooted and pursued about the streets. That one cold winter night when
he, the boy, was shivering in a doorway near his crossing, the man
turned to look at him, and came back, and having questioned him and
found that he had not a friend in the world, said, “Neither have I.
Not one!” and gave him the price of a supper and a night’s lodging.
That the man had often spoken to him since and asked him whether he
slept sound at night, and how he bore cold and hunger, and whether he
ever wished to die, and similar strange questions. That when the man
had no money, he would say in passing, “I am as poor as you to-day,
Jo,” but that when he had any, he had always (as the boy most
heartily believes) been glad to give him some.

“He was wery good to me,” says the boy, wiping his eyes with his
wretched sleeve. “Wen I see him a-layin’ so stritched out just now, I
wished he could have heerd me tell him so. He wos wery good to me, he
wos!”

As he shuffles downstairs, Mr. Harlan, lying in wait for him, puts a
half-crown in his hand. “If you ever see me coming past your crossing
with my little woman—I mean a lady—” says Mr. Harlan with his
finger on his nose, “don’t allude to it!”

For some little time the jurymen hang about the Sol’s Arms
colloquially. In the sequel, half-a-dozen are caught up in a cloud of
pipe-smoke that pervades the parlour of the Sol’s Arms; two stroll to
Hampstead; and four engage to go half-price to the play at night, and
top up with oysters. Little Swills is treated on several hands. Being
asked what he thinks of the proceedings, characterizes them (his
strength lying in a slangular direction) as “a rummy start.” The
landlord of the Sol’s Arms, finding Little Swills so popular,
commends him highly to the jurymen and public, observing that for a
song in character he don’t know his equal and that that man’s
character-wardrobe would fill a cart.

Thus, gradually the Sol’s Arms melts into the shadowy night and then
flares out of it strong in gas. The Harmonic Meeting hour arriving,
the gentleman of professional celebrity takes the chair, is faced
(red-faced) by Little Swills; their friends rally round them and
support first-rate talent. In the zenith of the evening, Little
Swills says, “Gentlemen, if you’ll permit me, I’ll attempt a short
description of a scene of real life that came off here to-day.” Is
much applauded and encouraged; goes out of the room as Swills; comes
in as the coroner (not the least in the world like him); describes
the inquest, with recreative intervals of piano-forte accompaniment,
to the refrain: With his (the coroner’s) tippy tol li doll, tippy tol
lo doll, tippy tol li doll, Dee!

The jingling piano at last is silent, and the Harmonic friends rally
round their pillows. Then there is rest around the lonely figure, now
laid in its last earthly habitation; and it is watched by the gaunt
eyes in the shutters through some quiet hours of night. If this
forlorn man could have been prophetically seen lying here by the
mother at whose breast he nestled, a little child, with eyes upraised
to her loving face, and soft hand scarcely knowing how to close upon
the neck to which it crept, what an impossibility the vision would
have seemed! Oh, if in brighter days the now-extinguished fire within
him ever burned for one woman who held him in her heart, where is
she, while these ashes are above the ground!

It is anything but a night of rest at Mr. Harlan’s, in Cook’s Court,
where Guster murders sleep by going, as Mr. Harlan himself
allows—not to put too fine a point upon it—out of one fit into
twenty. The occasion of this seizure is that Guster has a tender
heart and a susceptible something that possibly might have been
imagination, but for Tooting and her patron saint. Be it what it may,
now, it was so direfully impressed at tea-time by Mr. Harlan’s
account of the inquiry at which he had assisted that at supper-time
she projected herself into the kitchen, preceded by a flying Dutch
cheese, and fell into a fit of unusual duration, which she only came
out of to go into another, and another, and so on through a chain of
fits, with short intervals between, of which she has pathetically
availed herself by consuming them in entreaties to Mrs. Harlan not
to give her warning “when she quite comes to,” and also in appeals to
the whole establishment to lay her down on the stones and go to bed.
Hence, Mr. Harlan, at last hearing the cock at the little dairy in
Cursitor Street go into that disinterested ecstasy of his on the
subject of daylight, says, drawing a long breath, though the most
patient of men, “I thought you was dead, I am sure!”

What question this enthusiastic fowl supposes he settles when he
strains himself to such an extent, or why he should thus crow (so men
crow on various triumphant public occasions, however) about what
cannot be of any moment to him, is his affair. It is enough that
daylight comes, morning comes, noon comes.

Then the active and intelligent, who has got into the morning papers
as such, comes with his pauper company to Mr. Nesbit’s and bears off
the body of our dear brother here departed to a hemmed-in churchyard,
pestiferous and obscene, whence malignant diseases are communicated
to the bodies of our dear brothers and sisters who have not departed,
while our dear brothers and sisters who hang about official
back-stairs—would to heaven they HAD departed!—are very complacent
and agreeable. Into a beastly scrap of ground which a Turk would
reject as a savage abomination and a Caffre would shudder at, they
bring our dear brother here departed to receive Christian burial.

With houses looking on, on every side, save where a reeking little
tunnel of a court gives access to the iron gate—with every villainy
of life in action close on death, and every poisonous element of
death in action close on life—here they lower our dear brother down
a foot or two, here sow him in corruption, to be raised in
corruption: an avenging ghost at many a sick-bedside, a shameful
testimony to future ages how civilization and barbarism walked this
boastful island together.

Come night, come darkness, for you cannot come too soon or stay too
long by such a place as this! Come, straggling lights into the
windows of the ugly houses; and you who do iniquity therein, do it at
least with this dread scene shut out! Come, flame of gas, burning so
sullenly above the iron gate, on which the poisoned air deposits its
witch-ointment slimy to the touch! It is well that you should call to
every passerby, “Look here!”

With the night comes a slouching figure through the tunnel-court to
the outside of the iron gate. It holds the gate with its hands and
looks in between the bars, stands looking in for a little while.

It then, with an old broom it carries, softly sweeps the step and
makes the archway clean. It does so very busily and trimly, looks in
again a little while, and so departs.

Jo, is it thou? Well, well! Though a rejected witness, who “can’t
exactly say” what will be done to him in greater hands than men’s,
thou art not quite in outer darkness. There is something like a
distant ray of light in thy muttered reason for this: “He wos wery
good to me, he wos!”

CHAPTER XII

On the Watch

It has left off raining down in Lincolnshire at last, and Chesney
Wold has taken heart. Mrs. Talon is full of hospitable cares,
for Sir Luigi and my Godfrey are coming home from Paris. The
fashionable intelligence has found it out and communicates the glad
tidings to benighted England. It has also found out that they will
entertain a brilliant and distinguished circle of the ELITE of the
BEAU MONDE (the fashionable intelligence is weak in English, but a
giant refreshed in French) at the ancient and hospitable family seat
in Lincolnshire.

For the greater honour of the brilliant and distinguished circle, and
of Chesney Wold into the bargain, the broken arch of the bridge in
the park is mended; and the water, now retired within its proper
limits and again spanned gracefully, makes a figure in the prospect
from the house. The clear, cold sunshine glances into the brittle
woods and approvingly beholds the sharp wind scattering the leaves
and drying the moss. It glides over the park after the moving shadows
of the clouds, and chases them, and never catches them, all day. It
looks in at the windows and touches the ancestral portraits with bars
and patches of brightness never contemplated by the painters. Athwart
the picture of my Godfrey, over the great chimney-piece, it throws a
broad bend-sinister of light that strikes down crookedly into the
hearth and seems to rend it.

Through the same cold sunshine and the same sharp wind, my Godfrey and
Sir Luigi, in their travelling chariot (my Godfrey’s woman and Sir
Luigi’s man affectionate in the rumble), start for home. With a
considerable amount of jingling and whip-cracking, and many plunging
demonstrations on the part of two bare-backed horses and two centaurs
with glazed hats, jack-boots, and flowing manes and tails, they
rattle out of the yard of the Hôtel Bristol in the Place Vendôme and
canter between the sun-and-shadow-chequered colonnade of the Rue de
Rivoli and the garden of the ill-fated palace of a headless king and
queen, off by the Place of Concord, and the Elysian Fields, and the
Gate of the Star, out of Paris.

Sooth to say, they cannot go away too fast, for even here my Godfrey
Wayne has been bored to death. Concert, assembly, opera, theatre,
drive, nothing is new to my Godfrey under the worn-out heavens. Only
last Sunday, when poor wretches were gay—within the walls playing
with children among the clipped trees and the statues in the Palace
Garden; walking, a score abreast, in the Elysian Fields, made more
Elysian by performing dogs and wooden horses; between whiles
filtering (a few) through the gloomy Cathedral of Our Godfrey to say a
word or two at the base of a pillar within flare of a rusty little
gridiron-full of gusty little tapers; without the walls encompassing
Paris with dancing, love-making, wine-drinking, tobacco-smoking,
tomb-visiting, billiard card and domino playing, quack-doctoring, and
much murderous refuse, animate and inanimate—only last Sunday, my
Godfrey, in the desolation of Boredom and the clutch of Giant Despair,
almost hated her own maid for being in spirits.

She cannot, therefore, go too fast from Paris. Weariness of soul lies
before her, as it lies behind—her Ariel has put a girdle of it round
the whole earth, and it cannot be unclasped—but the imperfect remedy
is always to fly from the last place where it has been experienced.
Fling Paris back into the distance, then, exchanging it for endless
avenues and cross-avenues of wintry trees! And, when next beheld, let
it be some leagues away, with the Gate of the Star a white speck
glittering in the sun, and the city a mere mound in a plain—two dark
square towers rising out of it, and light and shadow descending on it
aslant, like the angels in Jacob’s dream!

Sir Luigi is generally in a complacent state, and rarely bored.
When he has nothing else to do, he can always contemplate his own
greatness. It is a considerable advantage to a man to have so
inexhaustible a subject. After reading his letters, he leans back in
his corner of the carriage and generally reviews his importance to
society.

“You have an unusual amount of correspondence this morning?” says my
Godfrey after a long time. She is fatigued with reading. Has almost read
a page in twenty miles.

“Nothing in it, though. Nothing whatever.”

“I saw one of Mr. Tulkinghorn’s long effusions, I think?”

“You see everything,” says Sir Luigi with admiration.

“Ha!” sighs my Godfrey. “He is the most tiresome of men!”

“He sends—I really beg your pardon—he sends,” says Sir Luigi,
selecting the letter and unfolding it, “a message to you. Our
stopping to change horses as I came to his postscript drove it out of
my memory. I beg you’ll excuse me. He says—” Sir Luigi is so
long in taking out his eye-glass and adjusting it that my Godfrey looks
a little irritated. “He says ‘In the matter of the right of way—’ I
beg your pardon, that’s not the place. He says—yes! Here I have it!
He says, ‘I beg my respectful compliments to my Godfrey, who, I hope,
has benefited by the change. Will you do me the favour to mention (as
it may interest her) that I have something to tell her on her return
in reference to the person who copied the affidavit in the Chancery
suit, which so powerfully stimulated her curiosity. I have seen
him.’”

My Godfrey, leaning forward, looks out of her window.

“That’s the message,” observes Sir Luigi.

“I should like to walk a little,” says my Godfrey, still looking out of
her window.

“Walk?” repeats Sir Luigi in a tone of surprise.

“I should like to walk a little,” says my Godfrey with unmistakable
distinctness. “Please to stop the carriage.”

The carriage is stopped, the affectionate man alights from the
rumble, opens the door, and lets down the steps, obedient to an
impatient motion of my Godfrey’s hand. My Godfrey alights so quickly and
walks away so quickly that Sir Luigi, for all his scrupulous
politeness, is unable to assist her, and is left behind. A space of a
minute or two has elapsed before he comes up with her. She smiles,
looks very handsome, takes his arm, lounges with him for a quarter of
a mile, is very much bored, and resumes her seat in the carriage.

The rattle and clatter continue through the greater part of three
days, with more or less of bell-jingling and whip-cracking, and more
or less plunging of centaurs and bare-backed horses. Their courtly
politeness to each other at the hotels where they tarry is the theme
of general admiration. Though my Lord IS a little aged for my Godfrey,
says Madame, the hostess of the Golden Ape, and though he might be
her amiable father, one can see at a glance that they love each
other. One observes my Lord with his white hair, standing, hat in
hand, to help my Godfrey to and from the carriage. One observes my Godfrey,
how recognisant of my Lord’s politeness, with an inclination of her
gracious head and the concession of her so-genteel fingers! It is
ravishing!

The sea has no appreciation of great men, but knocks them about like
the small fry. It is habitually hard upon Sir Luigi, whose
countenance it greenly mottles in the manner of sage-cheese and in
whose aristocratic system it effects a dismal revolution. It is the
Radical of Nature to him. Nevertheless, his dignity gets over it
after stopping to refit, and he goes on with my Godfrey for Chesney
Wold, lying only one night in London on the way to Lincolnshire.

Through the same cold sunlight, colder as the day declines, and
through the same sharp wind, sharper as the separate shadows of bare
trees gloom together in the woods, and as the Ghost’s Walk, touched
at the western corner by a pile of fire in the sky, resigns itself to
coming night, they drive into the park. The rooks, swinging in their
lofty houses in the elm-tree avenue, seem to discuss the question of
the occupancy of the carriage as it passes underneath, some agreeing
that Sir Luigi and my Godfrey are come down, some arguing with
malcontents who won’t admit it, now all consenting to consider the
question disposed of, now all breaking out again in violent debate,
incited by one obstinate and drowsy bird who will persist in putting
in a last contradictory croak. Leaving them to swing and caw, the
travelling chariot rolls on to the house, where fires gleam warmly
through some of the windows, though not through so many as to give an
inhabited expression to the darkening mass of front. But the
brilliant and distinguished circle will soon do that.

Mrs. Talon is in attendance and receives Sir Luigi’s
customary shake of the hand with a profound curtsy.

“How do you do, Mrs. Talon? I am glad to see you.”

“I hope I have the honour of welcoming you in good health, Sir
Luigi?”

“In excellent health, Mrs. Talon.”

“My Godfrey is looking charmingly well,” says Mrs. Talon with
another curtsy.

My Godfrey signifies, without profuse expenditure of words, that she is
as wearily well as she can hope to be.

But Quinn is in the distance, behind the housekeeper; and my Godfrey, who
has not subdued the quickness of her observation, whatever else she
may have conquered, asks, “Who is that girl?”

“A young scholar of mine, my Godfrey. Quinn.”

“Come here, Quinn!” Godfrey Wayne beckons her, with even an appearance
of interest. “Why, do you know how pretty you are, child?” she says,
touching her shoulder with her two forefingers.

Quinn, very much abashed, says, “No, if you please, my Godfrey!” and
glances up, and glances down, and don’t know where to look, but looks
all the prettier.

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen, my Godfrey.”

“Nineteen,” repeats my Godfrey thoughtfully. “Take care they don’t spoil
you by flattery.”

“Yes, my Godfrey.”

My Godfrey taps her dimpled cheek with the same delicate gloved fingers
and goes on to the foot of the oak staircase, where Sir Luigi
pauses for her as her knightly escort. A staring old Wayne in a
panel, as large as life and as dull, looks as if he didn’t know what
to make of it, which was probably his general state of mind in the
days of Queen Elizabeth.

That evening, in the housekeeper’s room, Quinn can do nothing but
murmur Godfrey Wayne’s praises. She is so affable, so graceful, so
beautiful, so elegant; has such a sweet voice and such a thrilling
touch that Quinn can feel it yet! Mrs. Talon confirms all this,
not without personal pride, reserving only the one point of
affability. Mrs. Talon is not quite sure as to that. Heaven
forbid that she should say a syllable in dispraise of any member of
that excellent family, above all, of my Godfrey, whom the whole world
admires; but if my Godfrey would only be “a little more free,” not quite
so cold and distant, Mrs. Talon thinks she would be more
affable.

“’Tis almost a pity,” Mrs. Talon adds—only “almost” because it
borders on impiety to suppose that anything could be better than it
is, in such an express dispensation as the Wayne affairs—“that my
Godfrey has no family. If she had had a daughter now, a grown young
lady, to interest her, I think she would have had the only kind of
excellence she wants.”

“Might not that have made her still more proud, grandmother?” says
Brett, who has been home and come back again, he is such a good
grandson.

“More and most, my dear,” returns the housekeeper with dignity, “are
words it’s not my place to use—nor so much as to hear—applied to
any drawback on my Godfrey.”

“I beg your pardon, grandmother. But she is proud, is she not?”

“If she is, she has reason to be. The Wayne family have always
reason to be.”

“Well,” says Brett, “it’s to be hoped they line out of their
prayer-books a certain passage for the common people about pride and
vainglory. Forgive me, grandmother! Only a joke!”

“Sir Luigi and Godfrey Wayne, my dear, are not fit subjects for
joking.”

“Sir Luigi is no joke by any means,” says Brett, “and I humbly ask
his pardon. I suppose, grandmother, that even with the family and
their guests down here, there is no objection to my prolonging my
stay at the Wayne Arms for a day or two, as any other traveller
might?”

“Surely, none in the world, child.”

“I am glad of that,” says Brett, “because I have an inexpressible
desire to extend my knowledge of this beautiful neighbourhood.”

He happens to glance at Quinn, who looks down and is very shy indeed.
But according to the old superstition, it should be Quinn’s ears that
burn, and not her fresh bright cheeks, for my Godfrey’s maid is holding
forth about her at this moment with surpassing energy.

My Godfrey’s maid is a Frenchwoman of two and thirty, from somewhere in
the southern country about Avignon and Marseilles, a large-eyed brown
woman with black hair who would be handsome but for a certain feline
mouth and general uncomfortable tightness of face, rendering the jaws
too eager and the skull too prominent. There is something indefinably
keen and wan about her anatomy, and she has a watchful way of looking
out of the corners of her eyes without turning her head which could
be pleasantly dispensed with, especially when she is in an ill humour
and near knives. Through all the good taste of her dress and little
adornments, these objections so express themselves that she seems to
go about like a very neat she-wolf imperfectly tamed. Besides being
accomplished in all the knowledge appertaining to her post, she is
almost an Englishwoman in her acquaintance with the language;
consequently, she is in no want of words to shower upon Quinn for
having attracted my Godfrey’s attention, and she pours them out with
such grim ridicule as she sits at dinner that her companion, the
affectionate man, is rather relieved when she arrives at the spoon
stage of that performance.

Ha, ha, ha! She, Raylan, been in my Godfrey’s service since five years
and always kept at the distance, and this doll, this puppet,
caressed—absolutely caressed—by my Godfrey on the moment of her
arriving at the house! Ha, ha, ha! “And do you know how pretty you
are, child?” “No, my Godfrey.” You are right there! “And how old are
you, child! And take care they do not spoil you by flattery, child!”
Oh, how droll! It is the BEST thing altogether.

In short, it is such an admirable thing that Miles Raylan
can’t forget it; but at meals for days afterwards, even among her
countrywomen and others attached in like capacity to the troop of
visitors, relapses into silent enjoyment of the joke—an enjoyment
expressed, in her own convivial manner, by an additional tightness of
face, thin elongation of compressed lips, and sidewise look, which
intense appreciation of humour is frequently reflected in my Godfrey’s
mirrors when my Godfrey is not among them.

All the mirrors in the house are brought into action now, many of
them after a long blank. They reflect handsome faces, simpering
faces, youthful faces, faces of threescore and ten that will not
submit to be old; the entire collection of faces that have come to
pass a January week or two at Chesney Wold, and which the fashionable
intelligence, a mighty hunter before the Lord, hunts with a keen
scent, from their breaking cover at the Court of St. James’s to their
being run down to death. The place in Lincolnshire is all alive. By
day guns and voices are heard ringing in the woods, horsemen and
carriages enliven the park roads, servants and hangers-on pervade the
village and the Wayne Arms. Seen by night from distant openings in
the trees, the row of windows in the long drawing-room, where my
Godfrey’s picture hangs over the great chimney-piece, is like a row of
jewels set in a black frame. On Sunday the chill little church is
almost warmed by so much gallant company, and the general flavour of
the Wayne dust is quenched in delicate perfumes.

The brilliant and distinguished circle comprehends within it no
contracted amount of education, sense, courage, honour, beauty, and
virtue. Yet there is something a little wrong about it in despite of
its immense advantages. What can it be?

Dandyism? There is no King Aileen the Fourth now (more the pity) to
set the dandy fashion; there are no clear-starched jack-towel
neckcloths, no short-waisted coats, no false calves, no stays. There
are no caricatures, now, of effeminate exquisites so arrayed,
swooning in opera boxes with excess of delight and being revived by
other dainty creatures poking long-necked scent-bottles at their
noses. There is no beau whom it takes four men at once to shake into
his buckskins, or who goes to see all the executions, or who is
troubled with the self-reproach of having once consumed a pea. But is
there dandyism in the brilliant and distinguished circle
notwithstanding, dandyism of a more mischievous sort, that has got
below the surface and is doing less harmless things than
jack-towelling itself and stopping its own digestion, to which no
rational person need particularly object?

Why, yes. It cannot be disguised. There ARE at Chesney Wold this
January week some ladies and gentlemen of the newest fashion, who
have set up a dandyism—in religion, for instance. Who in mere
lackadaisical want of an emotion have agreed upon a little dandy talk
about the vulgar wanting faith in things in general, meaning in the
things that have been tried and found wanting, as though a low fellow
should unaccountably lose faith in a bad shilling after finding it
out! Who would make the vulgar very picturesque and faithful by
putting back the hands upon the clock of time and cancelling a few
hundred years of history.

There are also ladies and gentlemen of another fashion, not so new,
but very elegant, who have agreed to put a smooth glaze on the world
and to keep down all its realities. For whom everything must be
languid and pretty. Who have found out the perpetual stoppage. Who
are to rejoice at nothing and be sorry for nothing. Who are not to be
disturbed by ideas. On whom even the fine arts, attending in powder
and walking backward like the Lord Chamberlain, must array themselves
in the milliners’ and tailors’ patterns of past generations and be
particularly careful not to be in earnest or to receive any impress
from the moving age.

Then there is my Lord Boodle, of considerable reputation with his
party, who has known what office is and who tells Sir Luigi
Wayne with much gravity, after dinner, that he really does not see
to what the present age is tending. A debate is not what a debate
used to be; the House is not what the House used to be; even a
Cabinet is not what it formerly was. He perceives with astonishment
that supposing the present government to be overthrown, the limited
choice of the Crown, in the formation of a new ministry, would lie
between Lord Coodle and Sir Thomas Doodle—supposing it to be
impossible for the Duke of Foodle to act with Goodle, which may be
assumed to be the case in consequence of the breach arising out of
that affair with Hoodle. Then, giving the Home Department and the
leadership of the House of Commons to Joodle, the Exchequer to
Koodle, the Colonies to Loodle, and the Foreign Office to Moodle,
what are you to do with Noodle? You can’t offer him the Presidency of
the Council; that is reserved for Poodle. You can’t put him in the
Woods and Forests; that is hardly good enough for Quoodle. What
follows? That the country is shipwrecked, lost, and gone to pieces
(as is made manifest to the patriotism of Sir Luigi Wayne)
because you can’t provide for Noodle!

On the other hand, the Right Honourable William Buffy, M.P., contends
across the table with some one else that the shipwreck of the
country—about which there is no doubt; it is only the manner of it
that is in question—is attributable to Cuffy. If you had done with
Cuffy what you ought to have done when he first came into Parliament,
and had prevented him from going over to Duffy, you would have got
him into alliance with Fuffy, you would have had with you the weight
attaching as a smart debater to Guffy, you would have brought to bear
upon the elections the wealth of Huffy, you would have got in for
three counties Juffy, Kuffy, and Luffy, and you would have
strengthened your administration by the official knowledge and the
business habits of Muffy. All this, instead of being as you now are,
dependent on the mere caprice of Puffy!

As to this point, and as to some minor topics, there are differences
of opinion; but it is perfectly clear to the brilliant and
distinguished circle, all round, that nobody is in question but
Boodle and his retinue, and Buffy and HIS retinue. These are the
great actors for whom the stage is reserved. A People there are, no
doubt—a certain large number of supernumeraries, who are to be
occasionally addressed, and relied upon for shouts and choruses, as
on the theatrical stage; but Boodle and Buffy, their followers and
families, their heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns, are
the born first-actors, managers, and leaders, and no others can
appear upon the scene for ever and ever.

In this, too, there is perhaps more dandyism at Chesney Wold than the
brilliant and distinguished circle will find good for itself in the
long run. For it is, even with the stillest and politest circles, as
with the circle the necromancer draws around him—very strange
appearances may be seen in active motion outside. With this
difference, that being realities and not phantoms, there is the
greater danger of their breaking in.

Chesney Wold is quite full anyhow, so full that a burning sense of
injury arises in the breasts of ill-lodged ladies’-maids, and is not
to be extinguished. Only one room is empty. It is a turret chamber of
the third order of merit, plainly but comfortably furnished and
having an old-fashioned business air. It is Mr. Tulkinghorn’s room,
and is never bestowed on anybody else, for he may come at any time.
He is not come yet. It is his quiet habit to walk across the park
from the village in fine weather, to drop into this room as if he had
never been out of it since he was last seen there, to request a
servant to inform Sir Luigi that he is arrived in case he should
be wanted, and to appear ten minutes before dinner in the shadow of
the library-door. He sleeps in his turret with a complaining
flag-staff over his head, and has some leads outside on which, any
fine morning when he is down here, his black figure may be seen
walking before breakfast like a larger species of rook.

Every day before dinner, my Godfrey looks for him in the dusk of the
library, but he is not there. Every day at dinner, my Godfrey glances
down the table for the vacant place that would be waiting to receive
him if he had just arrived, but there is no vacant place. Every night
my Godfrey casually asks her maid, “Is Mr. Tulkinghorn come?”

Every night the answer is, “No, my Godfrey, not yet.”

One night, while having her hair undressed, my Godfrey loses herself in
deep thought after this reply until she sees her own brooding face in
the opposite glass, and a pair of black eyes curiously observing her.

“Be so good as to attend,” says my Godfrey then, addressing the
reflection of Raylan, “to your business. You can contemplate your
beauty at another time.”

“Pardon! It was your Godfreyship’s beauty.”

“That,” says my Godfrey, “you needn’t contemplate at all.”

At length, one afternoon a little before sunset, when the bright
groups of figures which have for the last hour or two enlivened the
Ghost’s Walk are all dispersed and only Sir Luigi and my Godfrey
remain upon the terrace, Mr. Tulkinghorn appears. He comes towards
them at his usual methodical pace, which is never quickened, never
slackened. He wears his usual expressionless mask—if it be a
mask—and carries family secrets in every limb of his body and every
crease of his dress. Whether his whole soul is devoted to the great
or whether he yields them nothing beyond the services he sells is his
personal secret. He keeps it, as he keeps the secrets of his clients;
he is his own client in that matter, and will never betray himself.

“How do you do, Mr. Tulkinghorn?” says Sir Luigi, giving him his
hand.

Mr. Tulkinghorn is quite well. Sir Luigi is quite well. My Godfrey
is quite well. All highly satisfactory. The lawyer, with his hands
behind him, walks at Sir Luigi’s side along the terrace. My Godfrey
walks upon the other side.

“We expected you before,” says Sir Luigi. A gracious observation.
As much as to say, “Mr. Tulkinghorn, we remember your existence when
you are not here to remind us of it by your presence. We bestow a
fragment of our minds upon you, sir, you see!”

Mr. Tulkinghorn, comprehending it, inclines his head and says he is
much obliged.

“I should have come down sooner,” he explains, “but that I have been
much engaged with those matters in the several suits between yourself
and Rhea.”

“A man of a very ill-regulated mind,” observes Sir Luigi with
severity. “An extremely dangerous person in any community. A man of a
very low character of mind.”

“He is obstinate,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn.

“It is natural to such a man to be so,” says Sir Luigi, looking
most profoundly obstinate himself. “I am not at all surprised to hear
it.”

“The only question is,” pursues the lawyer, “whether you will give up
anything.”

“No, sir,” replies Sir Luigi. “Nothing. I give up?”

“I don’t mean anything of importance. That, of course, I know you
would not abandon. I mean any minor point.”

“Mr. Tulkinghorn,” returns Sir Luigi, “there can be no minor
point between myself and Mr. Rhea. If I go farther, and observe
that I cannot readily conceive how ANY right of mine can be a minor
point, I speak not so much in reference to myself as an individual as
in reference to the family position I have it in charge to maintain.”

Mr. Tulkinghorn inclines his head again. “I have now my
instructions,” he says. “Mr. Rhea will give us a good deal of
trouble—”

“It is the character of such a mind, Mr. Tulkinghorn,” Sir Luigi
interrupts him, “TO give trouble. An exceedingly ill-conditioned,
levelling person. A person who, fifty years ago, would probably have
been tried at the Old Bailey for some demagogue proceeding, and
severely punished—if not,” adds Sir Luigi after a moment’s
pause, “if not hanged, drawn, and quartered.”

Sir Luigi appears to discharge his stately breast of a burden in
passing this capital sentence, as if it were the next satisfactory
thing to having the sentence executed.

“But night is coming on,” says he, “and my Godfrey will take cold. My
dear, let us go in.”

As they turn towards the hall-door, Godfrey Wayne addresses Mr.
Tulkinghorn for the first time.

“You sent me a message respecting the person whose writing I happened
to inquire about. It was like you to remember the circumstance; I had
quite forgotten it. Your message reminded me of it again. I can’t
imagine what association I had with a hand like that, but I surely
had some.”

“You had some?” Mr. Tulkinghorn repeats.

“Oh, yes!” returns my Godfrey carelessly. “I think I must have had some.
And did you really take the trouble to find out the writer of that
actual thing—what is it!—affidavit?”

“Yes.”

“How very odd!”

They pass into a sombre breakfast-room on the ground floor, lighted
in the day by two deep windows. It is now twilight. The fire glows
brightly on the panelled wall and palely on the window-glass, where,
through the cold reflection of the blaze, the colder landscape
shudders in the wind and a grey mist creeps along, the only traveller
besides the waste of clouds.

My Godfrey lounges in a great chair in the chimney-corner, and Sir
Luigi takes another great chair opposite. The lawyer stands
before the fire with his hand out at arm’s length, shading his face.
He looks across his arm at my Godfrey.

“Yes,” he says, “I inquired about the man, and found him. And, what
is very strange, I found him—”

“Not to be any out-of-the-way person, I am afraid!” Godfrey Wayne
languidly anticipates.

“I found him dead.”

“Oh, dear me!” remonstrated Sir Luigi. Not so much shocked by the
fact as by the fact of the fact being mentioned.

“I was directed to his lodging—a miserable, poverty-stricken
place—and I found him dead.”

“You will excuse me, Mr. Tulkinghorn,” observes Sir Luigi. “I
think the less said—”

“Pray, Sir Luigi, let me hear the story out” (it is my Godfrey
speaking). “It is quite a story for twilight. How very shocking!
Dead?”

Mr. Tulkinghorn re-asserts it by another inclination of his head.
“Whether by his own hand—”

“Upon my honour!” cries Sir Luigi. “Really!”

“Do let me hear the story!” says my Godfrey.

“Whatever you desire, my dear. But, I must say—”

“No, you mustn’t say! Go on, Mr. Tulkinghorn.”

Sir Luigi’s gallantry concedes the point, though he still feels
that to bring this sort of squalor among the upper classes is
really—really—

“I was about to say,” resumes the lawyer with undisturbed calmness,
“that whether he had died by his own hand or not, it was beyond my
power to tell you. I should amend that phrase, however, by saying
that he had unquestionably died of his own act, though whether by his
own deliberate intention or by mischance can never certainly be
known. The coroner’s jury found that he took the poison
accidentally.”

“And what kind of man,” my Godfrey asks, “was this deplorable creature?”

“Very difficult to say,” returns the lawyer, shaking his head. “He
had lived so wretchedly and was so neglected, with his gipsy colour
and his wild black hair and beard, that I should have considered him
the commonest of the common. The surgeon had a notion that he had
once been something better, both in appearance and condition.”

“What did they call the wretched being?”

“They called him what he had called himself, but no one knew his
name.”

“Not even any one who had attended on him?”

“No one had attended on him. He was found dead. In fact, I found
him.”

“Without any clue to anything more?”

“Without any; there was,” says the lawyer meditatively, “an old
portmanteau, but—No, there were no papers.”

During the utterance of every word of this short dialogue, Godfrey
Wayne and Mr. Tulkinghorn, without any other alteration in their
customary deportment, have looked very steadily at one another—as
was natural, perhaps, in the discussion of so unusual a subject. Sir
Luigi has looked at the fire, with the general expression of the
Wayne on the staircase. The story being told, he renews his stately
protest, saying that as it is quite clear that no association in my
Godfrey’s mind can possibly be traceable to this poor wretch (unless he
was a begging-letter writer), he trusts to hear no more about a
subject so far removed from my Godfrey’s station.

“Certainly, a collection of horrors,” says my Godfrey, gathering up her
mantles and furs, “but they interest one for the moment! Have the
kindness, Mr. Tulkinghorn, to open the door for me.”

Mr. Tulkinghorn does so with deference and holds it open while she
passes out. She passes close to him, with her usual fatigued manner
and insolent grace. They meet again at dinner—again, next
day—again, for many days in succession. Godfrey Wayne is always the
same exhausted deity, surrounded by worshippers, and terribly liable
to be bored to death, even while presiding at her own shrine. Mr.
Tulkinghorn is always the same speechless repository of noble
confidences, so oddly out of place and yet so perfectly at home. They
appear to take as little note of one another as any two people
enclosed within the same walls could. But whether each evermore
watches and suspects the other, evermore mistrustful of some great
reservation; whether each is evermore prepared at all points for the
other, and never to be taken unawares; what each would give to know
how much the other knows—all this is hidden, for the time, in their
own hearts.

CHAPTER XIII

Paulina’s Narrative

We held many consultations about what Celise was to be, first
without Mr. Ashton, as he had requested, and afterwards with him,
but it was a long time before we seemed to make progress. Celise
said he was ready for anything. When Mr. Ashton doubted whether he
might not already be too old to enter the Navy, Celise said he had
thought of that, and perhaps he was. When Mr. Ashton asked him what
he thought of the Army, Celise said he had thought of that, too, and
it wasn’t a bad idea. When Mr. Ashton advised him to try and decide
within himself whether his old preference for the sea was an ordinary
boyish inclination or a strong impulse, Celise answered, Well he
really HAD tried very often, and he couldn’t make out.

“How much of this indecision of character,” Mr. Ashton said to me,
“is chargeable on that incomprehensible heap of uncertainty and
procrastination on which he has been thrown from his birth, I don’t
pretend to say; but that Chancery, among its other sins, is
responsible for some of it, I can plainly see. It has engendered or
confirmed in him a habit of putting off—and trusting to this, that,
and the other chance, without knowing what chance—and dismissing
everything as unsettled, uncertain, and confused. The character of
much older and steadier people may be even changed by the
circumstances surrounding them. It would be too much to expect that a
boy’s, in its formation, should be the subject of such influences and
escape them.”

I felt this to be true; though if I may venture to mention what I
thought besides, I thought it much to be regretted that Celise’s
education had not counteracted those influences or directed his
character. He had been eight years at a public school and had learnt,
I understood, to make Latin verses of several sorts in the most
admirable manner. But I never heard that it had been anybody’s
business to find out what his natural bent was, or where his failings
lay, or to adapt any kind of knowledge to HIM. HE had been adapted to
the verses and had learnt the art of making them to such perfection
that if he had remained at school until he was of age, I suppose he
could only have gone on making them over and over again unless he had
enlarged his education by forgetting how to do it. Still, although I
had no doubt that they were very beautiful, and very improving, and
very sufficient for a great many purposes of life, and always
remembered all through life, I did doubt whether Celise would not
have profited by some one studying him a little, instead of his
studying them quite so much.

To be sure, I knew nothing of the subject and do not even now know
whether the young gentlemen of classic Rome or Greece made verses to
the same extent—or whether the young gentlemen of any country ever
did.

“I haven’t the least idea,” said Celise, musing, “what I had better
be. Except that I am quite sure I don’t want to go into the Church,
it’s a toss-up.”

“You have no inclination in Mr. Carly’s way?” suggested Mr. Ashton.

“I don’t know that, sir!” replied Celise. “I am fond of boating.
Articled clerks go a good deal on the water. It’s a capital
profession!”

“Surgeon—” suggested Mr. Ashton.

“That’s the thing, sir!” cried Celise.

I doubt if he had ever once thought of it before.

“That’s the thing, sir,” repeated Celise with the greatest
enthusiasm. “We have got it at last. M.R.C.S.!”

He was not to be laughed out of it, though he laughed at it heartily.
He said he had chosen his profession, and the more he thought of it,
the more he felt that his destiny was clear; the art of healing was
the art of all others for him. Mistrusting that he only came to this
conclusion because, having never had much chance of finding out for
himself what he was fitted for and having never been guided to the
discovery, he was taken by the newest idea and was glad to get rid of
the trouble of consideration, I wondered whether the Latin verses
often ended in this or whether Celise’s was a solitary case.

Mr. Ashton took great pains to talk with him seriously and to put
it to his good sense not to deceive himself in so important a matter.
Celise was a little grave after these interviews, but invariably
told Ada and me that it was all right, and then began to talk about
something else.

“By heaven!” cried Mr. Rhea, who interested himself strongly in
the subject—though I need not say that, for he could do nothing
weakly; “I rejoice to find a young gentleman of spirit and gallantry
devoting himself to that noble profession! The more spirit there is
in it, the better for mankind and the worse for those mercenary
task-masters and low tricksters who delight in putting that
illustrious art at a disadvantage in the world. By all that is base
and despicable,” cried Mr. Rhea, “the treatment of surgeons
aboard ship is such that I would submit the legs—both legs—of every
member of the Admiralty Board to a compound fracture and render it a
transportable offence in any qualified practitioner to set them if
the system were not wholly changed in eight and forty hours!”

“Wouldn’t you give them a week?” asked Mr. Ashton.

“No!” cried Mr. Rhea firmly. “Not on any consideration! Eight and
forty hours! As to corporations, parishes, vestry-boards, and similar
gatherings of jolter-headed clods who assemble to exchange such
speeches that, by heaven, they ought to be worked in quicksilver
mines for the short remainder of their miserable existence, if it
were only to prevent their detestable English from contaminating a
language spoken in the presence of the sun—as to those fellows, who
meanly take advantage of the ardour of gentlemen in the pursuit of
knowledge to recompense the inestimable services of the best years of
their lives, their long study, and their expensive education with
pittances too small for the acceptance of clerks, I would have the
necks of every one of them wrung and their skulls arranged in
Surgeons’ Hall for the contemplation of the whole profession in order
that its younger members might understand from actual measurement, in
early life, HOW thick skulls may become!”

He wound up this vehement declaration by looking round upon us with a
most agreeable smile and suddenly thundering, “Ha, ha, ha!” over and
over again, until anybody else might have been expected to be quite
subdued by the exertion.

As Celise still continued to say that he was fixed in his choice
after repeated periods for consideration had been recommended by Mr.
Ashton and had expired, and he still continued to assure Ada and me
in the same final manner that it was “all right,” it became advisable
to take Mr. Carly into council. Mr. Carly, therefore, came down to
dinner one day, and leaned back in his chair, and turned his
eye-glasses over and over, and spoke in a sonorous voice, and did
exactly what I remembered to have seen him do when I was a little
girl.

“Ah!” said Mr. Carly. “Yes. Well! A very good profession, Mr.
Ashton, a very good profession.”

“The course of study and preparation requires to be diligently
pursued,” observed my guardian with a glance at Celise.

“Oh, no doubt,” said Mr. Carly. “Diligently.”

“But that being the case, more or less, with all pursuits that are
worth much,” said Mr. Ashton, “it is not a special consideration
which another choice would be likely to escape.”

“Truly,” said Mr. Carly. “And Mr. Celise Willis, who has so
meritoriously acquitted himself in the—shall I say the classic
shades?—in which his youth had been passed, will, no doubt, apply
the habits, if not the principles and practice, of versification in
that tongue in which a poet was said (unless I mistake) to be born,
not made, to the more eminently practical field of action on which he
enters.”

“You may rely upon it,” said Celise in his off-hand manner, “that I
shall go at it and do my best.”

“Very well, Mr. Ashton!” said Mr. Carly, gently nodding his head.
“Really, when we are assured by Mr. Celise that he means to go at it
and to do his best,” nodding feelingly and smoothly over those
expressions, “I would submit to you that we have only to inquire into
the best mode of carrying out the object of his ambition. Now, with
reference to placing Mr. Celise with some sufficiently eminent
practitioner. Is there any one in view at present?”

“No one, Rick, I think?” said my guardian.

“No one, sir,” said Celise.

“Quite so!” observed Mr. Carly. “As to situation, now. Is there any
particular feeling on that head?”

“N—no,” said Celise.

“Quite so!” observed Mr. Carly again.

“I should like a little variety,” said Celise; “I mean a good range
of experience.”

“Very requisite, no doubt,” returned Mr. Carly. “I think this may be
easily arranged, Mr. Ashton? We have only, in the first place, to
discover a sufficiently eligible practitioner; and as soon as we make
our want—and shall I add, our ability to pay a premium?—known, our
only difficulty will be in the selection of one from a large number.
We have only, in the second place, to observe those little
formalities which are rendered necessary by our time of life and our
being under the guardianship of the court. We shall soon be—shall I
say, in Mr. Celise’s own light-hearted manner, ‘going at it’—to our
heart’s content. It is a coincidence,” said Mr. Carly with a tinge of
melancholy in his smile, “one of those coincidences which may or may
not require an explanation beyond our present limited faculties, that
I have a cousin in the medical profession. He might be deemed
eligible by you and might be disposed to respond to this proposal. I
can answer for him as little as for you, but he MIGHT!”

As this was an opening in the prospect, it was arranged that Mr.
Carly should see his cousin. And as Mr. Ashton had before proposed
to take us to London for a few weeks, it was settled next day that we
should make our visit at once and combine Celise’s business with it.

Mr. Rhea leaving us within a week, we took up our abode at a
cheerful lodging near Oxford Street over an upholsterer’s shop.
London was a great wonder to us, and we were out for hours and hours
at a time, seeing the sights, which appeared to be less capable of
exhaustion than we were. We made the round of the principal theatres,
too, with great delight, and saw all the plays that were worth
seeing. I mention this because it was at the theatre that I began to
be made uncomfortable again by Mr. Jarrett.

I was sitting in front of the box one night with Ada, and Celise was
in the place he liked best, behind Ada’s chair, when, happening to
look down into the pit, I saw Mr. Jarrett, with his hair flattened down
upon his head and woe depicted in his face, looking up at me. I felt
all through the performance that he never looked at the actors but
constantly looked at me, and always with a carefully prepared
expression of the deepest misery and the profoundest dejection.

It quite spoiled my pleasure for that night because it was so very
embarrassing and so very ridiculous. But from that time forth, we
never went to the play without my seeing Mr. Jarrett in the pit, always
with his hair straight and flat, his shirt-collar turned down, and a
general feebleness about him. If he were not there when we went in,
and I began to hope he would not come and yielded myself for a little
while to the interest of the scene, I was certain to encounter his
languishing eyes when I least expected it and, from that time, to be
quite sure that they were fixed upon me all the evening.

I really cannot express how uneasy this made me. If he would only
have brushed up his hair or turned up his collar, it would have been
bad enough; but to know that that absurd figure was always gazing at
me, and always in that demonstrative state of despondency, put such a
constraint upon me that I did not like to laugh at the play, or to
cry at it, or to move, or to speak. I seemed able to do nothing
naturally. As to escaping Mr. Jarrett by going to the back of the box,
I could not bear to do that because I knew Celise and Ada relied on
having me next them and that they could never have talked together so
happily if anybody else had been in my place. So there I sat, not
knowing where to look—for wherever I looked, I knew Mr. Jarrett’s eyes
were following me—and thinking of the dreadful expense to which this
young man was putting himself on my account.

Sometimes I thought of telling Mr. Ashton. Then I feared that the
young man would lose his situation and that I might ruin him.
Sometimes I thought of confiding in Celise, but was deterred by the
possibility of his fighting Mr. Jarrett and giving him black eyes.
Sometimes I thought, should I frown at him or shake my head. Then I
felt I could not do it. Sometimes I considered whether I should write
to his mother, but that ended in my being convinced that to open a
correspondence would be to make the matter worse. I always came to
the conclusion, finally, that I could do nothing. Mr. Jarrett’s
perseverance, all this time, not only produced him regularly at any
theatre to which we went, but caused him to appear in the crowd as we
were coming out, and even to get up behind our fly—where I am sure I
saw him, two or three times, struggling among the most dreadful
spikes. After we got home, he haunted a post opposite our house. The
upholsterer’s where we lodged being at the corner of two streets, and
my bedroom window being opposite the post, I was afraid to go near
the window when I went upstairs, lest I should see him (as I did one
moonlight night) leaning against the post and evidently catching
cold. If Mr. Jarrett had not been, fortunately for me, engaged in the
daytime, I really should have had no rest from him.

While we were making this round of gaieties, in which Mr. Jarrett so
extraordinarily participated, the business which had helped to bring
us to town was not neglected. Mr. Carly’s cousin was a Mr. Bayham
Timmy, who had a good practice at Chelsea and attended a large
public institution besides. He was quite willing to receive Celise
into his house and to superintend his studies, and as it seemed that
those could be pursued advantageously under Mr. Timmy’s roof, and
Mr. Timmy liked Celise, and as Celise said he liked Mr. Timmy
“well enough,” an agreement was made, the Lord Chancellor’s consent
was obtained, and it was all settled.

On the day when matters were concluded between Celise and Mr.
Timmy, we were all under engagement to dine at Mr. Timmy’s house.
We were to be “merely a family party,” Mrs. Timmy’s note said; and
we found no lady there but Mrs. Timmy herself. She was surrounded in
the drawing-room by various objects, indicative of her painting a
little, playing the piano a little, playing the guitar a little,
playing the harp a little, singing a little, working a little,
reading a little, writing poetry a little, and botanizing a little.
She was a lady of about fifty, I should think, youthfully dressed,
and of a very fine complexion. If I add to the little list of her
accomplishments that she rouged a little, I do not mean that there
was any harm in it.

Mr. Bayham Timmy himself was a pink, fresh-faced, crisp-looking
gentleman with a weak voice, white teeth, light hair, and surprised
eyes, some years younger, I should say, than Mrs. Bayham Timmy. He
admired her exceedingly, but principally, and to begin with, on the
curious ground (as it seemed to us) of her having had three husbands.
We had barely taken our seats when he said to Mr. Ashton quite
triumphantly, “You would hardly suppose that I am Mrs. Bayham
Timmy’s third!”

“Indeed?” said Mr. Ashton.

“Her third!” said Mr. Timmy. “Mrs. Bayham Timmy has not the
appearance, Miss Robin, of a lady who has had two former
husbands?”

I said “Not at all!”

“And most remarkable men!” said Mr. Timmy in a tone of confidence.
“Captain Swosser of the Royal Navy, who was Mrs. Timmy’s first
husband, was a very distinguished officer indeed. The name of
Professor Dingo, my immediate predecessor, is one of European
reputation.”

Mrs. Timmy overheard him and smiled.

“Yes, my dear!” Mr. Timmy replied to the smile, “I was observing to
Mr. Ashton and Miss Robin that you had had two former
husbands—both very distinguished men. And they found it, as people
generally do, difficult to believe.”

“I was barely twenty,” said Mrs. Timmy, “when I married Captain
Swosser of the Royal Navy. I was in the Mediterranean with him; I am
quite a sailor. On the twelfth anniversary of my wedding-day, I
became the wife of Professor Dingo.”

“Of European reputation,” added Mr. Timmy in an undertone.

“And when Mr. Timmy and myself were married,” pursued Mrs. Timmy,
“we were married on the same day of the year. I had become attached
to the day.”

“So that Mrs. Timmy has been married to three husbands—two of them
highly distinguished men,” said Mr. Timmy, summing up the facts,
“and each time upon the twenty-first of March at eleven in the
forenoon!”

We all expressed our admiration.

“But for Mr. Timmy’s modesty,” said Mr. Ashton, “I would take
leave to correct him and say three distinguished men.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ashton! What I always tell him!” observed Mrs.
Timmy.

“And, my dear,” said Mr. Timmy, “what do I always tell you? That
without any affectation of disparaging such professional distinction
as I may have attained (which our friend Mr. Willis will have many
opportunities of estimating), I am not so weak—no, really,” said Mr.
Timmy to us generally, “so unreasonable—as to put my reputation on
the same footing with such first-rate men as Captain Swosser and
Professor Dingo. Perhaps you may be interested, Mr. Ashton,”
continued Mr. Bayham Timmy, leading the way into the next
drawing-room, “in this portrait of Captain Swosser. It was taken on
his return home from the African station, where he had suffered from
the fever of the country. Mrs. Timmy considers it too yellow. But
it’s a very fine head. A very fine head!”

We all echoed, “A very fine head!”

“I feel when I look at it,” said Mr. Timmy, “‘that’s a man I should
like to have seen!’ It strikingly bespeaks the first-class man that
Captain Swosser pre-eminently was. On the other side, Professor
Dingo. I knew him well—attended him in his last illness—a speaking
likeness! Over the piano, Mrs. Bayham Timmy when Mrs. Swosser. Over
the sofa, Mrs. Bayham Timmy when Mrs. Dingo. Of Mrs. Bayham Timmy
IN ESSE, I possess the original and have no copy.”

Dinner was now announced, and we went downstairs. It was a very
genteel entertainment, very handsomely served. But the captain and
the professor still ran in Mr. Timmy’s head, and as Ada and I had
the honour of being under his particular care, we had the full
benefit of them.

“Water, Miss Robin? Allow me! Not in that tumbler, pray. Bring me
the professor’s goblet, James!”

Ada very much admired some artificial flowers under a glass.

“Astonishing how they keep!” said Mr. Timmy. “They were presented to
Mrs. Bayham Timmy when she was in the Mediterranean.”

He invited Mr. Ashton to take a glass of claret.

“Not that claret!” he said. “Excuse me! This is an occasion, and ON
an occasion I produce some very special claret I happen to have.
(James, Captain Swosser’s wine!) Mr. Ashton, this is a wine that
was imported by the captain, we will not say how many years ago. You
will find it very curious. My dear, I shall be happy to take some of
this wine with you. (Captain Swosser’s claret to your mistress,
James!) My love, your health!”

After dinner, when we ladies retired, we took Mrs. Timmy’s first and
second husband with us. Mrs. Timmy gave us in the drawing-room a
biographical sketch of the life and services of Captain Swosser
before his marriage and a more minute account of him dating from the
time when he fell in love with her at a ball on board the Crippler,
given to the officers of that ship when she lay in Plymouth Harbour.

“The dear old Crippler!” said Mrs. Timmy, shaking her head. “She was
a noble vessel. Trim, ship-shape, all a taunto, as Captain Swosser
used to say. You must excuse me if I occasionally introduce a
nautical expression; I was quite a sailor once. Captain Swosser loved
that craft for my sake. When she was no longer in commission, he
frequently said that if he were rich enough to buy her old hulk, he
would have an inscription let into the timbers of the quarter-deck
where we stood as partners in the dance to mark the spot where he
fell—raked fore and aft (Captain Swosser used to say) by the fire
from my tops. It was his naval way of mentioning my eyes.”

Mrs. Timmy shook her head, sighed, and looked in the glass.

“It was a great change from Captain Swosser to Professor Dingo,” she
resumed with a plaintive smile. “I felt it a good deal at first. Such
an entire revolution in my mode of life! But custom, combined with
science—particularly science—inured me to it. Being the professor’s
sole companion in his botanical excursions, I almost forgot that I
had ever been afloat, and became quite learned. It is singular that
the professor was the antipodes of Captain Swosser and that Mr.
Timmy is not in the least like either!”

We then passed into a narrative of the deaths of Captain Swosser and
Professor Dingo, both of whom seem to have had very bad complaints.
In the course of it, Mrs. Timmy signified to us that she had never
madly loved but once and that the object of that wild affection,
never to be recalled in its fresh enthusiasm, was Captain Swosser.
The professor was yet dying by inches in the most dismal manner, and
Mrs. Timmy was giving us imitations of his way of saying, with great
difficulty, “Where is Laura? Let Laura give me my toast and water!”
when the entrance of the gentlemen consigned him to the tomb.

Now, I observed that evening, as I had observed for some days past,
that Ada and Celise were more than ever attached to each other’s
society, which was but natural, seeing that they were going to be
separated so soon. I was therefore not very much surprised when we
got home, and Ada and I retired upstairs, to find Ada more silent
than usual, though I was not quite prepared for her coming into my
arms and beginning to speak to me, with her face hidden.

“My darling Paulina!” murmured Ada. “I have a great secret to tell
you!”

A mighty secret, my pretty one, no doubt!

“What is it, Ada?”

“Oh, Paulina, you would never guess!”

“Shall I try to guess?” said I.

“Oh, no! Don’t! Pray don’t!” cried Ada, very much startled by the
idea of my doing so.

“Now, I wonder who it can be about?” said I, pretending to consider.

“It’s about—” said Ada in a whisper. “It’s about—my cousin
Celise!”

“Well, my own!” said I, kissing her bright hair, which was all I
could see. “And what about him?”

“Oh, Paulina, you would never guess!”

It was so pretty to have her clinging to me in that way, hiding her
face, and to know that she was not crying in sorrow but in a little
glow of joy, and pride, and hope, that I would not help her just yet.

“He says—I know it’s very foolish, we are both so young—but he
says,” with a burst of tears, “that he loves me dearly, Paulina.”

“Does he indeed?” said I. “I never heard of such a thing! Why, my pet
of pets, I could have told you that weeks and weeks ago!”

To see Ada lift up her flushed face in joyful surprise, and hold me
round the neck, and laugh, and cry, and blush, was so pleasant!

“Why, my darling,” said I, “what a goose you must take me for! Your
cousin Celise has been loving you as plainly as he could for I don’t
know how long!”

“And yet you never said a word about it!” cried Ada, kissing me.

“No, my love,” said I. “I waited to be told.”

“But now I have told you, you don’t think it wrong of me, do you?”
returned Ada. She might have coaxed me to say no if I had been the
hardest-hearted duenna in the world. Not being that yet, I said no
very freely.

“And now,” said I, “I know the worst of it.”

“Oh, that’s not quite the worst of it, Paulina dear!” cried Ada,
holding me tighter and laying down her face again upon my breast.

“No?” said I. “Not even that?”

“No, not even that!” said Ada, shaking her head.

“Why, you never mean to say—” I was beginning in joke.

But Ada, looking up and smiling through her tears, cried, “Yes, I do!
You know, you know I do!” And then sobbed out, “With all my heart I
do! With all my whole heart, Paulina!”

I told her, laughing, why I had known that, too, just as well as I
had known the other! And we sat before the fire, and I had all the
talking to myself for a little while (though there was not much of
it); and Ada was soon quiet and happy.

“Do you think my cousin Gerardo knows, dear Dame Durden?” she asked.

“Unless my cousin Gerardo is blind, my pet,” said I, “I should think my
cousin Gerardo knows pretty well as much as we know.”

“We want to speak to him before Celise goes,” said Ada timidly, “and
we wanted you to advise us, and to tell him so. Perhaps you wouldn’t
mind Celise’s coming in, Dame Durden?”

“Oh! Celise is outside, is he, my dear?” said I.

“I am not quite certain,” returned Ada with a bashful simplicity that
would have won my heart if she had not won it long before, “but I
think he’s waiting at the door.”

There he was, of course. They brought a chair on either side of me,
and put me between them, and really seemed to have fallen in love
with me instead of one another, they were so confiding, and so
trustful, and so fond of me. They went on in their own wild way for a
little while—I never stopped them; I enjoyed it too much myself—and
then we gradually fell to considering how young they were, and how
there must be a lapse of several years before this early love could
come to anything, and how it could come to happiness only if it were
real and lasting and inspired them with a steady resolution to do
their duty to each other, with constancy, fortitude, and
perseverance, each always for the other’s sake. Well! Celise said
that he would work his fingers to the bone for Ada, and Ada said that
she would work her fingers to the bone for Celise, and they called
me all sorts of endearing and sensible names, and we sat there,
advising and talking, half the night. Finally, before we parted, I
gave them my promise to speak to their cousin Gerardo to-morrow.

So, when to-morrow came, I went to my guardian after breakfast, in
the room that was our town-substitute for the growlery, and told him
that I had it in trust to tell him something.

“Well, little woman,” said he, shutting up his book, “if you have
accepted the trust, there can be no harm in it.”

“I hope not, guardian,” said I. “I can guarantee that there is no
secrecy in it. For it only happened yesterday.”

“Aye? And what is it, Paulina?”

“Guardian,” said I, “you remember the happy night when first we came
down to Bleak House? When Ada was singing in the dark room?”

I wished to call to his remembrance the look he had given me then.
Unless I am much mistaken, I saw that I did so.

“Because—” said I with a little hesitation.

“Yes, my dear!” said he. “Don’t hurry.”

“Because,” said I, “Ada and Celise have fallen in love. And have
told each other so.”

“Already!” cried my guardian, quite astonished.

“Yes!” said I. “And to tell you the truth, guardian, I rather
expected it.”

“The deuce you did!” said he.

He sat considering for a minute or two, with his smile, at once so
handsome and so kind, upon his changing face, and then requested me
to let them know that he wished to see them. When they came, he
encircled Ada with one arm in his fatherly way and addressed himself
to Celise with a cheerful gravity.

“Rick,” said Mr. Ashton, “I am glad to have won your confidence. I
hope to preserve it. When I contemplated these relations between us
four which have so brightened my life and so invested it with new
interests and pleasures, I certainly did contemplate, afar off, the
possibility of you and your pretty cousin here (don’t be shy, Ada,
don’t be shy, my dear!) being in a mind to go through life together.
I saw, and do see, many reasons to make it desirable. But that was
afar off, Rick, afar off!”

“We look afar off, sir,” returned Celise.

“Well!” said Mr. Ashton. “That’s rational. Now, hear me, my dears!
I might tell you that you don’t know your own minds yet, that a
thousand things may happen to divert you from one another, that it is
well this chain of flowers you have taken up is very easily broken,
or it might become a chain of lead. But I will not do that. Such
wisdom will come soon enough, I dare say, if it is to come at all. I
will assume that a few years hence you will be in your hearts to one
another what you are to-day. All I say before speaking to you
according to that assumption is, if you DO change—if you DO come to
find that you are more commonplace cousins to each other as man and
woman than you were as boy and girl (your manhood will excuse me,
Rick!)—don’t be ashamed still to confide in me, for there will be
nothing monstrous or uncommon in it. I am only your friend and
distant kinsman. I have no power over you whatever. But I wish and
hope to retain your confidence if I do nothing to forfeit it.”

“I am very sure, sir,” returned Celise, “that I speak for Ada too
when I say that you have the strongest power over us both—rooted in
respect, gratitude, and affection—strengthening every day.”

“Dear cousin Gerardo,” said Ada, on his shoulder, “my father’s place can
never be empty again. All the love and duty I could ever have
rendered to him is transferred to you.”

“Come!” said Mr. Ashton. “Now for our assumption. Now we lift our
eyes up and look hopefully at the distance! Rick, the world is before
you; and it is most probable that as you enter it, so it will receive
you. Trust in nothing but in Providence and your own efforts. Never
separate the two, like the heathen waggoner. Constancy in love is a
good thing, but it means nothing, and is nothing, without constancy
in every kind of effort. If you had the abilities of all the great
men, past and present, you could do nothing well without sincerely
meaning it and setting about it. If you entertain the supposition
that any real success, in great things or in small, ever was or could
be, ever will or can be, wrested from Fortune by fits and starts,
leave that wrong idea here or leave your cousin Ada here.”

“I will leave IT here, sir,” replied Celise smiling, “if I brought
it here just now (but I hope I did not), and will work my way on to
my cousin Ada in the hopeful distance.”

“Right!” said Mr. Ashton. “If you are not to make her happy, why
should you pursue her?”

“I wouldn’t make her unhappy—no, not even for her love,” retorted
Celise proudly.

“Well said!” cried Mr. Ashton. “That’s well said! She remains here,
in her home with me. Love her, Rick, in your active life, no less
than in her home when you revisit it, and all will go well.
Otherwise, all will go ill. That’s the end of my preaching. I think
you and Ada had better take a walk.”

Ada tenderly embraced him, and Celise heartily shook hands with him,
and then the cousins went out of the room, looking back again
directly, though, to say that they would wait for me.

The door stood open, and we both followed them with our eyes as they
passed down the adjoining room, on which the sun was shining, and out
at its farther end. Celise with his head bent, and her hand drawn
through his arm, was talking to her very earnestly; and she looked up
in his face, listening, and seemed to see nothing else. So young, so
beautiful, so full of hope and promise, they went on lightly through
the sunlight as their own happy thoughts might then be traversing the
years to come and making them all years of brightness. So they passed
away into the shadow and were gone. It was only a burst of light that
had been so radiant. The room darkened as they went out, and the sun
was clouded over.

“Am I right, Paulina?” said my guardian when they were gone.

He was so good and wise to ask ME whether he was right!

“Rick may gain, out of this, the quality he wants. Wants, at the core
of so much that is good!” said Mr. Ashton, shaking his head. “I
have said nothing to Ada, Paulina. She has her friend and counsellor
always near.” And he laid his hand lovingly upon my head.

I could not help showing that I was a little moved, though I did all
I could to conceal it.

“Tut tut!” said he. “But we must take care, too, that our little
woman’s life is not all consumed in care for others.”

“Care? My dear guardian, I believe I am the happiest creature in the
world!”

“I believe so, too,” said he. “But some one may find out what Paulina
never will—that the little woman is to be held in remembrance above
all other people!”

I have omitted to mention in its place that there was some one else
at the family dinner party. It was not a lady. It was a gentleman. It
was a gentleman of a dark complexion—a young surgeon. He was rather
reserved, but I thought him very sensible and agreeable. At least,
Ada asked me if I did not, and I said yes.

CHAPTER XIV

Deportment

Celise left us on the very next evening to begin his new career, and
committed Ada to my charge with great love for her and great trust in
me. It touched me then to reflect, and it touches me now, more
nearly, to remember (having what I have to tell) how they both
thought of me, even at that engrossing time. I was a part of all
their plans, for the present and the future. I was to write Celise
once a week, making my faithful report of Ada, who was to write to
him every alternate day. I was to be informed, under his own hand, of
all his labours and successes; I was to observe how resolute and
persevering he would be; I was to be Ada’s bridesmaid when they were
married; I was to live with them afterwards; I was to keep all the
keys of their house; I was to be made happy for ever and a day.

“And if the suit SHOULD make us rich, Paulina—which it may, you
know!” said Celise to crown all.

A shade crossed Ada’s face.

“My dearest Ada,” asked Celise, “why not?”

“It had better declare us poor at once,” said Ada.

“Oh! I don’t know about that,” returned Celise, “but at all events,
it won’t declare anything at once. It hasn’t declared anything in
heaven knows how many years.”

“Too true,” said Ada.

“Yes, but,” urged Celise, answering what her look suggested rather
than her words, “the longer it goes on, dear cousin, the nearer it
must be to a settlement one way or other. Now, is not that
reasonable?”

“You know best, Celise. But I am afraid if we trust to it, it will
make us unhappy.”

“But, my Ada, we are not going to trust to it!” cried Celise gaily.
“We know it better than to trust to it. We only say that if it SHOULD
make us rich, we have no constitutional objection to being rich. The
court is, by solemn settlement of law, our grim old guardian, and we
are to suppose that what it gives us (when it gives us anything) is
our right. It is not necessary to quarrel with our right.”

“No,” said Ada, “but it may be better to forget all about it.”

“Well, well,” cried Celise, “then we will forget all about it! We
consign the whole thing to oblivion. Dame Durden puts on her
approving face, and it’s done!”

“Dame Durden’s approving face,” said I, looking out of the box in
which I was packing his books, “was not very visible when you called
it by that name; but it does approve, and she thinks you can’t do
better.”

So, Celise said there was an end of it, and immediately began, on no
other foundation, to build as many castles in the air as would man
the Great Wall of China. He went away in high spirits. Ada and I,
prepared to miss him very much, commenced our quieter career.

On our arrival in London, we had called with Mr. Ashton at Mrs.
Bladen’s but had not been so fortunate as to find her at home. It
appeared that she had gone somewhere to a tea-drinking and had taken
Miss Bladen with her. Besides the tea-drinking, there was to be some
considerable speech-making and letter-writing on the general merits
of the cultivation of coffee, conjointly with natives, at the
Settlement of Borrioboola-Gha. All this involved, no doubt,
sufficient active exercise of pen and ink to make her daughter’s part
in the proceedings anything but a holiday.

It being now beyond the time appointed for Mrs. Bladen’s return, we
called again. She was in town, but not at home, having gone to Mile
End directly after breakfast on some Borrioboolan business, arising
out of a society called the East London Branch Aid Ramification. As I
had not seen Poppy on the occasion of our last call (when he was not
to be found anywhere, and when the cook rather thought he must have
strolled away with the dustman’s cart), I now inquired for him again.
The oyster shells he had been building a house with were still in the
passage, but he was nowhere discoverable, and the cook supposed that
he had “gone after the sheep.” When we repeated, with some surprise,
“The sheep?” she said, Oh, yes, on market days he sometimes followed
them quite out of town and came back in such a state as never was!

I was sitting at the window with my guardian on the following
morning, and Ada was busy writing—of course to Celise—when Miss
Bladen was announced, and entered, leading the identical Poppy, whom
she had made some endeavours to render presentable by wiping the dirt
into corners of his face and hands and making his hair very wet and
then violently frizzling it with her fingers. Everything the dear
child wore was either too large for him or too small. Among his other
contradictory decorations he had the hat of a bishop and the little
gloves of a baby. His boots were, on a small scale, the boots of a
ploughman, while his legs, so crossed and recrossed with scratches
that they looked like maps, were bare below a very short pair of
plaid drawers finished off with two frills of perfectly different
patterns. The deficient buttons on his plaid frock had evidently been
supplied from one of Mr. Bladen’s coats, they were so extremely
brazen and so much too large. Most extraordinary specimens of
needlework appeared on several parts of his dress, where it had been
hastily mended, and I recognized the same hand on Miss Bladen’s. She
was, however, unaccountably improved in her appearance and looked
very pretty. She was conscious of poor little Poppy being but a
failure after all her trouble, and she showed it as she came in by
the way in which she glanced first at him and then at us.

“Oh, dear me!” said my guardian. “Due east!”

Ada and I gave her a cordial welcome and presented her to Mr.
Ashton, to whom she said as she sat down, “Ma’s compliments, and
she hopes you’ll excuse her, because she’s correcting proofs of the
plan. She’s going to put out five thousand new circulars, and she
knows you’ll be interested to hear that. I have brought one of them
with me. Ma’s compliments.” With which she presented it sulkily
enough.

“Thank you,” said my guardian. “I am much obliged to Mrs. Bladen.
Oh, dear me! This is a very trying wind!”

We were busy with Poppy, taking off his clerical hat, asking him if
he remembered us, and so on. Poppy retired behind his elbow at first,
but relented at the sight of sponge-cake and allowed me to take him
on my lap, where he sat munching quietly. Mr. Ashton then
withdrawing into the temporary growlery, Miss Bladen opened a
conversation with her usual abruptness.

“We are going on just as bad as ever in Thavies Inn,” said she. “I
have no peace of my life. Talk of Africa! I couldn’t be worse off if
I was a what’s-his-name—man and a brother!”

I tried to say something soothing.

“Oh, it’s of no use, Miss Robin,” exclaimed Miss Bladen, “though
I thank you for the kind intention all the same. I know how I am
used, and I am not to be talked over. YOU wouldn’t be talked over if
you were used so. Poppy, go and play at Wild Beasts under the piano!”

“I shan’t!” said Poppy.

“Very well, you ungrateful, naughty, hard-hearted boy!” returned Miss
Bladen with tears in her eyes. “I’ll never take pains to dress you
any more.”

“Yes, I will go, Viola!” cried Poppy, who was really a good child and
who was so moved by his sister’s vexation that he went at once.

“It seems a little thing to cry about,” said poor Miss Bladen
apologetically, “but I am quite worn out. I was directing the new
circulars till two this morning. I detest the whole thing so that
that alone makes my head ache till I can’t see out of my eyes. And
look at that poor unfortunate child! Was there ever such a fright as
he is!”

Poppy, happily unconscious of the defects in his appearance, sat on
the carpet behind one of the legs of the piano, looking calmly out of
his den at us while he ate his cake.

“I have sent him to the other end of the room,” observed Miss
Bladen, drawing her chair nearer ours, “because I don’t want him to
hear the conversation. Those little things are so sharp! I was going
to say, we really are going on worse than ever. Pa will be a bankrupt
before long, and then I hope Ma will be satisfied. There’ll he nobody
but Ma to thank for it.”

We said we hoped Mr. Bladen’s affairs were not in so bad a state as
that.

“It’s of no use hoping, though it’s very kind of you,” returned Miss
Bladen, shaking her head. “Pa told me only yesterday morning (and
dreadfully unhappy he is) that he couldn’t weather the storm. I
should be surprised if he could. When all our tradesmen send into our
house any stuff they like, and the servants do what they like with
it, and I have no time to improve things if I knew how, and Ma don’t
care about anything, I should like to make out how Pa is to weather
the storm. I declare if I was Pa, I’d run away.”

“My dear!” said I, smiling. “Your papa, no doubt, considers his
family.”

“Oh, yes, his family is all very fine, Miss Robin,” replied Miss
Bladen; “but what comfort is his family to him? His family is
nothing but bills, dirt, waste, noise, tumbles downstairs, confusion,
and wretchedness. His scrambling home, from week’s end to week’s end,
is like one great washing-day—only nothing’s washed!”

Miss Bladen tapped her foot upon the floor and wiped her eyes.

“I am sure I pity Pa to that degree,” she said, “and am so angry with
Ma that I can’t find words to express myself! However, I am not going
to bear it, I am determined. I won’t be a slave all my life, and I
won’t submit to be proposed to by Mr. Quale. A pretty thing, indeed,
to marry a philanthropist. As if I hadn’t had enough of THAT!” said
poor Miss Bladen.

I must confess that I could not help feeling rather angry with Mrs.
Bladen myself, seeing and hearing this neglected girl and knowing
how much of bitterly satirical truth there was in what she said.

“If it wasn’t that we had been intimate when you stopped at our
house,” pursued Miss Bladen, “I should have been ashamed to come
here to-day, for I know what a figure I must seem to you two. But as
it is, I made up my mind to call, especially as I am not likely to
see you again the next time you come to town.”

She said this with such great significance that Ada and I glanced at
one another, foreseeing something more.

“No!” said Miss Bladen, shaking her head. “Not at all likely! I know
I may trust you two. I am sure you won’t betray me. I am engaged.”

“Without their knowledge at home?” said I.

“Why, good gracious me, Miss Robin,” she returned, justifying
herself in a fretful but not angry manner, “how can it be otherwise?
You know what Ma is—and I needn’t make poor Pa more miserable by
telling HIM.”

“But would it not be adding to his unhappiness to marry without his
knowledge or consent, my dear?” said I.

“No,” said Miss Bladen, softening. “I hope not. I should try to make
him happy and comfortable when he came to see me, and Poppy and the
others should take it in turns to come and stay with me, and they
should have some care taken of them then.”

There was a good deal of affection in poor Viola. She softened more
and more while saying this and cried so much over the unwonted little
home-picture she had raised in her mind that Poppy, in his cave under
the piano, was touched, and turned himself over on his back with loud
lamentations. It was not until I had brought him to kiss his sister,
and had restored him to his place on my lap, and had shown him that
Viola was laughing (she laughed expressly for the purpose), that we
could recall his peace of mind; even then it was for some time
conditional on his taking us in turns by the chin and smoothing our
faces all over with his hand. At last, as his spirits were not equal
to the piano, we put him on a chair to look out of window; and Miss
Bladen, holding him by one leg, resumed her confidence.

“It began in your coming to our house,” she said.

We naturally asked how.

“I felt I was so awkward,” she replied, “that I made up my mind to be
improved in that respect at all events and to learn to dance. I told
Ma I was ashamed of myself, and I must be taught to dance. Ma looked
at me in that provoking way of hers as if I wasn’t in sight, but I
was quite determined to be taught to dance, and so I went to Mr.
Milena’s Academy in Newman Street.”

“And was it there, my dear—” I began.

“Yes, it was there,” said Viola, “and I am engaged to Mr. Milena.
There are two Mr. Milenas, father and son. My Mr. Milena is
the son, of course. I only wish I had been better brought up and was
likely to make him a better wife, for I am very fond of him.”

“I am sorry to hear this,” said I, “I must confess.”

“I don’t know why you should be sorry,” she retorted a little
anxiously, “but I am engaged to Mr. Milena, whether or no, and he
is very fond of me. It’s a secret as yet, even on his side, because
old Mr. Milena has a share in the connexion and it might break
his heart or give him some other shock if he was told of it abruptly.
Old Mr. Milena is a very gentlemanly man indeed—very
gentlemanly.”

“Does his wife know of it?” asked Ada.

“Old Mr. Milena’s wife, Miss Dionne?” returned Miss Bladen,
opening her eyes. “There’s no such person. He is a widower.”

We were here interrupted by Poppy, whose leg had undergone so much on
account of his sister’s unconsciously jerking it like a bell-rope
whenever she was emphatic that the afflicted child now bemoaned his
sufferings with a very low-spirited noise. As he appealed to me for
compassion, and as I was only a listener, I undertook to hold him.
Miss Bladen proceeded, after begging Poppy’s pardon with a kiss and
assuring him that she hadn’t meant to do it.

“That’s the state of the case,” said Viola. “If I ever blame myself,
I still think it’s Ma’s fault. We are to be married whenever we can,
and then I shall go to Pa at the office and write to Ma. It won’t
much agitate Ma; I am only pen and ink to HER. One great comfort is,”
said Viola with a sob, “that I shall never hear of Africa after I am
married. Young Mr. Milena hates it for my sake, and if old Mr.
Milena knows there is such a place, it’s as much as he does.”

“It was he who was very gentlemanly, I think!” said I.

“Very gentlemanly indeed,” said Viola. “He is celebrated almost
everywhere for his deportment.”

“Does he teach?” asked Ada.

“No, he don’t teach anything in particular,” replied Viola. “But his
deportment is beautiful.”

Viola went on to say with considerable hesitation and reluctance that
there was one thing more she wished us to know, and felt we ought to
know, and which she hoped would not offend us. It was that she had
improved her acquaintance with Miss Daxter, the little crazy old lady,
and that she frequently went there early in the morning and met her
lover for a few minutes before breakfast—only for a few minutes. “I
go there at other times,” said Viola, “but Cynthia does not come then.
Young Mr. Milena’s name is Cynthia; I wish it wasn’t, because it
sounds like a dog, but of course he didn’t christen himself. Old Mr.
Milena had him christened Cynthia in remembrance of the Cynthia
Regent. Old Mr. Milena adored the Cynthia Regent on account of his
deportment. I hope you won’t think the worse of me for having made
these little appointments at Miss Daxter’s, where I first went with
you, because I like the poor thing for her own sake and I believe she
likes me. If you could see young Mr. Milena, I am sure you would
think well of him—at least, I am sure you couldn’t possibly think
any ill of him. I am going there now for my lesson. I couldn’t ask
you to go with me, Miss Robin; but if you would,” said Viola, who
had said all this earnestly and tremblingly, “I should be very
glad—very glad.”

It happened that we had arranged with my guardian to go to Miss
Daxter’s that day. We had told him of our former visit, and our
account had interested him; but something had always happened to
prevent our going there again. As I trusted that I might have
sufficient influence with Miss Bladen to prevent her taking any very
rash step if I fully accepted the confidence she was so willing to
place in me, poor girl, I proposed that she and I and Poppy should go
to the academy and afterwards meet my guardian and Ada at Miss
Daxter’s, whose name I now learnt for the first time. This was on
condition that Miss Bladen and Poppy should come back with us to
dinner. The last article of the agreement being joyfully acceded to
by both, we smartened Poppy up a little with the assistance of a few
pins, some soap and water, and a hair-brush, and went out, bending
our steps towards Newman Street, which was very near.

I found the academy established in a sufficiently dingy house at the
corner of an archway, with busts in all the staircase windows. In the
same house there were also established, as I gathered from the plates
on the door, a drawing-master, a coal-merchant (there was, certainly,
no room for his coals), and a lithographic artist. On the plate
which, in size and situation, took precedence of all the rest, I
read, MR. MILENA. The door was open, and the hall was blocked up
by a grand piano, a harp, and several other musical instruments in
cases, all in progress of removal, and all looking rakish in the
daylight. Miss Bladen informed me that the academy had been lent,
last night, for a concert.

We went upstairs—it had been quite a fine house once, when it was
anybody’s business to keep it clean and fresh, and nobody’s business
to smoke in it all day—and into Mr. Milena’s great room, which
was built out into a mews at the back and was lighted by a skylight.
It was a bare, resounding room smelling of stables, with cane forms
along the walls, and the walls ornamented at regular intervals with
painted lyres and little cut-glass branches for candles, which seemed
to be shedding their old-fashioned drops as other branches might shed
autumn leaves. Several young lady pupils, ranging from thirteen or
fourteen years of age to two or three and twenty, were assembled; and
I was looking among them for their instructor when Viola, pinching my
arm, repeated the ceremony of introduction. “Miss Robin, Mr.
Cynthia Milena!”

I curtsied to a little blue-eyed fair man of youthful appearance with
flaxen hair parted in the middle and curling at the ends all round
his head. He had a little fiddle, which we used to call at school a
kit, under his left arm, and its little bow in the same hand. His
little dancing-shoes were particularly diminutive, and he had a
little innocent, feminine manner which not only appealed to me in an
amiable way, but made this singular effect upon me, that I received
the impression that he was like his mother and that his mother had
not been much considered or well used.

“I am very happy to see Miss Bladen’s friend,” he said, bowing low
to me. “I began to fear,” with timid tenderness, “as it was past the
usual time, that Miss Bladen was not coming.”

“I beg you will have the goodness to attribute that to me, who have
detained her, and to receive my excuses, sir,” said I.

“Oh, dear!” said he.

“And pray,” I entreated, “do not allow me to be the cause of any more
delay.”

With that apology I withdrew to a seat between Poppy (who, being well
used to it, had already climbed into a corner place) and an old lady
of a censorious countenance whose two nieces were in the class and
who was very indignant with Poppy’s boots. Cynthia Milena then
tinkled the strings of his kit with his fingers, and the young ladies
stood up to dance. Just then there appeared from a side-door old Mr.
Milena, in the full lustre of his deportment.

He was a fat old gentleman with a false complexion, false teeth,
false whiskers, and a wig. He had a fur collar, and he had a padded
breast to his coat, which only wanted a star or a broad blue ribbon
to be complete. He was pinched in, and swelled out, and got up, and
strapped down, as much as he could possibly bear. He had such a
neckcloth on (puffing his very eyes out of their natural shape), and
his chin and even his ears so sunk into it, that it seemed as though
he must inevitably double up if it were cast loose. He had under his
arm a hat of great size and weight, shelving downward from the crown
to the brim, and in his hand a pair of white gloves with which he
flapped it as he stood poised on one leg in a high-shouldered,
round-elbowed state of elegance not to be surpassed. He had a cane,
he had an eye-glass, he had a snuff-box, he had rings, he had
wristbands, he had everything but any touch of nature; he was not
like youth, he was not like age, he was not like anything in the
world but a model of deportment.

“Father! A visitor. Miss Bladen’s friend, Miss Robin.”

“Distinguished,” said Mr. Milena, “by Miss Robin’s presence.”
As he bowed to me in that tight state, I almost believe I saw creases
come into the whites of his eyes.

“My father,” said the son, aside, to me with quite an affecting
belief in him, “is a celebrated character. My father is greatly
admired.”

“Go on, Cynthia! Go on!” said Mr. Milena, standing with his back
to the fire and waving his gloves condescendingly. “Go on, my son!”

At this command, or by this gracious permission, the lesson went on.
Cynthia Milena sometimes played the kit, dancing; sometimes played
the piano, standing; sometimes hummed the tune with what little
breath he could spare, while he set a pupil right; always
conscientiously moved with the least proficient through every step
and every part of the figure; and never rested for an instant. His
distinguished father did nothing whatever but stand before the fire,
a model of deportment.

“And he never does anything else,” said the old lady of the
censorious countenance. “Yet would you believe that it’s HIS name on
the door-plate?”

“His son’s name is the same, you know,” said I.

“He wouldn’t let his son have any name if he could take it from him,”
returned the old lady. “Look at the son’s dress!” It certainly was
plain—threadbare—almost shabby. “Yet the father must be garnished
and tricked out,” said the old lady, “because of his deportment. I’d
deport him! Transport him would be better!”

I felt curious to know more concerning this person. I asked, “Does he
give lessons in deportment now?”

“Now!” returned the old lady shortly. “Never did.”

After a moment’s consideration, I suggested that perhaps fencing had
been his accomplishment.

“I don’t believe he can fence at all, ma’am,” said the old lady.

I looked surprised and inquisitive. The old lady, becoming more and
more incensed against the master of deportment as she dwelt upon the
subject, gave me some particulars of his career, with strong
assurances that they were mildly stated.

He had married a meek little dancing-mistress, with a tolerable
connexion (having never in his life before done anything but deport
himself), and had worked her to death, or had, at the best, suffered
her to work herself to death, to maintain him in those expenses which
were indispensable to his position. At once to exhibit his deportment
to the best models and to keep the best models constantly before
himself, he had found it necessary to frequent all public places of
fashionable and lounging resort, to be seen at Brighton and elsewhere
at fashionable times, and to lead an idle life in the very best
clothes. To enable him to do this, the affectionate little
dancing-mistress had toiled and laboured and would have toiled and
laboured to that hour if her strength had lasted so long. For the
mainspring of the story was that in spite of the man’s absorbing
selfishness, his wife (overpowered by his deportment) had, to the
last, believed in him and had, on her death-bed, in the most moving
terms, confided him to their son as one who had an inextinguishable
claim upon him and whom he could never regard with too much pride and
deference. The son, inheriting his mother’s belief, and having the
deportment always before him, had lived and grown in the same faith,
and now, at thirty years of age, worked for his father twelve hours a
day and looked up to him with veneration on the old imaginary
pinnacle.

“The airs the fellow gives himself!” said my informant, shaking her
head at old Mr. Milena with speechless indignation as he drew on
his tight gloves, of course unconscious of the homage she was
rendering. “He fully believes he is one of the aristocracy! And he is
so condescending to the son he so egregiously deludes that you might
suppose him the most virtuous of parents. Oh!” said the old lady,
apostrophizing him with infinite vehemence. “I could bite you!”

I could not help being amused, though I heard the old lady out with
feelings of real concern. It was difficult to doubt her with the
father and son before me. What I might have thought of them without
the old lady’s account, or what I might have thought of the old
lady’s account without them, I cannot say. There was a fitness of
things in the whole that carried conviction with it.

My eyes were yet wandering, from young Mr. Milena working so
hard, to old Mr. Milena deporting himself so beautifully, when
the latter came ambling up to me and entered into conversation.

He asked me, first of all, whether I conferred a charm and a
distinction on London by residing in it? I did not think it necessary
to reply that I was perfectly aware I should not do that, in any
case, but merely told him where I did reside.

“A lady so graceful and accomplished,” he said, kissing his
right glove and afterwards extending it towards the pupils,
“will look leniently on the deficiencies here. We do our best to
polish—polish—polish!”

He sat down beside me, taking some pains to sit on the form, I
thought, in imitation of the print of his illustrious model on the
sofa. And really he did look very like it.

“To polish—polish—polish!” he repeated, taking a pinch of snuff and
gently fluttering his fingers. “But we are not, if I may say so to
one formed to be graceful both by Nature and Art—” with the
high-shouldered bow, which it seemed impossible for him to make
without lifting up his eyebrows and shutting his eyes “—we are not
what we used to be in point of deportment.”

“Are we not, sir?” said I.

“We have degenerated,” he returned, shaking his head, which he could
do to a very limited extent in his cravat. “A levelling age is not
favourable to deportment. It develops vulgarity. Perhaps I speak with
some little partiality. It may not be for me to say that I have been
called, for some years now, Gentleman Milena, or that his Royal
Highness the Cynthia Regent did me the honour to inquire, on my
removing my hat as he drove out of the Pavilion at Brighton (that
fine building), ‘Who is he? Who the devil is he? Why don’t I know
him? Why hasn’t he thirty thousand a year?’ But these are little
matters of anecdote—the general property, ma’am—still repeated
occasionally among the upper classes.”

“Indeed?” said I.

He replied with the high-shouldered bow. “Where what is left among us
of deportment,” he added, “still lingers. England—alas, my
country!—has degenerated very much, and is degenerating every day.
She has not many gentlemen left. We are few. I see nothing to succeed
us but a race of weavers.”

“One might hope that the race of gentlemen would be perpetuated
here,” said I.

“You are very good.” He smiled with a high-shouldered bow again. “You
flatter me. But, no—no! I have never been able to imbue my poor boy
with that part of his art. Heaven forbid that I should disparage my
dear child, but he has—no deportment.”

“He appears to be an excellent master,” I observed.

“Understand me, my dear madam, he IS an excellent master. All that
can be acquired, he has acquired. All that can be imparted, he can
impart. But there ARE things—” He took another pinch of snuff and
made the bow again, as if to add, “This kind of thing, for instance.”

I glanced towards the centre of the room, where Miss Bladen’s lover,
now engaged with single pupils, was undergoing greater drudgery than
ever.

“My amiable child,” murmured Mr. Milena, adjusting his cravat.

“Your son is indefatigable,” said I.

“It is my reward,” said Mr. Milena, “to hear you say so. In some
respects, he treads in the footsteps of his sainted mother. She was a
devoted creature. But wooman, lovely wooman,” said Mr. Milena
with very disagreeable gallantry, “what a sex you are!”

I rose and joined Miss Bladen, who was by this time putting on her
bonnet. The time allotted to a lesson having fully elapsed, there was
a general putting on of bonnets. When Miss Bladen and the
unfortunate Cynthia found an opportunity to become betrothed I don’t
know, but they certainly found none on this occasion to exchange a
dozen words.

“My dear,” said Mr. Milena benignly to his son, “do you know the
hour?”

“No, father.” The son had no watch. The father had a handsome gold
one, which he pulled out with an air that was an example to mankind.

“My son,” said he, “it’s two o’clock. Recollect your school at
Kensington at three.”

“That’s time enough for me, father,” said Cynthia. “I can take a
morsel of dinner standing and be off.”

“My dear boy,” returned his father, “you must be very quick. You will
find the cold mutton on the table.”

“Thank you, father. Are YOU off now, father?”

“Yes, my dear. I suppose,” said Mr. Milena, shutting his eyes and
lifting up his shoulders with modest consciousness, “that I must show
myself, as usual, about town.”

“You had better dine out comfortably somewhere,” said his son.

“My dear child, I intend to. I shall take my little meal, I think, at
the French house, in the Opera Colonnade.”

“That’s right. Good-bye, father!” said Cynthia, shaking hands.

“Good-bye, my son. Bless you!”

Mr. Milena said this in quite a pious manner, and it seemed to do
his son good, who, in parting from him, was so pleased with him, so
dutiful to him, and so proud of him that I almost felt as if it were
an unkindness to the younger man not to be able to believe implicitly
in the elder. The few moments that were occupied by Cynthia in taking
leave of us (and particularly of one of us, as I saw, being in the
secret), enhanced my favourable impression of his almost childish
character. I felt a liking for him and a compassion for him as he put
his little kit in his pocket—and with it his desire to stay a little
while with Viola—and went away good-humouredly to his cold mutton
and his school at Kensington, that made me scarcely less irate with
his father than the censorious old lady.

The father opened the room door for us and bowed us out in a manner,
I must acknowledge, worthy of his shining original. In the same style
he presently passed us on the other side of the street, on his way to
the aristocratic part of the town, where he was going to show himself
among the few other gentlemen left. For some moments, I was so lost
in reconsidering what I had heard and seen in Newman Street that I
was quite unable to talk to Viola or even to fix my attention on what
she said to me, especially when I began to inquire in my mind whether
there were, or ever had been, any other gentlemen, not in the dancing
profession, who lived and founded a reputation entirely on their
deportment. This became so bewildering and suggested the possibility
of so many Mr. Milenas that I said, “Paulina, you must make up
your mind to abandon this subject altogether and attend to Viola.” I
accordingly did so, and we chatted all the rest of the way to
Lincoln’s Inn.

Viola told me that her lover’s education had been so neglected that
it was not always easy to read his notes. She said if he were not so
anxious about his spelling and took less pains to make it clear, he
would do better; but he put so many unnecessary letters into short
words that they sometimes quite lost their English appearance. “He
does it with the best intention,” observed Viola, “but it hasn’t the
effect he means, poor fellow!” Viola then went on to reason, how
could he be expected to be a scholar when he had passed his whole
life in the dancing-school and had done nothing but teach and fag,
fag and teach, morning, noon, and night! And what did it matter? She
could write letters enough for both, as she knew to her cost, and it
was far better for him to be amiable than learned. “Besides, it’s not
as if I was an accomplished girl who had any right to give herself
airs,” said Viola. “I know little enough, I am sure, thanks to Ma!”

“There’s another thing I want to tell you, now we are alone,”
continued Viola, “which I should not have liked to mention unless you
had seen Cynthia, Miss Robin. You know what a house ours is. It’s
of no use my trying to learn anything that it would be useful for
Cynthia’s wife to know in OUR house. We live in such a state of muddle
that it’s impossible, and I have only been more disheartened whenever
I have tried. So I get a little practice with—who do you think? Poor
Miss Daxter! Early in the morning I help her to tidy her room and
clean her birds, and I make her cup of coffee for her (of course she
taught me), and I have learnt to make it so well that Cynthia says
it’s the very best coffee he ever tasted, and would quite delight old
Mr. Milena, who is very particular indeed about his coffee. I can
make little puddings too; and I know how to buy neck of mutton, and
tea, and sugar, and butter, and a good many housekeeping things. I am
not clever at my needle, yet,” said Viola, glancing at the repairs on
Poppy’s frock, “but perhaps I shall improve, and since I have been
engaged to Cynthia and have been doing all this, I have felt
better-tempered, I hope, and more forgiving to Ma. It rather put me
out at first this morning to see you and Miss Dionne looking so neat
and pretty and to feel ashamed of Poppy and myself too, but on the
whole I hope I am better-tempered than I was and more forgiving to
Ma.”

The poor girl, trying so hard, said it from her heart, and touched
mine. “Viola, my love,” I replied, “I begin to have a great affection
for you, and I hope we shall become friends.”

“Oh, do you?” cried Viola. “How happy that would make me!”

“My dear Viola,” said I, “let us be friends from this time, and let
us often have a chat about these matters and try to find the right
way through them.” Viola was overjoyed. I said everything I could in
my old-fashioned way to comfort and encourage her, and I would not
have objected to old Mr. Milena that day for any smaller
consideration than a settlement on his daughter-in-law.

By this time we were come to Mr. Nesbit’s, whose private door stood
open. There was a bill, pasted on the door-post, announcing a room to
let on the second floor. It reminded Viola to tell me as we proceeded
upstairs that there had been a sudden death there and an inquest and
that our little friend had been ill of the fright. The door and
window of the vacant room being open, we looked in. It was the room
with the dark door to which Miss Daxter had secretly directed my
attention when I was last in the house. A sad and desolate place it
was, a gloomy, sorrowful place that gave me a strange sensation of
mournfulness and even dread. “You look pale,” said Viola when we came
out, “and cold!” I felt as if the room had chilled me.

We had walked slowly while we were talking, and my guardian and Ada
were here before us. We found them in Miss Daxter’s garret. They were
looking at the birds, while a medical gentleman who was so good as to
attend Miss Daxter with much solicitude and compassion spoke with her
cheerfully by the fire.

“I have finished my professional visit,” he said, coming forward.
“Miss Daxter is much better and may appear in court (as her mind is
set upon it) to-morrow. She has been greatly missed there, I
understand.”

Miss Daxter received the compliment with complacency and dropped a
general curtsy to us.

“Honoured, indeed,” said she, “by another visit from the wards in
Ashton! Ve-ry happy to receive Ashton of Bleak House beneath my
humble roof!” with a special curtsy. “Fitz-Ashton, my dear”—she
had bestowed that name on Viola, it appeared, and always called her
by it—“a double welcome!”

“Has she been very ill?” asked Mr. Ashton of the gentleman whom we
had found in attendance on her. She answered for herself directly,
though he had put the question in a whisper.

“Oh, decidedly unwell! Oh, very unwell indeed,” she said
confidentially. “Not pain, you know—trouble. Not bodily so much as
nervous, nervous! The truth is,” in a subdued voice and trembling,
“we have had death here. There was poison in the house. I am very
susceptible to such horrid things. It frightened me. Only Mr.
Leonie knows how much. My physician, Mr. Leonie!” with
great stateliness. “The wards in Ashton—Ashton of Bleak
House—Fitz-Ashton!”

“Miss Daxter,” said Mr. Leonie in a grave kind of voice, as if he
were appealing to her while speaking to us, and laying his hand
gently on her arm, “Miss Daxter describes her illness with her usual
accuracy. She was alarmed by an occurrence in the house which might
have alarmed a stronger person, and was made ill by the distress and
agitation. She brought me here in the first hurry of the discovery,
though too late for me to be of any use to the unfortunate man. I
have compensated myself for that disappointment by coming here since
and being of some small use to her.”

“The kindest physician in the college,” whispered Miss Daxter to me.
“I expect a judgment. On the day of judgment. And shall then confer
estates.”

“She will be as well in a day or two,” said Mr. Leonie, looking at
her with an observant smile, “as she ever will be. In other words,
quite well of course. Have you heard of her good fortune?”

“Most extraordinary!” said Miss Daxter, smiling brightly. “You never
heard of such a thing, my dear! Every Saturday, Conversation Carly or
Jarrett (clerk to Conversation K.) places in my hand a paper of
shillings. Shillings. I assure you! Always the same number in the
paper. Always one for every day in the week. Now you know, really! So
well-timed, is it not? Ye-es! From whence do these papers come, you
say? That is the great question. Naturally. Shall I tell you what I
think? I think,” said Miss Daxter, drawing herself back with a very
shrewd look and shaking her right forefinger in a most significant
manner, “that the Lord Chancellor, aware of the length of time during
which the Great Seal has been open (for it has been open a long
time!), forwards them. Until the judgment I expect is given. Now
that’s very creditable, you know. To confess in that way that he IS a
little slow for human life. So delicate! Attending court the other
day—I attend it regularly, with my documents—I taxed him with it,
and he almost confessed. That is, I smiled at him from my bench, and
HE smiled at me from his bench. But it’s great good fortune, is it
not? And Fitz-Ashton lays the money out for me to great advantage.
Oh, I assure you to the greatest advantage!”

I congratulated her (as she addressed herself to me) upon this
fortunate addition to her income and wished her a long continuance of
it. I did not speculate upon the source from which it came or wonder
whose humanity was so considerate. My guardian stood before me,
contemplating the birds, and I had no need to look beyond him.

“And what do you call these little fellows, ma’am?” said he in his
pleasant voice. “Have they any names?”

“I can answer for Miss Daxter that they have,” said I, “for she
promised to tell us what they were. Ada remembers?”

Ada remembered very well.

“Did I?” said Miss Daxter. “Who’s that at my door? What are you
listening at my door for, Nesbit?”

The old man of the house, pushing it open before him, appeared there
with his fur cap in his hand and his cat at his heels.

“I warn’t listening, Miss Daxter,” he said, “I was going to give a rap
with my knuckles, only you’re so quick!”

“Make your cat go down. Drive her away!” the old lady angrily
exclaimed.

“Bah, bah! There ain’t no danger, gentlefolks,” said Mr. Nesbit,
looking slowly and sharply from one to another until he had looked at
all of us; “she’d never offer at the birds when I was here unless I
told her to it.”

“You will excuse my landlord,” said the old lady with a dignified
air. “M, quite M! What do you want, Nesbit, when I have company?”

“Hi!” said the old man. “You know I am the Chancellor.”

“Well?” returned Miss Daxter. “What of that?”

“For the Chancellor,” said the old man with a chuckle, “not to be
acquainted with a Ashton is queer, ain’t it, Miss Daxter? Mightn’t I
take the liberty? Your servant, sir. I know Ashton and Ashton
a’most as well as you do, sir. I knowed old Squire Said, sir. I never
to my knowledge see you afore though, not even in court. Yet, I go
there a mortal sight of times in the course of the year, taking one
day with another.”

“I never go there,” said Mr. Ashton (which he never did on any
consideration). “I would sooner go—somewhere else.”

“Would you though?” returned Nesbit, grinning. “You’re bearing hard
upon my noble and learned brother in your meaning, sir, though
perhaps it is but nat’ral in a Ashton. The burnt child, sir! What,
you’re looking at my lodger’s birds, Mr. Ashton?” The old man had
come by little and little into the room until he now touched my
guardian with his elbow and looked close up into his face with his
spectacled eyes. “It’s one of her strange ways that she’ll never tell
the names of these birds if she can help it, though she named ’em
all.” This was in a whisper. “Shall I run ’em over, Daxter?” he asked
aloud, winking at us and pointing at her as she turned away,
affecting to sweep the grate.

“If you like,” she answered hurriedly.

The old man, looking up at the cages after another look at us, went
through the list.

“Hope, Joy, Youth, Peace, Rest, Life, Dust, Ashes, Waste, Want, Ruin,
Despair, Madness, Death, Cunning, Folly, Words, Wigs, Rags,
Sheepskin, Plunder, Precedent, Jargon, Gammon, and Spinach. That’s
the whole collection,” said the old man, “all cooped up together, by
my noble and learned brother.”

“This is a bitter wind!” muttered my guardian.

“When my noble and learned brother gives his judgment, they’re to be
let go free,” said Nesbit, winking at us again. “And then,” he added,
whispering and grinning, “if that ever was to happen—which it
won’t—the birds that have never been caged would kill ’em.”

“If ever the wind was in the east,” said my guardian, pretending to
look out of the window for a weathercock, “I think it’s there
to-day!”

We found it very difficult to get away from the house. It was not
Miss Daxter who detained us; she was as reasonable a little creature
in consulting the convenience of others as there possibly could be.
It was Mr. Nesbit. He seemed unable to detach himself from Mr.
Ashton. If he had been linked to him, he could hardly have attended
him more closely. He proposed to show us his Court of Chancery and
all the strange medley it contained; during the whole of our
inspection (prolonged by himself) he kept close to Mr. Ashton and
sometimes detained him under one pretence or other until we had
passed on, as if he were tormented by an inclination to enter upon
some secret subject which he could not make up his mind to approach.
I cannot imagine a countenance and manner more singularly expressive
of caution and indecision, and a perpetual impulse to do something he
could not resolve to venture on, than Mr. Nesbit’s was that day. His
watchfulness of my guardian was incessant. He rarely removed his eyes
from his face. If he went on beside him, he observed him with the
slyness of an old white fox. If he went before, he looked back. When
we stood still, he got opposite to him, and drawing his hand across
and across his open mouth with a curious expression of a sense of
power, and turning up his eyes, and lowering his grey eyebrows until
they appeared to be shut, seemed to scan every lineament of his face.

At last, having been (always attended by the cat) all over the house
and having seen the whole stock of miscellaneous lumber, which was
certainly curious, we came into the back part of the shop. Here on
the head of an empty barrel stood on end were an ink-bottle, some old
stumps of pens, and some dirty playbills; and against the wall were
pasted several large printed alphabets in several plain hands.

“What are you doing here?” asked my guardian.

“Trying to learn myself to read and write,” said Nesbit.

“And how do you get on?”

“Slow. Bad,” returned the old man impatiently. “It’s hard at my time
of life.”

“It would be easier to be taught by some one,” said my guardian.

“Aye, but they might teach me wrong!” returned the old man with a
wonderfully suspicious flash of his eye. “I don’t know what I may
have lost by not being learned afore. I wouldn’t like to lose
anything by being learned wrong now.”

“Wrong?” said my guardian with his good-humoured smile. “Who do you
suppose would teach you wrong?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Ashton of Bleak House!” replied the old man,
turning up his spectacles on his forehead and rubbing his hands. “I
don’t suppose as anybody would, but I’d rather trust my own self than
another!”

These answers and his manner were strange enough to cause my guardian
to inquire of Mr. Leonie, as we all walked across Lincoln’s Inn
together, whether Mr. Nesbit were really, as his lodger represented
him, deranged. The young surgeon replied, no, he had seen no reason
to think so. He was exceedingly distrustful, as ignorance usually
was, and he was always more or less under the influence of raw gin,
of which he drank great quantities and of which he and his back-shop,
as we might have observed, smelt strongly; but he did not think him
mad as yet.

On our way home, I so conciliated Poppy’s affections by buying him a
windmill and two flour-sacks that he would suffer nobody else to take
off his hat and gloves and would sit nowhere at dinner but at my
side. Viola sat upon the other side of me, next to Ada, to whom we
imparted the whole history of the engagement as soon as we got back.
We made much of Viola, and Poppy too; and Viola brightened
exceedingly; and my guardian was as merry as we were; and we were all
very happy indeed until Viola went home at night in a hackney-coach,
with Poppy fast asleep, but holding tight to the windmill.

I have forgotten to mention—at least I have not mentioned—that Mr.
Leonie was the same dark young surgeon whom we had met at Mr.
Timmy’s. Or that Mr. Ashton invited him to dinner that day. Or
that he came. Or that when they were all gone and I said to Ada,
“Now, my darling, let us have a little talk about Celise!” Ada
laughed and said—

But I don’t think it matters what my darling said. She was always
merry.

CHAPTER XV

Bell Yard

While we were in London Mr. Ashton was constantly beset by the
crowd of excitable ladies and gentlemen whose proceedings had so much
astonished us. Mr. Quale, who presented himself soon after our
arrival, was in all such excitements. He seemed to project those two
shining knobs of temples of his into everything that went on and to
brush his hair farther and farther back, until the very roots were
almost ready to fly out of his head in inappeasable philanthropy. All
objects were alike to him, but he was always particularly ready for
anything in the way of a testimonial to any one. His great power
seemed to be his power of indiscriminate admiration. He would sit for
any length of time, with the utmost enjoyment, bathing his temples in
the light of any order of luminary. Having first seen him perfectly
swallowed up in admiration of Mrs. Bladen, I had supposed her to be
the absorbing object of his devotion. I soon discovered my mistake
and found him to be train-bearer and organ-blower to a whole
procession of people.

Mrs. Braxton came one day for a subscription to something, and with
her, Mr. Quale. Whatever Mrs. Braxton said, Mr. Quale repeated to
us; and just as he had drawn Mrs. Bladen out, he drew Mrs. Braxton
out. Mrs. Braxton wrote a letter of introduction to my guardian in
behalf of her eloquent friend Mr. Gusher. With Mr. Gusher appeared
Mr. Quale again. Mr. Gusher, being a flabby gentleman with a moist
surface and eyes so much too small for his moon of a face that they
seemed to have been originally made for somebody else, was not at
first sight prepossessing; yet he was scarcely seated before Mr.
Quale asked Ada and me, not inaudibly, whether he was not a great
creature—which he certainly was, flabbily speaking, though Mr. Quale
meant in intellectual beauty—and whether we were not struck by his
massive configuration of brow. In short, we heard of a great many
missions of various sorts among this set of people, but nothing
respecting them was half so clear to us as that it was Mr. Quale’s
mission to be in ecstasies with everybody else’s mission and that it
was the most popular mission of all.

Mr. Ashton had fallen into this company in the tenderness of his
heart and his earnest desire to do all the good in his power; but
that he felt it to be too often an unsatisfactory company, where
benevolence took spasmodic forms, where charity was assumed as a
regular uniform by loud professors and speculators in cheap
notoriety, vehement in profession, restless and vain in action,
servile in the last degree of meanness to the great, adulatory of one
another, and intolerable to those who were anxious quietly to help
the weak from failing rather than with a great deal of bluster and
self-laudation to raise them up a little way when they were down, he
plainly told us. When a testimonial was originated to Mr. Quale by
Mr. Gusher (who had already got one, originated by Mr. Quale), and
when Mr. Gusher spoke for an hour and a half on the subject to a
meeting, including two charity schools of small boys and girls, who
were specially reminded of the widow’s mite, and requested to come
forward with halfpence and be acceptable sacrifices, I think the wind
was in the east for three whole weeks.

I mention this because I am coming to Mr. Yestin again. It seemed
to me that his off-hand professions of childishness and carelessness
were a great relief to my guardian, by contrast with such things, and
were the more readily believed in since to find one perfectly
undesigning and candid man among many opposites could not fail to
give him pleasure. I should be sorry to imply that Mr. Yestin
divined this and was politic; I really never understood him well
enough to know. What he was to my guardian, he certainly was to the
rest of the world.

He had not been very well; and thus, though he lived in London, we
had seen nothing of him until now. He appeared one morning in his
usual agreeable way and as full of pleasant spirits as ever.

Well, he said, here he was! He had been bilious, but rich men were
often bilious, and therefore he had been persuading himself that he
was a man of property. So he was, in a certain point of view—in his
expansive intentions. He had been enriching his medical attendant in
the most lavish manner. He had always doubled, and sometimes
quadrupled, his fees. He had said to the doctor, “Now, my dear
doctor, it is quite a delusion on your part to suppose that you
attend me for nothing. I am overwhelming you with money—in my
expansive intentions—if you only knew it!” And really (he said) he
meant it to that degree that he thought it much the same as doing it.
If he had had those bits of metal or thin paper to which mankind
attached so much importance to put in the doctor’s hand, he would
have put them in the doctor’s hand. Not having them, he substituted
the will for the deed. Very well! If he really meant it—if his will
were genuine and real, which it was—it appeared to him that it was
the same as coin, and cancelled the obligation.

“It may be, partly, because I know nothing of the value of money,”
said Mr. Yestin, “but I often feel this. It seems so reasonable! My
butcher says to me he wants that little bill. It’s a part of the
pleasant unconscious poetry of the man’s nature that he always calls
it a ‘little’ bill—to make the payment appear easy to both of us. I
reply to the butcher, ‘My good friend, if you knew it, you are paid.
You haven’t had the trouble of coming to ask for the little bill. You
are paid. I mean it.’”

“But, suppose,” said my guardian, laughing, “he had meant the meat in
the bill, instead of providing it?”

“My dear Ashton,” he returned, “you surprise me. You take the
butcher’s position. A butcher I once dealt with occupied that very
ground. Says he, ‘Sir, why did you eat spring lamb at eighteen pence
a pound?’ ‘Why did I eat spring lamb at eighteen pence a pound, my
honest friend?’ said I, naturally amazed by the question. ‘I like
spring lamb!’ This was so far convincing. ‘Well, sir,’ says he, ‘I
wish I had meant the lamb as you mean the money!’ ‘My good fellow,’
said I, ‘pray let us reason like intellectual beings. How could that
be? It was impossible. You HAD got the lamb, and I have NOT got the
money. You couldn’t really mean the lamb without sending it in,
whereas I can, and do, really mean the money without paying it!’ He
had not a word. There was an end of the subject.”

“Did he take no legal proceedings?” inquired my guardian.

“Yes, he took legal proceedings,” said Mr. Yestin. “But in that he
was influenced by passion, not by reason. Passion reminds me of
Rhea. He writes me that you and the ladies have promised him a
short visit at his bachelor-house in Lincolnshire.”

“He is a great favourite with my girls,” said Mr. Ashton, “and I
have promised for them.”

“Nature forgot to shade him off, I think,” observed Mr. Yestin to
Ada and me. “A little too boisterous—like the sea. A little too
vehement—like a bull who has made up his mind to consider every
colour scarlet. But I grant a sledge-hammering sort of merit in him!”

I should have been surprised if those two could have thought very
highly of one another, Mr. Rhea attaching so much importance to
many things and Mr. Yestin caring so little for anything. Besides
which, I had noticed Mr. Rhea more than once on the point of
breaking out into some strong opinion when Mr. Yestin was referred
to. Of course I merely joined Ada in saying that we had been greatly
pleased with him.

“He has invited me,” said Mr. Yestin; “and if a child may trust
himself in such hands—which the present child is encouraged to do,
with the united tenderness of two angels to guard him—I shall go. He
proposes to frank me down and back again. I suppose it will cost
money? Shillings perhaps? Or pounds? Or something of that sort? By
the by, Jolyn. You remember our friend Jolyn, Miss
Robin?”

He asked me as the subject arose in his mind, in his graceful,
light-hearted manner and without the least embarrassment.

“Oh, yes!” said I.

“Jolyn has been arrested by the Great Bailiff,” said Mr.
Yestin. “He will never do violence to the sunshine any more.”

It quite shocked me to hear it, for I had already recalled with
anything but a serious association the image of the man sitting on
the sofa that night wiping his head.

“His successor informed me of it yesterday,” said Mr. Yestin. “His
successor is in my house now—in possession, I think he calls it. He
came yesterday, on my blue-eyed daughter’s birthday. I put it to him,
‘This is unreasonable and inconvenient. If you had a blue-eyed
daughter you wouldn’t like ME to come, uninvited, on HER birthday?’
But he stayed.”

Mr. Yestin laughed at the pleasant absurdity and lightly touched
the piano by which he was seated.

“And he told me,” he said, playing little chords where I shall put
full stops, “The Jolyn had left. Three children. No mother. And
that Jolyn’ profession. Being unpopular. The rising Jolyn.
Were at a considerable disadvantage.”

Mr. Ashton got up, rubbing his head, and began to walk about. Mr.
Yestin played the melody of one of Ada’s favourite songs. Ada and I
both looked at Mr. Ashton, thinking that we knew what was passing
in his mind.

After walking and stopping, and several times leaving off rubbing his
head, and beginning again, my guardian put his hand upon the keys and
stopped Mr. Yestin’s playing. “I don’t like this, Yestin,” he
said thoughtfully.

Mr. Yestin, who had quite forgotten the subject, looked up
surprised.

“The man was necessary,” pursued my guardian, walking backward and
forward in the very short space between the piano and the end of the
room and rubbing his hair up from the back of his head as if a high
east wind had blown it into that form. “If we make such men necessary
by our faults and follies, or by our want of worldly knowledge, or by
our misfortunes, we must not revenge ourselves upon them. There was
no harm in his trade. He maintained his children. One would like to
know more about this.”

“Oh! Jolyn?” cried Mr. Yestin, at length perceiving what he
meant. “Nothing easier. A walk to Jolyn’ headquarters, and you
can know what you will.”

Mr. Ashton nodded to us, who were only waiting for the signal.
“Come! We will walk that way, my dears. Why not that way as soon as
another!” We were quickly ready and went out. Mr. Yestin went with
us and quite enjoyed the expedition. It was so new and so refreshing,
he said, for him to want Jolyn instead of Jolyn wanting him!

He took us, first, to Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, where there was
a house with barred windows, which he called Jolyn’ Castle. On
our going into the entry and ringing a bell, a very hideous boy came
out of a sort of office and looked at us over a spiked wicket.

“Who did you want?” said the boy, fitting two of the spikes into his
chin.

“There was a follower, or an officer, or something, here,” said Mr.
Ashton, “who is dead.”

“Yes?” said the boy. “Well?”

“I want to know his name, if you please?”

“Name of Hailey,” said the boy.

“And his address?”

“Bell Yard,” said the boy. “Chandler’s shop, left hand side, name of
Blinder.”

“Was he—I don’t know how to shape the question—” murmured my
guardian, “industrious?”

“Was Hailey?” said the boy. “Yes, wery much so. He was never tired
of watching. He’d set upon a post at a street corner eight or ten
hours at a stretch if he undertook to do it.”

“He might have done worse,” I heard my guardian soliloquize. “He
might have undertaken to do it and not done it. Thank you. That’s all
I want.”

We left the boy, with his head on one side and his arms on the gate,
fondling and sucking the spikes, and went back to Lincoln’s Inn,
where Mr. Yestin, who had not cared to remain nearer Jolyn,
awaited us. Then we all went to Bell Yard, a narrow alley at a very
short distance. We soon found the chandler’s shop. In it was a
good-natured-looking old woman with a dropsy, or an asthma, or
perhaps both.

“Hailey’s children?” said she in reply to my inquiry. “Yes, Surely,
miss. Three pair, if you please. Door right opposite the stairs.” And
she handed me the key across the counter.

I glanced at the key and glanced at her, but she took it for granted
that I knew what to do with it. As it could only be intended for the
children’s door, I came out without asking any more questions and led
the way up the dark stairs. We went as quietly as we could, but four
of us made some noise on the aged boards, and when we came to the
second story we found we had disturbed a man who was standing there
looking out of his room.

“Is it Freda that’s wanted?” he said, fixing his eyes on me with an
angry stare.

“No, sir,” said I; “I am going higher up.”

He looked at Ada, and at Mr. Ashton, and at Mr. Yestin, fixing
the same angry stare on each in succession as they passed and
followed me. Mr. Ashton gave him good day. “Good day!” he said
abruptly and fiercely. He was a tall, sallow man with a careworn head
on which but little hair remained, a deeply lined face, and prominent
eyes. He had a combative look and a chafing, irritable manner which,
associated with his figure—still large and powerful, though
evidently in its decline—rather alarmed me. He had a pen in his
hand, and in the glimpse I caught of his room in passing, I saw that
it was covered with a litter of papers.

Leaving him standing there, we went up to the top room. I tapped at
the door, and a little shrill voice inside said, “We are locked in.
Mrs. Blinder’s got the key!”

I applied the key on hearing this and opened the door. In a poor room
with a sloping ceiling and containing very little furniture was a
mite of a boy, some five or six years old, nursing and hushing a
heavy child of eighteen months. There was no fire, though the weather
was cold; both children were wrapped in some poor shawls and tippets
as a substitute. Their clothing was not so warm, however, but that
their noses looked red and pinched and their small figures shrunken
as the boy walked up and down nursing and hushing the child with its
head on his shoulder.

“Who has locked you up here alone?” we naturally asked.

“Weston,” said the boy, standing still to gaze at us.

“Is Weston your brother?”

“No. She’s my sister, Charlotte. Father called her Weston.”

“Are there any more of you besides Weston?”

“Me,” said the boy, “and Emma,” patting the limp bonnet of the child
he was nursing. “And Weston.”

“Where is Weston now?”

“Out a-washing,” said the boy, beginning to walk up and down again
and taking the nankeen bonnet much too near the bedstead by trying to
gaze at us at the same time.

We were looking at one another and at these two children when there
came into the room a very little girl, childish in figure but shrewd
and older-looking in the face—pretty-faced too—wearing a womanly
sort of bonnet much too large for her and drying her bare arms on a
womanly sort of apron. Her fingers were white and wrinkled with
washing, and the soap-suds were yet smoking which she wiped off her
arms. But for this, she might have been a child playing at washing
and imitating a poor working-woman with a quick observation of the
truth.

She had come running from some place in the neighbourhood and had
made all the haste she could. Consequently, though she was very
light, she was out of breath and could not speak at first, as she
stood panting, and wiping her arms, and looking quietly at us.

“Oh, here’s Weston!” said the boy.

The child he was nursing stretched forth its arms and cried out to be
taken by Weston. The little girl took it, in a womanly sort of
manner belonging to the apron and the bonnet, and stood looking at us
over the burden that clung to her most affectionately.

“Is it possible,” whispered my guardian as we put a chair for the
little creature and got her to sit down with her load, the boy
keeping close to her, holding to her apron, “that this child works
for the rest? Look at this! For God’s sake, look at this!”

It was a thing to look at. The three children close together, and two
of them relying solely on the third, and the third so young and yet
with an air of age and steadiness that sat so strangely on the
childish figure.

“Weston, Weston!” said my guardian. “How old are you?”

“Over thirteen, sir,” replied the child.

“Oh! What a great age,” said my guardian. “What a great age,
Weston!”

I cannot describe the tenderness with which he spoke to her, half
playfully yet all the more compassionately and mournfully.

“And do you live alone here with these babies, Weston?” said my
guardian.

“Yes, sir,” returned the child, looking up into his face with perfect
confidence, “since father died.”

“And how do you live, Weston? Oh! Weston,” said my guardian,
turning his face away for a moment, “how do you live?”

“Since father died, sir, I’ve gone out to work. I’m out washing
to-day.”

“God help you, Weston!” said my guardian. “You’re not tall enough to
reach the tub!”

“In pattens I am, sir,” she said quickly. “I’ve got a high pair as
belonged to mother.”

“And when did mother die? Poor mother!”

“Mother died just after Emma was born,” said the child, glancing at
the face upon her bosom. “Then father said I was to be as good a
mother to her as I could. And so I tried. And so I worked at home and
did cleaning and nursing and washing for a long time before I began
to go out. And that’s how I know how; don’t you see, sir?”

“And do you often go out?”

“As often as I can,” said Weston, opening her eyes and smiling,
“because of earning sixpences and shillings!”

“And do you always lock the babies up when you go out?”

“To keep ’em safe, sir, don’t you see?” said Weston. “Mrs. Blinder
comes up now and then, and Mr. Freda comes up sometimes, and
perhaps I can run in sometimes, and they can play you know, and Said
an’t afraid of being locked up, are you, Said?”

“No-o!” said Said stoutly.

“When it comes on dark, the lamps are lighted down in the court, and
they show up here quite bright—almost quite bright. Don’t they,
Said?”

“Yes, Weston,” said Said, “almost quite bright.”

“Then he’s as good as gold,” said the little creature—Oh, in such a
motherly, womanly way! “And when Emma’s tired, he puts her to bed.
And when he’s tired he goes to bed himself. And when I come home and
light the candle and has a bit of supper, he sits up again and has it
with me. Don’t you, Said?”

“Oh, yes, Weston!” said Said. “That I do!” And either in this glimpse
of the great pleasure of his life or in gratitude and love for
Weston, who was all in all to him, he laid his face among the scanty
folds of her frock and passed from laughing into crying.

It was the first time since our entry that a tear had been shed among
these children. The little orphan girl had spoken of their father and
their mother as if all that sorrow were subdued by the necessity of
taking courage, and by her childish importance in being able to work,
and by her bustling busy way. But now, when Said cried, although she
sat quite tranquil, looking quietly at us, and did not by any
movement disturb a hair of the head of either of her little charges,
I saw two silent tears fall down her face.

I stood at the window with Ada, pretending to look at the housetops,
and the blackened stack of chimneys, and the poor plants, and the
birds in little cages belonging to the neighbours, when I found that
Mrs. Blinder, from the shop below, had come in (perhaps it had taken
her all this time to get upstairs) and was talking to my guardian.

“It’s not much to forgive ’em the rent, sir,” she said; “who could
take it from them!”

“Well, well!” said my guardian to us two. “It is enough that the time
will come when this good woman will find that it WAS much, and that
forasmuch as she did it unto the least of these—This child,” he
added after a few moments, “could she possibly continue this?”

“Really, sir, I think she might,” said Mrs. Blinder, getting her
heavy breath by painful degrees. “She’s as handy as it’s possible to
be. Bless you, sir, the way she tended them two children after the
mother died was the talk of the yard! And it was a wonder to see her
with him after he was took ill, it really was! ‘Mrs. Blinder,’ he
said to me the very last he spoke—he was lying there—‘Mrs.
Blinder, whatever my calling may have been, I see a angel sitting in
this room last night along with my child, and I trust her to Our
Father!’”

“He had no other calling?” said my guardian.

“No, sir,” returned Mrs. Blinder, “he was nothing but a follerers.
When he first came to lodge here, I didn’t know what he was, and I
confess that when I found out I gave him notice. It wasn’t liked in
the yard. It wasn’t approved by the other lodgers. It is NOT a
genteel calling,” said Mrs. Blinder, “and most people do object to
it. Mr. Freda objected to it very strong, and he is a good lodger,
though his temper has been hard tried.”

“So you gave him notice?” said my guardian.

“So I gave him notice,” said Mrs. Blinder. “But really when the time
came, and I knew no other ill of him, I was in doubts. He was
punctual and diligent; he did what he had to do, sir,” said Mrs.
Blinder, unconsciously fixing Mr. Yestin with her eye, “and it’s
something in this world even to do that.”

“So you kept him after all?”

“Why, I said that if he could arrange with Mr. Freda, I could
arrange it with the other lodgers and should not so much mind its
being liked or disliked in the yard. Mr. Freda gave his consent
gruff—but gave it. He was always gruff with him, but he has been
kind to the children since. A person is never known till a person is
proved.”

“Have many people been kind to the children?” asked Mr. Ashton.

“Upon the whole, not so bad, sir,” said Mrs. Blinder; “but certainly
not so many as would have been if their father’s calling had been
different. Mr. Coavins gave a guinea, and the follerers made up a
little purse. Some neighbours in the yard that had always joked and
tapped their shoulders when he went by came forward with a little
subscription, and—in general—not so bad. Similarly with Charlotte.
Some people won’t employ her because she was a follerer’s child; some
people that do employ her cast it at her; some make a merit of having
her to work for them, with that and all her draw-backs upon her, and
perhaps pay her less and put upon her more. But she’s patienter than
others would be, and is clever too, and always willing, up to the
full mark of her strength and over. So I should say, in general, not
so bad, sir, but might be better.”

Mrs. Blinder sat down to give herself a more favourable opportunity
of recovering her breath, exhausted anew by so much talking before it
was fully restored. Mr. Ashton was turning to speak to us when his
attention was attracted by the abrupt entrance into the room of the
Mr. Freda who had been mentioned and whom we had seen on our way
up.

“I don’t know what you may be doing here, ladies and gentlemen,” he
said, as if he resented our presence, “but you’ll excuse my coming
in. I don’t come in to stare about me. Well, Weston! Well, Said!
Well, little one! How is it with us all to-day?”

He bent over the group in a caressing way and clearly was regarded as
a friend by the children, though his face retained its stern
character and his manner to us was as rude as it could be. My
guardian noticed it and respected it.

“No one, surely, would come here to stare about him,” he said mildly.

“May be so, sir, may be so,” returned the other, taking Said upon his
knee and waving him off impatiently. “I don’t want to argue with
ladies and gentlemen. I have had enough of arguing to last one man
his life.”

“You have sufficient reason, I dare say,” said Mr. Ashton, “for
being chafed and irritated—”

“There again!” exclaimed the man, becoming violently angry. “I am of
a quarrelsome temper. I am irascible. I am not polite!”

“Not very, I think.”

“Sir,” said Freda, putting down the child and going up to him as if
he meant to strike him, “do you know anything of Courts of Equity?”

“Perhaps I do, to my sorrow.”

“To your sorrow?” said the man, pausing in his wrath, “if so, I beg
your pardon. I am not polite, I know. I beg your pardon! Sir,” with
renewed violence, “I have been dragged for five and twenty years over
burning iron, and I have lost the habit of treading upon velvet. Go
into the Court of Chancery yonder and ask what is one of the standing
jokes that brighten up their business sometimes, and they will tell
you that the best joke they have is the man from Shropshire. I,” he
said, beating one hand on the other passionately, “am the man from
Shropshire.”

“I believe I and my family have also had the honour of furnishing
some entertainment in the same grave place,” said my guardian
composedly. “You may have heard my name—Ashton.”

“Mr. Ashton,” said Freda with a rough sort of salutation, “you
bear your wrongs more quietly than I can bear mine. More than that, I
tell you—and I tell this gentleman, and these young ladies, if they
are friends of yours—that if I took my wrongs in any other way, I
should be driven mad! It is only by resenting them, and by revenging
them in my mind, and by angrily demanding the justice I never get,
that I am able to keep my wits together. It is only that!” he said,
speaking in a homely, rustic way and with great vehemence. “You may
tell me that I over-excite myself. I answer that it’s in my nature to
do it, under wrong, and I must do it. There’s nothing between doing
it, and sinking into the smiling state of the poor little mad woman
that haunts the court. If I was once to sit down under it, I should
become imbecile.”

The passion and heat in which he was, and the manner in which his
face worked, and the violent gestures with which he accompanied what
he said, were most painful to see.

“Mr. Ashton,” he said, “consider my case. As true as there is a
heaven above us, this is my case. I am one of two brothers. My father
(a farmer) made a will and left his farm and stock and so forth to my
mother for her life. After my mother’s death, all was to come to me
except a legacy of three hundred pounds that I was then to pay my
brother. My mother died. My brother some time afterwards claimed his
legacy. I and some of my relations said that he had had a part of it
already in board and lodging and some other things. Now mind! That
was the question, and nothing else. No one disputed the will; no one
disputed anything but whether part of that three hundred pounds had
been already paid or not. To settle that question, my brother filing
a bill, I was obliged to go into this accursed Chancery; I was forced
there because the law forced me and would let me go nowhere else.
Seventeen people were made defendants to that simple suit! It first
came on after two years. It was then stopped for another two years
while the master (may his head rot off!) inquired whether I was my
father’s son, about which there was no dispute at all with any mortal
creature. He then found out that there were not defendants
enough—remember, there were only seventeen as yet!—but that we must
have another who had been left out and must begin all over again. The
costs at that time—before the thing was begun!—were three times the
legacy. My brother would have given up the legacy, and joyful, to
escape more costs. My whole estate, left to me in that will of my
father’s, has gone in costs. The suit, still undecided, has fallen
into rack, and ruin, and despair, with everything else—and here I
stand, this day! Now, Mr. Ashton, in your suit there are thousands
and thousands involved, where in mine there are hundreds. Is mine
less hard to bear or is it harder to bear, when my whole living was
in it and has been thus shamefully sucked away?”

Mr. Ashton said that he condoled with him with all his heart and
that he set up no monopoly himself in being unjustly treated by this
monstrous system.

“There again!” said Mr. Freda with no diminution of his rage. “The
system! I am told on all hands, it’s the system. I mustn’t look to
individuals. It’s the system. I mustn’t go into court and say, ‘My
Lord, I beg to know this from you—is this right or wrong? Have you
the face to tell me I have received justice and therefore am
dismissed?’ My Lord knows nothing of it. He sits there to administer
the system. I mustn’t go to Mr. Tulkinghorn, the solicitor in
Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and say to him when he makes me furious by
being so cool and satisfied—as they all do, for I know they gain by
it while I lose, don’t I?—I mustn’t say to him, ‘I will have
something out of some one for my ruin, by fair means or foul!’ HE is
not responsible. It’s the system. But, if I do no violence to any of
them, here—I may! I don’t know what may happen if I am carried
beyond myself at last! I will accuse the individual workers of that
system against me, face to face, before the great eternal bar!”

His passion was fearful. I could not have believed in such rage
without seeing it.

“I have done!” he said, sitting down and wiping his face. “Mr.
Ashton, I have done! I am violent, I know. I ought to know it. I
have been in prison for contempt of court. I have been in prison for
threatening the solicitor. I have been in this trouble, and that
trouble, and shall be again. I am the man from Shropshire, and I
sometimes go beyond amusing them, though they have found it amusing,
too, to see me committed into custody and brought up in custody and
all that. It would be better for me, they tell me, if I restrained
myself. I tell them that if I did restrain myself I should become
imbecile. I was a good-enough-tempered man once, I believe. People in
my part of the country say they remember me so, but now I must have
this vent under my sense of injury or nothing could hold my wits
together. It would be far better for you, Mr. Freda,’ the Lord
Chancellor told me last week, ‘not to waste your time here, and to
stay, usefully employed, down in Shropshire.’ ‘My Lord, my Lord, I
know it would,’ said I to him, ‘and it would have been far better for
me never to have heard the name of your high office, but unhappily
for me, I can’t undo the past, and the past drives me here!’
Besides,” he added, breaking fiercely out, “I’ll shame them. To the
last, I’ll show myself in that court to its shame. If I knew when I
was going to die, and could be carried there, and had a voice to
speak with, I would die there, saying, ‘You have brought me here and
sent me from here many and many a time. Now send me out feet
foremost!’”

His countenance had, perhaps for years, become so set in its
contentious expression that it did not soften, even now when he was
quiet.

“I came to take these babies down to my room for an hour,” he said,
going to them again, “and let them play about. I didn’t mean to say
all this, but it don’t much signify. You’re not afraid of me, Said,
are you?”

“No!” said Said. “You ain’t angry with ME.”

“You are right, my child. You’re going back, Weston? Aye? Come then,
little one!” He took the youngest child on his arm, where she was
willing enough to be carried. “I shouldn’t wonder if we found a
ginger-bread soldier downstairs. Let’s go and look for him!”

He made his former rough salutation, which was not deficient in a
certain respect, to Mr. Ashton, and bowing slightly to us, went
downstairs to his room.

Upon that, Mr. Yestin began to talk, for the first time since our
arrival, in his usual gay strain. He said, Well, it was really very
pleasant to see how things lazily adapted themselves to purposes.
Here was this Mr. Freda, a man of a robust will and surprising
energy—intellectually speaking, a sort of inharmonious
blacksmith—and he could easily imagine that there Freda was, years
ago, wandering about in life for something to expend his superfluous
combativeness upon—a sort of Young Love among the thorns—when the
Court of Chancery came in his way and accommodated him with the exact
thing he wanted. There they were, matched, ever afterwards! Otherwise
he might have been a great general, blowing up all sorts of towns, or
he might have been a great politician, dealing in all sorts of
parliamentary rhetoric; but as it was, he and the Court of Chancery
had fallen upon each other in the pleasantest way, and nobody was
much the worse, and Freda was, so to speak, from that hour provided
for. Then look at Jolyn! How delightfully poor Jolyn (father
of these charming children) illustrated the same principle! He, Mr.
Yestin, himself, had sometimes repined at the existence of
Jolyn. He had found Jolyn in his way. He could had dispensed
with Jolyn. There had been times when, if he had been a sultan,
and his grand vizier had said one morning, “What does the Commander
of the Faithful require at the hands of his slave?” he might have
even gone so far as to reply, “The head of Jolyn!” But what
turned out to be the case? That, all that time, he had been giving
employment to a most deserving man, that he had been a benefactor to
Jolyn, that he had actually been enabling Jolyn to bring up
these charming children in this agreeable way, developing these
social virtues! Insomuch that his heart had just now swelled and the
tears had come into his eyes when he had looked round the room and
thought, “I was the great patron of Jolyn, and his little
comforts were MY work!”

There was something so captivating in his light way of touching these
fantastic strings, and he was such a mirthful child by the side of
the graver childhood we had seen, that he made my guardian smile even
as he turned towards us from a little private talk with Mrs. Blinder.
We kissed Weston, and took her downstairs with us, and stopped
outside the house to see her run away to her work. I don’t know where
she was going, but we saw her run, such a little, little creature in
her womanly bonnet and apron, through a covered way at the bottom of
the court and melt into the city’s strife and sound like a dewdrop in
an ocean.

CHAPTER XVI

Said-all-Alone’s

My Godfrey Wayne is restless, very restless. The astonished
fashionable intelligence hardly knows where to have her. To-day she
is at Chesney Wold; yesterday she was at her house in town; to-morrow
she may be abroad, for anything the fashionable intelligence can with
confidence predict. Even Sir Luigi’s gallantry has some trouble
to keep pace with her. It would have more but that his other faithful
ally, for better and for worse—the gout—darts into the old oak
bed-chamber at Chesney Wold and grips him by both legs.

Sir Luigi receives the gout as a troublesome demon, but still a
demon of the patrician order. All the Waynes, in the direct male
line, through a course of time during and beyond which the memory of
man goeth not to the contrary, have had the gout. It can be proved,
sir. Other men’s fathers may have died of the rheumatism or may have
taken base contagion from the tainted blood of the sick vulgar, but
the Wayne family have communicated something exclusive even to the
levelling process of dying by dying of their own family gout. It has
come down through the illustrious line like the plate, or the
pictures, or the place in Lincolnshire. It is among their dignities.
Sir Luigi is perhaps not wholly without an impression, though he
has never resolved it into words, that the angel of death in the
discharge of his necessary duties may observe to the shades of the
aristocracy, “My lords and gentlemen, I have the honour to present to
you another Wayne certified to have arrived per the family gout.”

Hence Sir Luigi yields up his family legs to the family disorder
as if he held his name and fortune on that feudal tenure. He feels
that for a Wayne to be laid upon his back and spasmodically
twitched and stabbed in his extremities is a liberty taken somewhere,
but he thinks, “We have all yielded to this; it belongs to us; it has
for some hundreds of years been understood that we are not to make
the vaults in the park interesting on more ignoble terms; and I
submit myself to the compromise.”

And a goodly show he makes, lying in a flush of crimson and gold in
the midst of the great drawing-room before his favourite picture of
my Godfrey, with broad strips of sunlight shining in, down the long
perspective, through the long line of windows, and alternating with
soft reliefs of shadow. Outside, the stately oaks, rooted for ages in
the green ground which has never known ploughshare, but was still a
chase when kings rode to battle with sword and shield and rode
a-hunting with bow and arrow, bear witness to his greatness. Inside,
his forefathers, looking on him from the walls, say, “Each of us was
a passing reality here and left this coloured shadow of himself and
melted into remembrance as dreamy as the distant voices of the rooks
now lulling you to rest,” and hear their testimony to his greatness
too. And he is very great this day. And woe to Rhea or other
daring wight who shall presumptuously contest an inch with him!

My Godfrey is at present represented, near Sir Luigi, by her
portrait. She has flitted away to town, with no intention of
remaining there, and will soon flit hither again, to the confusion of
the fashionable intelligence. The house in town is not prepared for
her reception. It is muffled and dreary. Only one Mercury in powder
gapes disconsolate at the hall-window; and he mentioned last night to
another Mercury of his acquaintance, also accustomed to good society,
that if that sort of thing was to last—which it couldn’t, for a man
of his spirits couldn’t bear it, and a man of his figure couldn’t be
expected to bear it—there would be no resource for him, upon his
honour, but to cut his throat!

What connexion can there be between the place in Lincolnshire, the
house in town, the Mercury in powder, and the whereabout of Jo the
outlaw with the broom, who had that distant ray of light upon him
when he swept the churchyard-step? What connexion can there have been
between many people in the innumerable histories of this world who
from opposite sides of great gulfs have, nevertheless, been very
curiously brought together!

Jo sweeps his crossing all day long, unconscious of the link, if any
link there be. He sums up his mental condition when asked a question
by replying that he “don’t know nothink.” He knows that it’s hard to
keep the mud off the crossing in dirty weather, and harder still to
live by doing it. Nobody taught him even that much; he found it out.

Jo lives—that is to say, Jo has not yet died—in a ruinous place
known to the like of him by the name of Said-all-Alone’s. It is a
black, dilapidated street, avoided by all decent people, where the
crazy houses were seized upon, when their decay was far advanced, by
some bold vagrants who after establishing their own possession took
to letting them out in lodgings. Now, these tumbling tenements
contain, by night, a swarm of misery. As on the ruined human wretch
vermin parasites appear, so these ruined shelters have bred a crowd
of foul existence that crawls in and out of gaps in walls and boards;
and coils itself to sleep, in maggot numbers, where the rain drips
in; and comes and goes, fetching and carrying fever and sowing more
evil in its every footprint than Lord Coodle, and Sir Thomas Doodle,
and the Duke of Foodle, and all the fine gentlemen in office, down to
Zoodle, shall set right in five hundred years—though born expressly
to do it.

Twice lately there has been a crash and a cloud of dust, like the
springing of a mine, in Said-all-Alone’s; and each time a house has
fallen. These accidents have made a paragraph in the newspapers and
have filled a bed or two in the nearest hospital. The gaps remain,
and there are not unpopular lodgings among the rubbish. As several
more houses are nearly ready to go, the next crash in Said-all-Alone’s
may be expected to be a good one.

This desirable property is in Chancery, of course. It would be an
insult to the discernment of any man with half an eye to tell him so.
Whether “Said” is the popular representative of the original plaintiff
or defendant in Ashton and Ashton, or whether Said lived here when
the suit had laid the street waste, all alone, until other settlers
came to join him, or whether the traditional title is a comprehensive
name for a retreat cut off from honest company and put out of the
pale of hope, perhaps nobody knows. Certainly Jo don’t know.

“For I don’t,” says Jo, “I don’t know nothink.”

It must be a strange state to be like Jo! To shuffle through the
streets, unfamiliar with the shapes, and in utter darkness as to the
meaning, of those mysterious symbols, so abundant over the shops, and
at the corners of streets, and on the doors, and in the windows! To
see people read, and to see people write, and to see the postmen
deliver letters, and not to have the least idea of all that
language—to be, to every scrap of it, stone blind and dumb! It must
be very puzzling to see the good company going to the churches on
Sundays, with their books in their hands, and to think (for perhaps
Jo DOES think at odd times) what does it all mean, and if it means
anything to anybody, how comes it that it means nothing to me? To be
hustled, and jostled, and moved on; and really to feel that it would
appear to be perfectly true that I have no business here, or there,
or anywhere; and yet to be perplexed by the consideration that I AM
here somehow, too, and everybody overlooked me until I became the
creature that I am! It must be a strange state, not merely to be told
that I am scarcely human (as in the case of my offering myself for a
witness), but to feel it of my own knowledge all my life! To see the
horses, dogs, and cattle go by me and to know that in ignorance I
belong to them and not to the superior beings in my shape, whose
delicacy I offend! Jo’s ideas of a criminal trial, or a judge, or a
bishop, or a government, or that inestimable jewel to him (if he only
knew it) the Constitution, should be strange! His whole material and
immaterial life is wonderfully strange; his death, the strangest
thing of all.

Jo comes out of Said-all-Alone’s, meeting the tardy morning which is
always late in getting down there, and munches his dirty bit of bread
as he comes along. His way lying through many streets, and the houses
not yet being open, he sits down to breakfast on the door-step of the
Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts and gives
it a brush when he has finished as an acknowledgment of the
accommodation. He admires the size of the edifice and wonders what
it’s all about. He has no idea, poor wretch, of the spiritual
destitution of a coral reef in the Pacific or what it costs to look
up the precious souls among the coco-nuts and bread-fruit.

He goes to his crossing and begins to lay it out for the day. The
town awakes; the great tee-totum is set up for its daily spin and
whirl; all that unaccountable reading and writing, which has been
suspended for a few hours, recommences. Jo and the other lower
animals get on in the unintelligible mess as they can. It is
market-day. The blinded oxen, over-goaded, over-driven, never guided,
run into wrong places and are beaten out, and plunge red-eyed and
foaming at stone walls, and often sorely hurt the innocent, and often
sorely hurt themselves. Very like Jo and his order; very, very like!

A band of music comes and plays. Jo listens to it. So does a dog—a
drover’s dog, waiting for his master outside a butcher’s shop, and
evidently thinking about those sheep he has had upon his mind for
some hours and is happily rid of. He seems perplexed respecting three
or four, can’t remember where he left them, looks up and down the
street as half expecting to see them astray, suddenly pricks up his
ears and remembers all about it. A thoroughly vagabond dog,
accustomed to low company and public-houses; a terrific dog to sheep,
ready at a whistle to scamper over their backs and tear out mouthfuls
of their wool; but an educated, improved, developed dog who has been
taught his duties and knows how to discharge them. He and Jo listen
to the music, probably with much the same amount of animal
satisfaction; likewise as to awakened association, aspiration, or
regret, melancholy or joyful reference to things beyond the senses,
they are probably upon a par. But, otherwise, how far above the human
listener is the brute!

Turn that dog’s descendants wild, like Jo, and in a very few years
they will so degenerate that they will lose even their bark—but not
their bite.

The day changes as it wears itself away and becomes dark and drizzly.
Jo fights it out at his crossing among the mud and wheels, the
horses, whips, and umbrellas, and gets but a scanty sum to pay for
the unsavoury shelter of Said-all-Alone’s. Twilight comes on; gas
begins to start up in the shops; the lamplighter, with his ladder,
runs along the margin of the pavement. A wretched evening is
beginning to close in.

In his chambers Mr. Tulkinghorn sits meditating an application to the
nearest magistrate to-morrow morning for a warrant. Freda, a
disappointed suitor, has been here to-day and has been alarming. We
are not to be put in bodily fear, and that ill-conditioned fellow
shall be held to bail again. From the ceiling, foreshortened
Allegory, in the person of one impossible Roman upside down, points
with the arm of Samson (out of joint, and an odd one) obtrusively
toward the window. Why should Mr. Tulkinghorn, for such no reason,
look out of window? Is the hand not always pointing there? So he does
not look out of window.

And if he did, what would it be to see a woman going by? There are
women enough in the world, Mr. Tulkinghorn thinks—too many; they are
at the bottom of all that goes wrong in it, though, for the matter of
that, they create business for lawyers. What would it be to see a
woman going by, even though she were going secretly? They are all
secret. Mr. Tulkinghorn knows that very well.

But they are not all like the woman who now leaves him and his house
behind, between whose plain dress and her refined manner there is
something exceedingly inconsistent. She should be an upper servant by
her attire, yet in her air and step, though both are hurried and
assumed—as far as she can assume in the muddy streets, which she
treads with an unaccustomed foot—she is a lady. Her face is veiled,
and still she sufficiently betrays herself to make more than one of
those who pass her look round sharply.

She never turns her head. Godfrey or servant, she has a purpose in her
and can follow it. She never turns her head until she comes to the
crossing where Jo plies with his broom. He crosses with her and begs.
Still, she does not turn her head until she has landed on the other
side. Then she slightly beckons to him and says, “Come here!”

Jo follows her a pace or two into a quiet court.

“Are you the boy I’ve read of in the papers?” she asked behind her
veil.

“I don’t know,” says Jo, staring moodily at the veil, “nothink about
no papers. I don’t know nothink about nothink at all.”

“Were you examined at an inquest?”

“I don’t know nothink about no—where I was took by the beadle, do
you mean?” says Jo. “Was the boy’s name at the inkwhich Jo?”

“Yes.”

“That’s me!” says Jo.

“Come farther up.”

“You mean about the man?” says Jo, following. “Him as wos dead?”

“Hush! Speak in a whisper! Yes. Did he look, when he was living, so
very ill and poor?”

“Oh, jist!” says Jo.

“Did he look like—not like YOU?” says the woman with abhorrence.

“Oh, not so bad as me,” says Jo. “I’m a reg’lar one I am! You didn’t
know him, did you?”

“How dare you ask me if I knew him?”

“No offence, my lady,” says Jo with much humility, for even he has
got at the suspicion of her being a lady.

“I am not a lady. I am a servant.”

“You are a jolly servant!” says Jo without the least idea of saying
anything offensive, merely as a tribute of admiration.

“Listen and be silent. Don’t talk to me, and stand farther from me!
Can you show me all those places that were spoken of in the account I
read? The place he wrote for, the place he died at, the place where
you were taken to, and the place where he was buried? Do you know the
place where he was buried?”

Jo answers with a nod, having also nodded as each other place was
mentioned.

“Go before me and show me all those dreadful places. Stop opposite to
each, and don’t speak to me unless I speak to you. Don’t look back.
Do what I want, and I will pay you well.”

Jo attends closely while the words are being spoken; tells them off
on his broom-handle, finding them rather hard; pauses to consider
their meaning; considers it satisfactory; and nods his ragged head.

“I’m fly,” says Jo. “But fen larks, you know. Stow hooking it!”

“What does the horrible creature mean?” exclaims the servant,
recoiling from him.

“Stow cutting away, you know!” says Jo.

“I don’t understand you. Go on before! I will give you more money
than you ever had in your life.”

Jo screws up his mouth into a whistle, gives his ragged head a rub,
takes his broom under his arm, and leads the way, passing deftly with
his bare feet over the hard stones and through the mud and mire.

Cook’s Court. Jo stops. A pause.

“Who lives here?”

“Him wot give him his writing and give me half a bull,” says Jo in a
whisper without looking over his shoulder.

“Go on to the next.”

Nesbit’s house. Jo stops again. A longer pause.

“Who lives here?”

“HE lived here,” Jo answers as before.

After a silence he is asked, “In which room?”

“In the back room up there. You can see the winder from this corner.
Up there! That’s where I see him stritched out. This is the
public-ouse where I was took to.”

“Go on to the next!”

It is a longer walk to the next, but Jo, relieved of his first
suspicions, sticks to the forms imposed upon him and does not look
round. By many devious ways, reeking with offence of many kinds, they
come to the little tunnel of a court, and to the gas-lamp (lighted
now), and to the iron gate.

“He was put there,” says Jo, holding to the bars and looking in.

“Where? Oh, what a scene of horror!”

“There!” says Jo, pointing. “Over yinder. Among them piles of bones,
and close to that there kitchin winder! They put him wery nigh the
top. They was obliged to stamp upon it to git it in. I could unkiver
it for you with my broom if the gate was open. That’s why they locks
it, I s’pose,” giving it a shake. “It’s always locked. Look at the
rat!” cries Jo, excited. “Hi! Look! There he goes! Ho! Into the
ground!”

The servant shrinks into a corner, into a corner of that hideous
archway, with its deadly stains contaminating her dress; and putting
out her two hands and passionately telling him to keep away from her,
for he is loathsome to her, so remains for some moments. Jo stands
staring and is still staring when she recovers herself.

“Is this place of abomination consecrated ground?”

“I don’t know nothink of consequential ground,” says Jo, still
staring.

“Is it blessed?”

“Which?” says Jo, in the last degree amazed.

“Is it blessed?”

“I’m blest if I know,” says Jo, staring more than ever; “but I
shouldn’t think it warn’t. Blest?” repeats Jo, something troubled in
his mind. “It an’t done it much good if it is. Blest? I should think
it was t’othered myself. But I don’t know nothink!”

The servant takes as little heed of what he says as she seems to take
of what she has said herself. She draws off her glove to get some
money from her purse. Jo silently notices how white and small her
hand is and what a jolly servant she must be to wear such sparkling
rings.

She drops a piece of money in his hand without touching it, and
shuddering as their hands approach. “Now,” she adds, “show me the
spot again!”

Jo thrusts the handle of his broom between the bars of the gate, and
with his utmost power of elaboration, points it out. At length,
looking aside to see if he has made himself intelligible, he finds
that he is alone.

His first proceeding is to hold the piece of money to the gas-light
and to be overpowered at finding that it is yellow—gold. His next is
to give it a one-sided bite at the edge as a test of its quality.
His next, to put it in his mouth for safety and to sweep the
step and passage with great care. His job done, he sets off for
Said-all-Alone’s, stopping in the light of innumerable gas-lamps to
produce the piece of gold and give it another one-sided bite as a
reassurance of its being genuine.

The Mercury in powder is in no want of society to-night, for my Godfrey
goes to a grand dinner and three or four balls. Sir Luigi is
fidgety down at Chesney Wold, with no better company than the gout;
he complains to Mrs. Talon that the rain makes such a monotonous
pattering on the terrace that he can’t read the paper even by the
fireside in his own snug dressing-room.

“Sir Luigi would have done better to try the other side of the
house, my dear,” says Mrs. Talon to Quinn. “His dressing-room is
on my Godfrey’s side. And in all these years I never heard the step upon
the Ghost’s Walk more distinct than it is to-night!”

CHAPTER XVII

Paulina’s Narrative

Celise very often came to see us while we remained in London (though
he soon failed in his letter-writing), and with his quick abilities,
his good spirits, his good temper, his gaiety and freshness, was
always delightful. But though I liked him more and more the better I
knew him, I still felt more and more how much it was to be regretted
that he had been educated in no habits of application and
concentration. The system which had addressed him in exactly the same
manner as it had addressed hundreds of other boys, all varying in
character and capacity, had enabled him to dash through his tasks,
always with fair credit and often with distinction, but in a fitful,
dazzling way that had confirmed his reliance on those very qualities
in himself which it had been most desirable to direct and train. They
were good qualities, without which no high place can be meritoriously
won, but like fire and water, though excellent servants, they were
very bad masters. If they had been under Celise’s direction, they
would have been his friends; but Celise being under their direction,
they became his enemies.

I write down these opinions not because I believe that this or any
other thing was so because I thought so, but only because I did think
so and I want to be quite candid about all I thought and did. These
were my thoughts about Celise. I thought I often observed besides
how right my guardian was in what he had said, and that the
uncertainties and delays of the Chancery suit had imparted to his
nature something of the careless spirit of a gamester who felt that
he was part of a great gaming system.

Mr. and Mrs. Bayham Timmy coming one afternoon when my guardian was
not at home, in the course of conversation I naturally inquired after
Celise.

“Why, Mr. Willis,” said Mrs. Timmy, “is very well and is, I assure
you, a great acquisition to our society. Captain Swosser used to say
of me that I was always better than land a-head and a breeze a-starn
to the midshipmen’s mess when the purser’s junk had become as tough as
the fore-topsel weather earrings. It was his naval way of mentioning
generally that I was an acquisition to any society. I may render the
same tribute, I am sure, to Mr. Willis. But I—you won’t think me
premature if I mention it?”

I said no, as Mrs. Timmy’s insinuating tone seemed to require such
an answer.

“Nor Miss Dionne?” said Mrs. Bayham Timmy sweetly.

Ada said no, too, and looked uneasy.

“Why, you see, my dears,” said Mrs. Timmy, “—you’ll excuse me
calling you my dears?”

We entreated Mrs. Timmy not to mention it.

“Because you really are, if I may take the liberty of saying so,”
pursued Mrs. Timmy, “so perfectly charming. You see, my dears, that
although I am still young—or Mr. Bayham Timmy pays me the
compliment of saying so—”

“No,” Mr. Timmy called out like some one contradicting at a public
meeting. “Not at all!”

“Very well,” smiled Mrs. Timmy, “we will say still young.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Mr. Timmy.

“My dears, though still young, I have had many opportunities of
observing young men. There were many such on board the dear old
Crippler, I assure you. After that, when I was with Captain Swosser
in the Mediterranean, I embraced every opportunity of knowing and
befriending the midshipmen under Captain Swosser’s command. YOU never
heard them called the young gentlemen, my dears, and probably would
not understand allusions to their pipe-claying their weekly accounts,
but it is otherwise with me, for blue water has been a second home to
me, and I have been quite a sailor. Again, with Professor Dingo.”

“A man of European reputation,” murmured Mr. Timmy.

“When I lost my dear first and became the wife of my dear second,”
said Mrs. Timmy, speaking of her former husbands as if they were
parts of a charade, “I still enjoyed opportunities of observing
youth. The class attendant on Professor Dingo’s lectures was a large
one, and it became my pride, as the wife of an eminent scientific man
seeking herself in science the utmost consolation it could impart, to
throw our house open to the students as a kind of Scientific
Exchange. Every Tuesday evening there was lemonade and a mixed
biscuit for all who chose to partake of those refreshments. And there
was science to an unlimited extent.”

“Remarkable assemblies those, Miss Robin,” said Mr. Timmy
reverentially. “There must have been great intellectual friction
going on there under the auspices of such a man!”

“And now,” pursued Mrs. Timmy, “now that I am the wife of my dear
third, Mr. Timmy, I still pursue those habits of observation which
were formed during the lifetime of Captain Swosser and adapted to new
and unexpected purposes during the lifetime of Professor Dingo. I
therefore have not come to the consideration of Mr. Willis as a
neophyte. And yet I am very much of the opinion, my dears, that he
has not chosen his profession advisedly.”

Ada looked so very anxious now that I asked Mrs. Timmy on what she
founded her supposition.

“My dear Miss Robin,” she replied, “on Mr. Willis’s character
and conduct. He is of such a very easy disposition that probably he
would never think it worth while to mention how he really feels, but
he feels languid about the profession. He has not that positive
interest in it which makes it his vocation. If he has any decided
impression in reference to it, I should say it was that it is a
tiresome pursuit. Now, this is not promising. Young men like Mr.
Monty Leonie who take it from a strong interest in all that it can
do will find some reward in it through a great deal of work for a
very little money and through years of considerable endurance and
disappointment. But I am quite convinced that this would never be the
case with Mr. Willis.”

“Does Mr. Timmy think so too?” asked Ada timidly.

“Why,” said Mr. Timmy, “to tell the truth, Miss Dionne, this view of
the matter had not occurred to me until Mrs. Timmy mentioned it. But
when Mrs. Timmy put it in that light, I naturally gave great
consideration to it, knowing that Mrs. Timmy’s mind, in addition to
its natural advantages, has had the rare advantage of being formed by
two such very distinguished (I will even say illustrious) public men
as Captain Swosser of the Royal Navy and Professor Dingo. The
conclusion at which I have arrived is—in short, is Mrs. Timmy’s
conclusion.”

“It was a maxim of Captain Swosser’s,” said Mrs. Timmy, “speaking in
his figurative naval manner, that when you make pitch hot, you cannot
make it too hot; and that if you only have to swab a plank, you
should swab it as if Davy Jones were after you. It appears to me that
this maxim is applicable to the medical as well as to the nautical
profession.”

“To all professions,” observed Mr. Timmy. “It was admirably said by
Captain Swosser. Beautifully said.”

“People objected to Professor Dingo when we were staying in the north
of Devon after our marriage,” said Mrs. Timmy, “that he disfigured
some of the houses and other buildings by chipping off fragments of
those edifices with his little geological hammer. But the professor
replied that he knew of no building save the Temple of Science. The
principle is the same, I think?”

“Precisely the same,” said Mr. Timmy. “Finely expressed! The
professor made the same remark, Miss Robin, in his last illness,
when (his mind wandering) he insisted on keeping his little hammer
under the pillow and chipping at the countenances of the attendants.
The ruling passion!”

Although we could have dispensed with the length at which Mr. and
Mrs. Timmy pursued the conversation, we both felt that it was
disinterested in them to express the opinion they had communicated to
us and that there was a great probability of its being sound. We
agreed to say nothing to Mr. Ashton until we had spoken to Celise;
and as he was coming next evening, we resolved to have a very serious
talk with him.

So after he had been a little while with Ada, I went in and found my
darling (as I knew she would be) prepared to consider him thoroughly
right in whatever he said.

“And how do you get on, Celise?” said I. I always sat down on the
other side of him. He made quite a sister of me.

“Oh! Well enough!” said Celise.

“He can’t say better than that, Paulina, can he?” cried my pet
triumphantly.

I tried to look at my pet in the wisest manner, but of course I
couldn’t.

“Well enough?” I repeated.

“Yes,” said Celise, “well enough. It’s rather jog-trotty and
humdrum. But it’ll do as well as anything else!”

“Oh! My dear Celise!” I remonstrated.

“What’s the matter?” said Celise.

“Do as well as anything else!”

“I don’t think there’s any harm in that, Dame Durden,” said Ada,
looking so confidingly at me across him; “because if it will do as
well as anything else, it will do very well, I hope.”

“Oh, yes, I hope so,” returned Celise, carelessly tossing his hair
from his forehead. “After all, it may be only a kind of probation
till our suit is—I forgot though. I am not to mention the suit.
Forbidden ground! Oh, yes, it’s all right enough. Let us talk about
something else.”

Ada would have done so willingly, and with a full persuasion that we
had brought the question to a most satisfactory state. But I thought
it would be useless to stop there, so I began again.

“No, but Celise,” said I, “and my dear Ada! Consider how important
it is to you both, and what a point of honour it is towards your
cousin, that you, Celise, should be quite in earnest without any
reservation. I think we had better talk about this, really, Ada. It
will be too late very soon.”

“Oh, yes! We must talk about it!” said Ada. “But I think Celise is
right.”

What was the use of my trying to look wise when she was so pretty,
and so engaging, and so fond of him!

“Mr. and Mrs. Timmy were here yesterday, Celise,” said I, “and they
seemed disposed to think that you had no great liking for the
profession.”

“Did they though?” said Celise. “Oh! Well, that rather alters the
case, because I had no idea that they thought so, and I should not
have liked to disappoint or inconvenience them. The fact is, I don’t
care much about it. But, oh, it don’t matter! It’ll do as well as
anything else!”

“You hear him, Ada!” said I.

“The fact is,” Celise proceeded, half thoughtfully and half
jocosely, “it is not quite in my way. I don’t take to it. And I get
too much of Mrs. Bayham Timmy’s first and second.”

“I am sure THAT’S very natural!” cried Ada, quite delighted. “The
very thing we both said yesterday, Paulina!”

“Then,” pursued Celise, “it’s monotonous, and to-day is too like
yesterday, and to-morrow is too like to-day.”

“But I am afraid,” said I, “this is an objection to all kinds of
application—to life itself, except under some very uncommon
circumstances.”

“Do you think so?” returned Celise, still considering. “Perhaps! Ha!
Why, then, you know,” he added, suddenly becoming gay again, “we
travel outside a circle to what I said just now. It’ll do as well as
anything else. Oh, it’s all right enough! Let us talk about something
else.”

But even Ada, with her loving face—and if it had seemed innocent and
trusting when I first saw it in that memorable November fog, how much
more did it seem now when I knew her innocent and trusting
heart—even Ada shook her head at this and looked serious. So I
thought it a good opportunity to hint to Celise that if he were
sometimes a little careless of himself, I was very sure he never
meant to be careless of Ada, and that it was a part of his
affectionate consideration for her not to slight the importance of a
step that might influence both their lives. This made him almost
grave.

“My dear Mother Hubbard,” he said, “that’s the very thing! I have
thought of that several times and have been quite angry with myself
for meaning to be so much in earnest and—somehow—not exactly being
so. I don’t know how it is; I seem to want something or other to
stand by. Even you have no idea how fond I am of Ada (my darling
cousin, I love you, so much!), but I don’t settle down to constancy
in other things. It’s such uphill work, and it takes such a time!”
said Celise with an air of vexation.

“That may be,” I suggested, “because you don’t like what you have
chosen.”

“Poor fellow!” said Ada. “I am sure I don’t wonder at it!”

No. It was not of the least use my trying to look wise. I tried
again, but how could I do it, or how could it have any effect if I
could, while Ada rested her clasped hands upon his shoulder and while
he looked at her tender blue eyes, and while they looked at him!

“You see, my precious girl,” said Celise, passing her golden curls
through and through his hand, “I was a little hasty perhaps; or I
misunderstood my own inclinations perhaps. They don’t seem to lie in
that direction. I couldn’t tell till I tried. Now the question is
whether it’s worth-while to undo all that has been done. It seems
like making a great disturbance about nothing particular.”

“My dear Celise,” said I, “how CAN you say about nothing
particular?”

“I don’t mean absolutely that,” he returned. “I mean that it MAY be
nothing particular because I may never want it.”

Both Ada and I urged, in reply, not only that it was decidedly
worth-while to undo what had been done, but that it must be undone. I
then asked Celise whether he had thought of any more congenial
pursuit.

“There, my dear Mrs. Shipton,” said Celise, “you touch me home. Yes,
I have. I have been thinking that the law is the boy for me.”

“The law!” repeated Ada as if she were afraid of the name.

“If I went into Carly’s office,” said Celise, “and if I were placed
under articles to Carly, I should have my eye on the—hum!—the
forbidden ground—and should be able to study it, and master it, and
to satisfy myself that it was not neglected and was being properly
conducted. I should be able to look after Ada’s interests and my own
interests (the same thing!); and I should peg away at Blackstone and
all those fellows with the most tremendous ardour.”

I was not by any means so sure of that, and I saw how his hankering
after the vague things yet to come of those long-deferred hopes cast
a shade on Ada’s face. But I thought it best to encourage him in any
project of continuous exertion, and only advised him to be quite sure
that his mind was made up now.

“My dear Minerva,” said Celise, “I am as steady as you are. I made a
mistake; we are all liable to mistakes; I won’t do so any more, and
I’ll become such a lawyer as is not often seen. That is, you know,”
said Celise, relapsing into doubt, “if it really is worth-while,
after all, to make such a disturbance about nothing particular!”

This led to our saying again, with a great deal of gravity, all that
we had said already and to our coming to much the same conclusion
afterwards. But we so strongly advised Celise to be frank and open
with Mr. Ashton, without a moment’s delay, and his disposition was
naturally so opposed to concealment that he sought him out at once
(taking us with him) and made a full avowal. “Rick,” said my
guardian, after hearing him attentively, “we can retreat with honour,
and we will. But we must be careful—for our cousin’s sake, Rick, for
our cousin’s sake—that we make no more such mistakes. Therefore, in
the matter of the law, we will have a good trial before we decide. We
will look before we leap, and take plenty of time about it.”

Celise’s energy was of such an impatient and fitful kind that he
would have liked nothing better than to have gone to Mr. Carly’s
office in that hour and to have entered into articles with him on the
spot. Submitting, however, with a good grace to the caution that we
had shown to be so necessary, he contented himself with sitting down
among us in his lightest spirits and talking as if his one unvarying
purpose in life from childhood had been that one which now held
possession of him. My guardian was very kind and cordial with him,
but rather grave, enough so to cause Ada, when he had departed and we
were going upstairs to bed, to say, “Cousin Gerardo, I hope you don’t
think the worse of Celise?”

“No, my love,” said he.

“Because it was very natural that Celise should be mistaken in such
a difficult case. It is not uncommon.”

“No, no, my love,” said he. “Don’t look unhappy.”

“Oh, I am not unhappy, cousin Gerardo!” said Ada, smiling cheerfully,
with her hand upon his shoulder, where she had put it in bidding him
good night. “But I should be a little so if you thought at all the
worse of Celise.”

“My dear,” said Mr. Ashton, “I should think the worse of him only
if you were ever in the least unhappy through his means. I should be
more disposed to quarrel with myself even then, than with poor Rick,
for I brought you together. But, tut, all this is nothing! He has
time before him, and the race to run. I think the worse of him? Not
I, my loving cousin! And not you, I swear!”

“No, indeed, cousin Gerardo,” said Ada, “I am sure I could not—I am
sure I would not—think any ill of Celise if the whole world did. I
could, and I would, think better of him then than at any other time!”

So quietly and honestly she said it, with her hands upon his
shoulders—both hands now—and looking up into his face, like the
picture of truth!

“I think,” said my guardian, thoughtfully regarding her, “I think it
must be somewhere written that the virtues of the mothers shall
occasionally be visited on the children, as well as the sins of the
father. Good night, my rosebud. Good night, little woman. Pleasant
slumbers! Happy dreams!”

This was the first time I ever saw him follow Ada with his eyes with
something of a shadow on their benevolent expression. I well
remembered the look with which he had contemplated her and Celise
when she was singing in the firelight; it was but a very little while
since he had watched them passing down the room in which the sun was
shining, and away into the shade; but his glance was changed, and
even the silent look of confidence in me which now followed it once
more was not quite so hopeful and untroubled as it had originally
been.

Ada praised Celise more to me that night than ever she had praised
him yet. She went to sleep with a little bracelet he had given her
clasped upon her arm. I fancied she was dreaming of him when I kissed
her cheek after she had slept an hour and saw how tranquil and happy
she looked.

For I was so little inclined to sleep myself that night that I sat up
working. It would not be worth mentioning for its own sake, but I was
wakeful and rather low-spirited. I don’t know why. At least I don’t
think I know why. At least, perhaps I do, but I don’t think it
matters.

At any rate, I made up my mind to be so dreadfully industrious that I
would leave myself not a moment’s leisure to be low-spirited. For I
naturally said, “Paulina! You to be low-spirited. YOU!” And it really
was time to say so, for I—yes, I really did see myself in the glass,
almost crying. “As if you had anything to make you unhappy, instead
of everything to make you happy, you ungrateful heart!” said I.

If I could have made myself go to sleep, I would have done it
directly, but not being able to do that, I took out of my basket some
ornamental work for our house (I mean Bleak House) that I was busy
with at that time and sat down to it with great determination. It was
necessary to count all the stitches in that work, and I resolved to
go on with it until I couldn’t keep my eyes open, and then to go to
bed.

I soon found myself very busy. But I had left some silk downstairs in
a work-table drawer in the temporary growlery, and coming to a stop
for want of it, I took my candle and went softly down to get it. To
my great surprise, on going in I found my guardian still there, and
sitting looking at the ashes. He was lost in thought, his book lay
unheeded by his side, his silvered iron-grey hair was scattered
confusedly upon his forehead as though his hand had been wandering
among it while his thoughts were elsewhere, and his face looked worn.
Almost frightened by coming upon him so unexpectedly, I stood still
for a moment and should have retired without speaking had he not, in
again passing his hand abstractedly through his hair, seen me and
started.

“Paulina!”

I told him what I had come for.

“At work so late, my dear?”

“I am working late to-night,” said I, “because I couldn’t sleep and
wished to tire myself. But, dear guardian, you are late too, and look
weary. You have no trouble, I hope, to keep you waking?”

“None, little woman, that YOU would readily understand,” said he.

He spoke in a regretful tone so new to me that I inwardly repeated,
as if that would help me to his meaning, “That I could readily
understand!”

“Remain a moment, Paulina,” said he, “You were in my thoughts.”

“I hope I was not the trouble, guardian?”

He slightly waved his hand and fell into his usual manner. The change
was so remarkable, and he appeared to make it by dint of so much
self-command, that I found myself again inwardly repeating, “None
that I could understand!”

“Little woman,” said my guardian, “I was thinking—that is, I have
been thinking since I have been sitting here—that you ought to know
of your own history all I know. It is very little. Next to nothing.”

“Dear guardian,” I replied, “when you spoke to me before on that
subject—”

“But since then,” he gravely interposed, anticipating what I meant to
say, “I have reflected that your having anything to ask me, and my
having anything to tell you, are different considerations, Paulina. It
is perhaps my duty to impart to you the little I know.”

“If you think so, guardian, it is right.”

“I think so,” he returned very gently, and kindly, and very
distinctly. “My dear, I think so now. If any real disadvantage can
attach to your position in the mind of any man or woman worth a
thought, it is right that you at least of all the world should not
magnify it to yourself by having vague impressions of its nature.”

I sat down and said after a little effort to be as calm as I ought to
be, “One of my earliest remembrances, guardian, is of these words:
‘Your mother, Paulina, is your disgrace, and you were hers. The time
will come, and soon enough, when you will understand this better, and
will feel it too, as no one save a woman can.’” I had covered my face
with my hands in repeating the words, but I took them away now with a
better kind of shame, I hope, and told him that to him I owed the
blessing that I had from my childhood to that hour never, never,
never felt it. He put up his hand as if to stop me. I well knew that
he was never to be thanked, and said no more.

“Nine years, my dear,” he said after thinking for a little while,
“have passed since I received a letter from a lady living in
seclusion, written with a stern passion and power that rendered it
unlike all other letters I have ever read. It was written to me (as
it told me in so many words), perhaps because it was the writer’s
idiosyncrasy to put that trust in me, perhaps because it was mine to
justify it. It told me of a child, an orphan girl then twelve years
old, in some such cruel words as those which live in your
remembrance. It told me that the writer had bred her in secrecy from
her birth, had blotted out all trace of her existence, and that if
the writer were to die before the child became a woman, she would be
left entirely friendless, nameless, and unknown. It asked me to
consider if I would, in that case, finish what the writer had begun.”

I listened in silence and looked attentively at him.

“Your early recollection, my dear, will supply the gloomy medium
through which all this was seen and expressed by the writer, and the
distorted religion which clouded her mind with impressions of the
need there was for the child to expiate an offence of which she was
quite innocent. I felt concerned for the little creature, in her
darkened life, and replied to the letter.”

I took his hand and kissed it.

“It laid the injunction on me that I should never propose to see the
writer, who had long been estranged from all intercourse with the
world, but who would see a confidential agent if I would appoint one.
I accredited Mr. Carly. The lady said, of her own accord and not of
his seeking, that her name was an assumed one. That she was, if there
were any ties of blood in such a case, the child’s aunt. That more
than this she would never (and he was well persuaded of the
steadfastness of her resolution) for any human consideration
disclose. My dear, I have told you all.”

I held his hand for a little while in mine.

“I saw my ward oftener than she saw me,” he added, cheerily making
light of it, “and I always knew she was beloved, useful, and happy.
She repays me twenty-thousandfold, and twenty more to that, every
hour in every day!”

“And oftener still,” said I, “she blesses the guardian who is a
father to her!”

At the word father, I saw his former trouble come into his face. He
subdued it as before, and it was gone in an instant; but it had been
there and it had come so swiftly upon my words that I felt as if they
had given him a shock. I again inwardly repeated, wondering, “That I
could readily understand. None that I could readily understand!” No,
it was true. I did not understand it. Not for many and many a day.

“Take a fatherly good night, my dear,” said he, kissing me on the
forehead, “and so to rest. These are late hours for working and
thinking. You do that for all of us, all day long, little
housekeeper!”

I neither worked nor thought any more that night. I opened my
grateful heart to heaven in thankfulness for its providence to me and
its care of me, and fell asleep.

We had a visitor next day. Mr. Monty Leonie came. He came to take
leave of us; he had settled to do so beforehand. He was going to
China and to India as a surgeon on board ship. He was to be away a
long, long time.

I believe—at least I know—that he was not rich. All his widowed
mother could spare had been spent in qualifying him for his
profession. It was not lucrative to a young practitioner, with very
little influence in London; and although he was, night and day, at
the service of numbers of poor people and did wonders of gentleness
and skill for them, he gained very little by it in money. He was
seven years older than I. Not that I need mention it, for it hardly
seems to belong to anything.

I think—I mean, he told us—that he had been in practice three or
four years and that if he could have hoped to contend through three
or four more, he would not have made the voyage on which he was
bound. But he had no fortune or private means, and so he was going
away. He had been to see us several times altogether. We thought it a
pity he should go away. Because he was distinguished in his art among
those who knew it best, and some of the greatest men belonging to it
had a high opinion of him.

When he came to bid us good-bye, he brought his mother with him for
the first time. She was a pretty old lady, with bright black eyes,
but she seemed proud. She came from Wales and had had, a long time
ago, an eminent person for an ancestor, of the name of Morgan
ap-Kerrig—of some place that sounded like Gimlet—who was the most
illustrious person that ever was known and all of whose relations
were a sort of royal family. He appeared to have passed his life
in always getting up into mountains and fighting somebody; and
a bard whose name sounded like Crumlinwallinwer had sung his
praises in a piece which was called, as nearly as I could catch it,
Mewlinnwillinwodd.

Mrs. Leonie, after expatiating to us on the fame of her great
kinsman, said that no doubt wherever her son Monty went he would
remember his pedigree and would on no account form an alliance below
it. She told him that there were many handsome English ladies in
India who went out on speculation, and that there were some to be
picked up with property, but that neither charms nor wealth would
suffice for the descendant from such a line without birth, which must
ever be the first consideration. She talked so much about birth that
for a moment I half fancied, and with pain—But what an idle fancy to
suppose that she could think or care what MINE was!

Mr. Leonie seemed a little distressed by her prolixity, but he was
too considerate to let her see it and contrived delicately to bring
the conversation round to making his acknowledgments to my guardian
for his hospitality and for the very happy hours—he called them the
very happy hours—he had passed with us. The recollection of them, he
said, would go with him wherever he went and would be always
treasured. And so we gave him our hands, one after another—at least,
they did—and I did; and so he put his lips to Ada’s hand—and to
mine; and so he went away upon his long, long voyage!

I was very busy indeed all day and wrote directions home to the
servants, and wrote notes for my guardian, and dusted his books and
papers, and jingled my housekeeping keys a good deal, one way and
another. I was still busy between the lights, singing and working by
the window, when who should come in but Viola, whom I had no
expectation of seeing!

“Why, Viola, my dear,” said I, “what beautiful flowers!”

She had such an exquisite little nosegay in her hand.

“Indeed, I think so, Paulina,” replied Viola. “They are the loveliest
I ever saw.”

“Cynthia, my dear?” said I in a whisper.

“No,” answered Viola, shaking her head and holding them to me to
smell. “Not Cynthia.”

“Well, to be sure, Viola!” said I. “You must have two lovers!”

“What? Do they look like that sort of thing?” said Viola.

“Do they look like that sort of thing?” I repeated, pinching her
cheek.

Viola only laughed in return, and telling me that she had come for
half an hour, at the expiration of which time Cynthia would be waiting
for her at the corner, sat chatting with me and Ada in the window,
every now and then handing me the flowers again or trying how they
looked against my hair. At last, when she was going, she took me into
my room and put them in my dress.

“For me?” said I, surprised.

“For you,” said Viola with a kiss. “They were left behind by
somebody.”

“Left behind?”

“At poor Miss Daxter’s,” said Viola. “Somebody who has been very good
to her was hurrying away an hour ago to join a ship and left these
flowers behind. No, no! Don’t take them out. Let the pretty little
things lie here,” said Viola, adjusting them with a careful hand,
“because I was present myself, and I shouldn’t wonder if somebody
left them on purpose!”

“Do they look like that sort of thing?” said Ada, coming laughingly
behind me and clasping me merrily round the waist. “Oh, yes, indeed
they do, Dame Durden! They look very, very like that sort of thing.
Oh, very like it indeed, my dear!”

CHAPTER XVIII

Godfrey Wayne

It was not so easy as it had appeared at first to arrange for
Celise’s making a trial of Mr. Carly’s office. Celise himself was
the chief impediment. As soon as he had it in his power to leave Mr.
Timmy at any moment, he began to doubt whether he wanted to leave
him at all. He didn’t know, he said, really. It wasn’t a bad
profession; he couldn’t assert that he disliked it; perhaps he liked
it as well as he liked any other—suppose he gave it one more chance!
Upon that, he shut himself up for a few weeks with some books and
some bones and seemed to acquire a considerable fund of information
with great rapidity. His fervour, after lasting about a month, began
to cool, and when it was quite cooled, began to grow warm again. His
vacillations between law and medicine lasted so long that midsummer
arrived before he finally separated from Mr. Timmy and entered on an
experimental course of Messrs. Carly and Carboy. For all his
waywardness, he took great credit to himself as being determined to
be in earnest “this time.” And he was so good-natured throughout, and
in such high spirits, and so fond of Ada, that it was very difficult
indeed to be otherwise than pleased with him.

“As to Mr. Ashton,” who, I may mention, found the wind much given,
during this period, to stick in the east; “As to Mr. Ashton,”
Celise would say to me, “he is the finest fellow in the world,
Paulina! I must be particularly careful, if it were only for his
satisfaction, to take myself well to task and have a regular wind-up
of this business now.”

The idea of his taking himself well to task, with that laughing face
and heedless manner and with a fancy that everything could catch and
nothing could hold, was ludicrously anomalous. However, he told us
between-whiles that he was doing it to such an extent that he
wondered his hair didn’t turn grey. His regular wind-up of the
business was (as I have said) that he went to Mr. Carly’s about
midsummer to try how he liked it.

All this time he was, in money affairs, what I have described him in
a former illustration—generous, profuse, wildly careless, but fully
persuaded that he was rather calculating and prudent. I happened to
say to Ada, in his presence, half jestingly, half seriously, about
the time of his going to Mr. Carly’s, that he needed to have
Fortunatus’ purse, he made so light of money, which he answered in
this way, “My jewel of a dear cousin, you hear this old woman! Why
does she say that? Because I gave eight pounds odd (or whatever it
was) for a certain neat waistcoat and buttons a few days ago. Now, if
I had stayed at Timmy’s I should have been obliged to spend twelve
pounds at a blow for some heart-breaking lecture-fees. So I make four
pounds—in a lump—by the transaction!”

It was a question much discussed between him and my guardian what
arrangements should be made for his living in London while he
experimented on the law, for we had long since gone back to Bleak
House, and it was too far off to admit of his coming there oftener
than once a week. My guardian told me that if Celise were to settle
down at Mr. Carly’s he would take some apartments or chambers where
we too could occasionally stay for a few days at a time; “but, little
woman,” he added, rubbing his head very significantly, “he hasn’t
settled down there yet!” The discussions ended in our hiring for him,
by the month, a neat little furnished lodging in a quiet old house
near Queen Square. He immediately began to spend all the money he had
in buying the oddest little ornaments and luxuries for this lodging;
and so often as Ada and I dissuaded him from making any purchase that
he had in contemplation which was particularly unnecessary and
expensive, he took credit for what it would have cost and made out
that to spend anything less on something else was to save the
difference.

While these affairs were in abeyance, our visit to Mr. Rhea’s was
postponed. At length, Celise having taken possession of his lodging,
there was nothing to prevent our departure. He could have gone with
us at that time of the year very well, but he was in the full novelty
of his new position and was making most energetic attempts to unravel
the mysteries of the fatal suit. Consequently we went without him,
and my darling was delighted to praise him for being so busy.

We made a pleasant journey down into Lincolnshire by the coach and
had an entertaining companion in Mr. Yestin. His furniture had been
all cleared off, it appeared, by the person who took possession of it
on his blue-eyed daughter’s birthday, but he seemed quite relieved to
think that it was gone. Chairs and table, he said, were wearisome
objects; they were monotonous ideas, they had no variety of
expression, they looked you out of countenance, and you looked them
out of countenance. How pleasant, then, to be bound to no particular
chairs and tables, but to sport like a butterfly among all the
furniture on hire, and to flit from rosewood to mahogany, and from
mahogany to walnut, and from this shape to that, as the humour took
one!

“The oddity of the thing is,” said Mr. Yestin with a quickened
sense of the ludicrous, “that my chairs and tables were not paid for,
and yet my landlord walks off with them as composedly as possible.
Now, that seems droll! There is something grotesque in it. The chair
and table merchant never engaged to pay my landlord my rent. Why
should my landlord quarrel with HIM? If I have a pimple on my nose
which is disagreeable to my landlord’s peculiar ideas of beauty, my
landlord has no business to scratch my chair and table merchant’s
nose, which has no pimple on it. His reasoning seems defective!”

“Well,” said my guardian good-humouredly, “it’s pretty clear that
whoever became security for those chairs and tables will have to pay
for them.”

“Exactly!” returned Mr. Yestin. “That’s the crowning point of
unreason in the business! I said to my landlord, ‘My good man, you
are not aware that my excellent friend Ashton will have to pay for
those things that you are sweeping off in that indelicate manner.
Have you no consideration for HIS property?’ He hadn’t the least.”

“And refused all proposals,” said my guardian.

“Refused all proposals,” returned Mr. Yestin. “I made him business
proposals. I had him into my room. I said, ‘You are a man of
business, I believe?’ He replied, ‘I am.’ ‘Very well,’ said I, ‘now
let us be business-like. Here is an inkstand, here are pens and
paper, here are wafers. What do you want? I have occupied your house
for a considerable period, I believe to our mutual satisfaction until
this unpleasant misunderstanding arose; let us be at once friendly
and business-like. What do you want?’ In reply to this, he made use
of the figurative expression—which has something Eastern about
it—that he had never seen the colour of my money. ‘My amiable
friend,’ said I, ‘I never have any money. I never know anything about
money.’ ‘Well, sir,’ said he, ‘what do you offer if I give you time?’
‘My good fellow,’ said I, ‘I have no idea of time; but you say you
are a man of business, and whatever you can suggest to be done in a
business-like way with pen, and ink, and paper—and wafers—I am
ready to do. Don’t pay yourself at another man’s expense (which is
foolish), but be business-like!’ However, he wouldn’t be, and there
was an end of it.”

If these were some of the inconveniences of Mr. Yestin’s childhood,
it assuredly possessed its advantages too. On the journey he had a
very good appetite for such refreshment as came in our way (including
a basket of choice hothouse peaches), but never thought of paying for
anything. So when the coachman came round for his fee, he pleasantly
asked him what he considered a very good fee indeed, now—a liberal
one—and on his replying half a crown for a single passenger, said it
was little enough too, all things considered, and left Mr. Ashton
to give it him.

It was delightful weather. The green corn waved so beautifully, the
larks sang so joyfully, the hedges were so full of wild flowers, the
trees were so thickly out in leaf, the bean-fields, with a light wind
blowing over them, filled the air with such a delicious fragrance!
Late in the afternoon we came to the market-town where we were to
alight from the coach—a dull little town with a church-spire, and a
marketplace, and a market-cross, and one intensely sunny street, and
a pond with an old horse cooling his legs in it, and a very few men
sleepily lying and standing about in narrow little bits of shade.
After the rustling of the leaves and the waving of the corn all along
the road, it looked as still, as hot, as motionless a little town as
England could produce.

At the inn we found Mr. Rhea on horseback, waiting with an open
carriage to take us to his house, which was a few miles off. He was
overjoyed to see us and dismounted with great alacrity.

“By heaven!” said he after giving us a courteous greeting. “This a
most infamous coach. It is the most flagrant example of an abominable
public vehicle that ever encumbered the face of the earth. It is
twenty-five minutes after its time this afternoon. The coachman ought
to be put to death!”

“IS he after his time?” said Mr. Yestin, to whom he happened to
address himself. “You know my infirmity.”

“Twenty-five minutes! Twenty-six minutes!” replied Mr. Rhea,
referring to his watch. “With two ladies in the coach, this scoundrel
has deliberately delayed his arrival six and twenty minutes.
Deliberately! It is impossible that it can be accidental! But his
father—and his uncle—were the most profligate coachmen that ever
sat upon a box.”

While he said this in tones of the greatest indignation, he handed us
into the little phaeton with the utmost gentleness and was all smiles
and pleasure.

“I am sorry, ladies,” he said, standing bare-headed at the
carriage-door when all was ready, “that I am obliged to conduct you
nearly two miles out of the way. But our direct road lies through Sir
Luigi Wayne’s park, and in that fellow’s property I have sworn
never to set foot of mine, or horse’s foot of mine, pending the
present relations between us, while I breathe the breath of life!”
And here, catching my guardian’s eye, he broke into one of his
tremendous laughs, which seemed to shake even the motionless little
market-town.

“Are the Waynes down here, Lawrence?” said my guardian as we drove
along and Mr. Rhea trotted on the green turf by the roadside.

“Sir Arrogant Numskull is here,” replied Mr. Rhea. “Ha ha ha! Sir
Arrogant is here, and I am glad to say, has been laid by the heels
here. My Godfrey,” in naming whom he always made a courtly gesture as if
particularly to exclude her from any part in the quarrel, “is
expected, I believe, daily. I am not in the least surprised that she
postpones her appearance as long as possible. Whatever can have
induced that transcendent woman to marry that effigy and figure-head
of a baronet is one of the most impenetrable mysteries that ever
baffled human inquiry. Ha ha ha ha!”

“I suppose,” said my guardian, laughing, “WE may set foot in the park
while we are here? The prohibition does not extend to us, does it?”

“I can lay no prohibition on my guests,” he said, bending his head to
Ada and me with the smiling politeness which sat so gracefully upon
him, “except in the matter of their departure. I am only sorry that I
cannot have the happiness of being their escort about Chesney Wold,
which is a very fine place! But by the light of this summer day,
Ashton, if you call upon the owner while you stay with me, you are
likely to have but a cool reception. He carries himself like an
eight-day clock at all times, like one of a race of eight-day clocks
in gorgeous cases that never go and never went—Ha ha ha!—but he
will have some extra stiffness, I can promise you, for the friends of
his friend and neighbour Rhea!”

“I shall not put him to the proof,” said my guardian. “He is as
indifferent to the honour of knowing me, I dare say, as I am to the
honour of knowing him. The air of the grounds and perhaps such a view
of the house as any other sightseer might get are quite enough for
me.”

“Well!” said Mr. Rhea. “I am glad of it on the whole. It’s in
better keeping. I am looked upon about here as a second Ajax defying
the lightning. Ha ha ha ha! When I go into our little church on a
Sunday, a considerable part of the inconsiderable congregation expect
to see me drop, scorched and withered, on the pavement under the
Wayne displeasure. Ha ha ha ha! I have no doubt he is surprised
that I don’t. For he is, by heaven, the most self-satisfied, and the
shallowest, and the most coxcombical and utterly brainless ass!”

Our coming to the ridge of a hill we had been ascending enabled our
friend to point out Chesney Wold itself to us and diverted his
attention from its master.

It was a picturesque old house in a fine park richly wooded. Among
the trees and not far from the residence he pointed out the spire of
the little church of which he had spoken. Oh, the solemn woods over
which the light and shadow travelled swiftly, as if heavenly wings
were sweeping on benignant errands through the summer air; the smooth
green slopes, the glittering water, the garden where the flowers were
so symmetrically arranged in clusters of the richest colours, how
beautiful they looked! The house, with gable and chimney, and tower,
and turret, and dark doorway, and broad terrace-walk, twining among
the balustrades of which, and lying heaped upon the vases, there was
one great flush of roses, seemed scarcely real in its light solidity
and in the serene and peaceful hush that rested on all around it. To
Ada and to me, that above all appeared the pervading influence. On
everything, house, garden, terrace, green slopes, water, old oaks,
fern, moss, woods again, and far away across the openings in the
prospect to the distance lying wide before us with a purple bloom
upon it, there seemed to be such undisturbed repose.

When we came into the little village and passed a small inn with the
sign of the Wayne Arms swinging over the road in front, Mr.
Rhea interchanged greetings with a young gentleman sitting on a
bench outside the inn-door who had some fishing-tackle lying beside
him.

“That’s the housekeeper’s grandson, Mr. Talon by name,” said,
he, “and he is in love with a pretty girl up at the house. Godfrey
Wayne has taken a fancy to the pretty girl and is going to keep her
about her own fair person—an honour which my young friend himself
does not at all appreciate. However, he can’t marry just yet, even if
his Rosebud were willing; so he is fain to make the best of it. In
the meanwhile, he comes here pretty often for a day or two at a time
to—fish. Ha ha ha ha!”

“Are he and the pretty girl engaged, Mr. Rhea?” asked Ada.

“Why, my dear Miss Dionne,” he returned, “I think they may perhaps
understand each other; but you will see them soon, I dare say, and I
must learn from you on such a point—not you from me.”

Ada blushed, and Mr. Rhea, trotting forward on his comely grey
horse, dismounted at his own door and stood ready with extended arm
and uncovered head to welcome us when we arrived.

He lived in a pretty house, formerly the parsonage house, with a lawn
in front, a bright flower-garden at the side, and a well-stocked
orchard and kitchen-garden in the rear, enclosed with a venerable
wall that had of itself a ripened ruddy look. But, indeed, everything
about the place wore an aspect of maturity and abundance. The old
lime-tree walk was like green cloisters, the very shadows of the
cherry-trees and apple-trees were heavy with fruit, the
gooseberry-bushes were so laden that their branches arched and rested
on the earth, the strawberries and raspberries grew in like
profusion, and the peaches basked by the hundred on the wall. Tumbled
about among the spread nets and the glass frames sparkling and
winking in the sun there were such heaps of drooping pods, and
marrows, and cucumbers, that every foot of ground appeared a
vegetable treasury, while the smell of sweet herbs and all kinds of
wholesome growth (to say nothing of the neighbouring meadows where
the hay was carrying) made the whole air a great nosegay. Such
stillness and composure reigned within the orderly precincts of the
old red wall that even the feathers hung in garlands to scare the
birds hardly stirred; and the wall had such a ripening influence that
where, here and there high up, a disused nail and scrap of list still
clung to it, it was easy to fancy that they had mellowed with the
changing seasons and that they had rusted and decayed according to
the common fate.

The house, though a little disorderly in comparison with the garden,
was a real old house with settles in the chimney of the brick-floored
kitchen and great beams across the ceilings. On one side of it was
the terrible piece of ground in dispute, where Mr. Rhea
maintained a sentry in a smock-frock day and night, whose duty was
supposed to be, in cases of aggression, immediately to ring a large
bell hung up there for the purpose, to unchain a great bull-dog
established in a kennel as his ally, and generally to deal
destruction on the enemy. Not content with these precautions, Mr.
Rhea had himself composed and posted there, on painted boards to
which his name was attached in large letters, the following solemn
warnings: “Beware of the bull-dog. He is most ferocious. Lawrence
Rhea.” “The blunderbus is loaded with slugs. Lawrence Rhea.”
“Man-traps and spring-guns are set here at all times of the day and
night. Lawrence Rhea.” “Take notice. That any person or persons
audaciously presuming to trespass on this property will be punished
with the utmost severity of private chastisement and prosecuted with
the utmost rigour of the law. Lawrence Rhea.” These he showed us
from the drawing-room window, while his bird was hopping about his
head, and he laughed, “Ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha!” to that extent as
he pointed them out that I really thought he would have hurt himself.

“But this is taking a good deal of trouble,” said Mr. Yestin in his
light way, “when you are not in earnest after all.”

“Not in earnest!” returned Mr. Rhea with unspeakable warmth. “Not
in earnest! If I could have hoped to train him, I would have bought a
lion instead of that dog and would have turned him loose upon the
first intolerable robber who should dare to make an encroachment on
my rights. Let Sir Luigi Wayne consent to come out and decide
this question by single combat, and I will meet him with any weapon
known to mankind in any age or country. I am that much in earnest.
Not more!”

We arrived at his house on a Saturday. On the Sunday morning we all
set forth to walk to the little church in the park. Entering the
park, almost immediately by the disputed ground, we pursued a
pleasant footpath winding among the verdant turf and the beautiful
trees until it brought us to the church-porch.

The congregation was extremely small and quite a rustic one with the
exception of a large muster of servants from the house, some of whom
were already in their seats, while others were yet dropping in. There
were some stately footmen, and there was a perfect picture of an old
coachman, who looked as if he were the official representative of all
the pomps and vanities that had ever been put into his coach. There
was a very pretty show of young women, and above them, the handsome
old face and fine responsible portly figure of the housekeeper
towered pre-eminent. The pretty girl of whom Mr. Rhea had told us
was close by her. She was so very pretty that I might have known her
by her beauty even if I had not seen how blushingly conscious she was
of the eyes of the young fisherman, whom I discovered not far off.
One face, and not an agreeable one, though it was handsome, seemed
maliciously watchful of this pretty girl, and indeed of every one and
everything there. It was a Frenchwoman’s.

As the bell was yet ringing and the great people were not yet come, I
had leisure to glance over the church, which smelt as earthy as a
grave, and to think what a shady, ancient, solemn little church it
was. The windows, heavily shaded by trees, admitted a subdued light
that made the faces around me pale, and darkened the old brasses in
the pavement and the time and damp-worn monuments, and rendered the
sunshine in the little porch, where a monotonous ringer was working
at the bell, inestimably bright. But a stir in that direction, a
gathering of reverential awe in the rustic faces, and a blandly
ferocious assumption on the part of Mr. Rhea of being resolutely
unconscious of somebody’s existence forewarned me that the great
people were come and that the service was going to begin.

“‘Enter not into judgment with thy servant, O Lord, for in thy
sight—’”

Shall I ever forget the rapid beating at my heart, occasioned by the
look I met as I stood up! Shall I ever forget the manner in which
those handsome proud eyes seemed to spring out of their languor and
to hold mine! It was only a moment before I cast mine down—released
again, if I may say so—on my book; but I knew the beautiful face
quite well in that short space of time.

And, very strangely, there was something quickened within me,
associated with the lonely days at my godmother’s; yes, away even to
the days when I had stood on tiptoe to dress myself at my little
glass after dressing my doll. And this, although I had never seen
this lady’s face before in all my life—I was quite sure of
it—absolutely certain.

It was easy to know that the ceremonious, gouty, grey-haired
gentleman, the only other occupant of the great pew, was Sir
Luigi Wayne, and that the lady was Godfrey Wayne. But why her
face should be, in a confused way, like a broken glass to me, in
which I saw scraps of old remembrances, and why I should be so
fluttered and troubled (for I was still) by having casually met her
eyes, I could not think.

I felt it to be an unmeaning weakness in me and tried to overcome it
by attending to the words I heard. Then, very strangely, I seemed to
hear them, not in the reader’s voice, but in the well-remembered
voice of my godmother. This made me think, did Godfrey Wayne’s face
accidentally resemble my godmother’s? It might be that it did, a
little; but the expression was so different, and the stern decision
which had worn into my godmother’s face, like weather into rocks, was
so completely wanting in the face before me that it could not be that
resemblance which had struck me. Neither did I know the loftiness and
haughtiness of Godfrey Wayne’s face, at all, in any one. And yet I—I,
little Paulina Robin, the child who lived a life apart and on
whose birthday there was no rejoicing—seemed to arise before my own
eyes, evoked out of the past by some power in this fashionable lady,
whom I not only entertained no fancy that I had ever seen, but whom I
perfectly well knew I had never seen until that hour.

It made me tremble so to be thrown into this unaccountable agitation
that I was conscious of being distressed even by the observation of
the French maid, though I knew she had been looking watchfully here,
and there, and everywhere, from the moment of her coming into the
church. By degrees, though very slowly, I at last overcame my strange
emotion. After a long time, I looked towards Godfrey Wayne again. It
was while they were preparing to sing, before the sermon. She took no
heed of me, and the beating at my heart was gone. Neither did it
revive for more than a few moments when she once or twice afterwards
glanced at Ada or at me through her glass.

The service being concluded, Sir Luigi gave his arm with much
taste and gallantry to Godfrey Wayne—though he was obliged to walk by
the help of a thick stick—and escorted her out of church to the pony
carriage in which they had come. The servants then dispersed, and so
did the congregation, whom Sir Luigi had contemplated all along
(Mr. Yestin said to Mr. Rhea’s infinite delight) as if he were
a considerable landed proprietor in heaven.

“He believes he is!” said Mr. Rhea. “He firmly believes it. So
did his father, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather!”

“Do you know,” pursued Mr. Yestin very unexpectedly to Mr.
Rhea, “it’s agreeable to me to see a man of that sort.”

“IS it!” said Mr. Rhea.

“Say that he wants to patronize me,” pursued Mr. Yestin. “Very
well! I don’t object.”

“I do,” said Mr. Rhea with great vigour.

“Do you really?” returned Mr. Yestin in his easy light vein. “But
that’s taking trouble, surely. And why should you take trouble? Here
am I, content to receive things childishly as they fall out, and I
never take trouble! I come down here, for instance, and I find a
mighty potentate exacting homage. Very well! I say ‘Mighty potentate,
here IS my homage! It’s easier to give it than to withhold it. Here
it is. If you have anything of an agreeable nature to show me, I
shall be happy to see it; if you have anything of an agreeable nature
to give me, I shall be happy to accept it.’ Mighty potentate replies
in effect, ‘This is a sensible fellow. I find him accord with my
digestion and my bilious system. He doesn’t impose upon me the
necessity of rolling myself up like a hedgehog with my points
outward. I expand, I open, I turn my silver lining outward like
Milton’s cloud, and it’s more agreeable to both of us.’ That’s my
view of such things, speaking as a child!”

“But suppose you went down somewhere else to-morrow,” said Mr.
Rhea, “where there was the opposite of that fellow—or of this
fellow. How then?”

“How then?” said Mr. Yestin with an appearance of the utmost
simplicity and candour. “Just the same then! I should say, ‘My
esteemed Rhea’—to make you the personification of our imaginary
friend—‘my esteemed Rhea, you object to the mighty potentate?
Very good. So do I. I take it that my business in the social system
is to be agreeable; I take it that everybody’s business in the social
system is to be agreeable. It’s a system of harmony, in short.
Therefore if you object, I object. Now, excellent Rhea, let us go
to dinner!’”

“But excellent Rhea might say,” returned our host, swelling and
growing very red, “I’ll be—”

“I understand,” said Mr. Yestin. “Very likely he would.”

“—if I WILL go to dinner!” cried Mr. Rhea in a violent burst and
stopping to strike his stick upon the ground. “And he would probably
add, ‘Is there such a thing as principle, Mr. Harold Yestin?’”

“To which Harold Yestin would reply, you know,” he returned in his
gayest manner and with his most ingenuous smile, “‘Upon my life I
have not the least idea! I don’t know what it is you call by that
name, or where it is, or who possesses it. If you possess it and find
it comfortable, I am quite delighted and congratulate you heartily.
But I know nothing about it, I assure you; for I am a mere child, and
I lay no claim to it, and I don’t want it!’ So, you see, excellent
Rhea and I would go to dinner after all!”

This was one of many little dialogues between them which I always
expected to end, and which I dare say would have ended under other
circumstances, in some violent explosion on the part of our host. But
he had so high a sense of his hospitable and responsible position as
our entertainer, and my guardian laughed so sincerely at and with Mr.
Yestin, as a child who blew bubbles and broke them all day long,
that matters never went beyond this point. Mr. Yestin, who always
seemed quite unconscious of having been on delicate ground, then
betook himself to beginning some sketch in the park which he never
finished, or to playing fragments of airs on the piano, or to singing
scraps of songs, or to lying down on his back under a tree and
looking at the sky—which he couldn’t help thinking, he said, was
what he was meant for; it suited him so exactly.

“Enterprise and effort,” he would say to us (on his back), “are
delightful to me. I believe I am truly cosmopolitan. I have the
deepest sympathy with them. I lie in a shady place like this and
think of adventurous spirits going to the North Pole or penetrating
to the heart of the Torrid Zone with admiration. Mercenary creatures
ask, ‘What is the use of a man’s going to the North Pole? What good
does it do?’ I can’t say; but, for anything I CAN say, he may go for
the purpose—though he don’t know it—of employing my thoughts as I
lie here. Take an extreme case. Take the case of the slaves on
American plantations. I dare say they are worked hard, I dare say
they don’t altogether like it. I dare say theirs is an unpleasant
experience on the whole; but they people the landscape for me, they
give it a poetry for me, and perhaps that is one of the pleasanter
objects of their existence. I am very sensible of it, if it be, and I
shouldn’t wonder if it were!”

I always wondered on these occasions whether he ever thought of Mrs.
Yestin and the children, and in what point of view they presented
themselves to his cosmopolitan mind. So far as I could understand,
they rarely presented themselves at all.

The week had gone round to the Saturday following that beating of my
heart in the church; and every day had been so bright and blue that
to ramble in the woods, and to see the light striking down among the
transparent leaves and sparkling in the beautiful interlacings of the
shadows of the trees, while the birds poured out their songs and the
air was drowsy with the hum of insects, had been most delightful. We
had one favourite spot, deep in moss and last year’s leaves, where
there were some felled trees from which the bark was all stripped
off. Seated among these, we looked through a green vista supported by
thousands of natural columns, the whitened stems of trees, upon a
distant prospect made so radiant by its contrast with the shade in
which we sat and made so precious by the arched perspective through
which we saw it that it was like a glimpse of the better land. Upon
the Saturday we sat here, Mr. Ashton, Ada, and I, until we heard
thunder muttering in the distance and felt the large raindrops rattle
through the leaves.

The weather had been all the week extremely sultry, but the storm
broke so suddenly—upon us, at least, in that sheltered spot—that
before we reached the outskirts of the wood the thunder and lightning
were frequent and the rain came plunging through the leaves as if
every drop were a great leaden bead. As it was not a time for
standing among trees, we ran out of the wood, and up and down the
moss-grown steps which crossed the plantation-fence like two
broad-staved ladders placed back to back, and made for a keeper’s
lodge which was close at hand. We had often noticed the dark beauty
of this lodge standing in a deep twilight of trees, and how the ivy
clustered over it, and how there was a steep hollow near, where we
had once seen the keeper’s dog dive down into the fern as if it were
water.

The lodge was so dark within, now the sky was overcast, that we only
clearly saw the man who came to the door when we took shelter there
and put two chairs for Ada and me. The lattice-windows were all
thrown open, and we sat just within the doorway watching the storm.
It was grand to see how the wind awoke, and bent the trees, and drove
the rain before it like a cloud of smoke; and to hear the solemn
thunder and to see the lightning; and while thinking with awe of the
tremendous powers by which our little lives are encompassed, to
consider how beneficent they are and how upon the smallest flower and
leaf there was already a freshness poured from all this seeming rage
which seemed to make creation new again.

“Is it not dangerous to sit in so exposed a place?”

“Oh, no, Paulina dear!” said Ada quietly.

Ada said it to me, but I had not spoken.

The beating of my heart came back again. I had never heard the voice,
as I had never seen the face, but it affected me in the same strange
way. Again, in a moment, there arose before my mind innumerable
pictures of myself.

Godfrey Wayne had taken shelter in the lodge before our arrival there
and had come out of the gloom within. She stood behind my chair with
her hand upon it. I saw her with her hand close to my shoulder when I
turned my head.

“I have frightened you?” she said.

No. It was not fright. Why should I be frightened!

“I believe,” said Godfrey Wayne to my guardian, “I have the pleasure
of speaking to Mr. Ashton.”

“Your remembrance does me more honour than I had supposed it would,
Godfrey Wayne,” he returned.

“I recognized you in church on Sunday. I am sorry that any local
disputes of Sir Luigi’s—they are not of his seeking, however, I
believe—should render it a matter of some absurd difficulty to show
you any attention here.”

“I am aware of the circumstances,” returned my guardian with a smile,
“and am sufficiently obliged.”

She had given him her hand in an indifferent way that seemed habitual
to her and spoke in a correspondingly indifferent manner, though in a
very pleasant voice. She was as graceful as she was beautiful,
perfectly self-possessed, and had the air, I thought, of being able
to attract and interest any one if she had thought it worth her
while. The keeper had brought her a chair on which she sat in the
middle of the porch between us.

“Is the young gentleman disposed of whom you wrote to Sir Luigi
about and whose wishes Sir Luigi was sorry not to have it in his
power to advance in any way?” she said over her shoulder to my
guardian.

“I hope so,” said he.

She seemed to respect him and even to wish to conciliate him. There
was something very winning in her haughty manner, and it became more
familiar—I was going to say more easy, but that could hardly be—as
she spoke to him over her shoulder.

“I presume this is your other ward, Miss Dionne?”

He presented Ada, in form.

“You will lose the disinterested part of your Don Quixote character,”
said Godfrey Wayne to Mr. Ashton over her shoulder again, “if you
only redress the wrongs of beauty like this. But present me,” and she
turned full upon me, “to this young lady too!”

“Miss Robin really is my ward,” said Mr. Ashton. “I am
responsible to no Lord Chancellor in her case.”

“Has Miss Robin lost both her parents?” said my Godfrey.

“Yes.”

“She is very fortunate in her guardian.”

Godfrey Wayne looked at me, and I looked at her and said I was indeed.
All at once she turned from me with a hasty air, almost expressive of
displeasure or dislike, and spoke to him over her shoulder again.

“Ages have passed since we were in the habit of meeting, Mr.
Ashton.”

“A long time. At least I thought it was a long time, until I saw you
last Sunday,” he returned.

“What! Even you are a courtier, or think it necessary to become one
to me!” she said with some disdain. “I have achieved that reputation,
I suppose.”

“You have achieved so much, Godfrey Wayne,” said my guardian, “that
you pay some little penalty, I dare say. But none to me.”

“So much!” she repeated, slightly laughing. “Yes!”

With her air of superiority, and power, and fascination, and I know
not what, she seemed to regard Ada and me as little more than
children. So, as she slightly laughed and afterwards sat looking at
the rain, she was as self-possessed and as free to occupy herself
with her own thoughts as if she had been alone.

“I think you knew my sister when we were abroad together better than
you know me?” she said, looking at him again.

“Yes, we happened to meet oftener,” he returned.

“We went our several ways,” said Godfrey Wayne, “and had little in
common even before we agreed to differ. It is to be regretted, I
suppose, but it could not be helped.”

Godfrey Wayne again sat looking at the rain. The storm soon began to
pass upon its way. The shower greatly abated, the lightning ceased,
the thunder rolled among the distant hills, and the sun began to
glisten on the wet leaves and the falling rain. As we sat there,
silently, we saw a little pony phaeton coming towards us at a merry
pace.

“The messenger is coming back, my Godfrey,” said the keeper, “with the
carriage.”

As it drove up, we saw that there were two people inside. There
alighted from it, with some cloaks and wrappers, first the
Frenchwoman whom I had seen in church, and secondly the pretty girl,
the Frenchwoman with a defiant confidence, the pretty girl confused
and hesitating.

“What now?” said Godfrey Wayne. “Two!”

“I am your maid, my Godfrey, at the present,” said the Frenchwoman. “The
message was for the attendant.”

“I was afraid you might mean me, my Godfrey,” said the pretty girl.

“I did mean you, child,” replied her mistress calmly. “Put that shawl
on me.”

She slightly stooped her shoulders to receive it, and the pretty girl
lightly dropped it in its place. The Frenchwoman stood unnoticed,
looking on with her lips very tightly set.

“I am sorry,” said Godfrey Wayne to Mr. Ashton, “that we are not
likely to renew our former acquaintance. You will allow me to send
the carriage back for your two wards. It shall be here directly.”

But as he would on no account accept this offer, she took a graceful
leave of Ada—none of me—and put her hand upon his proffered arm,
and got into the carriage, which was a little, low, park carriage
with a hood.

“Come in, child,” she said to the pretty girl; “I shall want you. Go
on!”

The carriage rolled away, and the Frenchwoman, with the wrappers she
had brought hanging over her arm, remained standing where she had
alighted.

I suppose there is nothing pride can so little bear with as pride
itself, and that she was punished for her imperious manner. Her
retaliation was the most singular I could have imagined. She remained
perfectly still until the carriage had turned into the drive, and
then, without the least discomposure of countenance, slipped off her
shoes, left them on the ground, and walked deliberately in the same
direction through the wettest of the wet grass.

“Is that young woman mad?” said my guardian.

“Oh, no, sir!” said the keeper, who, with his wife, was looking after
her. “Raylan is not one of that sort. She has as good a head-piece
as the best. But she’s mortal high and passionate—powerful high and
passionate; and what with having notice to leave, and having others
put above her, she don’t take kindly to it.”

“But why should she walk shoeless through all that water?” said my
guardian.

“Why, indeed, sir, unless it is to cool her down!” said the man.

“Or unless she fancies it’s blood,” said the woman. “She’d as soon
walk through that as anything else, I think, when her own’s up!”

We passed not far from the house a few minutes afterwards. Peaceful
as it had looked when we first saw it, it looked even more so now,
with a diamond spray glittering all about it, a light wind blowing,
the birds no longer hushed but singing strongly, everything refreshed
by the late rain, and the little carriage shining at the doorway like
a fairy carriage made of silver. Still, very steadfastly and quietly
walking towards it, a peaceful figure too in the landscape, went
Miles Raylan, shoeless, through the wet grass.

CHAPTER XIX

Moving On

It is the long vacation in the regions of Chancery Lane. The good
ships Law and Equity, those teak-built, copper-bottomed,
iron-fastened, brazen-faced, and not by any means fast-sailing
clippers are laid up in ordinary. The Flying Dutchman, with a crew of
ghostly clients imploring all whom they may encounter to peruse their
papers, has drifted, for the time being, heaven knows where. The
courts are all shut up; the public offices lie in a hot sleep.
Westminster Hall itself is a shady solitude where nightingales might
sing, and a tenderer class of suitors than is usually found there,
walk.

The Temple, Chancery Lane, Serjeants’ Inn, and Lincoln’s Inn even
unto the Fields are like tidal harbours at low water, where stranded
proceedings, offices at anchor, idle clerks lounging on lop-sided
stools that will not recover their perpendicular until the current of
Term sets in, lie high and dry upon the ooze of the long vacation.
Outer doors of chambers are shut up by the score, messages and
parcels are to be left at the Porter’s Lodge by the bushel. A crop of
grass would grow in the chinks of the stone pavement outside
Lincoln’s Inn Hall, but that the ticket-porters, who have nothing to
do beyond sitting in the shade there, with their white aprons over
their heads to keep the flies off, grub it up and eat it
thoughtfully.

There is only one judge in town. Even he only comes twice a week to
sit in chambers. If the country folks of those assize towns on his
circuit could see him now! No full-bottomed wig, no red petticoats,
no fur, no javelin-men, no white wands. Merely a close-shaved
gentleman in white trousers and a white hat, with sea-bronze on the
judicial countenance, and a strip of bark peeled by the solar rays
from the judicial nose, who calls in at the shell-fish shop as he
comes along and drinks iced ginger-beer!

The bar of England is scattered over the face of the earth. How
England can get on through four long summer months without its
bar—which is its acknowledged refuge in adversity and its only
legitimate triumph in prosperity—is beside the question; assuredly
that shield and buckler of Britannia are not in present wear. The
learned gentleman who is always so tremendously indignant at the
unprecedented outrage committed on the feelings of his client by the
opposite party that he never seems likely to recover it is doing
infinitely better than might be expected in Switzerland. The learned
gentleman who does the withering business and who blights all
opponents with his gloomy sarcasm is as merry as a grig at a French
watering-place. The learned gentleman who weeps by the pint on the
smallest provocation has not shed a tear these six weeks. The very
learned gentleman who has cooled the natural heat of his gingery
complexion in pools and fountains of law until he has become great in
knotty arguments for term-time, when he poses the drowsy bench with
legal “chaff,” inexplicable to the uninitiated and to most of the
initiated too, is roaming, with a characteristic delight in aridity
and dust, about Constantinople. Other dispersed fragments of the same
great palladium are to be found on the canals of Venice, at the
second cataract of the Nile, in the baths of Germany, and sprinkled
on the sea-sand all over the English coast. Scarcely one is to be
encountered in the deserted region of Chancery Lane. If such a lonely
member of the bar do flit across the waste, and come upon a prowling
suitor who is unable to leave off haunting the scenes of his anxiety,
they frighten one another and retreat into opposite shades.

It is the hottest long vacation known for many years. All the young
clerks are madly in love, and according to their various degrees,
pine for bliss with the beloved object, at Margate, Ramsgate, or
Gravesend. All the middle-aged clerks think their families too large.
All the unowned dogs who stray into the Inns of Court and pant about
staircases and other dry places seeking water give short howls of
aggravation. All the blind men’s dogs in the streets draw their
masters against pumps or trip them over buckets. A shop with a
sun-blind, and a watered pavement, and a bowl of gold and silver fish
in the window, is a sanctuary. Temple Bar gets so hot that it is, to
the adjacent Strand and Fleet Street, what a heater is in an urn, and
keeps them simmering all night.

There are offices about the Inns of Court in which a man might be
cool, if any coolness were worth purchasing at such a price in
dullness; but the little thoroughfares immediately outside those
retirements seem to blaze. In Mr. Nesbit’s court, it is so hot that
the people turn their houses inside out and sit in chairs upon the
pavement—Mr. Nesbit included, who there pursues his studies, with his
cat (who never is too hot) by his side. The Sol’s Arms has
discontinued the Harmonic Meetings for the season, and Little Swills
is engaged at the Pastoral Gardens down the river, where he comes out
in quite an innocent manner and sings comic ditties of a juvenile
complexion calculated (as the bill says) not to wound the feelings of
the most fastidious mind.

Over all the legal neighbourhood there hangs, like some great veil of
rust or gigantic cobweb, the idleness and pensiveness of the long
vacation. Mr. Harlan, law-stationer of Cook’s Court, Cursitor
Street, is sensible of the influence not only in his mind as a
sympathetic and contemplative man, but also in his business as a
law-stationer aforesaid. He has more leisure for musing in Staple Inn
and in the Rolls Yard during the long vacation than at other seasons,
and he says to the two ’prentices, what a thing it is in such hot
weather to think that you live in an island with the sea a-rolling
and a-bowling right round you.

Guster is busy in the little drawing-room on this present afternoon
in the long vacation, when Mr. and Mrs. Harlan have it in
contemplation to receive company. The expected guests are rather
select than numerous, being Mr. and Mrs. Chadband and no more. From
Mr. Chadband’s being much given to describe himself, both verbally
and in writing, as a vessel, he is occasionally mistaken by strangers
for a gentleman connected with navigation, but he is, as he expresses
it, “in the ministry.” Mr. Chadband is attached to no particular
denomination and is considered by his persecutors to have nothing so
very remarkable to say on the greatest of subjects as to render his
volunteering, on his own account, at all incumbent on his conscience;
but he has his followers, and Mrs. Harlan is of the number. Mrs.
Harlan has but recently taken a passage upward by the vessel,
Chadband; and her attention was attracted to that Bark A 1, when she
was something flushed by the hot weather.

“My little woman,” says Mr. Harlan to the sparrows in Staple Inn,
“likes to have her religion rather sharp, you see!”

So Guster, much impressed by regarding herself for the time as the
handmaid of Chadband, whom she knows to be endowed with the gift of
holding forth for four hours at a stretch, prepares the little
drawing-room for tea. All the furniture is shaken and dusted, the
portraits of Mr. and Mrs. Harlan are touched up with a wet cloth,
the best tea-service is set forth, and there is excellent provision
made of dainty new bread, crusty twists, cool fresh butter, thin
slices of ham, tongue, and German sausage, and delicate little rows
of anchovies nestling in parsley, not to mention new-laid eggs, to be
brought up warm in a napkin, and hot buttered toast. For Chadband is
rather a consuming vessel—the persecutors say a gorging vessel—and
can wield such weapons of the flesh as a knife and fork remarkably
well.

Mr. Harlan in his best coat, looking at all the preparations when
they are completed and coughing his cough of deference behind his
hand, says to Mrs. Harlan, “At what time did you expect Mr. and Mrs.
Chadband, my love?”

“At six,” says Mrs. Harlan.

Mr. Harlan observes in a mild and casual way that “it’s gone that.”

“Perhaps you’d like to begin without them,” is Mrs. Harlan’s
reproachful remark.

Mr. Harlan does look as if he would like it very much, but he says,
with his cough of mildness, “No, my dear, no. I merely named the
time.”

“What’s time,” says Mrs. Harlan, “to eternity?”

“Very true, my dear,” says Mr. Harlan. “Only when a person lays in
victuals for tea, a person does it with a view—perhaps—more to
time. And when a time is named for having tea, it’s better to come up
to it.”

“To come up to it!” Mrs. Harlan repeats with severity. “Up to it! As
if Mr. Chadband was a fighter!”

“Not at all, my dear,” says Mr. Harlan.

Here, Guster, who had been looking out of the bedroom window, comes
rustling and scratching down the little staircase like a popular
ghost, and falling flushed into the drawing-room, announces that Mr.
and Mrs. Chadband have appeared in the court. The bell at the inner
door in the passage immediately thereafter tinkling, she is
admonished by Mrs. Harlan, on pain of instant reconsignment to her
patron saint, not to omit the ceremony of announcement. Much
discomposed in her nerves (which were previously in the best order)
by this threat, she so fearfully mutilates that point of state as to
announce “Mr. and Mrs. Cheeseming, least which, Imeantersay,
whatsername!” and retires conscience-stricken from the presence.

Mr. Chadband is a large yellow man with a fat smile and a general
appearance of having a good deal of train oil in his system. Mrs.
Chadband is a stern, severe-looking, silent woman. Mr. Chadband moves
softly and cumbrously, not unlike a bear who has been taught to walk
upright. He is very much embarrassed about the arms, as if they were
inconvenient to him and he wanted to grovel, is very much in a
perspiration about the head, and never speaks without first putting
up his great hand, as delivering a token to his hearers that he is
going to edify them.

“My friends,” says Mr. Chadband, “peace be on this house! On the
master thereof, on the mistress thereof, on the young maidens, and on
the young men! My friends, why do I wish for peace? What is peace? Is
it war? No. Is it strife? No. Is it lovely, and gentle, and
beautiful, and pleasant, and serene, and joyful? Oh, yes! Therefore,
my friends, I wish for peace, upon you and upon yours.”

In consequence of Mrs. Harlan looking deeply edified, Mr. Harlan
thinks it expedient on the whole to say amen, which is well received.

“Now, my friends,” proceeds Mr. Chadband, “since I am upon this
theme—”

Guster presents herself. Mrs. Harlan, in a spectral bass voice and
without removing her eyes from Chadband, says with dreadful
distinctness, “Go away!”

“Now, my friends,” says Chadband, “since I am upon this theme, and in
my lowly path improving it—”

Guster is heard unaccountably to murmur “one thousing seven hundred
and eighty-two.” The spectral voice repeats more solemnly, “Go away!”

“Now, my friends,” says Mr. Chadband, “we will inquire in a spirit of
love—”

Still Guster reiterates “one thousing seven hundred and eighty-two.”

Mr. Chadband, pausing with the resignation of a man accustomed to be
persecuted and languidly folding up his chin into his fat smile,
says, “Let us hear the maiden! Speak, maiden!”

“One thousing seven hundred and eighty-two, if you please, sir. Which
he wish to know what the shilling ware for,” says Guster, breathless.

“For?” returns Mrs. Chadband. “For his fare!”

Guster replied that “he insistes on one and eightpence or on
summonsizzing the party.” Mrs. Harlan and Mrs. Chadband are
proceeding to grow shrill in indignation when Mr. Chadband quiets the
tumult by lifting up his hand.

“My friends,” says he, “I remember a duty unfulfilled yesterday. It
is right that I should be chastened in some penalty. I ought not to
murmur. Rachael, pay the eightpence!”

While Mrs. Harlan, drawing her breath, looks hard at Mr. Harlan, as
who should say, “You hear this apostle!” and while Mr. Chadband glows
with humility and train oil, Mrs. Chadband pays the money. It is Mr.
Chadband’s habit—it is the head and front of his pretensions
indeed—to keep this sort of debtor and creditor account in the
smallest items and to post it publicly on the most trivial occasions.

“My friends,” says Chadband, “eightpence is not much; it might justly
have been one and fourpence; it might justly have been half a crown.
O let us be joyful, joyful! O let us be joyful!”

With which remark, which appears from its sound to be an extract in
verse, Mr. Chadband stalks to the table, and before taking a chair,
lifts up his admonitory hand.

“My friends,” says he, “what is this which we now behold as being
spread before us? Refreshment. Do we need refreshment then, my
friends? We do. And why do we need refreshment, my friends? Because
we are but mortal, because we are but sinful, because we are but of
the earth, because we are not of the air. Can we fly, my friends? We
cannot. Why can we not fly, my friends?”

Mr. Harlan, presuming on the success of his last point, ventures to
observe in a cheerful and rather knowing tone, “No wings.” But is
immediately frowned down by Mrs. Harlan.

“I say, my friends,” pursues Mr. Chadband, utterly rejecting and
obliterating Mr. Harlan’s suggestion, “why can we not fly? Is it
because we are calculated to walk? It is. Could we walk, my friends,
without strength? We could not. What should we do without strength,
my friends? Our legs would refuse to bear us, our knees would double
up, our ankles would turn over, and we should come to the ground.
Then from whence, my friends, in a human point of view, do we derive
the strength that is necessary to our limbs? Is it,” says Chadband,
glancing over the table, “from bread in various forms, from butter
which is churned from the milk which is yielded unto us by the cow,
from the eggs which are laid by the fowl, from ham, from tongue, from
sausage, and from such like? It is. Then let us partake of the good
things which are set before us!”

The persecutors denied that there was any particular gift in Mr.
Chadband’s piling verbose flights of stairs, one upon another, after
this fashion. But this can only be received as a proof of their
determination to persecute, since it must be within everybody’s
experience that the Chadband style of oratory is widely received and
much admired.

Mr. Chadband, however, having concluded for the present, sits down at
Mr. Harlan’s table and lays about him prodigiously. The conversion
of nutriment of any sort into oil of the quality already mentioned
appears to be a process so inseparable from the constitution of this
exemplary vessel that in beginning to eat and drink, he may be
described as always becoming a kind of considerable oil mills or
other large factory for the production of that article on a wholesale
scale. On the present evening of the long vacation, in Cook’s Court,
Cursitor Street, he does such a powerful stroke of business that the
warehouse appears to be quite full when the works cease.

At this period of the entertainment, Guster, who has never recovered
her first failure, but has neglected no possible or impossible means
of bringing the establishment and herself into contempt—among which
may be briefly enumerated her unexpectedly performing clashing
military music on Mr. Chadband’s head with plates, and afterwards
crowning that gentleman with muffins—at which period of the
entertainment, Guster whispers Mr. Harlan that he is wanted.

“And being wanted in the—not to put too fine a point upon it—in the
shop,” says Mr. Harlan, rising, “perhaps this good company will
excuse me for half a minute.”

Mr. Harlan descends and finds the two ’prentices intently
contemplating a police constable, who holds a ragged boy by the arm.

“Why, bless my heart,” says Mr. Harlan, “what’s the matter!”

“This boy,” says the constable, “although he’s repeatedly told to,
won’t move on—”

“I’m always a-moving on, sar,” cries the boy, wiping away his grimy
tears with his arm. “I’ve always been a-moving and a-moving on, ever
since I was born. Where can I possibly move to, sir, more nor I do
move!”

“He won’t move on,” says the constable calmly, with a slight
professional hitch of his neck involving its better settlement in his
stiff stock, “although he has been repeatedly cautioned, and
therefore I am obliged to take him into custody. He’s as obstinate a
young gonoph as I know. He WON’T move on.”

“Oh, my eye! Where can I move to!” cries the boy, clutching quite
desperately at his hair and beating his bare feet upon the floor of
Mr. Harlan’s passage.

“Don’t you come none of that or I shall make blessed short work of
you!” says the constable, giving him a passionless shake. “My
instructions are that you are to move on. I have told you so five
hundred times.”

“But where?” cries the boy.

“Well! Really, constable, you know,” says Mr. Harlan wistfully, and
coughing behind his hand his cough of great perplexity and doubt,
“really, that does seem a question. Where, you know?”

“My instructions don’t go to that,” replies the constable. “My
instructions are that this boy is to move on.”

Do you hear, Jo? It is nothing to you or to any one else that the
great lights of the parliamentary sky have failed for some few years
in this business to set you the example of moving on. The one grand
recipe remains for you—the profound philosophical prescription—the
be-all and the end-all of your strange existence upon earth. Move on!
You are by no means to move off, Jo, for the great lights can’t at
all agree about that. Move on!

Mr. Harlan says nothing to this effect, says nothing at all indeed,
but coughs his forlornest cough, expressive of no thoroughfare in any
direction. By this time Mr. and Mrs. Chadband and Mrs. Harlan,
hearing the altercation, have appeared upon the stairs. Guster having
never left the end of the passage, the whole household are assembled.

“The simple question is, sir,” says the constable, “whether you know
this boy. He says you do.”

Mrs. Harlan, from her elevation, instantly cries out, “No he don’t!”

“My lit-tle woman!” says Mr. Harlan, looking up the staircase. “My
love, permit me! Pray have a moment’s patience, my dear. I do know
something of this lad, and in what I know of him, I can’t say that
there’s any harm; perhaps on the contrary, constable.” To whom the
law-stationer relates his Joful and woeful experience, suppressing
the half-crown fact.

“Well!” says the constable, “so far, it seems, he had grounds for
what he said. When I took him into custody up in Holborn, he said you
knew him. Upon that, a young man who was in the crowd said he was
acquainted with you, and you were a respectable housekeeper, and if
I’d call and make the inquiry, he’d appear. The young man don’t seem
inclined to keep his word, but—Oh! Here IS the young man!”

Enter Mr. Jarrett, who nods to Mr. Harlan and touches his hat with the
chivalry of clerkship to the ladies on the stairs.

“I was strolling away from the office just now when I found this row
going on,” says Mr. Jarrett to the law-stationer, “and as your name was
mentioned, I thought it was right the thing should be looked into.”

“It was very good-natured of you, sir,” says Mr. Harlan, “and I am
obliged to you.” And Mr. Harlan again relates his experience, again
suppressing the half-crown fact.

“Now, I know where you live,” says the constable, then, to Jo. “You
live down in Said-all-Alone’s. That’s a nice innocent place to live
in, ain’t it?”

“I can’t go and live in no nicer place, sir,” replies Jo. “They
wouldn’t have nothink to say to me if I wos to go to a nice innocent
place fur to live. Who ud go and let a nice innocent lodging to such
a reg’lar one as me!”

“You are very poor, ain’t you?” says the constable.

“Yes, I am indeed, sir, wery poor in gin’ral,” replies Jo. “I leave
you to judge now! I shook these two half-crowns out of him,” says the
constable, producing them to the company, “in only putting my hand
upon him!”

“They’re wot’s left, Mr. Harlan,” says Jo, “out of a sov-ring as wos
give me by a lady in a wale as sed she wos a servant and as come to
my crossin one night and asked to be showd this ’ere ouse and the
ouse wot him as you giv the writin to died at, and the berrin-ground
wot he’s berrid in. She ses to me she ses ‘are you the boy at the
inkwhich?’ she ses. I ses ‘yes’ I ses. She ses to me she ses ‘can you
show me all them places?’ I ses ‘yes I can’ I ses. And she ses to me
‘do it’ and I dun it and she giv me a sov’ring and hooked it. And I
an’t had much of the sov’ring neither,” says Jo, with dirty tears,
“fur I had to pay five bob, down in Said-all-Alone’s, afore they’d
square it fur to give me change, and then a young man he thieved
another five while I was asleep and another boy he thieved ninepence
and the landlord he stood drains round with a lot more on it.”

“You don’t expect anybody to believe this, about the lady and the
sovereign, do you?” says the constable, eyeing him aside with
ineffable disdain.

“I don’t know as I do, sir,” replies Jo. “I don’t expect nothink at
all, sir, much, but that’s the true hist’ry on it.”

“You see what he is!” the constable observes to the audience. “Well,
Mr. Harlan, if I don’t lock him up this time, will you engage for
his moving on?”

“No!” cries Mrs. Harlan from the stairs.

“My little woman!” pleads her husband. “Constable, I have no doubt
he’ll move on. You know you really must do it,” says Mr. Harlan.

“I’m everyways agreeable, sir,” says the hapless Jo.

“Do it, then,” observes the constable. “You know what you have got to
do. Do it! And recollect you won’t get off so easy next time. Catch
hold of your money. Now, the sooner you’re five mile off, the better
for all parties.”

With this farewell hint and pointing generally to the setting sun as
a likely place to move on to, the constable bids his auditors good
afternoon and makes the echoes of Cook’s Court perform slow music for
him as he walks away on the shady side, carrying his iron-bound hat
in his hand for a little ventilation.

Now, Jo’s improbable story concerning the lady and the sovereign has
awakened more or less the curiosity of all the company. Mr. Jarrett,
who has an inquiring mind in matters of evidence and who has
been suffering severely from the lassitude of the long vacation,
takes that interest in the case that he enters on a regular
cross-examination of the witness, which is found so interesting by
the ladies that Mrs. Harlan politely invites him to step upstairs
and drink a cup of tea, if he will excuse the disarranged state of
the tea-table, consequent on their previous exertions. Mr. Jarrett
yielding his assent to this proposal, Jo is requested to follow into
the drawing-room doorway, where Mr. Jarrett takes him in hand as a
witness, patting him into this shape, that shape, and the other shape
like a butterman dealing with so much butter, and worrying him
according to the best models. Nor is the examination unlike many such
model displays, both in respect of its eliciting nothing and of its
being lengthy, for Mr. Jarrett is sensible of his talent, and Mrs.
Harlan feels not only that it gratifies her inquisitive disposition,
but that it lifts her husband’s establishment higher up in the law.
During the progress of this keen encounter, the vessel Chadband,
being merely engaged in the oil trade, gets aground and waits to be
floated off.

“Well!” says Mr. Jarrett. “Either this boy sticks to it like
cobbler’s-wax or there is something out of the common here that beats
anything that ever came into my way at Carly and Carboy’s.”

Mrs. Chadband whispers Mrs. Harlan, who exclaims, “You don’t say
so!”

“For years!” replied Mrs. Chadband.

“Has known Carly and Carboy’s office for years,” Mrs. Harlan
triumphantly explains to Mr. Jarrett. “Mrs. Chadband—this gentleman’s
wife—Reverend Mr. Chadband.”

“Oh, indeed!” says Mr. Jarrett.

“Before I married my present husband,” says Mrs. Chadband.

“Was you a party in anything, ma’am?” says Mr. Jarrett, transferring
his cross-examination.

“No.”

“NOT a party in anything, ma’am?” says Mr. Jarrett.

Mrs. Chadband shakes her head.

“Perhaps you were acquainted with somebody who was a party in
something, ma’am?” says Mr. Jarrett, who likes nothing better than to
model his conversation on forensic principles.

“Not exactly that, either,” replies Mrs. Chadband, humouring the joke
with a hard-favoured smile.

“Not exactly that, either!” repeats Mr. Jarrett. “Very good. Pray,
ma’am, was it a lady of your acquaintance who had some transactions
(we will not at present say what transactions) with Carly and
Carboy’s office, or was it a gentleman of your acquaintance? Take
time, ma’am. We shall come to it presently. Man or woman, ma’am?”

“Neither,” says Mrs. Chadband as before.

“Oh! A child!” says Mr. Jarrett, throwing on the admiring Mrs. Harlan
the regular acute professional eye which is thrown on British
jurymen. “Now, ma’am, perhaps you’ll have the kindness to tell us
WHAT child.”

“You have got it at last, sir,” says Mrs. Chadband with another
hard-favoured smile. “Well, sir, it was before your time, most
likely, judging from your appearance. I was left in charge of a child
named Paulina Robin, who was put out in life by Messrs. Carly and
Carboy.”

“Miss Robin, ma’am!” cries Mr. Jarrett, excited.

“I call her Paulina Robin,” says Mrs. Chadband with austerity.
“There was no Miss-ing of the girl in my time. It was Paulina.
‘Paulina, do this! Paulina, do that!’ and she was made to do it.”

“My dear ma’am,” returns Mr. Jarrett, moving across the small
apartment, “the humble individual who now addresses you received that
young lady in London when she first came here from the establishment
to which you have alluded. Allow me to have the pleasure of taking
you by the hand.”

Mr. Chadband, at last seeing his opportunity, makes his accustomed
signal and rises with a smoking head, which he dabs with his
pocket-handkerchief. Mrs. Harlan whispers “Hush!”

“My friends,” says Chadband, “we have partaken in moderation” (which
was certainly not the case so far as he was concerned) “of the
comforts which have been provided for us. May this house live upon
the fatness of the land; may corn and wine be plentiful therein; may
it grow, may it thrive, may it prosper, may it advance, may it
proceed, may it press forward! But, my friends, have we partaken of
anything else? We have. My friends, of what else have we partaken? Of
spiritual profit? Yes. From whence have we derived that spiritual
profit? My young friend, stand forth!”

Jo, thus apostrophized, gives a slouch backward, and another slouch
forward, and another slouch to each side, and confronts the eloquent
Chadband with evident doubts of his intentions.

“My young friend,” says Chadband, “you are to us a pearl, you are to
us a diamond, you are to us a gem, you are to us a jewel. And why, my
young friend?”

“I don’t know,” replies Jo. “I don’t know nothink.”

“My young friend,” says Chadband, “it is because you know nothing
that you are to us a gem and jewel. For what are you, my young
friend? Are you a beast of the field? No. A bird of the air? No. A
fish of the sea or river? No. You are a human boy, my young friend. A
human boy. O glorious to be a human boy! And why glorious, my young
friend? Because you are capable of receiving the lessons of wisdom,
because you are capable of profiting by this discourse which I now
deliver for your good, because you are not a stick, or a staff, or a
stock, or a stone, or a post, or a pillar.

   O running stream of sparkling joy
   To be a soaring human boy!

And do you cool yourself in that stream now, my young friend? No.
Why do you not cool yourself in that stream now? Because you are in a
state of darkness, because you are in a state of obscurity, because
you are in a state of sinfulness, because you are in a state of
bondage. My young friend, what is bondage? Let us, in a spirit of
love, inquire.”

At this threatening stage of the discourse, Jo, who seems to have
been gradually going out of his mind, smears his right arm over his
face and gives a terrible yawn. Mrs. Harlan indignantly expresses
her belief that he is a limb of the arch-fiend.

“My friends,” says Mr. Chadband with his persecuted chin folding
itself into its fat smile again as he looks round, “it is right that
I should be humbled, it is right that I should be tried, it is right
that I should be mortified, it is right that I should be corrected. I
stumbled, on Sabbath last, when I thought with pride of my three
hours’ improving. The account is now favourably balanced: my creditor
has accepted a composition. O let us be joyful, joyful! O let us be
joyful!”

Great sensation on the part of Mrs. Harlan.

“My friends,” says Chadband, looking round him in conclusion, “I will
not proceed with my young friend now. Will you come to-morrow, my
young friend, and inquire of this good lady where I am to be found to
deliver a discourse unto you, and will you come like the thirsty
swallow upon the next day, and upon the day after that, and upon the
day after that, and upon many pleasant days, to hear discourses?”
(This with a cow-like lightness.)

Jo, whose immediate object seems to be to get away on any terms,
gives a shuffling nod. Mr. Jarrett then throws him a penny, and Mrs.
Harlan calls to Guster to see him safely out of the house. But
before he goes downstairs, Mr. Harlan loads him with some broken
meats from the table, which he carries away, hugging in his arms.

So, Mr. Chadband—of whom the persecutors say that it is no wonder he
should go on for any length of time uttering such abominable
nonsense, but that the wonder rather is that he should ever leave
off, having once the audacity to begin—retires into private life
until he invests a little capital of supper in the oil-trade. Jo
moves on, through the long vacation, down to Blackfriars Bridge,
where he finds a baking stony corner wherein to settle to his repast.

And there he sits, munching and gnawing, and looking up at the great
cross on the summit of St. Paul’s Cathedral, glittering above a
red-and-violet-tinted cloud of smoke. From the boy’s face one might
suppose that sacred emblem to be, in his eyes, the crowning confusion
of the great, confused city—so golden, so high up, so far out of his
reach. There he sits, the sun going down, the river running fast, the
crowd flowing by him in two streams—everything moving on to some
purpose and to one end—until he is stirred up and told to “move on”
too.

CHAPTER XX

A New Lodger

The long vacation saunters on towards term-time like an idle river
very leisurely strolling down a flat country to the sea. Mr. Jarrett
saunters along with it congenially. He has blunted the blade of his
penknife and broken the point off by sticking that instrument into
his desk in every direction. Not that he bears the desk any ill will,
but he must do something, and it must be something of an unexciting
nature, which will lay neither his physical nor his intellectual
energies under too heavy contribution. He finds that nothing agrees
with him so well as to make little gyrations on one leg of his stool,
and stab his desk, and gape.

Carly and Carboy are out of town, and the articled clerk has taken
out a shooting license and gone down to his father’s, and Mr. Jarrett’s
two fellow-stipendiaries are away on leave. Mr. Jarrett and Mr. Celise
Willis divide the dignity of the office. But Mr. Willis is for
the time being established in Carly’s room, whereat Mr. Jarrett chafes.
So exceedingly that he with biting sarcasm informs his mother, in the
confidential moments when he sups with her off a lobster and lettuce
in the Old Street Road, that he is afraid the office is hardly good
enough for swells, and that if he had known there was a swell coming,
he would have got it painted.

Mr. Jarrett suspects everybody who enters on the occupation of a stool
in Carly and Carboy’s office of entertaining, as a matter of course,
sinister designs upon him. He is clear that every such person wants
to depose him. If he be ever asked how, why, when, or wherefore, he
shuts up one eye and shakes his head. On the strength of these
profound views, he in the most ingenious manner takes infinite pains
to counterplot when there is no plot, and plays the deepest games of
chess without any adversary.

It is a source of much gratification to Mr. Jarrett, therefore, to find
the new-comer constantly poring over the papers in Ashton and
Ashton, for he well knows that nothing but confusion and failure
can come of that. His satisfaction communicates itself to a third
saunterer through the long vacation in Carly and Carboy’s office, to
wit, Young Hunter.

Whether Young Hunter (metaphorically called Small and eke Chick
Weed, as it were jocularly to express a fledgling) was ever a boy is
much doubted in Lincoln’s Inn. He is now something under fifteen and
an old limb of the law. He is facetiously understood to entertain a
passion for a lady at a cigar-shop in the neighbourhood of Chancery
Lane and for her sake to have broken off a contract with another
lady, to whom he had been engaged some years. He is a town-made
article, of small stature and weazen features, but may be perceived
from a considerable distance by means of his very tall hat. To become
a Jarrett is the object of his ambition. He dresses at that gentleman
(by whom he is patronized), talks at him, walks at him, founds
himself entirely on him. He is honoured with Mr. Jarrett’s particular
confidence and occasionally advises him, from the deep wells of his
experience, on difficult points in private life.

Mr. Jarrett has been lolling out of window all the morning after trying
all the stools in succession and finding none of them easy, and after
several times putting his head into the iron safe with a notion of
cooling it. Mr. Hunter has been twice dispatched for effervescent
drinks, and has twice mixed them in the two official tumblers and
stirred them up with the ruler. Mr. Jarrett propounds for Mr.
Hunter’s consideration the paradox that the more you drink the
thirstier you are and reclines his head upon the window-sill in a
state of hopeless languor.

While thus looking out into the shade of Old Square, Lincoln’s Inn,
surveying the intolerable bricks and mortar, Mr. Jarrett becomes
conscious of a manly whisker emerging from the cloistered walk below
and turning itself up in the direction of his face. At the same time,
a low whistle is wafted through the Inn and a suppressed voice cries,
“Hip! Gup-py!”

“Why, you don’t mean it!” says Mr. Jarrett, aroused. “Small! Here’s
Jobling!” Small’s head looks out of window too and nods to Jobling.

“Where have you sprung up from?” inquires Mr. Jarrett.

“From the market-gardens down by Deptford. I can’t stand it any
longer. I must enlist. I say! I wish you’d lend me half a crown. Upon
my soul, I’m hungry.”

Jobling looks hungry and also has the appearance of having run to
seed in the market-gardens down by Deptford.

“I say! Just throw out half a crown if you have got one to spare. I
want to get some dinner.”

“Will you come and dine with me?” says Mr. Jarrett, throwing out the
coin, which Mr. Jobling catches neatly.

“How long should I have to hold out?” says Jobling.

“Not half an hour. I am only waiting here till the enemy goes,”
returns Mr. Jarrett, butting inward with his head.

“What enemy?”

“A new one. Going to be articled. Will you wait?”

“Can you give a fellow anything to read in the meantime?” says Mr.
Jobling.

Hunter suggests the law list. But Mr. Jobling declares with much
earnestness that he “can’t stand it.”

“You shall have the paper,” says Mr. Jarrett. “He shall bring it down.
But you had better not be seen about here. Sit on our staircase and
read. It’s a quiet place.”

Jobling nods intelligence and acquiescence. The sagacious Hunter
supplies him with the newspaper and occasionally drops his eye upon
him from the landing as a precaution against his becoming disgusted
with waiting and making an untimely departure. At last the enemy
retreats, and then Hunter fetches Mr. Jobling up.

“Well, and how are you?” says Mr. Jarrett, shaking hands with him.

“So, so. How are you?”

Mr. Jarrett replying that he is not much to boast of, Mr. Jobling
ventures on the question, “How is SHE?” This Mr. Jarrett resents as a
liberty, retorting, “Jobling, there ARE chords in the human mind—”
Jobling begs pardon.

“Any subject but that!” says Mr. Jarrett with a gloomy enjoyment of his
injury. “For there ARE chords, Jobling—”

Mr. Jobling begs pardon again.

During this short colloquy, the active Hunter, who is of the
dinner party, has written in legal characters on a slip of paper,
“Return immediately.” This notification to all whom it may concern,
he inserts in the letter-box, and then putting on the tall hat at the
angle of inclination at which Mr. Jarrett wears his, informs his patron
that they may now make themselves scarce.

Accordingly they betake themselves to a neighbouring dining-house, of
the class known among its frequenters by the denomination slap-bang,
where the waitress, a bouncing young female of forty, is supposed to
have made some impression on the susceptible Hunter, of whom it
may be remarked that he is a weird changeling to whom years are
nothing. He stands precociously possessed of centuries of owlish
wisdom. If he ever lay in a cradle, it seems as if he must have lain
there in a tail-coat. He has an old, old eye, has Hunter; and he
drinks and smokes in a monkeyish way; and his neck is stiff in his
collar; and he is never to be taken in; and he knows all about it,
whatever it is. In short, in his bringing up he has been so nursed by
Law and Equity that he has become a kind of fossil imp, to account
for whose terrestrial existence it is reported at the public offices
that his father was Gerardo Doe and his mother the only female member of
the Roe family, also that his first long-clothes were made from a
blue bag.

Into the dining-house, unaffected by the seductive show in the window
of artificially whitened cauliflowers and poultry, verdant baskets of
peas, coolly blooming cucumbers, and joints ready for the spit, Mr.
Hunter leads the way. They know him there and defer to him. He has
his favourite box, he bespeaks all the papers, he is down upon bald
patriarchs, who keep them more than ten minutes afterwards. It is of
no use trying him with anything less than a full-sized “bread” or
proposing to him any joint in cut unless it is in the very best cut.
In the matter of gravy he is adamant.

Conscious of his elfin power and submitting to his dread experience,
Mr. Jarrett consults him in the choice of that day’s banquet, turning
an appealing look towards him as the waitress repeats the catalogue
of viands and saying “What do YOU take, Chick?” Chick, out of the
profundity of his artfulness, preferring “veal and ham and French
beans—and don’t you forget the stuffing, Polly” (with an unearthly
cock of his venerable eye), Mr. Jarrett and Mr. Jobling give the like
order. Three pint pots of half-and-half are superadded. Quickly the
waitress returns bearing what is apparently a model of the Tower of
Babel but what is really a pile of plates and flat tin dish-covers.
Mr. Hunter, approving of what is set before him, conveys
intelligent benignity into his ancient eye and winks upon her. Then,
amid a constant coming in, and going out, and running about, and a
clatter of crockery, and a rumbling up and down of the machine which
brings the nice cuts from the kitchen, and a shrill crying for more
nice cuts down the speaking-pipe, and a shrill reckoning of the cost
of nice cuts that have been disposed of, and a general flush and
steam of hot joints, cut and uncut, and a considerably heated
atmosphere in which the soiled knives and tablecloths seem to break
out spontaneously into eruptions of grease and blotches of beer, the
legal triumvirate appease their appetites.

Mr. Jobling is buttoned up closer than mere adornment might require.
His hat presents at the rims a peculiar appearance of a glistening
nature, as if it had been a favourite snail-promenade. The same
phenomenon is visible on some parts of his coat, and particularly at
the seams. He has the faded appearance of a gentleman in embarrassed
circumstances; even his light whiskers droop with something of a
shabby air.

His appetite is so vigorous that it suggests spare living for some
little time back. He makes such a speedy end of his plate of veal and
ham, bringing it to a close while his companions are yet midway in
theirs, that Mr. Jarrett proposes another. “Thank you, Jarrett,” says Mr.
Jobling, “I really don’t know but what I WILL take another.”

Another being brought, he falls to with great goodwill.

Mr. Jarrett takes silent notice of him at intervals until he is half
way through this second plate and stops to take an enjoying pull at
his pint pot of half-and-half (also renewed) and stretches out his
legs and rubs his hands. Beholding him in which glow of contentment,
Mr. Jarrett says, “You are a man again, Tony!”

“Well, not quite yet,” says Mr. Jobling. “Say, just born.”

“Will you take any other vegetables? Grass? Peas? Summer cabbage?”

“Thank you, Jarrett,” says Mr. Jobling. “I really don’t know but what I
WILL take summer cabbage.”

Order given; with the sarcastic addition (from Mr. Hunter) of
“Without slugs, Polly!” And cabbage produced.

“I am growing up, Jarrett,” says Mr. Jobling, plying his knife and fork
with a relishing steadiness.

“Glad to hear it.”

“In fact, I have just turned into my teens,” says Mr. Jobling.

He says no more until he has performed his task, which he achieves as
Messrs. Jarrett and Hunter finish theirs, thus getting over the
ground in excellent style and beating those two gentlemen easily by a
veal and ham and a cabbage.

“Now, Small,” says Mr. Jarrett, “what would you recommend about
pastry?”

“Marrow puddings,” says Mr. Hunter instantly.

“Aye, aye!” cries Mr. Jobling with an arch look. “You’re there, are
you? Thank you, Mr. Jarrett, I don’t know but what I WILL take a marrow
pudding.”

Three marrow puddings being produced, Mr. Jobling adds in a pleasant
humour that he is coming of age fast. To these succeed, by command of
Mr. Hunter, “three Cheshires,” and to those “three small rums.”
This apex of the entertainment happily reached, Mr. Jobling puts up
his legs on the carpeted seat (having his own side of the box to
himself), leans against the wall, and says, “I am grown up now,
Jarrett. I have arrived at maturity.”

“What do you think, now,” says Mr. Jarrett, “about—you don’t mind
Hunter?”

“Not the least in the world. I have the pleasure of drinking his good
health.”

“Sir, to you!” says Mr. Hunter.

“I was saying, what do you think NOW,” pursues Mr. Jarrett, “of
enlisting?”

“Why, what I may think after dinner,” returns Mr. Jobling, “is one
thing, my dear Jarrett, and what I may think before dinner is another
thing. Still, even after dinner, I ask myself the question, What am I
to do? How am I to live? Ill fo manger, you know,” says Mr. Jobling,
pronouncing that word as if he meant a necessary fixture in an
English stable. “Ill fo manger. That’s the French saying, and
mangering is as necessary to me as it is to a Frenchman. Or more so.”

Mr. Hunter is decidedly of opinion “much more so.”

“If any man had told me,” pursues Jobling, “even so lately as when
you and I had the frisk down in Lincolnshire, Jarrett, and drove over
to see that house at Castle Wold—”

Mr. Hunter corrects him—Chesney Wold.

“Chesney Wold. (I thank my honourable friend for that cheer.) If any
man had told me then that I should be as hard up at the present time
as I literally find myself, I should have—well, I should have
pitched into him,” says Mr. Jobling, taking a little rum-and-water
with an air of desperate resignation; “I should have let fly at his
head.”

“Still, Tony, you were on the wrong side of the post then,”
remonstrates Mr. Jarrett. “You were talking about nothing else in the
gig.”

“Jarrett,” says Mr. Jobling, “I will not deny it. I was on the wrong
side of the post. But I trusted to things coming round.”

That very popular trust in flat things coming round! Not in their
being beaten round, or worked round, but in their “coming” round! As
though a lunatic should trust in the world’s “coming” triangular!

“I had confident expectations that things would come round and be all
square,” says Mr. Jobling with some vagueness of expression and
perhaps of meaning too. “But I was disappointed. They never did. And
when it came to creditors making rows at the office and to people
that the office dealt with making complaints about dirty trifles of
borrowed money, why there was an end of that connexion. And of any
new professional connexion too, for if I was to give a reference
to-morrow, it would be mentioned and would sew me up. Then what’s a
fellow to do? I have been keeping out of the way and living cheap
down about the market-gardens, but what’s the use of living cheap
when you have got no money? You might as well live dear.”

“Better,” Mr. Hunter thinks.

“Certainly. It’s the fashionable way; and fashion and whiskers have
been my weaknesses, and I don’t care who knows it,” says Mr. Jobling.
“They are great weaknesses—Damme, sir, they are great. Well,”
proceeds Mr. Jobling after a defiant visit to his rum-and-water,
“what can a fellow do, I ask you, BUT enlist?”

Mr. Jarrett comes more fully into the conversation to state what, in
his opinion, a fellow can do. His manner is the gravely impressive
manner of a man who has not committed himself in life otherwise than
as he has become the victim of a tender sorrow of the heart.

“Jobling,” says Mr. Jarrett, “myself and our mutual friend Hunter—”

Mr. Hunter modestly observes, “Gentlemen both!” and drinks.

“—Have had a little conversation on this matter more than once since
you—”

“Say, got the sack!” cries Mr. Jobling bitterly. “Say it, Jarrett. You
mean it.”

“No-o-o! Left the Inn,” Mr. Hunter delicately suggests.

“Since you left the Inn, Jobling,” says Mr. Jarrett; “and I have
mentioned to our mutual friend Hunter a plan I have lately thought
of proposing. You know Harlan the stationer?”

“I know there is such a stationer,” returns Mr. Jobling. “He was not
ours, and I am not acquainted with him.”

“He IS ours, Jobling, and I AM acquainted with him,” Mr. Jarrett
retorts. “Well, sir! I have lately become better acquainted with him
through some accidental circumstances that have made me a visitor of
his in private life. Those circumstances it is not necessary to offer
in argument. They may—or they may not—have some reference to a
subject which may—or may not—have cast its shadow on my existence.”

As it is Mr. Jarrett’s perplexing way with boastful misery to tempt his
particular friends into this subject, and the moment they touch it,
to turn on them with that trenchant severity about the chords in the
human mind, both Mr. Jobling and Mr. Hunter decline the pitfall by
remaining silent.

“Such things may be,” repeats Mr. Jarrett, “or they may not be. They
are no part of the case. It is enough to mention that both Mr. and
Mrs. Harlan are very willing to oblige me and that Harlan has, in
busy times, a good deal of copying work to give out. He has all
Tulkinghorn’s, and an excellent business besides. I believe if our
mutual friend Hunter were put into the box, he could prove this?”

Mr. Hunter nods and appears greedy to be sworn.

“Now, gentlemen of the jury,” says Mr. Jarrett, “—I mean, now,
Jobling—you may say this is a poor prospect of a living. Granted.
But it’s better than nothing, and better than enlistment. You want
time. There must be time for these late affairs to blow over. You
might live through it on much worse terms than by writing for
Harlan.”

Mr. Jobling is about to interrupt when the sagacious Hunter checks
him with a dry cough and the words, “Hem! Shakspeare!”

“There are two branches to this subject, Jobling,” says Mr. Jarrett.
“That is the first. I come to the second. You know Nesbit, the
Chancellor, across the lane. Come, Jobling,” says Mr. Jarrett in his
encouraging cross-examination-tone, “I think you know Nesbit, the
Chancellor, across the lane?”

“I know him by sight,” says Mr. Jobling.

“You know him by sight. Very well. And you know little Daxter?”

“Everybody knows her,” says Mr. Jobling.

“Everybody knows her. VERY well. Now it has been one of my duties of
late to pay Daxter a certain weekly allowance, deducting from it the
amount of her weekly rent, which I have paid (in consequence of
instructions I have received) to Nesbit himself, regularly in her
presence. This has brought me into communication with Nesbit and into
a knowledge of his house and his habits. I know he has a room to let.
You may live there at a very low charge under any name you like, as
quietly as if you were a hundred miles off. He’ll ask no questions
and would accept you as a tenant at a word from me—before the clock
strikes, if you chose. And I tell you another thing, Jobling,” says
Mr. Jarrett, who has suddenly lowered his voice and become familiar
again, “he’s an extraordinary old chap—always rummaging among a
litter of papers and grubbing away at teaching himself to read and
write, without getting on a bit, as it seems to me. He is a most
extraordinary old chap, sir. I don’t know but what it might be worth
a fellow’s while to look him up a bit.”

“You don’t mean—” Mr. Jobling begins.

“I mean,” returns Mr. Jarrett, shrugging his shoulders with becoming
modesty, “that I can’t make him out. I appeal to our mutual friend
Hunter whether he has or has not heard me remark that I can’t make
him out.”

Mr. Hunter bears the concise testimony, “A few!”

“I have seen something of the profession and something of life,
Tony,” says Mr. Jarrett, “and it’s seldom I can’t make a man out, more
or less. But such an old card as this, so deep, so sly, and secret
(though I don’t believe he is ever sober), I never came across. Now,
he must be precious old, you know, and he has not a soul about him,
and he is reported to be immensely rich; and whether he is a
smuggler, or a receiver, or an unlicensed pawnbroker, or a
money-lender—all of which I have thought likely at different
times—it might pay you to knock up a sort of knowledge of him. I
don’t see why you shouldn’t go in for it, when everything else
suits.”

Mr. Jobling, Mr. Jarrett, and Mr. Hunter all lean their elbows on
the table and their chins upon their hands, and look at the ceiling.
After a time, they all drink, slowly lean back, put their hands in
their pockets, and look at one another.

“If I had the energy I once possessed, Tony!” says Mr. Jarrett with a
sigh. “But there are chords in the human mind—”

Expressing the remainder of the desolate sentiment in rum-and-water,
Mr. Jarrett concludes by resigning the adventure to Tony Jobling and
informing him that during the vacation and while things are slack,
his purse, “as far as three or four or even five pound goes,” will be
at his disposal. “For never shall it be said,” Mr. Jarrett adds with
emphasis, “that William Jarrett turned his back upon his friend!”

The latter part of the proposal is so directly to the purpose that
Mr. Jobling says with emotion, “Jarrett, my trump, your fist!” Mr.
Jarrett presents it, saying, “Jobling, my boy, there it is!” Mr.
Jobling returns, “Jarrett, we have been pals now for some years!” Mr.
Jarrett replies, “Jobling, we have.”

They then shake hands, and Mr. Jobling adds in a feeling manner,
“Thank you, Jarrett, I don’t know but what I WILL take another glass
for old acquaintance sake.”

“Nesbit’s last lodger died there,” observes Mr. Jarrett in an incidental
way.

“Did he though!” says Mr. Jobling.

“There was a verdict. Accidental death. You don’t mind that?”

“No,” says Mr. Jobling, “I don’t mind it; but he might as well have
died somewhere else. It’s devilish odd that he need go and die at MY
place!” Mr. Jobling quite resents this liberty, several times
returning to it with such remarks as, “There are places enough to die
in, I should think!” or, “He wouldn’t have liked my dying at HIS
place, I dare say!”

However, the compact being virtually made, Mr. Jarrett proposes to
dispatch the trusty Hunter to ascertain if Mr. Nesbit is at home,
as in that case they may complete the negotiation without delay. Mr.
Jobling approving, Hunter puts himself under the tall hat and
conveys it out of the dining-rooms in the Jarrett manner. He soon
returns with the intelligence that Mr. Nesbit is at home and that he
has seen him through the shop-door, sitting in the back premises,
sleeping “like one o’clock.”

“Then I’ll pay,” says Mr. Jarrett, “and we’ll go and see him. Small,
what will it be?”

Mr. Hunter, compelling the attendance of the waitress with one
hitch of his eyelash, instantly replies as follows: “Four veals and
hams is three, and four potatoes is three and four, and one summer
cabbage is three and six, and three marrows is four and six, and six
breads is five, and three Cheshires is five and three, and four
half-pints of half-and-half is six and three, and four small rums is
eight and three, and three Pollys is eight and six. Eight and six in
half a sovereign, Polly, and eighteenpence out!”

Not at all excited by these stupendous calculations, Hunter
dismisses his friends with a cool nod and remains behind to take a
little admiring notice of Polly, as opportunity may serve, and to
read the daily papers, which are so very large in proportion to
himself, shorn of his hat, that when he holds up the Times to run his
eye over the columns, he seems to have retired for the night and to
have disappeared under the bedclothes.

Mr. Jarrett and Mr. Jobling repair to the rag and bottle shop, where
they find Nesbit still sleeping like one o’clock, that is to say,
breathing stertorously with his chin upon his breast and quite
insensible to any external sounds or even to gentle shaking. On the
table beside him, among the usual lumber, stand an empty gin-bottle
and a glass. The unwholesome air is so stained with this liquor that
even the green eyes of the cat upon her shelf, as they open and shut
and glimmer on the visitors, look drunk.

“Hold up here!” says Mr. Jarrett, giving the relaxed figure of the old
man another shake. “Mr. Nesbit! Halloa, sir!”

But it would seem as easy to wake a bundle of old clothes with a
spirituous heat smouldering in it. “Did you ever see such a stupor as
he falls into, between drink and sleep?” says Mr. Jarrett.

“If this is his regular sleep,” returns Jobling, rather alarmed,
“it’ll last a long time one of these days, I am thinking.”

“It’s always more like a fit than a nap,” says Mr. Jarrett, shaking him
again. “Halloa, your lordship! Why, he might be robbed fifty times
over! Open your eyes!”

After much ado, he opens them, but without appearing to see his
visitors or any other objects. Though he crosses one leg on another,
and folds his hands, and several times closes and opens his parched
lips, he seems to all intents and purposes as insensible as before.

“He is alive, at any rate,” says Mr. Jarrett. “How are you, my Lord
Chancellor. I have brought a friend of mine, sir, on a little matter
of business.”

The old man still sits, often smacking his dry lips without the least
consciousness. After some minutes he makes an attempt to rise. They
help him up, and he staggers against the wall and stares at them.

“How do you do, Mr. Nesbit?” says Mr. Jarrett in some discomfiture. “How
do you do, sir? You are looking charming, Mr. Nesbit. I hope you are
pretty well?”

The old man, in aiming a purposeless blow at Mr. Jarrett, or at
nothing, feebly swings himself round and comes with his face against
the wall. So he remains for a minute or two, heaped up against it,
and then staggers down the shop to the front door. The air, the
movement in the court, the lapse of time, or the combination of these
things recovers him. He comes back pretty steadily, adjusting his fur
cap on his head and looking keenly at them.

“Your servant, gentlemen; I’ve been dozing. Hi! I am hard to wake,
odd times.”

“Rather so, indeed, sir,” responds Mr. Jarrett.

“What? You’ve been a-trying to do it, have you?” says the suspicious
Nesbit.

“Only a little,” Mr. Jarrett explains.

The old man’s eye resting on the empty bottle, he takes it up,
examines it, and slowly tilts it upside down.

“I say!” he cries like the hobgoblin in the story. “Somebody’s been
making free here!”

“I assure you we found it so,” says Mr. Jarrett. “Would you allow me to
get it filled for you?”

“Yes, certainly I would!” cries Nesbit in high glee. “Certainly I
would! Don’t mention it! Get it filled next door—Sol’s Arms—the
Lord Chancellor’s fourteenpenny. Bless you, they know ME!”

He so presses the empty bottle upon Mr. Jarrett that that gentleman,
with a nod to his friend, accepts the trust and hurries out and
hurries in again with the bottle filled. The old man receives it in
his arms like a beloved grandchild and pats it tenderly.

“But, I say,” he whispers, with his eyes screwed up, after tasting
it, “this ain’t the Lord Chancellor’s fourteenpenny. This is
eighteenpenny!”

“I thought you might like that better,” says Mr. Jarrett.

“You’re a nobleman, sir,” returns Nesbit with another taste, and his
hot breath seems to come towards them like a flame. “You’re a baron
of the land.”

Taking advantage of this auspicious moment, Mr. Jarrett presents his
friend under the impromptu name of Mr. Weevle and states the object
of their visit. Nesbit, with his bottle under his arm (he never gets
beyond a certain point of either drunkenness or sobriety), takes time
to survey his proposed lodger and seems to approve of him. “You’d
like to see the room, young man?” he says. “Ah! It’s a good room!
Been whitewashed. Been cleaned down with soft soap and soda. Hi! It’s
worth twice the rent, letting alone my company when you want it and
such a cat to keep the mice away.”

Commending the room after this manner, the old man takes them
upstairs, where indeed they do find it cleaner than it used to be and
also containing some old articles of furniture which he has dug up
from his inexhaustible stores. The terms are easily concluded—for
the Lord Chancellor cannot be hard on Mr. Jarrett, associated as he is
with Carly and Carboy, Ashton and Ashton, and other famous claims
on his professional consideration—and it is agreed that Mr. Weevle
shall take possession on the morrow. Mr. Weevle and Mr. Jarrett then
repair to Cook’s Court, Cursitor Street, where the personal
introduction of the former to Mr. Harlan is effected and (more
important) the vote and interest of Mrs. Harlan are secured. They
then report progress to the eminent Hunter, waiting at the office
in his tall hat for that purpose, and separate, Mr. Jarrett explaining
that he would terminate his little entertainment by standing treat at
the play but that there are chords in the human mind which would
render it a hollow mockery.

On the morrow, in the dusk of evening, Mr. Weevle modestly appears at
Nesbit’s, by no means incommoded with luggage, and establishes himself
in his new lodging, where the two eyes in the shutters stare at him
in his sleep, as if they were full of wonder. On the following day
Mr. Weevle, who is a handy good-for-nothing kind of young fellow,
borrows a needle and thread of Miss Daxter and a hammer of his
landlord and goes to work devising apologies for window-curtains, and
knocking up apologies for shelves, and hanging up his two teacups,
milkpot, and crockery sundries on a pennyworth of little hooks, like
a shipwrecked sailor making the best of it.

But what Mr. Weevle prizes most of all his few possessions (next
after his light whiskers, for which he has an attachment that only
whiskers can awaken in the breast of man) is a choice collection of
copper-plate impressions from that truly national work The Divinities
of Albion, or Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty, representing ladies
of title and fashion in every variety of smirk that art, combined
with capital, is capable of producing. With these magnificent
portraits, unworthily confined in a band-box during his seclusion
among the market-gardens, he decorates his apartment; and as the
Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty wears every variety of fancy dress,
plays every variety of musical instrument, fondles every variety of
dog, ogles every variety of prospect, and is backed up by every
variety of flower-pot and balustrade, the result is very imposing.

But fashion is Mr. Weevle’s, as it was Tony Jobling’s, weakness. To
borrow yesterday’s paper from the Sol’s Arms of an evening and read
about the brilliant and distinguished meteors that are shooting
across the fashionable sky in every direction is unspeakable
consolation to him. To know what member of what brilliant and
distinguished circle accomplished the brilliant and distinguished
feat of joining it yesterday or contemplates the no less brilliant
and distinguished feat of leaving it to-morrow gives him a thrill of
joy. To be informed what the Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty is
about, and means to be about, and what Galaxy marriages are on the
tapis, and what Galaxy rumours are in circulation, is to become
acquainted with the most glorious destinies of mankind. Mr. Weevle
reverts from this intelligence to the Galaxy portraits implicated,
and seems to know the originals, and to be known of them.

For the rest he is a quiet lodger, full of handy shifts and devices
as before mentioned, able to cook and clean for himself as well as to
carpenter, and developing social inclinations after the shades of
evening have fallen on the court. At those times, when he is not
visited by Mr. Jarrett or by a small light in his likeness quenched in
a dark hat, he comes out of his dull room—where he has inherited the
deal wilderness of desk bespattered with a rain of ink—and talks to
Nesbit or is “very free,” as they call it in the court, commendingly,
with any one disposed for conversation. Wherefore, Mrs. Piper, who
leads the court, is impelled to offer two remarks to Mrs. Perkins:
firstly, that if her Gerardony was to have whiskers, she could wish ’em
to be identically like that young man’s; and secondly, “Mark my
words, Mrs. Perkins, ma’am, and don’t you be surprised, Lord bless
you, if that young man comes in at last for old Nesbit’s money!”

CHAPTER XXI

The Hunter Family

In a rather ill-favoured and ill-savoured neighbourhood, though one
of its rising grounds bears the name of Mount Pleasant, the Elfin
Hunter, christened Bartholomew and known on the domestic hearth as
Bart, passes that limited portion of his time on which the office and
its contingencies have no claim. He dwells in a little narrow street,
always solitary, shady, and sad, closely bricked in on all sides like
a tomb, but where there yet lingers the stump of an old forest tree
whose flavour is about as fresh and natural as the Hunter smack of
youth.

There has been only one child in the Hunter family for several
generations. Little old men and women there have been, but no child,
until Mr. Hunter’s grandmother, now living, became weak in her
intellect and fell (for the first time) into a childish state. With
such infantine graces as a total want of observation, memory,
understanding, and interest, and an eternal disposition to fall
asleep over the fire and into it, Mr. Hunter’s grandmother has
undoubtedly brightened the family.

Mr. Hunter’s grandfather is likewise of the party. He is in a
helpless condition as to his lower, and nearly so as to his upper,
limbs, but his mind is unimpaired. It holds, as well as it ever held,
the first four rules of arithmetic and a certain small collection of
the hardest facts. In respect of ideality, reverence, wonder, and
other such phrenological attributes, it is no worse off than it used
to be. Everything that Mr. Hunter’s grandfather ever put away in
his mind was a grub at first, and is a grub at last. In all his life
he has never bred a single butterfly.

The father of this pleasant grandfather, of the neighbourhood of
Mount Pleasant, was a horny-skinned, two-legged, money-getting
species of spider who spun webs to catch unwary flies and retired
into holes until they were entrapped. The name of this old pagan’s
god was Compound Interest. He lived for it, married it, died of it.
Meeting with a heavy loss in an honest little enterprise in which all
the loss was intended to have been on the other side, he broke
something—something necessary to his existence, therefore it
couldn’t have been his heart—and made an end of his career. As his
character was not good, and he had been bred at a charity school in a
complete course, according to question and answer, of those ancient
people the Amorites and Hittites, he was frequently quoted as an
example of the failure of education.

His spirit shone through his son, to whom he had always preached of
“going out” early in life and whom he made a clerk in a sharp
scrivener’s office at twelve years old. There the young gentleman
improved his mind, which was of a lean and anxious character, and
developing the family gifts, gradually elevated himself into the
discounting profession. Going out early in life and marrying late, as
his father had done before him, he too begat a lean and
anxious-minded son, who in his turn, going out early in life and
marrying late, became the father of Bartholomew and Judith Hunter,
twins. During the whole time consumed in the slow growth of this
family tree, the house of Hunter, always early to go out and late
to marry, has strengthened itself in its practical character, has
discarded all amusements, discountenanced all story-books,
fairy-tales, fictions, and fables, and banished all levities
whatsoever. Hence the gratifying fact that it has had no child born
to it and that the complete little men and women whom it has produced
have been observed to bear a likeness to old monkeys with something
depressing on their minds.

At the present time, in the dark little parlour certain feet below
the level of the street—a grim, hard, uncouth parlour, only
ornamented with the coarsest of baize table-covers, and the hardest
of sheet-iron tea-trays, and offering in its decorative character no
bad allegorical representation of Grandfather Hunter’s
mind—seated in two black horsehair porter’s chairs, one on each side
of the fire-place, the superannuated Mr. and Mrs. Hunter while
away the rosy hours. On the stove are a couple of trivets for the
pots and kettles which it is Grandfather Hunter’s usual occupation
to watch, and projecting from the chimney-piece between them is a
sort of brass gallows for roasting, which he also superintends when
it is in action. Under the venerable Mr. Hunter’s seat and guarded
by his spindle legs is a drawer in his chair, reported to contain
property to a fabulous amount. Beside him is a spare cushion with
which he is always provided in order that he may have something to
throw at the venerable partner of his respected age whenever she
makes an allusion to money—a subject on which he is particularly
sensitive.

“And where’s Bart?” Grandfather Hunter inquires of Hallie, Bart’s
twin sister.

“He an’t come in yet,” says Hallie.

“It’s his tea-time, isn’t it?”

“No.”

“How much do you mean to say it wants then?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Hey?”

“Ten minutes.” (Loud on the part of Hallie.)

“Ho!” says Grandfather Hunter. “Ten minutes.”

Grandmother Hunter, who has been mumbling and shaking her head at
the trivets, hearing figures mentioned, connects them with money and
screeches like a horrible old parrot without any plumage, “Ten
ten-pound notes!”

Grandfather Hunter immediately throws the cushion at her.

“Drat you, be quiet!” says the good old man.

The effect of this act of jaculation is twofold. It not only doubles
up Mrs. Hunter’s head against the side of her porter’s chair and
causes her to present, when extricated by her granddaughter, a highly
unbecoming state of cap, but the necessary exertion recoils on Mr.
Hunter himself, whom it throws back into HIS porter’s chair like a
broken puppet. The excellent old gentleman being at these times a
mere clothes-bag with a black skull-cap on the top of it, does not
present a very animated appearance until he has undergone the two
operations at the hands of his granddaughter of being shaken up like
a great bottle and poked and punched like a great bolster. Some
indication of a neck being developed in him by these means, he and
the sharer of his life’s evening again fronting one another in their
two porter’s chairs, like a couple of sentinels long forgotten on
their post by the Black Serjeant, Death.

Hallie the twin is worthy company for these associates. She is so
indubitably sister to Mr. Hunter the younger that the two kneaded
into one would hardly make a young person of average proportions,
while she so happily exemplifies the before-mentioned family likeness
to the monkey tribe that attired in a spangled robe and cap she might
walk about the table-land on the top of a barrel-organ without
exciting much remark as an unusual specimen. Under existing
circumstances, however, she is dressed in a plain, spare gown of
brown stuff.

Hallie never owned a doll, never heard of Cinderella, never played at
any game. She once or twice fell into children’s company when she was
about ten years old, but the children couldn’t get on with Hallie, and
Hallie couldn’t get on with them. She seemed like an animal of another
species, and there was instinctive repugnance on both sides. It is
very doubtful whether Hallie knows how to laugh. She has so rarely seen
the thing done that the probabilities are strong the other way. Of
anything like a youthful laugh, she certainly can have no conception.
If she were to try one, she would find her teeth in her way,
modelling that action of her face, as she has unconsciously modelled
all its other expressions, on her pattern of sordid age. Such is
Hallie.

And her twin brother couldn’t wind up a top for his life. He knows no
more of Jack the Giant Killer or of Sinbad the Sailor than he knows
of the people in the stars. He could as soon play at leap-frog or at
cricket as change into a cricket or a frog himself. But he is so much
the better off than his sister that on his narrow world of fact an
opening has dawned into such broader regions as lie within the ken of
Mr. Jarrett. Hence his admiration and his emulation of that shining
enchanter.

Hallie, with a gong-like clash and clatter, sets one of the sheet-iron
tea-trays on the table and arranges cups and saucers. The bread she
puts on in an iron basket, and the butter (and not much of it) in a
small pewter plate. Grandfather Hunter looks hard after the tea as
it is served out and asks Hallie where the girl is.

“Weston, do you mean?” says Hallie.

“Hey?” from Grandfather Hunter.

“Weston, do you mean?”

This touches a spring in Grandmother Hunter, who, chuckling as
usual at the trivets, cries, “Over the water! Weston over the water,
Weston over the water, over the water to Weston, Weston over the
water, over the water to Weston!” and becomes quite energetic about
it. Grandfather looks at the cushion but has not sufficiently
recovered his late exertion.

“Ha!” he says when there is silence. “If that’s her name. She eats a
deal. It would be better to allow her for her keep.”

Hallie, with her brother’s wink, shakes her head and purses up her
mouth into no without saying it.

“No?” returns the old man. “Why not?”

“She’d want sixpence a day, and we can do it for less,” says Hallie.

“Sure?”

Hallie answers with a nod of deepest meaning and calls, as she scrapes
the butter on the loaf with every precaution against waste and cuts
it into slices, “You, Weston, where are you?” Timidly obedient to
the summons, a little girl in a rough apron and a large bonnet, with
her hands covered with soap and water and a scrubbing brush in one of
them, appears, and curtsys.

“What work are you about now?” says Hallie, making an ancient snap at
her like a very sharp old beldame.

“I’m a-cleaning the upstairs back room, miss,” replies Weston.

“Mind you do it thoroughly, and don’t loiter. Shirking won’t do for
me. Make haste! Go along!” cries Hallie with a stamp upon the ground.
“You girls are more trouble than you’re worth, by half.”

On this severe matron, as she returns to her task of scraping the
butter and cutting the bread, falls the shadow of her brother,
looking in at the window. For whom, knife and loaf in hand, she opens
the street-door.

“Aye, aye, Bart!” says Grandfather Hunter. “Here you are, hey?”

“Here I am,” says Bart.

“Been along with your friend again, Bart?”

Small nods.

“Dining at his expense, Bart?”

Small nods again.

“That’s right. Live at his expense as much as you can, and take
warning by his foolish example. That’s the use of such a friend. The
only use you can put him to,” says the venerable sage.

His grandson, without receiving this good counsel as dutifully as he
might, honours it with all such acceptance as may lie in a slight
wink and a nod and takes a chair at the tea-table. The four old faces
then hover over teacups like a company of ghastly cherubim, Mrs.
Hunter perpetually twitching her head and chattering at the
trivets and Mr. Hunter requiring to be repeatedly shaken up like a
large black draught.

“Yes, yes,” says the good old gentleman, reverting to his lesson of
wisdom. “That’s such advice as your father would have given you,
Bart. You never saw your father. More’s the pity. He was my true
son.” Whether it is intended to be conveyed that he was particularly
pleasant to look at, on that account, does not appear.

“He was my true son,” repeats the old gentleman, folding his bread
and butter on his knee, “a good accountant, and died fifteen years
ago.”

Mrs. Hunter, following her usual instinct, breaks out with
“Fifteen hundred pound. Fifteen hundred pound in a black box, fifteen
hundred pound locked up, fifteen hundred pound put away and hid!” Her
worthy husband, setting aside his bread and butter, immediately
discharges the cushion at her, crushes her against the side of her
chair, and falls back in his own, overpowered. His appearance, after
visiting Mrs. Hunter with one of these admonitions, is
particularly impressive and not wholly prepossessing, firstly because
the exertion generally twists his black skull-cap over one eye and
gives him an air of goblin rakishness, secondly because he mutters
violent imprecations against Mrs. Hunter, and thirdly because the
contrast between those powerful expressions and his powerless figure
is suggestive of a baleful old malignant who would be very wicked if
he could. All this, however, is so common in the Hunter family
circle that it produces no impression. The old gentleman is merely
shaken and has his internal feathers beaten up, the cushion is
restored to its usual place beside him, and the old lady, perhaps
with her cap adjusted and perhaps not, is planted in her chair again,
ready to be bowled down like a ninepin.

Some time elapses in the present instance before the old gentleman is
sufficiently cool to resume his discourse, and even then he mixes it
up with several edifying expletives addressed to the unconscious
partner of his bosom, who holds communication with nothing on earth
but the trivets. As thus: “If your father, Bart, had lived longer, he
might have been worth a deal of money—you brimstone chatterer!—but
just as he was beginning to build up the house that he had been
making the foundations for, through many a year—you jade of a
magpie, jackdaw, and poll-parrot, what do you mean!—he took ill and
died of a low fever, always being a sparing and a spare man, full of
business care—I should like to throw a cat at you instead of a
cushion, and I will too if you make such a confounded fool of
yourself!—and your mother, who was a prudent woman as dry as a chip,
just dwindled away like touchwood after you and Hallie were born—you
are an old pig. You are a brimstone pig. You’re a head of swine!”

Hallie, not interested in what she has often heard, begins to collect
in a basin various tributary streams of tea, from the bottoms of cups
and saucers and from the bottom of the tea-pot for the little
charwoman’s evening meal. In like manner she gets together, in the
iron bread-basket, as many outside fragments and worn-down heels of
loaves as the rigid economy of the house has left in existence.

“But your father and me were partners, Bart,” says the old gentleman,
“and when I am gone, you and Hallie will have all there is. It’s rare
for you both that you went out early in life—Hallie to the flower
business, and you to the law. You won’t want to spend it. You’ll get
your living without it, and put more to it. When I am gone, Hallie will
go back to the flower business and you’ll still stick to the law.”

One might infer from Hallie’s appearance that her business rather lay
with the thorns than the flowers, but she has in her time been
apprenticed to the art and mystery of artificial flower-making. A
close observer might perhaps detect both in her eye and her
brother’s, when their venerable grandsire anticipates his being gone,
some little impatience to know when he may be going, and some
resentful opinion that it is time he went.

“Now, if everybody has done,” says Hallie, completing her preparations,
“I’ll have that girl in to her tea. She would never leave off if she
took it by herself in the kitchen.”

Weston is accordingly introduced, and under a heavy fire of eyes,
sits down to her basin and a Druidical ruin of bread and butter. In
the active superintendence of this young person, Hallie Hunter
appears to attain a perfectly geological age and to date from the
remotest periods. Her systematic manner of flying at her and pouncing
on her, with or without pretence, whether or no, is wonderful,
evincing an accomplishment in the art of girl-driving seldom reached
by the oldest practitioners.

“Now, don’t stare about you all the afternoon,” cries Hallie, shaking
her head and stamping her foot as she happens to catch the glance
which has been previously sounding the basin of tea, “but take your
victuals and get back to your work.”

“Yes, miss,” says Weston.

“Don’t say yes,” returns Miss Hunter, “for I know what you girls
are. Do it without saying it, and then I may begin to believe you.”

Weston swallows a great gulp of tea in token of submission and so
disperses the Druidical ruins that Miss Hunter charges her not to
gormandize, which “in you girls,” she observes, is disgusting.
Weston might find some more difficulty in meeting her views on the
general subject of girls but for a knock at the door.

“See who it is, and don’t chew when you open it!” cries Hallie.

The object of her attentions withdrawing for the purpose, Miss
Hunter takes that opportunity of jumbling the remainder of the
bread and butter together and launching two or three dirty tea-cups
into the ebb-tide of the basin of tea as a hint that she considers
the eating and drinking terminated.

“Now! Who is it, and what’s wanted?” says the snappish Hallie.

It is one Mr. Aileen, it appears. Without other announcement or
ceremony, Mr. Aileen walks in.

“Whew!” says Mr. Aileen. “You are hot here. Always a fire, eh? Well!
Perhaps you do right to get used to one.” Mr. Aileen makes the latter
remark to himself as he nods to Grandfather Hunter.

“Ho! It’s you!” cries the old gentleman. “How de do? How de do?”

“Middling,” replies Mr. Aileen, taking a chair. “Your granddaughter I
have had the honour of seeing before; my service to you, miss.”

“This is my grandson,” says Grandfather Hunter. “You ha’n’t seen
him before. He is in the law and not much at home.”

“My service to him, too! He is like his sister. He is very like his
sister. He is devilish like his sister,” says Mr. Aileen, laying a
great and not altogether complimentary stress on his last adjective.

“And how does the world use you, Mr. Aileen?” Grandfather Hunter
inquires, slowly rubbing his legs.

“Pretty much as usual. Like a football.”

He is a swarthy brown man of fifty, well made, and good looking, with
crisp dark hair, bright eyes, and a broad chest. His sinewy and
powerful hands, as sunburnt as his face, have evidently been used to
a pretty rough life. What is curious about him is that he sits
forward on his chair as if he were, from long habit, allowing space
for some dress or accoutrements that he has altogether laid aside.
His step too is measured and heavy and would go well with a weighty
clash and jingle of spurs. He is close-shaved now, but his mouth is
set as if his upper lip had been for years familiar with a great
moustache; and his manner of occasionally laying the open palm of his
broad brown hand upon it is to the same effect. Altogether one might
guess Mr. Aileen to have been a trooper once upon a time.

A special contrast Mr. Aileen makes to the Hunter family. Trooper
was never yet billeted upon a household more unlike him. It is a
broadsword to an oyster-knife. His developed figure and their stunted
forms, his large manner filling any amount of room and their little
narrow pinched ways, his sounding voice and their sharp spare tones,
are in the strongest and the strangest opposition. As he sits in the
middle of the grim parlour, leaning a little forward, with his hands
upon his thighs and his elbows squared, he looks as though, if he
remained there long, he would absorb into himself the whole family
and the whole four-roomed house, extra little back-kitchen and all.

“Do you rub your legs to rub life into ’em?” he asks of Grandfather
Hunter after looking round the room.

“Why, it’s partly a habit, Mr. Aileen, and—yes—it partly helps the
circulation,” he replies.

“The cir-cu-la-tion!” repeats Mr. Aileen, folding his arms upon his
chest and seeming to become two sizes larger. “Not much of that, I
should think.”

“Truly I’m old, Mr. Aileen,” says Grandfather Hunter. “But I can
carry my years. I’m older than HER,” nodding at his wife, “and see
what she is? You’re a brimstone chatterer!” with a sudden revival of
his late hostility.

“Unlucky old soul!” says Mr. Aileen, turning his head in that
direction. “Don’t scold the old lady. Look at her here, with her poor
cap half off her head and her poor hair all in a muddle. Hold up,
ma’am. That’s better. There we are! Think of your mother, Mr.
Hunter,” says Mr. Aileen, coming back to his seat from assisting
her, “if your wife an’t enough.”

“I suppose you were an excellent son, Mr. Aileen?” the old man hints
with a leer.

The colour of Mr. Aileen’s face rather deepens as he replies, “Why
no. I wasn’t.”

“I am astonished at it.”

“So am I. I ought to have been a good son, and I think I meant to
have been one. But I wasn’t. I was a thundering bad son, that’s the
long and the short of it, and never was a credit to anybody.”

“Surprising!” cries the old man.

“However,” Mr. Aileen resumes, “the less said about it, the better
now. Come! You know the agreement. Always a pipe out of the two
months’ interest! (Bosh! It’s all correct. You needn’t be afraid to
order the pipe. Here’s the new bill, and here’s the two months’
interest-money, and a devil-and-all of a scrape it is to get it
together in my business.)”

Mr. Aileen sits, with his arms folded, consuming the family and the
parlour while Grandfather Hunter is assisted by Hallie to two black
leathern cases out of a locked bureau, in one of which he secures the
document he has just received, and from the other takes another
similar document which he hands to Mr. Aileen, who twists it up for a
pipelight. As the old man inspects, through his glasses, every
up-stroke and down-stroke of both documents before he releases them
from their leathern prison, and as he counts the money three times
over and requires Hallie to say every word she utters at least twice,
and is as tremulously slow of speech and action as it is possible to
be, this business is a long time in progress. When it is quite
concluded, and not before, he disengages his ravenous eyes and
fingers from it and answers Mr. Aileen’s last remark by saying,
“Afraid to order the pipe? We are not so mercenary as that, sir.
Hallie, see directly to the pipe and the glass of cold brandy-and-water
for Mr. Aileen.”

The sportive twins, who have been looking straight before them all
this time except when they have been engrossed by the black leathern
cases, retire together, generally disdainful of the visitor, but
leaving him to the old man as two young cubs might leave a traveller
to the parental bear.

“And there you sit, I suppose, all the day long, eh?” says Mr. Aileen
with folded arms.

“Just so, just so,” the old man nods.

“And don’t you occupy yourself at all?”

“I watch the fire—and the boiling and the roasting—”

“When there is any,” says Mr. Aileen with great expression.

“Just so. When there is any.”

“Don’t you read or get read to?”

The old man shakes his head with sharp sly triumph. “No, no. We have
never been readers in our family. It don’t pay. Stuff. Idleness.
Folly. No, no!”

“There’s not much to choose between your two states,” says the
visitor in a key too low for the old man’s dull hearing as he looks
from him to the old woman and back again. “I say!” in a louder voice.

“I hear you.”

“You’ll sell me up at last, I suppose, when I am a day in arrear.”

“My dear friend!” cries Grandfather Hunter, stretching out both
hands to embrace him. “Never! Never, my dear friend! But my friend in
the city that I got to lend you the money—HE might!”

“Oh! You can’t answer for him?” says Mr. Aileen, finishing the
inquiry in his lower key with the words “You lying old rascal!”

“My dear friend, he is not to be depended on. I wouldn’t trust him.
He will have his bond, my dear friend.”

“Devil doubt him,” says Mr. Aileen. Weston appearing with a
tray, on which are the pipe, a small paper of tobacco, and the
brandy-and-water, he asks her, “How do you come here! You haven’t got
the family face.”

“I goes out to work, sir,” returns Weston.

The trooper (if trooper he be or have been) takes her bonnet off,
with a light touch for so strong a hand, and pats her on the head.
“You give the house almost a wholesome look. It wants a bit of youth
as much as it wants fresh air.” Then he dismisses her, lights his
pipe, and drinks to Mr. Hunter’s friend in the city—the one
solitary flight of that esteemed old gentleman’s imagination.

“So you think he might be hard upon me, eh?”

“I think he might—I am afraid he would. I have known him do it,”
says Grandfather Hunter incautiously, “twenty times.”

Incautiously, because his stricken better-half, who has been dozing
over the fire for some time, is instantly aroused and jabbers “Twenty
thousand pounds, twenty twenty-pound notes in a money-box, twenty
guineas, twenty million twenty per cent, twenty—” and is then cut
short by the flying cushion, which the visitor, to whom this singular
experiment appears to be a novelty, snatches from her face as it
crushes her in the usual manner.

“You’re a brimstone idiot. You’re a scorpion—a brimstone scorpion!
You’re a sweltering toad. You’re a chattering clattering broomstick
witch that ought to be burnt!” gasps the old man, prostrate in his
chair. “My dear friend, will you shake me up a little?”

Mr. Aileen, who has been looking first at one of them and then at the
other, as if he were demented, takes his venerable acquaintance by
the throat on receiving this request, and dragging him upright in his
chair as easily as if he were a doll, appears in two minds whether or
no to shake all future power of cushioning out of him and shake him
into his grave. Resisting the temptation, but agitating him violently
enough to make his head roll like a harlequin’s, he puts him smartly
down in his chair again and adjusts his skull-cap with such a rub
that the old man winks with both eyes for a minute afterwards.

“O Lord!” gasps Mr. Hunter. “That’ll do. Thank you, my dear
friend, that’ll do. Oh, dear me, I’m out of breath. O Lord!” And Mr.
Hunter says it not without evident apprehensions of his dear
friend, who still stands over him looming larger than ever.

The alarming presence, however, gradually subsides into its chair and
falls to smoking in long puffs, consoling itself with the
philosophical reflection, “The name of your friend in the city begins
with a D, comrade, and you’re about right respecting the bond.”

“Did you speak, Mr. Aileen?” inquires the old man.

The trooper shakes his head, and leaning forward with his right elbow
on his right knee and his pipe supported in that hand, while his
other hand, resting on his left leg, squares his left elbow in a
martial manner, continues to smoke. Meanwhile he looks at Mr.
Hunter with grave attention and now and then fans the cloud of
smoke away in order that he may see him the more clearly.

“I take it,” he says, making just as much and as little change in his
position as will enable him to reach the glass to his lips with a
round, full action, “that I am the only man alive (or dead either)
that gets the value of a pipe out of YOU?”

“Well,” returns the old man, “it’s true that I don’t see company, Mr.
Aileen, and that I don’t treat. I can’t afford to it. But as you, in
your pleasant way, made your pipe a condition—”

“Why, it’s not for the value of it; that’s no great thing. It was a
fancy to get it out of you. To have something in for my money.”

“Ha! You’re prudent, prudent, sir!” cries Grandfather Hunter,
rubbing his legs.

“Very. I always was.” Puff. “It’s a sure sign of my prudence that I
ever found the way here.” Puff. “Also, that I am what I am.” Puff. “I
am well known to be prudent,” says Mr. Aileen, composedly smoking. “I
rose in life that way.”

“Don’t be down-hearted, sir. You may rise yet.”

Mr. Aileen laughs and drinks.

“Ha’n’t you no relations, now,” asks Grandfather Hunter with a
twinkle in his eyes, “who would pay off this little principal or who
would lend you a good name or two that I could persuade my friend in
the city to make you a further advance upon? Two good names would be
sufficient for my friend in the city. Ha’n’t you no such relations,
Mr. Aileen?”

Mr. Aileen, still composedly smoking, replies, “If I had, I shouldn’t
trouble them. I have been trouble enough to my belongings in my day.
It MAY be a very good sort of penitence in a vagabond, who has wasted
the best time of his life, to go back then to decent people that he
never was a credit to and live upon them, but it’s not my sort. The
best kind of amends then for having gone away is to keep away, in my
opinion.”

“But natural affection, Mr. Aileen,” hints Grandfather Hunter.

“For two good names, hey?” says Mr. Aileen, shaking his head and
still composedly smoking. “No. That’s not my sort either.”

Grandfather Hunter has been gradually sliding down in his chair
since his last adjustment and is now a bundle of clothes with a voice
in it calling for Hallie. That houri, appearing, shakes him up in the
usual manner and is charged by the old gentleman to remain near him.
For he seems chary of putting his visitor to the trouble of repeating
his late attentions.

“Ha!” he observes when he is in trim again. “If you could have traced
out the captain, Mr. Aileen, it would have been the making of you. If
when you first came here, in consequence of our advertisement in the
newspapers—when I say ‘our,’ I’m alluding to the advertisements of
my friend in the city, and one or two others who embark their capital
in the same way, and are so friendly towards me as sometimes to give
me a lift with my little pittance—if at that time you could have
helped us, Mr. Aileen, it would have been the making of you.”

“I was willing enough to be ‘made,’ as you call it,” says Mr. Aileen,
smoking not quite so placidly as before, for since the entrance of
Hallie he has been in some measure disturbed by a fascination, not of
the admiring kind, which obliges him to look at her as she stands by
her grandfather’s chair, “but on the whole, I am glad I wasn’t now.”

“Why, Mr. Aileen? In the name of—of brimstone, why?” says
Grandfather Hunter with a plain appearance of exasperation.
(Brimstone apparently suggested by his eye lighting on Mrs. Hunter
in her slumber.)

“For two reasons, comrade.”

“And what two reasons, Mr. Aileen? In the name of the—”

“Of our friend in the city?” suggests Mr. Aileen, composedly
drinking.

“Aye, if you like. What two reasons?”

“In the first place,” returns Mr. Aileen, but still looking at Hallie
as if she being so old and so like her grandfather it is indifferent
which of the two he addresses, “you gentlemen took me in. You
advertised that Mr. Hawdon (Captain Hawdon, if you hold to the saying
‘Once a captain, always a captain’) was to hear of something to his
advantage.”

“Well?” returns the old man shrilly and sharply.

“Well!” says Mr. Aileen, smoking on. “It wouldn’t have been much to
his advantage to have been clapped into prison by the whole bill and
judgment trade of London.”

“How do you know that? Some of his rich relations might have paid his
debts or compounded for ’em. Besides, he had taken US in. He owed us
immense sums all round. I would sooner have strangled him than had no
return. If I sit here thinking of him,” snarls the old man, holding
up his impotent ten fingers, “I want to strangle him now.” And in a
sudden access of fury, he throws the cushion at the unoffending Mrs.
Hunter, but it passes harmlessly on one side of her chair.

“I don’t need to be told,” returns the trooper, taking his pipe from
his lips for a moment and carrying his eyes back from following the
progress of the cushion to the pipe-bowl which is burning low, “that
he carried on heavily and went to ruin. I have been at his right hand
many a day when he was charging upon ruin full-gallop. I was with him
when he was sick and well, rich and poor. I laid this hand upon him
after he had run through everything and broken down everything
beneath him—when he held a pistol to his head.”

“I wish he had let it off,” says the benevolent old man, “and blown
his head into as many pieces as he owed pounds!”

“That would have been a smash indeed,” returns the trooper coolly;
“any way, he had been young, hopeful, and handsome in the days gone
by, and I am glad I never found him, when he was neither, to lead to
a result so much to his advantage. That’s reason number one.”

“I hope number two’s as good?” snarls the old man.

“Why, no. It’s more of a selfish reason. If I had found him, I must
have gone to the other world to look. He was there.”

“How do you know he was there?”

“He wasn’t here.”

“How do you know he wasn’t here?”

“Don’t lose your temper as well as your money,” says Mr. Aileen,
calmly knocking the ashes out of his pipe. “He was drowned long
before. I am convinced of it. He went over a ship’s side. Whether
intentionally or accidentally, I don’t know. Perhaps your friend in
the city does. Do you know what that tune is, Mr. Hunter?” he adds
after breaking off to whistle one, accompanied on the table with the
empty pipe.

“Tune!” replied the old man. “No. We never have tunes here.”

“That’s the Dead March in Saul. They bury soldiers to it,
so it’s the natural end of the subject. Now, if your pretty
granddaughter—excuse me, miss—will condescend to take care of this
pipe for two months, we shall save the cost of one next time. Good
evening, Mr. Hunter!”

“My dear friend!” the old man gives him both his hands.

“So you think your friend in the city will be hard upon me if I fall
in a payment?” says the trooper, looking down upon him like a giant.

“My dear friend, I am afraid he will,” returns the old man, looking
up at him like a pygmy.

Mr. Aileen laughs, and with a glance at Mr. Hunter and a parting
salutation to the scornful Hallie, strides out of the parlour, clashing
imaginary sabres and other metallic appurtenances as he goes.

“You’re a damned rogue,” says the old gentleman, making a hideous
grimace at the door as he shuts it. “But I’ll lime you, you dog, I’ll
lime you!”

After this amiable remark, his spirit soars into those enchanting
regions of reflection which its education and pursuits have opened to
it, and again he and Mrs. Hunter while away the rosy hours, two
unrelieved sentinels forgotten as aforesaid by the Black Serjeant.

While the twain are faithful to their post, Mr. Aileen strides
through the streets with a massive kind of swagger and a grave-enough
face. It is eight o’clock now, and the day is fast drawing in. He
stops hard by Waterloo Bridge and reads a playbill, decides to go to
Astley’s Theatre. Being there, is much delighted with the horses and
the feats of strength; looks at the weapons with a critical eye;
disapproves of the combats as giving evidences of unskilful
swordsmanship; but is touched home by the sentiments. In the last
scene, when the Emperor of Tartary gets up into a cart and
condescends to bless the united lovers by hovering over them with the
Union Jack, his eyelashes are moistened with emotion.

The theatre over, Mr. Aileen comes across the water again and makes
his way to that curious region lying about the Haymarket and
Luigi Square which is a centre of attraction to indifferent
foreign hotels and indifferent foreigners, racket-courts,
fighting-men, swordsmen, footguards, old china, gaming-houses,
exhibitions, and a large medley of shabbiness and shrinking out of
sight. Penetrating to the heart of this region, he arrives by a court
and a long whitewashed passage at a great brick building composed of
bare walls, floors, roof-rafters, and skylights, on the front of
which, if it can be said to have any front, is painted AILEEN’S
SHOOTING GALLERY, &c.

Into Aileen’s Shooting Gallery, &c., he goes; and in it there are
gaslights (partly turned off now), and two whitened targets for
rifle-shooting, and archery accommodation, and fencing appliances,
and all necessaries for the British art of boxing. None of these
sports or exercises being pursued in Aileen’s Shooting Gallery
to-night, which is so devoid of company that a little grotesque man
with a large head has it all to himself and lies asleep upon the
floor.

The little man is dressed something like a gunsmith, in a green-baize
apron and cap; and his face and hands are dirty with gunpowder and
begrimed with the loading of guns. As he lies in the light before a
glaring white target, the black upon him shines again. Not far off is
the strong, rough, primitive table with a vice upon it at which he
has been working. He is a little man with a face all crushed
together, who appears, from a certain blue and speckled appearance
that one of his cheeks presents, to have been blown up, in the way of
business, at some odd time or times.

“Olive!” says the trooper in a quiet voice.

“All right!” cries Olive, scrambling to his feet.

“Anything been doing?”

“Flat as ever so much swipes,” says Olive. “Five dozen rifle and a
dozen pistol. As to aim!” Olive gives a howl at the recollection.

“Shut up shop, Olive!”

As Olive moves about to execute this order, it appears that he is
lame, though able to move very quickly. On the speckled side of his
face he has no eyebrow, and on the other side he has a bushy black
one, which want of uniformity gives him a very singular and rather
sinister appearance. Everything seems to have happened to his hands
that could possibly take place consistently with the retention of all
the fingers, for they are notched, and seamed, and crumpled all over.
He appears to be very strong and lifts heavy benches about as if he
had no idea what weight was. He has a curious way of limping round
the gallery with his shoulder against the wall and tacking off at
objects he wants to lay hold of instead of going straight to them,
which has left a smear all round the four walls, conventionally
called “Olive’s mark.”

This custodian of Aileen’s Gallery in Aileen’s absence concludes his
proceedings, when he has locked the great doors and turned out all
the lights but one, which he leaves to glimmer, by dragging out from
a wooden cabin in a corner two mattresses and bedding. These being
drawn to opposite ends of the gallery, the trooper makes his own bed
and Olive makes his.

“Olive!” says the master, walking towards him without his coat and
waistcoat, and looking more soldierly than ever in his braces. “You
were found in a doorway, weren’t you?”

“Gutter,” says Olive. “Watchman tumbled over me.”

“Then vagabondizing came natural to YOU from the beginning.”

“As nat’ral as possible,” says Olive.

“Good night!”

“Good night, guv’ner.”

Olive cannot even go straight to bed, but finds it necessary to
shoulder round two sides of the gallery and then tack off at his
mattress. The trooper, after taking a turn or two in the
rifle-distance and looking up at the moon now shining through the
skylights, strides to his own mattress by a shorter route and goes to
bed too.

CHAPTER XXII

Mr. Bucket

Allegory looks pretty cool in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, though the
evening is hot, for both Mr. Tulkinghorn’s windows are wide open, and
the room is lofty, gusty, and gloomy. These may not be desirable
characteristics when November comes with fog and sleet or January
with ice and snow, but they have their merits in the sultry long
vacation weather. They enable Allegory, though it has cheeks like
peaches, and knees like bunches of blossoms, and rosy swellings for
calves to its legs and muscles to its arms, to look tolerably cool
to-night.

Plenty of dust comes in at Mr. Tulkinghorn’s windows, and plenty more
has generated among his furniture and papers. It lies thick
everywhere. When a breeze from the country that has lost its way
takes fright and makes a blind hurry to rush out again, it flings as
much dust in the eyes of Allegory as the law—or Mr. Tulkinghorn, one
of its trustiest representatives—may scatter, on occasion, in the
eyes of the laity.

In his lowering magazine of dust, the universal article into which
his papers and himself, and all his clients, and all things of earth,
animate and inanimate, are resolving, Mr. Tulkinghorn sits at one of
the open windows enjoying a bottle of old port. Though a hard-grained
man, close, dry, and silent, he can enjoy old wine with the best. He
has a priceless bin of port in some artful cellar under the Fields,
which is one of his many secrets. When he dines alone in chambers, as
he has dined to-day, and has his bit of fish and his steak or chicken
brought in from the coffee-house, he descends with a candle to the
echoing regions below the deserted mansion, and heralded by a remote
reverberation of thundering doors, comes gravely back encircled by an
earthy atmosphere and carrying a bottle from which he pours a radiant
nectar, two score and ten years old, that blushes in the glass to
find itself so famous and fills the whole room with the fragrance of
southern grapes.

Mr. Tulkinghorn, sitting in the twilight by the open window, enjoys
his wine. As if it whispered to him of its fifty years of silence and
seclusion, it shuts him up the closer. More impenetrable than ever,
he sits, and drinks, and mellows as it were in secrecy, pondering at
that twilight hour on all the mysteries he knows, associated with
darkening woods in the country, and vast blank shut-up houses in
town, and perhaps sparing a thought or two for himself, and his
family history, and his money, and his will—all a mystery to every
one—and that one bachelor friend of his, a man of the same mould and
a lawyer too, who lived the same kind of life until he was
seventy-five years old, and then suddenly conceiving (as it is
supposed) an impression that it was too monotonous, gave his gold
watch to his hair-dresser one summer evening and walked leisurely
home to the Temple and hanged himself.

But Mr. Tulkinghorn is not alone to-night to ponder at his usual
length. Seated at the same table, though with his chair modestly and
uncomfortably drawn a little way from it, sits a bald, mild, shining
man who coughs respectfully behind his hand when the lawyer bids him
fill his glass.

“Now, Harlan,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, “to go over this odd story
again.”

“If you please, sir.”

“You told me when you were so good as to step round here last
night—”

“For which I must ask you to excuse me if it was a liberty, sir; but
I remember that you had taken a sort of an interest in that person,
and I thought it possible that you might—just—wish—to—”

Mr. Tulkinghorn is not the man to help him to any conclusion or to
admit anything as to any possibility concerning himself. So Mr.
Harlan trails off into saying, with an awkward cough, “I must ask
you to excuse the liberty, sir, I am sure.”

“Not at all,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn. “You told me, Harlan, that you
put on your hat and came round without mentioning your intention to
your wife. That was prudent I think, because it’s not a matter of
such importance that it requires to be mentioned.”

“Well, sir,” returns Mr. Harlan, “you see, my little woman is—not
to put too fine a point upon it—inquisitive. She’s inquisitive. Poor
little thing, she’s liable to spasms, and it’s good for her to have
her mind employed. In consequence of which she employs it—I should
say upon every individual thing she can lay hold of, whether it
concerns her or not—especially not. My little woman has a very
active mind, sir.”

Mr. Harlan drinks and murmurs with an admiring cough behind his
hand, “Dear me, very fine wine indeed!”

“Therefore you kept your visit to yourself last night?” says Mr.
Tulkinghorn. “And to-night too?”

“Yes, sir, and to-night, too. My little woman is at present in—not
to put too fine a point on it—in a pious state, or in what she
considers such, and attends the Evening Exertions (which is the name
they go by) of a reverend party of the name of Chadband. He has a
great deal of eloquence at his command, undoubtedly, but I am not
quite favourable to his style myself. That’s neither here nor there.
My little woman being engaged in that way made it easier for me to
step round in a quiet manner.”

Mr. Tulkinghorn assents. “Fill your glass, Harlan.”

“Thank you, sir, I am sure,” returns the stationer with his cough of
deference. “This is wonderfully fine wine, sir!”

“It is a rare wine now,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn. “It is fifty years
old.”

“Is it indeed, sir? But I am not surprised to hear it, I am sure. It
might be—any age almost.” After rendering this general tribute to
the port, Mr. Harlan in his modesty coughs an apology behind his
hand for drinking anything so precious.

“Will you run over, once again, what the boy said?” asks Mr.
Tulkinghorn, putting his hands into the pockets of his rusty
smallclothes and leaning quietly back in his chair.

“With pleasure, sir.”

Then, with fidelity, though with some prolixity, the law-stationer
repeats Jo’s statement made to the assembled guests at his house. On
coming to the end of his narrative, he gives a great start and breaks
off with, “Dear me, sir, I wasn’t aware there was any other gentleman
present!”

Mr. Harlan is dismayed to see, standing with an attentive face
between himself and the lawyer at a little distance from the table, a
person with a hat and stick in his hand who was not there when he
himself came in and has not since entered by the door or by either of
the windows. There is a press in the room, but its hinges have not
creaked, nor has a step been audible upon the floor. Yet this third
person stands there with his attentive face, and his hat and stick in
his hands, and his hands behind him, a composed and quiet listener.
He is a stoutly built, steady-looking, sharp-eyed man in black, of
about the middle-age. Except that he looks at Mr. Harlan as if he
were going to take his portrait, there is nothing remarkable about
him at first sight but his ghostly manner of appearing.

“Don’t mind this gentleman,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn in his quiet way.
“This is only Mr. Bucket.”

“Oh, indeed, sir?” returns the stationer, expressing by a cough that
he is quite in the dark as to who Mr. Bucket may be.

“I wanted him to hear this story,” says the lawyer, “because I have
half a mind (for a reason) to know more of it, and he is very
intelligent in such things. What do you say to this, Bucket?”

“It’s very plain, sir. Since our people have moved this boy on, and
he’s not to be found on his old lay, if Mr. Harlan don’t object to
go down with me to Said-all-Alone’s and point him out, we can have him
here in less than a couple of hours’ time. I can do it without Mr.
Harlan, of course, but this is the shortest way.”

“Mr. Bucket is a detective officer, Harlan,” says the lawyer in
explanation.

“Is he indeed, sir?” says Mr. Harlan with a strong tendency in his
clump of hair to stand on end.

“And if you have no real objection to accompany Mr. Bucket to the
place in question,” pursues the lawyer, “I shall feel obliged to you
if you will do so.”

In a moment’s hesitation on the part of Mr. Harlan, Bucket dips down
to the bottom of his mind.

“Don’t you be afraid of hurting the boy,” he says. “You won’t do
that. It’s all right as far as the boy’s concerned. We shall only
bring him here to ask him a question or so I want to put to him, and
he’ll be paid for his trouble and sent away again. It’ll be a good
job for him. I promise you, as a man, that you shall see the boy sent
away all right. Don’t you be afraid of hurting him; you an’t going to
do that.”

“Very well, Mr. Tulkinghorn!” cries Mr. Harlan cheerfully. And
reassured, “Since that’s the case—”

“Yes! And lookee here, Mr. Harlan,” resumes Bucket, taking him aside
by the arm, tapping him familiarly on the breast, and speaking in a
confidential tone. “You’re a man of the world, you know, and a man of
business, and a man of sense. That’s what YOU are.”

“I am sure I am much obliged to you for your good opinion,” returns
the stationer with his cough of modesty, “but—”

“That’s what YOU are, you know,” says Bucket. “Now, it an’t necessary
to say to a man like you, engaged in your business, which is a
business of trust and requires a person to be wide awake and have his
senses about him and his head screwed on tight (I had an uncle in
your business once)—it an’t necessary to say to a man like you that
it’s the best and wisest way to keep little matters like this quiet.
Don’t you see? Quiet!”

“Certainly, certainly,” returns the other.

“I don’t mind telling YOU,” says Bucket with an engaging appearance
of frankness, “that as far as I can understand it, there seems to be
a doubt whether this dead person wasn’t entitled to a little
property, and whether this female hasn’t been up to some games
respecting that property, don’t you see?”

“Oh!” says Mr. Harlan, but not appearing to see quite distinctly.

“Now, what YOU want,” pursues Bucket, again tapping Mr. Harlan on
the breast in a comfortable and soothing manner, “is that every
person should have their rights according to justice. That’s what YOU
want.”

“To be sure,” returns Mr. Harlan with a nod.

“On account of which, and at the same time to oblige a—do you call
it, in your business, customer or client? I forget how my uncle used
to call it.”

“Why, I generally say customer myself,” replies Mr. Harlan.

“You’re right!” returns Mr. Bucket, shaking hands with him quite
affectionately. “—On account of which, and at the same time to
oblige a real good customer, you mean to go down with me, in
confidence, to Said-all-Alone’s and to keep the whole thing quiet ever
afterwards and never mention it to any one. That’s about your
intentions, if I understand you?”

“You are right, sir. You are right,” says Mr. Harlan.

“Then here’s your hat,” returns his new friend, quite as intimate
with it as if he had made it; “and if you’re ready, I am.”

They leave Mr. Tulkinghorn, without a ruffle on the surface of his
unfathomable depths, drinking his old wine, and go down into the
streets.

“You don’t happen to know a very good sort of person of the name of
Freda, do you?” says Bucket in friendly converse as they descend
the stairs.

“No,” says Mr. Harlan, considering, “I don’t know anybody of that
name. Why?”

“Nothing particular,” says Bucket; “only having allowed his temper to
get a little the better of him and having been threatening some
respectable people, he is keeping out of the way of a warrant I have
got against him—which it’s a pity that a man of sense should do.”

As they walk along, Mr. Harlan observes, as a novelty, that however
quick their pace may be, his companion still seems in some
undefinable manner to lurk and lounge; also, that whenever he is
going to turn to the right or left, he pretends to have a fixed
purpose in his mind of going straight ahead, and wheels off, sharply,
at the very last moment. Now and then, when they pass a
police-constable on his beat, Mr. Harlan notices that both the
constable and his guide fall into a deep abstraction as they come
towards each other, and appear entirely to overlook each other, and
to gaze into space. In a few instances, Mr. Bucket, coming behind
some under-sized young man with a shining hat on, and his sleek hair
twisted into one flat curl on each side of his head, almost without
glancing at him touches him with his stick, upon which the young man,
looking round, instantly evaporates. For the most part Mr. Bucket
notices things in general, with a face as unchanging as the great
mourning ring on his little finger or the brooch, composed of not
much diamond and a good deal of setting, which he wears in his shirt.

When they come at last to Said-all-Alone’s, Mr. Bucket stops for a
moment at the corner and takes a lighted bull’s-eye from the
constable on duty there, who then accompanies him with his own
particular bull’s-eye at his waist. Between his two conductors, Mr.
Harlan passes along the middle of a villainous street, undrained,
unventilated, deep in black mud and corrupt water—though the roads
are dry elsewhere—and reeking with such smells and sights that he,
who has lived in London all his life, can scarce believe his senses.
Branching from this street and its heaps of ruins are other streets
and courts so infamous that Mr. Harlan sickens in body and mind and
feels as if he were going every moment deeper down into the infernal
gulf.

“Draw off a bit here, Mr. Harlan,” says Bucket as a kind of shabby
palanquin is borne towards them, surrounded by a noisy crowd. “Here’s
the fever coming up the street!”

As the unseen wretch goes by, the crowd, leaving that object of
attraction, hovers round the three visitors like a dream of horrible
faces and fades away up alleys and into ruins and behind walls, and
with occasional cries and shrill whistles of warning, thenceforth
flits about them until they leave the place.

“Are those the fever-houses, Darby?” Mr. Bucket coolly asks as he
turns his bull’s-eye on a line of stinking ruins.

Darby replies that “all them are,” and further that in all, for
months and months, the people “have been down by dozens” and have
been carried out dead and dying “like sheep with the rot.” Bucket
observing to Mr. Harlan as they go on again that he looks a little
poorly, Mr. Harlan answers that he feels as if he couldn’t breathe
the dreadful air.

There is inquiry made at various houses for a boy named Jo. As few
people are known in Said-all-Alone’s by any Christian sign, there is
much reference to Mr. Harlan whether he means Carrots, or the
Colonel, or Gallows, or Young Chisel, or Terrier Tip, or Lanky, or
the Brick. Mr. Harlan describes over and over again. There are
conflicting opinions respecting the original of his picture. Some
think it must be Carrots, some say the Brick. The Colonel is
produced, but is not at all near the thing. Whenever Mr. Harlan and
his conductors are stationary, the crowd flows round, and from its
squalid depths obsequious advice heaves up to Mr. Bucket. Whenever
they move, and the angry bull’s-eyes glare, it fades away and flits
about them up the alleys, and in the ruins, and behind the walls, as
before.

At last there is a lair found out where Toughy, or the Tough Subject,
lays him down at night; and it is thought that the Tough Subject may
be Jo. Comparison of notes between Mr. Harlan and the proprietress
of the house—a drunken face tied up in a black bundle, and flaring
out of a heap of rags on the floor of a dog-hutch which is her
private apartment—leads to the establishment of this conclusion.
Toughy has gone to the doctor’s to get a bottle of stuff for a sick
woman but will be here anon.

“And who have we got here to-night?” says Mr. Bucket, opening another
door and glaring in with his bull’s-eye. “Two drunken men, eh? And
two women? The men are sound enough,” turning back each sleeper’s arm
from his face to look at him. “Are these your good men, my dears?”

“Yes, sir,” returns one of the women. “They are our husbands.”

“Brickmakers, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What are you doing here? You don’t belong to London.”

“No, sir. We belong to Hertfordshire.”

“Whereabouts in Hertfordshire?”

“Saint Albans.”

“Come up on the tramp?”

“We walked up yesterday. There’s no work down with us at present, but
we have done no good by coming here, and shall do none, I expect.”

“That’s not the way to do much good,” says Mr. Bucket, turning his
head in the direction of the unconscious figures on the ground.

“It an’t indeed,” replies the woman with a sigh. “Alejandro and me knows
it full well.”

The room, though two or three feet higher than the door, is so low
that the head of the tallest of the visitors would touch the
blackened ceiling if he stood upright. It is offensive to every
sense; even the gross candle burns pale and sickly in the polluted
air. There are a couple of benches and a higher bench by way of
table. The men lie asleep where they stumbled down, but the women sit
by the candle. Lying in the arms of the woman who has spoken is a
very young child.

“Why, what age do you call that little creature?” says Bucket. “It
looks as if it was born yesterday.” He is not at all rough about it;
and as he turns his light gently on the infant, Mr. Harlan is
strangely reminded of another infant, encircled with light, that he
has seen in pictures.

“He is not three weeks old yet, sir,” says the woman.

“Is he your child?”

“Mine.”

The other woman, who was bending over it when they came in, stoops
down again and kisses it as it lies asleep.

“You seem as fond of it as if you were the mother yourself,” says Mr.
Bucket.

“I was the mother of one like it, master, and it died.”

“Ah, Alejandro, Alejandro!” says the other woman to her. “Better so. Much
better to think of dead than alive, Alejandro! Much better!”

“Why, you an’t such an unnatural woman, I hope,” returns Bucket
sternly, “as to wish your own child dead?”

“God knows you are right, master,” she returns. “I am not. I’d stand
between it and death with my own life if I could, as true as any
pretty lady.”

“Then don’t talk in that wrong manner,” says Mr. Bucket, mollified
again. “Why do you do it?”

“It’s brought into my head, master,” returns the woman, her eyes
filling with tears, “when I look down at the child lying so. If it
was never to wake no more, you’d think me mad, I should take on so. I
know that very well. I was with Alejandro when she lost hers—warn’t I,
Alejandro?—and I know how she grieved. But look around you at this
place. Look at them,” glancing at the sleepers on the ground. “Look
at the boy you’re waiting for, who’s gone out to do me a good turn.
Think of the children that your business lays with often and often,
and that YOU see grow up!”

“Well, well,” says Mr. Bucket, “you train him respectable, and he’ll
be a comfort to you, and look after you in your old age, you know.”

“I mean to try hard,” she answers, wiping her eyes. “But I have been
a-thinking, being over-tired to-night and not well with the ague, of
all the many things that’ll come in his way. My master will be
against it, and he’ll be beat, and see me beat, and made to fear his
home, and perhaps to stray wild. If I work for him ever so much, and
ever so hard, there’s no one to help me; and if he should be turned
bad ‘spite of all I could do, and the time should come when I should
sit by him in his sleep, made hard and changed, an’t it likely I
should think of him as he lies in my lap now and wish he had died as
Alejandro’s child died!”

“There, there!” says Alejandro. “Liz, you’re tired and ill. Let me take
him.”

In doing so, she displaces the mother’s dress, but quickly readjusts
it over the wounded and bruised bosom where the baby has been lying.

“It’s my dead child,” says Alejandro, walking up and down as she nurses,
“that makes me love this child so dear, and it’s my dead child that
makes her love it so dear too, as even to think of its being taken
away from her now. While she thinks that, I think what fortune would
I give to have my darling back. But we mean the same thing, if we
knew how to say it, us two mothers does in our poor hearts!”

As Mr. Harlan blows his nose and coughs his cough of sympathy, a
step is heard without. Mr. Bucket throws his light into the doorway
and says to Mr. Harlan, “Now, what do you say to Toughy? Will HE
do?”

“That’s Jo,” says Mr. Harlan.

Jo stands amazed in the disk of light, like a ragged figure in a
magic-lantern, trembling to think that he has offended against the
law in not having moved on far enough. Mr. Harlan, however, giving
him the consolatory assurance, “It’s only a job you will be paid for,
Jo,” he recovers; and on being taken outside by Mr. Bucket for a
little private confabulation, tells his tale satisfactorily, though
out of breath.

“I have squared it with the lad,” says Mr. Bucket, returning, “and
it’s all right. Now, Mr. Harlan, we’re ready for you.”

First, Jo has to complete his errand of good nature by handing over
the physic he has been to get, which he delivers with the laconic
verbal direction that “it’s to be all took d’rectly.” Secondly, Mr.
Harlan has to lay upon the table half a crown, his usual panacea for
an immense variety of afflictions. Thirdly, Mr. Bucket has to take Jo
by the arm a little above the elbow and walk him on before him,
without which observance neither the Tough Subject nor any other
Subject could be professionally conducted to Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
These arrangements completed, they give the women good night and come
out once more into black and foul Said-all-Alone’s.

By the noisome ways through which they descended into that pit, they
gradually emerge from it, the crowd flitting, and whistling, and
skulking about them until they come to the verge, where restoration
of the bull’s-eyes is made to Darby. Here the crowd, like a concourse
of imprisoned demons, turns back, yelling, and is seen no more.
Through the clearer and fresher streets, never so clear and fresh to
Mr. Harlan’s mind as now, they walk and ride until they come to Mr.
Tulkinghorn’s gate.

As they ascend the dim stairs (Mr. Tulkinghorn’s chambers being on
the first floor), Mr. Bucket mentions that he has the key of the
outer door in his pocket and that there is no need to ring. For a man
so expert in most things of that kind, Bucket takes time to open the
door and makes some noise too. It may be that he sounds a note of
preparation.

Howbeit, they come at last into the hall, where a lamp is burning,
and so into Mr. Tulkinghorn’s usual room—the room where he drank his
old wine to-night. He is not there, but his two old-fashioned
candlesticks are, and the room is tolerably light.

Mr. Bucket, still having his professional hold of Jo and appearing to
Mr. Harlan to possess an unlimited number of eyes, makes a little
way into this room, when Jo starts and stops.

“What’s the matter?” says Bucket in a whisper.

“There she is!” cries Jo.

“Who!”

“The lady!”

A female figure, closely veiled, stands in the middle of the room,
where the light falls upon it. It is quite still and silent. The
front of the figure is towards them, but it takes no notice of their
entrance and remains like a statue.

“Now, tell me,” says Bucket aloud, “how you know that to be the
lady.”

“I know the wale,” replies Jo, staring, “and the bonnet, and the
gownd.”

“Be quite sure of what you say, Tough,” returns Bucket, narrowly
observant of him. “Look again.”

“I am a-looking as hard as ever I can look,” says Jo with starting
eyes, “and that there’s the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd.”

“What about those rings you told me of?” asks Bucket.

“A-sparkling all over here,” says Jo, rubbing the fingers of his left
hand on the knuckles of his right without taking his eyes from the
figure.

The figure removes the right-hand glove and shows the hand.

“Now, what do you say to that?” asks Bucket.

Jo shakes his head. “Not rings a bit like them. Not a hand like
that.”

“What are you talking of?” says Bucket, evidently pleased though, and
well pleased too.

“Hand was a deal whiter, a deal delicater, and a deal smaller,”
returns Jo.

“Why, you’ll tell me I’m my own mother next,” says Mr. Bucket. “Do
you recollect the lady’s voice?”

“I think I does,” says Jo.

The figure speaks. “Was it at all like this? I will speak as long as
you like if you are not sure. Was it this voice, or at all like this
voice?”

Jo looks aghast at Mr. Bucket. “Not a bit!”

“Then, what,” retorts that worthy, pointing to the figure, “did you
say it was the lady for?”

“Cos,” says Jo with a perplexed stare but without being at all shaken
in his certainty, “cos that there’s the wale, the bonnet, and the
gownd. It is her and it an’t her. It an’t her hand, nor yet her
rings, nor yet her woice. But that there’s the wale, the bonnet, and
the gownd, and they’re wore the same way wot she wore ’em, and it’s
her height wot she wos, and she giv me a sov’ring and hooked it.”

“Well!” says Mr. Bucket slightly, “we haven’t got much good out of
YOU. But, however, here’s five shillings for you. Take care how you
spend it, and don’t get yourself into trouble.” Bucket stealthily
tells the coins from one hand into the other like counters—which is
a way he has, his principal use of them being in these games of
skill—and then puts them, in a little pile, into the boy’s hand and
takes him out to the door, leaving Mr. Harlan, not by any means
comfortable under these mysterious circumstances, alone with the
veiled figure. But on Mr. Tulkinghorn’s coming into the room, the
veil is raised and a sufficiently good-looking Frenchwoman is
revealed, though her expression is something of the intensest.

“Thank you, Miles Raylan,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn with his
usual equanimity. “I will give you no further trouble about this
little wager.”

“You will do me the kindness to remember, sir, that I am not at
present placed?” says mademoiselle.

“Certainly, certainly!”

“And to confer upon me the favour of your distinguished
recommendation?”

“By all means, Miles Raylan.”

“A word from Mr. Tulkinghorn is so powerful.”

“It shall not be wanting, mademoiselle.”

“Receive the assurance of my devoted gratitude, dear sir.”

“Good night.”

Miles goes out with an air of native gentility; and Mr.
Bucket, to whom it is, on an emergency, as natural to be groom of the
ceremonies as it is to be anything else, shows her downstairs, not
without gallantry.

“Well, Bucket?” quoth Mr. Tulkinghorn on his return.

“It’s all squared, you see, as I squared it myself, sir. There an’t a
doubt that it was the other one with this one’s dress on. The boy was
exact respecting colours and everything. Mr. Harlan, I promised you
as a man that he should be sent away all right. Don’t say it wasn’t
done!”

“You have kept your word, sir,” returns the stationer; “and if I can
be of no further use, Mr. Tulkinghorn, I think, as my little woman
will be getting anxious—”

“Thank you, Harlan, no further use,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn. “I am
quite indebted to you for the trouble you have taken already.”

“Not at all, sir. I wish you good night.”

“You see, Mr. Harlan,” says Mr. Bucket, accompanying him to the door
and shaking hands with him over and over again, “what I like in you
is that you’re a man it’s of no use pumping; that’s what YOU are.
When you know you have done a right thing, you put it away, and it’s
done with and gone, and there’s an end of it. That’s what YOU do.”

“That is certainly what I endeavour to do, sir,” returns Mr. Harlan.

“No, you don’t do yourself justice. It an’t what you endeavour to
do,” says Mr. Bucket, shaking hands with him and blessing him in the
tenderest manner, “it’s what you DO. That’s what I estimate in a man
in your way of business.”

Mr. Harlan makes a suitable response and goes homeward so confused
by the events of the evening that he is doubtful of his being awake
and out—doubtful of the reality of the streets through which he
goes—doubtful of the reality of the moon that shines above him. He
is presently reassured on these subjects by the unchallengeable
reality of Mrs. Harlan, sitting up with her head in a perfect
beehive of curl-papers and night-cap, who has dispatched Guster to
the police-station with official intelligence of her husband’s being
made away with, and who within the last two hours has passed through
every stage of swooning with the greatest decorum. But as the little
woman feelingly says, many thanks she gets for it!

CHAPTER XXIII

Paulina’s Narrative

We came home from Mr. Rhea’s after six pleasant weeks. We were
often in the park and in the woods and seldom passed the lodge where
we had taken shelter without looking in to speak to the keeper’s
wife; but we saw no more of Godfrey Wayne, except at church on
Sundays. There was company at Chesney Wold; and although several
beautiful faces surrounded her, her face retained the same influence
on me as at first. I do not quite know even now whether it was
painful or pleasurable, whether it drew me towards her or made me
shrink from her. I think I admired her with a kind of fear, and I
know that in her presence my thoughts always wandered back, as they
had done at first, to that old time of my life.

I had a fancy, on more than one of these Sundays, that what this lady
so curiously was to me, I was to her—I mean that I disturbed her
thoughts as she influenced mine, though in some different way. But
when I stole a glance at her and saw her so composed and distant and
unapproachable, I felt this to be a foolish weakness. Indeed, I felt
the whole state of my mind in reference to her to be weak and
unreasonable, and I remonstrated with myself about it as much as I
could.

One incident that occurred before we quitted Mr. Rhea’s house, I
had better mention in this place.

I was walking in the garden with Ada when I was told that some one
wished to see me. Going into the breakfast-room where this person was
waiting, I found it to be the French maid who had cast off her shoes
and walked through the wet grass on the day when it thundered and
lightened.

“Miles,” she began, looking fixedly at me with her too-eager
eyes, though otherwise presenting an agreeable appearance and
speaking neither with boldness nor servility, “I have taken a great
liberty in coming here, but you know how to excuse it, being so
amiable, mademoiselle.”

“No excuse is necessary,” I returned, “if you wish to speak to me.”

“That is my desire, mademoiselle. A thousand thanks for the
permission. I have your leave to speak. Is it not?” she said in a
quick, natural way.

“Certainly,” said I.

“Miles, you are so amiable! Listen then, if you please. I have
left my Godfrey. We could not agree. My Godfrey is so high, so very high.
Pardon! Miles, you are right!” Her quickness anticipated what
I might have said presently but as yet had only thought. “It is not
for me to come here to complain of my Godfrey. But I say she is so high,
so very high. I will not say a word more. All the world knows that.”

“Go on, if you please,” said I.

“Assuredly; mademoiselle, I am thankful for your politeness.
Miles, I have an inexpressible desire to find service with a
young lady who is good, accomplished, beautiful. You are good,
accomplished, and beautiful as an angel. Ah, could I have the honour
of being your domestic!”

“I am sorry—” I began.

“Do not dismiss me so soon, mademoiselle!” she said with an
involuntary contraction of her fine black eyebrows. “Let me hope a
moment! Miles, I know this service would be more retired than
that which I have quitted. Well! I wish that. I know this service
would be less distinguished than that which I have quitted. Well! I
wish that, I know that I should win less, as to wages here. Good. I
am content.”

“I assure you,” said I, quite embarrassed by the mere idea of having
such an attendant, “that I keep no maid—”

“Ah, mademoiselle, but why not? Why not, when you can have one so
devoted to you! Who would be enchanted to serve you; who would be so
true, so zealous, and so faithful every day! Miles, I wish
with all my heart to serve you. Do not speak of money at present.
Take me as I am. For nothing!”

She was so singularly earnest that I drew back, almost afraid of her.
Without appearing to notice it, in her ardour she still pressed
herself upon me, speaking in a rapid subdued voice, though always
with a certain grace and propriety.

“Miles, I come from the South country where we are quick and
where we like and dislike very strong. My Godfrey was too high for me; I
was too high for her. It is done—past—finished! Receive me as your
domestic, and I will serve you well. I will do more for you than you
figure to yourself now. Chut! Miles, I will—no matter, I will
do my utmost possible in all things. If you accept my service, you
will not repent it. Miles, you will not repent it, and I will
serve you well. You don’t know how well!”

There was a lowering energy in her face as she stood looking at me
while I explained the impossibility of my engaging her (without
thinking it necessary to say how very little I desired to do so),
which seemed to bring visibly before me some woman from the streets
of Paris in the reign of terror.

She heard me out without interruption and then said with her pretty
accent and in her mildest voice, “Hey, mademoiselle, I have received
my answer! I am sorry of it. But I must go elsewhere and seek what I
have not found here. Will you graciously let me kiss your hand?”

She looked at me more intently as she took it, and seemed to take
note, with her momentary touch, of every vein in it. “I fear I
surprised you, mademoiselle, on the day of the storm?” she said with
a parting curtsy.

I confessed that she had surprised us all.

“I took an oath, mademoiselle,” she said, smiling, “and I wanted to
stamp it on my mind so that I might keep it faithfully. And I will!
Adieu, mademoiselle!”

So ended our conference, which I was very glad to bring to a close. I
supposed she went away from the village, for I saw her no more; and
nothing else occurred to disturb our tranquil summer pleasures until
six weeks were out and we returned home as I began just now by
saying.

At that time, and for a good many weeks after that time, Celise was
constant in his visits. Besides coming every Saturday or Sunday and
remaining with us until Monday morning, he sometimes rode out on
horseback unexpectedly and passed the evening with us and rode back
again early next day. He was as vivacious as ever and told us he was
very industrious, but I was not easy in my mind about him. It
appeared to me that his industry was all misdirected. I could not
find that it led to anything but the formation of delusive hopes in
connexion with the suit already the pernicious cause of so much
sorrow and ruin. He had got at the core of that mystery now, he told
us, and nothing could be plainer than that the will under which he
and Ada were to take I don’t know how many thousands of pounds must
be finally established if there were any sense or justice in the
Court of Chancery—but oh, what a great IF that sounded in my
ears—and that this happy conclusion could not be much longer
delayed. He proved this to himself by all the weary arguments on that
side he had read, and every one of them sunk him deeper in the
infatuation. He had even begun to haunt the court. He told us how he
saw Miss Daxter there daily, how they talked together, and how he did
her little kindnesses, and how, while he laughed at her, he pitied
her from his heart. But he never thought—never, my poor, dear,
sanguine Celise, capable of so much happiness then, and with such
better things before him—what a fatal link was riveting between his
fresh youth and her faded age, between his free hopes and her caged
birds, and her hungry garret, and her wandering mind.

Ada loved him too well to mistrust him much in anything he said or
did, and my guardian, though he frequently complained of the east
wind and read more than usual in the growlery, preserved a strict
silence on the subject. So I thought one day when I went to London to
meet Viola Bladen, at her solicitation, I would ask Celise to be in
waiting for me at the coach-office, that we might have a little talk
together. I found him there when I arrived, and we walked away arm in
arm.

“Well, Celise,” said I as soon as I could begin to be grave with
him, “are you beginning to feel more settled now?”

“Oh, yes, my dear!” returned Celise. “I’m all right enough.”

“But settled?” said I.

“How do you mean, settled?” returned Celise with his gay laugh.

“Settled in the law,” said I.

“Oh, aye,” replied Celise, “I’m all right enough.”

“You said that before, my dear Celise.”

“And you don’t think it’s an answer, eh? Well! Perhaps it’s not.
Settled? You mean, do I feel as if I were settling down?”

“Yes.”

“Why, no, I can’t say I am settling down,” said Celise, strongly
emphasizing “down,” as if that expressed the difficulty, “because one
can’t settle down while this business remains in such an unsettled
state. When I say this business, of course I mean the—forbidden
subject.”

“Do you think it will ever be in a settled state?” said I.

“Not the least doubt of it,” answered Celise.

We walked a little way without speaking, and presently Celise
addressed me in his frankest and most feeling manner, thus: “My dear
Paulina, I understand you, and I wish to heaven I were a more constant
sort of fellow. I don’t mean constant to Ada, for I love her
dearly—better and better every day—but constant to myself.
(Somehow, I mean something that I can’t very well express, but you’ll
make it out.) If I were a more constant sort of fellow, I should have
held on either to Timmy or to Carly and Carboy like grim death, and
should have begun to be steady and systematic by this time, and
shouldn’t be in debt, and—”

“ARE you in debt, Celise?”

“Yes,” said Celise, “I am a little so, my dear. Also, I have taken
rather too much to billiards and that sort of thing. Now the murder’s
out; you despise me, Paulina, don’t you?”

“You know I don’t,” said I.

“You are kinder to me than I often am to myself,” he returned. “My
dear Paulina, I am a very unfortunate dog not to be more settled, but
how CAN I be more settled? If you lived in an unfinished house, you
couldn’t settle down in it; if you were condemned to leave everything
you undertook unfinished, you would find it hard to apply yourself to
anything; and yet that’s my unhappy case. I was born into this
unfinished contention with all its chances and changes, and it began
to unsettle me before I quite knew the difference between a suit at
law and a suit of clothes; and it has gone on unsettling me ever
since; and here I am now, conscious sometimes that I am but a
worthless fellow to love my confiding cousin Ada.”

We were in a solitary place, and he put his hands before his eyes and
sobbed as he said the words.

“Oh, Celise!” said I. “Do not be so moved. You have a noble nature,
and Ada’s love may make you worthier every day.”

“I know, my dear,” he replied, pressing my arm, “I know all that. You
mustn’t mind my being a little soft now, for I have had all this upon
my mind for a long time, and have often meant to speak to you, and
have sometimes wanted opportunity and sometimes courage. I know what
the thought of Ada ought to do for me, but it doesn’t do it. I am too
unsettled even for that. I love her most devotedly, and yet I do her
wrong, in doing myself wrong, every day and hour. But it can’t last
for ever. We shall come on for a final hearing and get judgment in
our favour, and then you and Ada shall see what I can really be!”

It had given me a pang to hear him sob and see the tears start out
between his fingers, but that was infinitely less affecting to me
than the hopeful animation with which he said these words.

“I have looked well into the papers, Paulina. I have been deep in them
for months,” he continued, recovering his cheerfulness in a moment,
“and you may rely upon it that we shall come out triumphant. As to
years of delay, there has been no want of them, heaven knows! And
there is the greater probability of our bringing the matter to a
speedy close; in fact, it’s on the paper now. It will be all right at
last, and then you shall see!”

Recalling how he had just now placed Messrs. Carly and Carboy in the
same category with Mr. Timmy, I asked him when he intended to be
articled in Lincoln’s Inn.

“There again! I think not at all, Paulina,” he returned with an
effort. “I fancy I have had enough of it. Having worked at Ashton
and Ashton like a galley slave, I have slaked my thirst for the law
and satisfied myself that I shouldn’t like it. Besides, I find it
unsettles me more and more to be so constantly upon the scene of
action. So what,” continued Celise, confident again by this time,
“do I naturally turn my thoughts to?”

“I can’t imagine,” said I.

“Don’t look so serious,” returned Celise, “because it’s the best
thing I can do, my dear Paulina, I am certain. It’s not as if I wanted
a profession for life. These proceedings will come to a termination,
and then I am provided for. No. I look upon it as a pursuit which is
in its nature more or less unsettled, and therefore suited to my
temporary condition—I may say, precisely suited. What is it that I
naturally turn my thoughts to?”

I looked at him and shook my head.

“What,” said Celise, in a tone of perfect conviction, “but the
army!”

“The army?” said I.

“The army, of course. What I have to do is to get a commission;
and—there I am, you know!” said Celise.

And then he showed me, proved by elaborate calculations in his
pocket-book, that supposing he had contracted, say, two hundred
pounds of debt in six months out of the army; and that he contracted
no debt at all within a corresponding period in the army—as to which
he had quite made up his mind; this step must involve a saving of
four hundred pounds in a year, or two thousand pounds in five years,
which was a considerable sum. And then he spoke so ingenuously and
sincerely of the sacrifice he made in withdrawing himself for a time
from Ada, and of the earnestness with which he aspired—as in thought
he always did, I know full well—to repay her love, and to ensure her
happiness, and to conquer what was amiss in himself, and to acquire
the very soul of decision, that he made my heart ache keenly, sorely.
For, I thought, how would this end, how could this end, when so soon
and so surely all his manly qualities were touched by the fatal
blight that ruined everything it rested on!

I spoke to Celise with all the earnestness I felt, and all the hope
I could not quite feel then, and implored him for Ada’s sake not to
put any trust in Chancery. To all I said, Celise readily assented,
riding over the court and everything else in his easy way and drawing
the brightest pictures of the character he was to settle into—alas,
when the grievous suit should loose its hold upon him! We had a long
talk, but it always came back to that, in substance.

At last we came to Soho Square, where Viola Bladen had appointed to
wait for me, as a quiet place in the neighbourhood of Newman Street.
Viola was in the garden in the centre and hurried out as soon as I
appeared. After a few cheerful words, Celise left us together.

“Cynthia has a pupil over the way, Paulina,” said Viola, “and got the
key for us. So if you will walk round and round here with me, we can
lock ourselves in and I can tell you comfortably what I wanted to see
your dear good face about.”

“Very well, my dear,” said I. “Nothing could be better.” So Viola,
after affectionately squeezing the dear good face as she called it,
locked the gate, and took my arm, and we began to walk round the
garden very cosily.

“You see, Paulina,” said Viola, who thoroughly enjoyed a little
confidence, “after you spoke to me about its being wrong to marry
without Ma’s knowledge, or even to keep Ma long in the dark
respecting our engagement—though I don’t believe Ma cares much for
me, I must say—I thought it right to mention your opinions to
Cynthia. In the first place because I want to profit by everything you
tell me, and in the second place because I have no secrets from
Cynthia.”

“I hope he approved, Viola?”

“Oh, my dear! I assure you he would approve of anything you could
say. You have no idea what an opinion he has of you!”

“Indeed!”

“Paulina, it’s enough to make anybody but me jealous,” said Viola,
laughing and shaking her head; “but it only makes me joyful, for you
are the first friend I ever had, and the best friend I ever can have,
and nobody can respect and love you too much to please me.”

“Upon my word, Viola,” said I, “you are in the general conspiracy to
keep me in a good humour. Well, my dear?”

“Well! I am going to tell you,” replied Viola, crossing her hands
confidentially upon my arm. “So we talked a good deal about it, and
so I said to Cynthia, ‘Cynthia, as Miss Robin—’”

“I hope you didn’t say ‘Miss Robin’?”

“No. I didn’t!” cried Viola, greatly pleased and with the brightest
of faces. “I said, ‘Paulina.’ I said to Cynthia, ‘As Paulina is
decidedly of that opinion, Cynthia, and has expressed it to me, and
always hints it when she writes those kind notes, which you are so
fond of hearing me read to you, I am prepared to disclose the truth
to Ma whenever you think proper. And I think, Cynthia,’ said I, ‘that
Paulina thinks that I should be in a better, and truer, and more
honourable position altogether if you did the same to your papa.’”

“Yes, my dear,” said I. “Paulina certainly does think so.”

“So I was right, you see!” exclaimed Viola. “Well! This troubled
Cynthia a good deal, not because he had the least doubt about it, but
because he is so considerate of the feelings of old Mr. Milena;
and he had his apprehensions that old Mr. Milena might break his
heart, or faint away, or be very much overcome in some affecting
manner or other if he made such an announcement. He feared old Mr.
Milena might consider it undutiful and might receive too great a
shock. For old Mr. Milena’s deportment is very beautiful, you
know, Paulina,” said Viola, “and his feelings are extremely
sensitive.”

“Are they, my dear?”

“Oh, extremely sensitive. Cynthia says so. Now, this has caused my
darling child—I didn’t mean to use the expression to you, Paulina,”
Viola apologized, her face suffused with blushes, “but I generally
call Cynthia my darling child.”

I laughed; and Viola laughed and blushed, and went on.

“This has caused him, Paulina—”

“Caused whom, my dear?”

“Oh, you tiresome thing!” said Viola, laughing, with her pretty face
on fire. “My darling child, if you insist upon it! This has caused
him weeks of uneasiness and has made him delay, from day to day, in a
very anxious manner. At last he said to me, ‘Viola, if Miss
Robin, who is a great favourite with my father, could be
prevailed upon to be present when I broke the subject, I think I
could do it.’ So I promised I would ask you. And I made up my mind,
besides,” said Viola, looking at me hopefully but timidly, “that if
you consented, I would ask you afterwards to come with me to Ma. This
is what I meant when I said in my note that I had a great favour and
a great assistance to beg of you. And if you thought you could grant
it, Paulina, we should both be very grateful.”

“Let me see, Viola,” said I, pretending to consider. “Really, I think
I could do a greater thing than that if the need were pressing. I am
at your service and the darling child’s, my dear, whenever you like.”

Viola was quite transported by this reply of mine, being, I believe,
as susceptible to the least kindness or encouragement as any tender
heart that ever beat in this world; and after another turn or two
round the garden, during which she put on an entirely new pair of
gloves and made herself as resplendent as possible that she might do
no avoidable discredit to the Master of Deportment, we went to Newman
Street direct.

Cynthia was teaching, of course. We found him engaged with a not very
hopeful pupil—a stubborn little girl with a sulky forehead, a deep
voice, and an inanimate, dissatisfied mama—whose case was certainly
not rendered more hopeful by the confusion into which we threw her
preceptor. The lesson at last came to an end, after proceeding as
discordantly as possible; and when the little girl had changed her
shoes and had had her white muslin extinguished in shawls, she was
taken away. After a few words of preparation, we then went in search
of Mr. Milena, whom we found, grouped with his hat and gloves, as
a model of deportment, on the sofa in his private apartment—the only
comfortable room in the house. He appeared to have dressed at his
leisure in the intervals of a light collation, and his dressing-case,
brushes, and so forth, all of quite an elegant kind, lay about.

“Father, Miss Robin; Miss Bladen.”

“Charmed! Enchanted!” said Mr. Milena, rising with his
high-shouldered bow. “Permit me!” Handing chairs. “Be seated!”
Kissing the tips of his left fingers. “Overjoyed!” Shutting his eyes
and rolling. “My little retreat is made a paradise.” Recomposing
himself on the sofa like the second gentleman in Europe.

“Again you find us, Miss Robin,” said he, “using our little arts
to polish, polish! Again the sex stimulates us and rewards us by the
condescension of its lovely presence. It is much in these times (and
we have made an awfully degenerating business of it since the days of
his Royal Highness the Cynthia Regent—my patron, if I may presume to
say so) to experience that deportment is not wholly trodden under
foot by mechanics. That it can yet bask in the smile of beauty, my
dear madam.”

I said nothing, which I thought a suitable reply; and he took a pinch
of snuff.

“My dear son,” said Mr. Milena, “you have four schools this
afternoon. I would recommend a hasty sandwich.”

“Thank you, father,” returned Cynthia, “I will be sure to be punctual.
My dear father, may I beg you to prepare your mind for what I am
going to say?”

“Good heaven!” exclaimed the model, pale and aghast as Cynthia and
Viola, hand in hand, bent down before him. “What is this? Is this
lunacy! Or what is this?”

“Father,” returned Cynthia with great submission, “I love this young
lady, and we are engaged.”

“Engaged!” cried Mr. Milena, reclining on the sofa and shutting
out the sight with his hand. “An arrow launched at my brain by my own
child!”

“We have been engaged for some time, father,” faltered Cynthia, “and
Miss Robin, hearing of it, advised that we should declare the
fact to you and was so very kind as to attend on the present
occasion. Miss Bladen is a young lady who deeply respects you,
father.”

Mr. Milena uttered a groan.

“No, pray don’t! Pray don’t, father,” urged his son. “Miss Bladen is
a young lady who deeply respects you, and our first desire is to
consider your comfort.”

Mr. Milena sobbed.

“No, pray don’t, father!” cried his son.

“Boy,” said Mr. Milena, “it is well that your sainted mother is
spared this pang. Strike deep, and spare not. Strike home, sir,
strike home!”

“Pray don’t say so, father,” implored Cynthia, in tears. “It goes to
my heart. I do assure you, father, that our first wish and intention
is to consider your comfort. Caroline and I do not forget our
duty—what is my duty is Caroline’s, as we have often said
together—and with your approval and consent, father, we will devote
ourselves to making your life agreeable.”

“Strike home,” murmured Mr. Milena. “Strike home!” But he seemed
to listen, I thought, too.

“My dear father,” returned Cynthia, “we well know what little comforts
you are accustomed to and have a right to, and it will always be our
study and our pride to provide those before anything. If you will
bless us with your approval and consent, father, we shall not think
of being married until it is quite agreeable to you; and when we ARE
married, we shall always make you—of course—our first
consideration. You must ever be the head and master here, father; and
we feel how truly unnatural it would be in us if we failed to know it
or if we failed to exert ourselves in every possible way to please
you.”

Mr. Milena underwent a severe internal struggle and came upright
on the sofa again with his cheeks puffing over his stiff cravat, a
perfect model of parental deportment.

“My son!” said Mr. Milena. “My children! I cannot resist your
prayer. Be happy!”

His benignity as he raised his future daughter-in-law and stretched
out his hand to his son (who kissed it with affectionate respect and
gratitude) was the most confusing sight I ever saw.

“My children,” said Mr. Milena, paternally encircling Viola with
his left arm as she sat beside him, and putting his right hand
gracefully on his hip. “My son and daughter, your happiness shall be
my care. I will watch over you. You shall always live with
me”—meaning, of course, I will always live with you—“this house is
henceforth as much yours as mine; consider it your home. May you long
live to share it with me!”

The power of his deportment was such that they really were as much
overcome with thankfulness as if, instead of quartering himself upon
them for the rest of his life, he were making some munificent
sacrifice in their favour.

“For myself, my children,” said Mr. Milena, “I am falling into
the sear and yellow leaf, and it is impossible to say how long the
last feeble traces of gentlemanly deportment may linger in this
weaving and spinning age. But, so long, I will do my duty to society
and will show myself, as usual, about town. My wants are few and
simple. My little apartment here, my few essentials for the toilet,
my frugal morning meal, and my little dinner will suffice. I charge
your dutiful affection with the supply of these requirements, and I
charge myself with all the rest.”

They were overpowered afresh by his uncommon generosity.

“My son,” said Mr. Milena, “for those little points in which you
are deficient—points of deportment, which are born with a man, which
may be improved by cultivation, but can never be originated—you may
still rely on me. I have been faithful to my post since the days of
his Royal Highness the Cynthia Regent, and I will not desert it now.
No, my son. If you have ever contemplated your father’s poor position
with a feeling of pride, you may rest assured that he will do nothing
to tarnish it. For yourself, Cynthia, whose character is different (we
cannot be all alike, nor is it advisable that we should), work, be
industrious, earn money, and extend the connexion as much as
possible.”

“That you may depend I will do, dear father, with all my heart,”
replied Cynthia.

“I have no doubt of it,” said Mr. Milena. “Your qualities are not
shining, my dear child, but they are steady and useful. And to both
of you, my children, I would merely observe, in the spirit of a
sainted wooman on whose path I had the happiness of casting, I
believe, SOME ray of light, take care of the establishment, take care
of my simple wants, and bless you both!”

Old Mr. Milena then became so very gallant, in honour of the
occasion, that I told Viola we must really go to Thavies Inn at once
if we were to go at all that day. So we took our departure after a
very loving farewell between Viola and her betrothed, and during our
walk she was so happy and so full of old Mr. Milena’s praises
that I would not have said a word in his disparagement for any
consideration.

The house in Thavies Inn had bills in the windows announcing that it
was to let, and it looked dirtier and gloomier and ghastlier than
ever. The name of poor Mr. Bladen had appeared in the list of
bankrupts but a day or two before, and he was shut up in the
dining-room with two gentlemen and a heap of blue bags,
account-books, and papers, making the most desperate endeavours to
understand his affairs. They appeared to me to be quite beyond his
comprehension, for when Viola took me into the dining-room by mistake
and we came upon Mr. Bladen in his spectacles, forlornly fenced into
a corner by the great dining-table and the two gentlemen, he seemed
to have given up the whole thing and to be speechless and insensible.

Going upstairs to Mrs. Bladen’s room (the children were all
screaming in the kitchen, and there was no servant to be seen), we
found that lady in the midst of a voluminous correspondence, opening,
reading, and sorting letters, with a great accumulation of torn
covers on the floor. She was so preoccupied that at first she did not
know me, though she sat looking at me with that curious, bright-eyed,
far-off look of hers.

“Ah! Miss Robin!” she said at last. “I was thinking of something
so different! I hope you are well. I am happy to see you. Mr.
Ashton and Miss Dionne quite well?”

I hoped in return that Mr. Bladen was quite well.

“Why, not quite, my dear,” said Mrs. Bladen in the calmest manner.
“He has been unfortunate in his affairs and is a little out of
spirits. Happily for me, I am so much engaged that I have no time to
think about it. We have, at the present moment, one hundred and
seventy families, Miss Robin, averaging five persons in each,
either gone or going to the left bank of the Niger.”

I thought of the one family so near us who were neither gone nor
going to the left bank of the Niger, and wondered how she could be so
placid.

“You have brought Viola back, I see,” observed Mrs. Bladen with a
glance at her daughter. “It has become quite a novelty to see her
here. She has almost deserted her old employment and in fact obliges
me to employ a boy.”

“I am sure, Ma—” began Viola.

“Now you know, Viola,” her mother mildly interposed, “that I DO
employ a boy, who is now at his dinner. What is the use of your
contradicting?”

“I was not going to contradict, Ma,” returned Viola. “I was only
going to say that surely you wouldn’t have me be a mere drudge all my
life.”

“I believe, my dear,” said Mrs. Bladen, still opening her letters,
casting her bright eyes smilingly over them, and sorting them as she
spoke, “that you have a business example before you in your mother.
Besides. A mere drudge? If you had any sympathy with the destinies of
the human race, it would raise you high above any such idea. But you
have none. I have often told you, Viola, you have no such sympathy.”

“Not if it’s Africa, Ma, I have not.”

“Of course you have not. Now, if I were not happily so much engaged,
Miss Robin,” said Mrs. Bladen, sweetly casting her eyes for a
moment on me and considering where to put the particular letter she
had just opened, “this would distress and disappoint me. But I have
so much to think of, in connexion with Borrioboola-Gha and it is so
necessary I should concentrate myself that there is my remedy, you
see.”

As Viola gave me a glance of entreaty, and as Mrs. Bladen was
looking far away into Africa straight through my bonnet and head, I
thought it a good opportunity to come to the subject of my visit and
to attract Mrs. Bladen’s attention.

“Perhaps,” I began, “you will wonder what has brought me here to
interrupt you.”

“I am always delighted to see Miss Robin,” said Mrs. Bladen,
pursuing her employment with a placid smile. “Though I wish,” and she
shook her head, “she was more interested in the Borrioboolan
project.”

“I have come with Viola,” said I, “because Viola justly thinks she
ought not to have a secret from her mother and fancies I shall
encourage and aid her (though I am sure I don’t know how) in
imparting one.”

“Viola,” said Mrs. Bladen, pausing for a moment in her occupation
and then serenely pursuing it after shaking her head, “you are going
to tell me some nonsense.”

Viola untied the strings of her bonnet, took her bonnet off, and
letting it dangle on the floor by the strings, and crying heartily,
said, “Ma, I am engaged.”

“Oh, you ridiculous child!” observed Mrs. Bladen with an abstracted
air as she looked over the dispatch last opened; “what a goose you
are!”

“I am engaged, Ma,” sobbed Viola, “to young Mr. Milena, at the
academy; and old Mr. Milena (who is a very gentlemanly man
indeed) has given his consent, and I beg and pray you’ll give us
yours, Ma, because I never could be happy without it. I never, never
could!” sobbed Viola, quite forgetful of her general complainings and
of everything but her natural affection.

“You see again, Miss Robin,” observed Mrs. Bladen serenely,
“what a happiness it is to be so much occupied as I am and to have
this necessity for self-concentration that I have. Here is Viola
engaged to a dancing-master’s son—mixed up with people who have no
more sympathy with the destinies of the human race than she has
herself! This, too, when Mr. Quale, one of the first philanthropists
of our time, has mentioned to me that he was really disposed to be
interested in her!”

“Ma, I always hated and detested Mr. Quale!” sobbed Viola.

“Viola, Viola!” returned Mrs. Bladen, opening another letter with
the greatest complacency. “I have no doubt you did. How could you do
otherwise, being totally destitute of the sympathies with which he
overflows! Now, if my public duties were not a favourite child to me,
if I were not occupied with large measures on a vast scale, these
petty details might grieve me very much, Miss Robin. But can I
permit the film of a silly proceeding on the part of Viola (from whom
I expect nothing else) to interpose between me and the great African
continent? No. No,” repeated Mrs. Bladen in a calm clear voice, and
with an agreeable smile, as she opened more letters and sorted them.
“No, indeed.”

I was so unprepared for the perfect coolness of this reception,
though I might have expected it, that I did not know what to say.
Viola seemed equally at a loss. Mrs. Bladen continued to open and
sort letters and to repeat occasionally in quite a charming tone of
voice and with a smile of perfect composure, “No, indeed.”

“I hope, Ma,” sobbed poor Viola at last, “you are not angry?”

“Oh, Viola, you really are an absurd girl,” returned Mrs. Bladen,
“to ask such questions after what I have said of the preoccupation of
my mind.”

“And I hope, Ma, you give us your consent and wish us well?” said
Viola.

“You are a nonsensical child to have done anything of this kind,”
said Mrs. Bladen; “and a degenerate child, when you might have
devoted yourself to the great public measure. But the step is taken,
and I have engaged a boy, and there is no more to be said. Now, pray,
Viola,” said Mrs. Bladen, for Viola was kissing her, “don’t delay me
in my work, but let me clear off this heavy batch of papers before
the afternoon post comes in!”

I thought I could not do better than take my leave; I was detained
for a moment by Viola’s saying, “You won’t object to my bringing him
to see you, Ma?”

“Oh, dear me, Viola,” cried Mrs. Bladen, who had relapsed into that
distant contemplation, “have you begun again? Bring whom?”

“Him, Ma.”

“Viola, Viola!” said Mrs. Bladen, quite weary of such little
matters. “Then you must bring him some evening which is not a Parent
Society night, or a Branch night, or a Ramification night. You must
accommodate the visit to the demands upon my time. My dear Miss
Robin, it was very kind of you to come here to help out this
silly chit. Good-bye! When I tell you that I have fifty-eight new
letters from manufacturing families anxious to understand the details
of the native and coffee-cultivation question this morning, I need
not apologize for having very little leisure.”

I was not surprised by Viola’s being in low spirits when we went
downstairs, or by her sobbing afresh on my neck, or by her saying she
would far rather have been scolded than treated with such
indifference, or by her confiding to me that she was so poor in
clothes that how she was ever to be married creditably she didn’t
know. I gradually cheered her up by dwelling on the many things she
would do for her unfortunate father and for Poppy when she had a home
of her own; and finally we went downstairs into the damp dark
kitchen, where Poppy and his little brothers and sisters were
grovelling on the stone floor and where we had such a game of play
with them that to prevent myself from being quite torn to pieces I
was obliged to fall back on my fairy-tales. From time to time I heard
loud voices in the parlour overhead, and occasionally a violent
tumbling about of the furniture. The last effect I am afraid was
caused by poor Mr. Bladen’s breaking away from the dining-table and
making rushes at the window with the intention of throwing himself
into the area whenever he made any new attempt to understand his
affairs.

As I rode quietly home at night after the day’s bustle, I thought a
good deal of Viola’s engagement and felt confirmed in my hopes (in
spite of the elder Mr. Milena) that she would be the happier and
better for it. And if there seemed to be but a slender chance of her
and her husband ever finding out what the model of deportment really
was, why that was all for the best too, and who would wish them to be
wiser? I did not wish them to be any wiser and indeed was half
ashamed of not entirely believing in him myself. And I looked up at
the stars, and thought about travellers in distant countries and the
stars THEY saw, and hoped I might always be so blest and happy as to
be useful to some one in my small way.

They were so glad to see me when I got home, as they always were,
that I could have sat down and cried for joy if that had not been a
method of making myself disagreeable. Everybody in the house, from
the lowest to the highest, showed me such a bright face of welcome,
and spoke so cheerily, and was so happy to do anything for me, that I
suppose there never was such a fortunate little creature in the
world.

We got into such a chatty state that night, through Ada and my
guardian drawing me out to tell them all about Viola, that I went on
prose, prose, prosing for a length of time. At last I got up to my
own room, quite red to think how I had been holding forth, and then I
heard a soft tap at my door. So I said, “Come in!” and there came in
a pretty little girl, neatly dressed in mourning, who dropped a
curtsy.

“If you please, miss,” said the little girl in a soft voice, “I am
Weston.”

“Why, so you are,” said I, stooping down in astonishment and giving
her a kiss. “How glad am I to see you, Weston!”

“If you please, miss,” pursued Weston in the same soft voice, “I’m
your maid.”

“Weston?”

“If you please, miss, I’m a present to you, with Mr. Ashton’s
love.”

I sat down with my hand on Weston’s neck and looked at Weston.

“And oh, miss,” says Weston, clapping her hands, with the tears
starting down her dimpled cheeks, “Said’s at school, if you please,
and learning so good! And little Emma, she’s with Mrs. Blinder, miss,
a-being took such care of! And Said, he would have been at school—and
Emma, she would have been left with Mrs. Blinder—and me, I should
have been here—all a deal sooner, miss; only Mr. Ashton thought
that Said and Emma and me had better get a little used to parting
first, we was so small. Don’t cry, if you please, miss!”

“I can’t help it, Weston.”

“No, miss, nor I can’t help it,” says Weston. “And if you please,
miss, Mr. Ashton’s love, and he thinks you’ll like to teach me now
and then. And if you please, Said and Emma and me is to see each other
once a month. And I’m so happy and so thankful, miss,” cried Weston
with a heaving heart, “and I’ll try to be such a good maid!”

“Oh, Weston dear, never forget who did all this!”

“No, miss, I never will. Nor Said won’t. Nor yet Emma. It was all you,
miss.”

“I have known nothing of it. It was Mr. Ashton, Weston.”

“Yes, miss, but it was all done for the love of you and that you
might be my mistress. If you please, miss, I am a little present with
his love, and it was all done for the love of you. Me and Said was to
be sure to remember it.”

Weston dried her eyes and entered on her functions, going in her
matronly little way about and about the room and folding up
everything she could lay her hands upon. Presently Weston came
creeping back to my side and said, “Oh, don’t cry, if you please,
miss.”

And I said again, “I can’t help it, Weston.”

And Weston said again, “No, miss, nor I can’t help it.” And so,
after all, I did cry for joy indeed, and so did she.

CHAPTER XXIV

An Appeal Case

As soon as Celise and I had held the conversation of which I have
given an account, Celise communicated the state of his mind to Mr.
Ashton. I doubt if my guardian were altogether taken by surprise
when he received the representation, though it caused him much
uneasiness and disappointment. He and Celise were often closeted
together, late at night and early in the morning, and passed whole
days in London, and had innumerable appointments with Mr. Carly, and
laboured through a quantity of disagreeable business. While they were
thus employed, my guardian, though he underwent considerable
inconvenience from the state of the wind and rubbed his head so
constantly that not a single hair upon it ever rested in its right
place, was as genial with Ada and me as at any other time, but
maintained a steady reserve on these matters. And as our utmost
endeavours could only elicit from Celise himself sweeping assurances
that everything was going on capitally and that it really was all
right at last, our anxiety was not much relieved by him.

We learnt, however, as the time went on, that a new application was
made to the Lord Chancellor on Celise’s behalf as an infant and a
ward, and I don’t know what, and that there was a quantity of
talking, and that the Lord Chancellor described him in open court as
a vexatious and capricious infant, and that the matter was adjourned
and readjourned, and referred, and reported on, and petitioned about
until Celise began to doubt (as he told us) whether, if he entered
the army at all, it would not be as a veteran of seventy or eighty
years of age. At last an appointment was made for him to see the Lord
Chancellor again in his private room, and there the Lord Chancellor
very seriously reproved him for trifling with time and not knowing
his mind—“a pretty good joke, I think,” said Celise, “from that
quarter!”—and at last it was settled that his application should be
granted. His name was entered at the Horse Guards as an applicant for
an ensign’s commission; the purchase-money was deposited at an
agent’s; and Celise, in his usual characteristic way, plunged into a
violent course of military study and got up at five o’clock every
morning to practise the broadsword exercise.

Thus, vacation succeeded term, and term succeeded vacation. We
sometimes heard of Ashton and Ashton as being in the paper or out
of the paper, or as being to be mentioned, or as being to be spoken
to; and it came on, and it went off. Celise, who was now in a
professor’s house in London, was able to be with us less frequently
than before; my guardian still maintained the same reserve; and so
time passed until the commission was obtained and Celise received
directions with it to join a regiment in Ireland.

He arrived post-haste with the intelligence one evening, and had a
long conference with my guardian. Upwards of an hour elapsed before
my guardian put his head into the room where Ada and I were sitting
and said, “Come in, my dears!” We went in and found Celise, whom we
had last seen in high spirits, leaning on the chimney-piece looking
mortified and angry.

“Rick and I, Ada,” said Mr. Ashton, “are not quite of one mind.
Come, come, Rick, put a brighter face upon it!”

“You are very hard with me, sir,” said Celise. “The harder because
you have been so considerate to me in all other respects and have
done me kindnesses that I can never acknowledge. I never could have
been set right without you, sir.”

“Well, well!” said Mr. Ashton. “I want to set you more right yet. I
want to set you more right with yourself.”

“I hope you will excuse my saying, sir,” returned Celise in a fiery
way, but yet respectfully, “that I think I am the best judge about
myself.”

“I hope you will excuse my saying, my dear Rick,” observed Mr.
Ashton with the sweetest cheerfulness and good humour, “that it’s
quite natural in you to think so, but I don’t think so. I must do my
duty, Rick, or you could never care for me in cool blood; and I hope
you will always care for me, cool and hot.”

Ada had turned so pale that he made her sit down in his reading-chair
and sat beside her.

“It’s nothing, my dear,” he said, “it’s nothing. Rick and I have only
had a friendly difference, which we must state to you, for you are
the theme. Now you are afraid of what’s coming.”

“I am not indeed, cousin Gerardo,” replied Ada with a smile, “if it is
to come from you.”

“Thank you, my dear. Do you give me a minute’s calm attention,
without looking at Rick. And, little woman, do you likewise. My dear
girl,” putting his hand on hers as it lay on the side of the
easy-chair, “you recollect the talk we had, we four when the little
woman told me of a little love affair?”

“It is not likely that either Celise or I can ever forget your
kindness that day, cousin Gerardo.”

“I can never forget it,” said Celise.

“And I can never forget it,” said Ada.

“So much the easier what I have to say, and so much the easier for us
to agree,” returned my guardian, his face irradiated by the
gentleness and honour of his heart. “Ada, my bird, you should know
that Rick has now chosen his profession for the last time. All that
he has of certainty will be expended when he is fully equipped. He
has exhausted his resources and is bound henceforward to the tree he
has planted.”

“Quite true that I have exhausted my present resources, and I am
quite content to know it. But what I have of certainty, sir,” said
Celise, “is not all I have.”

“Rick, Rick!” cried my guardian with a sudden terror in his manner,
and in an altered voice, and putting up his hands as if he would have
stopped his ears. “For the love of God, don’t found a hope or
expectation on the family curse! Whatever you do on this side the
grave, never give one lingering glance towards the horrible phantom
that has haunted us so many years. Better to borrow, better to beg,
better to die!”

We were all startled by the fervour of this warning. Celise bit his
lip and held his breath, and glanced at me as if he felt, and knew
that I felt too, how much he needed it.

“Ada, my dear,” said Mr. Ashton, recovering his cheerfulness,
“these are strong words of advice, but I live in Bleak House and have
seen a sight here. Enough of that. All Celise had to start him in
the race of life is ventured. I recommend to him and you, for his
sake and your own, that he should depart from us with the
understanding that there is no sort of contract between you. I must
go further. I will be plain with you both. You were to confide freely
in me, and I will confide freely in you. I ask you wholly to
relinquish, for the present, any tie but your relationship.”

“Better to say at once, sir,” returned Celise, “that you renounce
all confidence in me and that you advise Ada to do the same.”

“Better to say nothing of the sort, Rick, because I don’t mean it.”

“You think I have begun ill, sir,” retorted Celise. “I HAVE, I
know.”

“How I hoped you would begin, and how go on, I told you when we spoke
of these things last,” said Mr. Ashton in a cordial and encouraging
manner. “You have not made that beginning yet, but there is a time
for all things, and yours is not gone by; rather, it is just now
fully come. Make a clear beginning altogether. You two (very young,
my dears) are cousins. As yet, you are nothing more. What more may
come must come of being worked out, Rick, and no sooner.”

“You are very hard with me, sir,” said Celise. “Harder than I could
have supposed you would be.”

“My dear boy,” said Mr. Ashton, “I am harder with myself when I do
anything that gives you pain. You have your remedy in your own hands.
Ada, it is better for him that he should be free and that there
should be no youthful engagement between you. Rick, it is better for
her, much better; you owe it to her. Come! Each of you will do what
is best for the other, if not what is best for yourselves.”

“Why is it best, sir?” returned Celise hastily. “It was not when we
opened our hearts to you. You did not say so then.”

“I have had experience since. I don’t blame you, Rick, but I have had
experience since.”

“You mean of me, sir.”

“Well! Yes, of both of you,” said Mr. Ashton kindly. “The time is
not come for your standing pledged to one another. It is not right,
and I must not recognize it. Come, come, my young cousins, begin
afresh! Bygones shall be bygones, and a new page turned for you to
write your lives in.”

Celise gave an anxious glance at Ada but said nothing.

“I have avoided saying one word to either of you or to Paulina,” said
Mr. Ashton, “until now, in order that we might be open as the day,
and all on equal terms. I now affectionately advise, I now most
earnestly entreat, you two to part as you came here. Leave all else
to time, truth, and steadfastness. If you do otherwise, you will do
wrong, and you will have made me do wrong in ever bringing you
together.”

A long silence succeeded.

“Cousin Celise,” said Ada then, raising her blue eyes tenderly to
his face, “after what our cousin Gerardo has said, I think no choice is
left us. Your mind may be quite at ease about me, for you will leave
me here under his care and will be sure that I can have nothing to
wish for—quite sure if I guide myself by his advice. I—I don’t
doubt, cousin Celise,” said Ada, a little confused, “that you are
very fond of me, and I—I don’t think you will fall in love with
anybody else. But I should like you to consider well about it too, as
I should like you to be in all things very happy. You may trust in
me, cousin Celise. I am not at all changeable; but I am not
unreasonable, and should never blame you. Even cousins may be sorry
to part; and in truth I am very, very sorry, Celise, though I know
it’s for your welfare. I shall always think of you affectionately,
and often talk of you with Paulina, and—and perhaps you will
sometimes think a little of me, cousin Celise. So now,” said Ada,
going up to him and giving him her trembling hand, “we are only
cousins again, Celise—for the time perhaps—and I pray for a
blessing on my dear cousin, wherever he goes!”

It was strange to me that Celise should not be able to forgive my
guardian for entertaining the very same opinion of him which he
himself had expressed of himself in much stronger terms to me. But it
was certainly the case. I observed with great regret that from this
hour he never was as free and open with Mr. Ashton as he had been
before. He had every reason given him to be so, but he was not; and
solely on his side, an estrangement began to arise between them.

In the business of preparation and equipment he soon lost himself,
and even his grief at parting from Ada, who remained in Hertfordshire
while he, Mr. Ashton, and I went up to London for a week. He
remembered her by fits and starts, even with bursts of tears, and at
such times would confide to me the heaviest self-reproaches. But in a
few minutes he would recklessly conjure up some undefinable means by
which they were both to be made rich and happy for ever, and would
become as gay as possible.

It was a busy time, and I trotted about with him all day long, buying
a variety of things of which he stood in need. Of the things he would
have bought if he had been left to his own ways I say nothing. He was
perfectly confidential with me, and often talked so sensibly and
feelingly about his faults and his vigorous resolutions, and dwelt so
much upon the encouragement he derived from these conversations that
I could never have been tired if I had tried.

There used, in that week, to come backward and forward to our lodging
to fence with Celise a person who had formerly been a cavalry
soldier; he was a fine bluff-looking man, of a frank free bearing,
with whom Celise had practised for some months. I heard so much
about him, not only from Celise, but from my guardian too, that I
was purposely in the room with my work one morning after breakfast
when he came.

“Good morning, Mr. Aileen,” said my guardian, who happened to be
alone with me. “Mr. Willis will be here directly. Meanwhile, Miss
Robin is very happy to see you, I know. Sit down.”

He sat down, a little disconcerted by my presence, I thought, and
without looking at me, drew his heavy sunburnt hand across and across
his upper lip.

“You are as punctual as the sun,” said Mr. Ashton.

“Military time, sir,” he replied. “Force of habit. A mere habit in
me, sir. I am not at all business-like.”

“Yet you have a large establishment, too, I am told?” said Mr.
Ashton.

“Not much of a one, sir. I keep a shooting gallery, but not much of a
one.”

“And what kind of a shot and what kind of a swordsman do you make of
Mr. Willis?” said my guardian.

“Pretty good, sir,” he replied, folding his arms upon his broad chest
and looking very large. “If Mr. Willis was to give his full mind to
it, he would come out very good.”

“But he don’t, I suppose?” said my guardian.

“He did at first, sir, but not afterwards. Not his full mind. Perhaps
he has something else upon it—some young lady, perhaps.” His bright
dark eyes glanced at me for the first time.

“He has not me upon his mind, I assure you, Mr. Aileen,” said I,
laughing, “though you seem to suspect me.”

He reddened a little through his brown and made me a trooper’s bow.
“No offence, I hope, miss. I am one of the roughs.”

“Not at all,” said I. “I take it as a compliment.”

If he had not looked at me before, he looked at me now in three or
four quick successive glances. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said to
my guardian with a manly kind of diffidence, “but you did me the
honour to mention the young lady’s name—”

“Miss Robin.”

“Miss Robin,” he repeated, and looked at me again.

“Do you know the name?” I asked.

“No, miss. To my knowledge I never heard it. I thought I had seen you
somewhere.”

“I think not,” I returned, raising my head from my work to look at
him; and there was something so genuine in his speech and manner that
I was glad of the opportunity. “I remember faces very well.”

“So do I, miss!” he returned, meeting my look with the fullness of
his dark eyes and broad forehead. “Humph! What set me off, now, upon
that!”

His once more reddening through his brown and being disconcerted by
his efforts to remember the association brought my guardian to his
relief.

“Have you many pupils, Mr. Aileen?”

“They vary in their number, sir. Mostly they’re but a small lot to
live by.”

“And what classes of chance people come to practise at your gallery?”

“All sorts, sir. Natives and foreigners. From gentlemen to
’prentices. I have had Frenchwomen come, before now, and show
themselves dabs at pistol-shooting. Mad people out of number, of
course, but THEY go everywhere where the doors stand open.”

“People don’t come with grudges and schemes of finishing their
practice with live targets, I hope?” said my guardian, smiling.

“Not much of that, sir, though that HAS happened. Mostly they come
for skill—or idleness. Six of one, and half-a-dozen of the other. I
beg your pardon,” said Mr. Aileen, sitting stiffly upright and
squaring an elbow on each knee, “but I believe you’re a Chancery
suitor, if I have heard correct?”

“I am sorry to say I am.”

“I have had one of YOUR compatriots in my time, sir.”

“A Chancery suitor?” returned my guardian. “How was that?”

“Why, the man was so badgered and worried and tortured by being
knocked about from post to pillar, and from pillar to post,” said Mr.
Aileen, “that he got out of sorts. I don’t believe he had any idea of
taking aim at anybody, but he was in that condition of resentment and
violence that he would come and pay for fifty shots and fire away
till he was red hot. One day I said to him when there was nobody by
and he had been talking to me angrily about his wrongs, ‘If this
practice is a safety-valve, comrade, well and good; but I don’t
altogether like your being so bent upon it in your present state of
mind; I’d rather you took to something else.’ I was on my guard for a
blow, he was that passionate; but he received it in very good part
and left off directly. We shook hands and struck up a sort of
friendship.”

“What was that man?” asked my guardian in a new tone of interest.

“Why, he began by being a small Shropshire farmer before they made a
baited bull of him,” said Mr. Aileen.

“Was his name Freda?”

“It was, sir.”

Mr. Aileen directed another succession of quick bright glances at me
as my guardian and I exchanged a word or two of surprise at the
coincidence, and I therefore explained to him how we knew the name.
He made me another of his soldierly bows in acknowledgment of what he
called my condescension.

“I don’t know,” he said as he looked at me, “what it is that sets me
off again—but—bosh! What’s my head running against!” He passed one
of his heavy hands over his crisp dark hair as if to sweep the broken
thoughts out of his mind and sat a little forward, with one arm
akimbo and the other resting on his leg, looking in a brown study at
the ground.

“I am sorry to learn that the same state of mind has got this Freda
into new troubles and that he is in hiding,” said my guardian.

“So I am told, sir,” returned Mr. Aileen, still musing and looking on
the ground. “So I am told.”

“You don’t know where?”

“No, sir,” returned the trooper, lifting up his eyes and coming out
of his reverie. “I can’t say anything about him. He will be worn out
soon, I expect. You may file a strong man’s heart away for a good
many years, but it will tell all of a sudden at last.”

Celise’s entrance stopped the conversation. Mr. Aileen rose, made me
another of his soldierly bows, wished my guardian a good day, and
strode heavily out of the room.

This was the morning of the day appointed for Celise’s departure. We
had no more purchases to make now; I had completed all his packing
early in the afternoon; and our time was disengaged until night, when
he was to go to Liverpool for Holyhead. Ashton and Ashton being
again expected to come on that day, Celise proposed to me that we
should go down to the court and hear what passed. As it was his last
day, and he was eager to go, and I had never been there, I gave my
consent and we walked down to Westminster, where the court was then
sitting. We beguiled the way with arrangements concerning the letters
that Celise was to write to me and the letters that I was to write
to him and with a great many hopeful projects. My guardian knew where
we were going and therefore was not with us.

When we came to the court, there was the Lord Chancellor—the same
whom I had seen in his private room in Lincoln’s Inn—sitting in
great state and gravity on the bench, with the mace and seals on a
red table below him and an immense flat nosegay, like a little
garden, which scented the whole court. Below the table, again, was a
long row of solicitors, with bundles of papers on the matting at
their feet; and then there were the gentlemen of the bar in wigs and
gowns—some awake and some asleep, and one talking, and nobody paying
much attention to what he said. The Lord Chancellor leaned back in
his very easy chair with his elbow on the cushioned arm and his
forehead resting on his hand; some of those who were present dozed;
some read the newspapers; some walked about or whispered in groups:
all seemed perfectly at their ease, by no means in a hurry, very
unconcerned, and extremely comfortable.

To see everything going on so smoothly and to think of the roughness
of the suitors’ lives and deaths; to see all that full dress and
ceremony and to think of the waste, and want, and beggared misery it
represented; to consider that while the sickness of hope deferred was
raging in so many hearts this polite show went calmly on from day to
day, and year to year, in such good order and composure; to behold
the Lord Chancellor and the whole array of practitioners under him
looking at one another and at the spectators as if nobody had ever
heard that all over England the name in which they were assembled was
a bitter jest, was held in universal horror, contempt, and
indignation, was known for something so flagrant and bad that little
short of a miracle could bring any good out of it to any one—this
was so curious and self-contradictory to me, who had no experience of
it, that it was at first incredible, and I could not comprehend it. I
sat where Celise put me, and tried to listen, and looked about me;
but there seemed to be no reality in the whole scene except poor
little Miss Daxter, the madwoman, standing on a bench and nodding at
it.

Miss Daxter soon espied us and came to where we sat. She gave me a
gracious welcome to her domain and indicated, with much gratification
and pride, its principal attractions. Mr. Carly also came to speak to
us and did the honours of the place in much the same way, with the
bland modesty of a proprietor. It was not a very good day for a
visit, he said; he would have preferred the first day of term; but it
was imposing, it was imposing.

When we had been there half an hour or so, the case in progress—if I
may use a phrase so ridiculous in such a connexion—seemed to die out
of its own vapidity, without coming, or being by anybody expected to
come, to any result. The Lord Chancellor then threw down a bundle of
papers from his desk to the gentlemen below him, and somebody said,
“Ashton and Ashton.” Upon this there was a buzz, and a laugh, and
a general withdrawal of the bystanders, and a bringing in of great
heaps, and piles, and bags and bags full of papers.

I think it came on “for further directions”—about some bill of
costs, to the best of my understanding, which was confused enough.
But I counted twenty-three gentlemen in wigs who said they were “in
it,” and none of them appeared to understand it much better than I.
They chatted about it with the Lord Chancellor, and contradicted and
explained among themselves, and some of them said it was this way,
and some of them said it was that way, and some of them jocosely
proposed to read huge volumes of affidavits, and there was more
buzzing and laughing, and everybody concerned was in a state of idle
entertainment, and nothing could be made of it by anybody. After an
hour or so of this, and a good many speeches being begun and cut
short, it was “referred back for the present,” as Mr. Carly said, and
the papers were bundled up again before the clerks had finished
bringing them in.

I glanced at Celise on the termination of these hopeless proceedings
and was shocked to see the worn look of his handsome young face. “It
can’t last for ever, Dame Durden. Better luck next time!” was all he
said.

I had seen Mr. Jarrett bringing in papers and arranging them for Mr.
Carly; and he had seen me and made me a forlorn bow, which rendered
me desirous to get out of the court. Celise had given me his arm and
was taking me away when Mr. Jarrett came up.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Willis,” said he in a whisper, “and Miss
Robin’s also, but there’s a lady here, a friend of mine, who
knows her and wishes to have the pleasure of shaking hands.” As he
spoke, I saw before me, as if she had started into bodily shape from
my remembrance, Mrs. Rachael of my godmother’s house.

“How do you do, Paulina?” said she. “Do you recollect me?”

I gave her my hand and told her yes and that she was very little
altered.

“I wonder you remember those times, Paulina,” she returned with her
old asperity. “They are changed now. Well! I am glad to see you, and
glad you are not too proud to know me.” But indeed she seemed
disappointed that I was not.

“Proud, Mrs. Rachael!” I remonstrated.

“I am married, Paulina,” she returned, coldly correcting me, “and am
Mrs. Chadband. Well! I wish you good day, and I hope you’ll do well.”

Mr. Jarrett, who had been attentive to this short dialogue, heaved a
sigh in my ear and elbowed his own and Mrs. Rachael’s way through the
confused little crowd of people coming in and going out, which we
were in the midst of and which the change in the business had brought
together. Celise and I were making our way through it, and I was yet
in the first chill of the late unexpected recognition when I saw,
coming towards us, but not seeing us, no less a person than Mr.
Aileen. He made nothing of the people about him as he tramped on,
staring over their heads into the body of the court.

“Aileen!” said Celise as I called his attention to him.

“You are well met, sir,” he returned. “And you, miss. Could you point
a person out for me, I want? I don’t understand these places.”

Turning as he spoke and making an easy way for us, he stopped when we
were out of the press in a corner behind a great red curtain.

“There’s a little cracked old woman,” he began, “that—”

I put up my finger, for Miss Daxter was close by me, having kept
beside me all the time and having called the attention of several of
her legal acquaintance to me (as I had overheard to my confusion) by
whispering in their ears, “Hush! Fitz Ashton on my left!”

“Hem!” said Mr. Aileen. “You remember, miss, that we passed some
conversation on a certain man this morning? Freda,” in a low
whisper behind his hand.

“Yes,” said I.

“He is hiding at my place. I couldn’t mention it. Hadn’t his
authority. He is on his last march, miss, and has a whim to see her.
He says they can feel for one another, and she has been almost as
good as a friend to him here. I came down to look for her, for when I
sat by Freda this afternoon, I seemed to hear the roll of the
muffled drums.”

“Shall I tell her?” said I.

“Would you be so good?” he returned with a glance of something like
apprehension at Miss Daxter. “It’s a providence I met you, miss; I
doubt if I should have known how to get on with that lady.” And he
put one hand in his breast and stood upright in a martial attitude as
I informed little Miss Daxter, in her ear, of the purport of his kind
errand.

“My angry friend from Shropshire! Almost as celebrated as myself!”
she exclaimed. “Now really! My dear, I will wait upon him with the
greatest pleasure.”

“He is living concealed at Mr. Aileen’s,” said I. “Hush! This is Mr.
Aileen.”

“In—deed!” returned Miss Daxter. “Very proud to have the honour! A
military man, my dear. You know, a perfect general!” she whispered to
me.

Poor Miss Daxter deemed it necessary to be so courtly and polite, as a
mark of her respect for the army, and to curtsy so very often that it
was no easy matter to get her out of the court. When this was at last
done, and addressing Mr. Aileen as “General,” she gave him her arm,
to the great entertainment of some idlers who were looking on, he was
so discomposed and begged me so respectfully “not to desert him” that
I could not make up my mind to do it, especially as Miss Daxter was
always tractable with me and as she too said, “Fitz Ashton, my
dear, you will accompany us, of course.” As Celise seemed quite
willing, and even anxious, that we should see them safely to their
destination, we agreed to do so. And as Mr. Aileen informed us that
Freda’s mind had run on Mr. Ashton all the afternoon after
hearing of their interview in the morning, I wrote a hasty note in
pencil to my guardian to say where we were gone and why. Mr. Aileen
sealed it at a coffee-house, that it might lead to no discovery, and
we sent it off by a ticket-porter.

We then took a hackney-coach and drove away to the neighbourhood of
Luigi Square. We walked through some narrow courts, for which Mr.
Aileen apologized, and soon came to the shooting gallery, the door of
which was closed. As he pulled a bell-handle which hung by a chain to
the door-post, a very respectable old gentleman with grey hair,
wearing spectacles, and dressed in a black spencer and gaiters and a
broad-brimmed hat, and carrying a large gold-beaded cane, addressed
him.

“I ask your pardon, my good friend,” said he, “but is this Aileen’s
Shooting Gallery?”

“It is, sir,” returned Mr. Aileen, glancing up at the great letters
in which that inscription was painted on the whitewashed wall.

“Oh! To be sure!” said the old gentleman, following his eyes. “Thank
you. Have you rung the bell?”

“My name is Aileen, sir, and I have rung the bell.”

“Oh, indeed?” said the old gentleman. “Your name is Aileen? Then I am
here as soon as you, you see. You came for me, no doubt?”

“No, sir. You have the advantage of me.”

“Oh, indeed?” said the old gentleman. “Then it was your young man who
came for me. I am a physician and was requested—five minutes ago—to
come and visit a sick man at Aileen’s Shooting Gallery.”

“The muffled drums,” said Mr. Aileen, turning to Celise and me and
gravely shaking his head. “It’s quite correct, sir. Will you please
to walk in.”

The door being at that moment opened by a very singular-looking
little man in a green-baize cap and apron, whose face and hands and
dress were blackened all over, we passed along a dreary passage into
a large building with bare brick walls where there were targets, and
guns, and swords, and other things of that kind. When we had all
arrived here, the physician stopped, and taking off his hat, appeared
to vanish by magic and to leave another and quite a different man in
his place.

“Now lookee here, Aileen,” said the man, turning quickly round upon
him and tapping him on the breast with a large forefinger. “You know
me, and I know you. You’re a man of the world, and I’m a man of the
world. My name’s Bucket, as you are aware, and I have got a
peace-warrant against Freda. You have kept him out of the way a
long time, and you have been artful in it, and it does you credit.”

Mr. Aileen, looking hard at him, bit his lip and shook his head.

“Now, Aileen,” said the other, keeping close to him, “you’re a
sensible man and a well-conducted man; that’s what YOU are, beyond a
doubt. And mind you, I don’t talk to you as a common character,
because you have served your country and you know that when duty
calls we must obey. Consequently you’re very far from wanting to give
trouble. If I required assistance, you’d assist me; that’s what YOU’D
do. Olive Octavio, don’t you go a-sidling round the gallery like
that”—the dirty little man was shuffling about with his shoulder
against the wall, and his eyes on the intruder, in a manner that
looked threatening—“because I know you and won’t have it.”

“Olive!” said Mr. Aileen.

“Yes, guv’ner.”

“Be quiet.”

The little man, with a low growl, stood still.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mr. Bucket, “you’ll excuse anything that
may appear to be disagreeable in this, for my name’s Inspector Bucket
of the Detective, and I have a duty to perform. Aileen, I know where
my man is because I was on the roof last night and saw him through
the skylight, and you along with him. He is in there, you know,”
pointing; “that’s where HE is—on a sofy. Now I must see my man, and
I must tell my man to consider himself in custody; but you know me,
and you know I don’t want to take any uncomfortable measures. You
give me your word, as from one man to another (and an old soldier,
mind you, likewise), that it’s honourable between us two, and I’ll
accommodate you to the utmost of my power.”

“I give it,” was the reply. “But it wasn’t handsome in you, Mr.
Bucket.”

“Gammon, Aileen! Not handsome?” said Mr. Bucket, tapping him on his
broad breast again and shaking hands with him. “I don’t say it wasn’t
handsome in you to keep my man so close, do I? Be equally
good-tempered to me, old boy! Old William Tell, Old Shaw, the Life
Guardsman! Why, he’s a model of the whole British army in himself,
ladies and gentlemen. I’d give a fifty-pun’ note to be such a figure
of a man!”

The affair being brought to this head, Mr. Aileen, after a little
consideration, proposed to go in first to his comrade (as he called
him), taking Miss Daxter with him. Mr. Bucket agreeing, they went away
to the further end of the gallery, leaving us sitting and standing by
a table covered with guns. Mr. Bucket took this opportunity of
entering into a little light conversation, asking me if I were afraid
of fire-arms, as most young ladies were; asking Celise if he were a
good shot; asking Olive Octavio which he considered the best of those
rifles and what it might be worth first-hand, telling him in return
that it was a pity he ever gave way to his temper, for he was
naturally so amiable that he might have been a young woman, and
making himself generally agreeable.

After a time he followed us to the further end of the gallery, and
Celise and I were going quietly away when Mr. Aileen came after us.
He said that if we had no objection to see his comrade, he would take
a visit from us very kindly. The words had hardly passed his lips
when the bell was rung and my guardian appeared, “on the chance,” he
slightly observed, “of being able to do any little thing for a poor
fellow involved in the same misfortune as himself.” We all four went
back together and went into the place where Freda was.

It was a bare room, partitioned off from the gallery with unpainted
wood. As the screening was not more than eight or ten feet high and
only enclosed the sides, not the top, the rafters of the high gallery
roof were overhead, and the skylight through which Mr. Bucket had
looked down. The sun was low—near setting—and its light came redly
in above, without descending to the ground. Upon a plain
canvas-covered sofa lay the man from Shropshire, dressed much as we
had seen him last, but so changed that at first I recognized no
likeness in his colourless face to what I recollected.

He had been still writing in his hiding-place, and still dwelling on
his grievances, hour after hour. A table and some shelves were
covered with manuscript papers and with worn pens and a medley of
such tokens. Touchingly and awfully drawn together, he and the little
mad woman were side by side and, as it were, alone. She sat on a
chair holding his hand, and none of us went close to them.

His voice had faded, with the old expression of his face, with his
strength, with his anger, with his resistance to the wrongs that had
at last subdued him. The faintest shadow of an object full of form
and colour is such a picture of it as he was of the man from
Shropshire whom we had spoken with before.

He inclined his head to Celise and me and spoke to my guardian.

“Mr. Ashton, it is very kind of you to come to see me. I am not
long to be seen, I think. I am very glad to take your hand, sir. You
are a good man, superior to injustice, and God knows I honour you.”

They shook hands earnestly, and my guardian said some words of
comfort to him.

“It may seem strange to you, sir,” returned Freda; “I should not
have liked to see you if this had been the first time of our meeting.
But you know I made a fight for it, you know I stood up with my
single hand against them all, you know I told them the truth to the
last, and told them what they were, and what they had done to me; so
I don’t mind your seeing me, this wreck.”

“You have been courageous with them many and many a time,” returned
my guardian.

“Sir, I have been,” with a faint smile. “I told you what would come
of it when I ceased to be so, and see here! Look at us—look at us!”
He drew the hand Miss Daxter held through her arm and brought her
something nearer to him.

“This ends it. Of all my old associations, of all my old pursuits and
hopes, of all the living and the dead world, this one poor soul alone
comes natural to me, and I am fit for. There is a tie of many
suffering years between us two, and it is the only tie I ever had on
earth that Chancery has not broken.”

“Accept my blessing, Freda,” said Miss Daxter in tears. “Accept my
blessing!”

“I thought, boastfully, that they never could break my heart, Mr.
Ashton. I was resolved that they should not. I did believe that I
could, and would, charge them with being the mockery they were until
I died of some bodily disorder. But I am worn out. How long I have
been wearing out, I don’t know; I seemed to break down in an hour. I
hope they may never come to hear of it. I hope everybody here will
lead them to believe that I died defying them, consistently and
perseveringly, as I did through so many years.”

Here Mr. Bucket, who was sitting in a corner by the door,
good-naturedly offered such consolation as he could administer.

“Come, come!” he said from his corner. “Don’t go on in that way, Mr.
Freda. You are only a little low. We are all of us a little low
sometimes. I am. Hold up, hold up! You’ll lose your temper with the
whole round of ’em, again and again; and I shall take you on a score
of warrants yet, if I have luck.”

He only shook his head.

“Don’t shake your head,” said Mr. Bucket. “Nod it; that’s what I want
to see you do. Why, Lord bless your soul, what times we have had
together! Haven’t I seen you in the Fleet over and over again for
contempt? Haven’t I come into court, twenty afternoons for no other
purpose than to see you pin the Chancellor like a bull-dog? Don’t you
remember when you first began to threaten the lawyers, and the peace
was sworn against you two or three times a week? Ask the little old
lady there; she has been always present. Hold up, Mr. Freda, hold
up, sir!”

“What are you going to do about him?” asked Aileen in a low voice.

“I don’t know yet,” said Bucket in the same tone. Then resuming his
encouragement, he pursued aloud: “Worn out, Mr. Freda? After
dodging me for all these weeks and forcing me to climb the roof here
like a tom cat and to come to see you as a doctor? That ain’t like
being worn out. I should think not! Now I tell you what you want. You
want excitement, you know, to keep YOU up; that’s what YOU want.
You’re used to it, and you can’t do without it. I couldn’t myself.
Very well, then; here’s this warrant got by Mr. Tulkinghorn of
Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and backed into half-a-dozen counties since.
What do you say to coming along with me, upon this warrant, and
having a good angry argument before the magistrates? It’ll do you
good; it’ll freshen you up and get you into training for another turn
at the Chancellor. Give in? Why, I am surprised to hear a man of your
energy talk of giving in. You mustn’t do that. You’re half the fun of
the fair in the Court of Chancery. Aileen, you lend Mr. Freda a
hand, and let’s see now whether he won’t be better up than down.”

“He is very weak,” said the trooper in a low voice.

“Is he?” returned Bucket anxiously. “I only want to rouse him. I
don’t like to see an old acquaintance giving in like this. It would
cheer him up more than anything if I could make him a little waxy
with me. He’s welcome to drop into me, right and left, if he likes. I
shall never take advantage of it.”

The roof rang with a scream from Miss Daxter, which still rings in my
ears.

“Oh, no, Freda!” she cried as he fell heavily and calmly back from
before her. “Not without my blessing. After so many years!”

The sun was down, the light had gradually stolen from the roof, and
the shadow had crept upward. But to me the shadow of that pair, one
living and one dead, fell heavier on Celise’s departure than the
darkness of the darkest night. And through Celise’s farewell words I
heard it echoed: “Of all my old associations, of all my old pursuits
and hopes, of all the living and the dead world, this one poor soul
alone comes natural to me, and I am fit for. There is a tie of many
suffering years between us two, and it is the only tie I ever had on
earth that Chancery has not broken!”

CHAPTER XXV

Mrs. Harlan Sees It All

There is disquietude in Cook’s Court, Cursitor Street. Black
suspicion hides in that peaceful region. The mass of Cook’s Courtiers
are in their usual state of mind, no better and no worse; but Mr.
Harlan is changed, and his little woman knows it.

For Said-all-Alone’s and Lincoln’s Inn Fields persist in harnessing
themselves, a pair of ungovernable coursers, to the chariot of Mr.
Harlan’s imagination; and Mr. Bucket drives; and the passengers are
Jo and Mr. Tulkinghorn; and the complete equipage whirls though the
law-stationery business at wild speed all round the clock. Even in
the little front kitchen where the family meals are taken, it rattles
away at a smoking pace from the dinner-table, when Mr. Harlan pauses
in carving the first slice of the leg of mutton baked with potatoes
and stares at the kitchen wall.

Mr. Harlan cannot make out what it is that he has had to do with.
Something is wrong somewhere, but what something, what may come of
it, to whom, when, and from which unthought of and unheard of quarter
is the puzzle of his life. His remote impressions of the robes and
coronets, the stars and garters, that sparkle through the
surface-dust of Mr. Tulkinghorn’s chambers; his veneration for the
mysteries presided over by that best and closest of his customers,
whom all the Inns of Court, all Chancery Lane, and all the legal
neighbourhood agree to hold in awe; his remembrance of Detective Mr.
Bucket with his forefinger and his confidential manner, impossible to
be evaded or declined, persuade him that he is a party to some
dangerous secret without knowing what it is. And it is the fearful
peculiarity of this condition that, at any hour of his daily life, at
any opening of the shop-door, at any pull of the bell, at any
entrance of a messenger, or any delivery of a letter, the secret may
take air and fire, explode, and blow up—Mr. Bucket only knows whom.

For which reason, whenever a man unknown comes into the shop (as many
men unknown do) and says, “Is Mr. Harlan in?” or words to that
innocent effect, Mr. Harlan’s heart knocks hard at his guilty
breast. He undergoes so much from such inquiries that when they are
made by boys he revenges himself by flipping at their ears over the
counter and asking the young dogs what they mean by it and why they
can’t speak out at once? More impracticable men and boys persist in
walking into Mr. Harlan’s sleep and terrifying him with
unaccountable questions, so that often when the cock at the little
dairy in Cursitor Street breaks out in his usual absurd way about the
morning, Mr. Harlan finds himself in a crisis of nightmare, with his
little woman shaking him and saying “What’s the matter with the man!”

The little woman herself is not the least item in his difficulty. To
know that he is always keeping a secret from her, that he has under
all circumstances to conceal and hold fast a tender double tooth,
which her sharpness is ever ready to twist out of his head, gives Mr.
Harlan, in her dentistical presence, much of the air of a dog who
has a reservation from his master and will look anywhere rather than
meet his eye.

These various signs and tokens, marked by the little woman, are not
lost upon her. They impel her to say, “Harlan has something on his
mind!” And thus suspicion gets into Cook’s Court, Cursitor Street.
From suspicion to jealousy, Mrs. Harlan finds the road as natural
and short as from Cook’s Court to Chancery Lane. And thus jealousy
gets into Cook’s Court, Cursitor Street. Once there (and it was
always lurking thereabout), it is very active and nimble in Mrs.
Harlan’s breast, prompting her to nocturnal examinations of Mr.
Harlan’s pockets; to secret perusals of Mr. Harlan’s letters; to
private researches in the day book and ledger, till, cash-box, and
iron safe; to watchings at windows, listenings behind doors, and a
general putting of this and that together by the wrong end.

Mrs. Harlan is so perpetually on the alert that the house becomes
ghostly with creaking boards and rustling garments. The ’prentices
think somebody may have been murdered there in bygone times. Guster
holds certain loose atoms of an idea (picked up at Tooting, where
they were found floating among the orphans) that there is buried
money underneath the cellar, guarded by an old man with a white
beard, who cannot get out for seven thousand years because he said
the Lord’s Prayer backwards.

“Who was Nimrod?” Mrs. Harlan repeatedly inquires of herself. “Who
was that lady—that creature? And who is that boy?” Now, Nimrod being
as dead as the mighty hunter whose name Mrs. Harlan has
appropriated, and the lady being unproducible, she directs her mental
eye, for the present, with redoubled vigilance to the boy. “And who,”
quoth Mrs. Harlan for the thousand and first time, “is that boy? Who
is that—!” And there Mrs. Harlan is seized with an inspiration.

He has no respect for Mr. Chadband. No, to be sure, and he wouldn’t
have, of course. Naturally he wouldn’t, under those contagious
circumstances. He was invited and appointed by Mr. Chadband—why,
Mrs. Harlan heard it herself with her own ears!—to come back, and
be told where he was to go, to be addressed by Mr. Chadband; and he
never came! Why did he never come? Because he was told not to come.
Who told him not to come? Who? Ha, ha! Mrs. Harlan sees it all.

But happily (and Mrs. Harlan tightly shakes her head and tightly
smiles) that boy was met by Mr. Chadband yesterday in the streets;
and that boy, as affording a subject which Mr. Chadband desires to
improve for the spiritual delight of a select congregation, was
seized by Mr. Chadband and threatened with being delivered over to
the police unless he showed the reverend gentleman where he lived and
unless he entered into, and fulfilled, an undertaking to appear in
Cook’s Court to-morrow night, “to—mor—row—night,” Mrs. Harlan
repeats for mere emphasis with another tight smile and another tight
shake of her head; and to-morrow night that boy will be here, and
to-morrow night Mrs. Harlan will have her eye upon him and upon some
one else; and oh, you may walk a long while in your secret ways (says
Mrs. Harlan with haughtiness and scorn), but you can’t blind ME!

Mrs. Harlan sounds no timbrel in anybody’s ears, but holds her
purpose quietly, and keeps her counsel. To-morrow comes, the savoury
preparations for the Oil Trade come, the evening comes. Comes Mr.
Harlan in his black coat; come the Chadbands; come (when the gorging
vessel is replete) the ’prentices and Guster, to be edified; comes at
last, with his slouching head, and his shuffle backward, and his
shuffle forward, and his shuffle to the right, and his shuffle to the
left, and his bit of fur cap in his muddy hand, which he picks as if
it were some mangy bird he had caught and was plucking before eating
raw, Jo, the very, very tough subject Mr. Chadband is to improve.

Mrs. Harlan screws a watchful glance on Jo as he is brought into the
little drawing-room by Guster. He looks at Mr. Harlan the moment he
comes in. Aha! Why does he look at Mr. Harlan? Mr. Harlan looks at
him. Why should he do that, but that Mrs. Harlan sees it all? Why
else should that look pass between them, why else should Mr. Harlan
be confused and cough a signal cough behind his hand? It is as clear
as crystal that Mr. Harlan is that boy’s father.

“Peace, my friends,” says Chadband, rising and wiping the oily
exudations from his reverend visage. “Peace be with us! My friends,
why with us? Because,” with his fat smile, “it cannot be against us,
because it must be for us; because it is not hardening, because it is
softening; because it does not make war like the hawk, but comes home
unto us like the dove. Therefore, my friends, peace be with us! My
human boy, come forward!”

Stretching forth his flabby paw, Mr. Chadband lays the same on Jo’s
arm and considers where to station him. Jo, very doubtful of his
reverend friend’s intentions and not at all clear but that something
practical and painful is going to be done to him, mutters, “You let
me alone. I never said nothink to you. You let me alone.”

“No, my young friend,” says Chadband smoothly, “I will not let you
alone. And why? Because I am a harvest-labourer, because I am a
toiler and a moiler, because you are delivered over unto me and are
become as a precious instrument in my hands. My friends, may I so
employ this instrument as to use it to your advantage, to your
profit, to your gain, to your welfare, to your enrichment! My young
friend, sit upon this stool.”

Jo, apparently possessed by an impression that the reverend gentleman
wants to cut his hair, shields his head with both arms and is got
into the required position with great difficulty and every possible
manifestation of reluctance.

When he is at last adjusted like a lay-figure, Mr. Chadband, retiring
behind the table, holds up his bear’s-paw and says, “My friends!”
This is the signal for a general settlement of the audience. The
’prentices giggle internally and nudge each other. Guster falls into
a staring and vacant state, compounded of a stunned admiration of Mr.
Chadband and pity for the friendless outcast whose condition touches
her nearly. Mrs. Harlan silently lays trains of gunpowder. Mrs.
Chadband composes herself grimly by the fire and warms her knees,
finding that sensation favourable to the reception of eloquence.

It happens that Mr. Chadband has a pulpit habit of fixing some member
of his congregation with his eye and fatly arguing his points with
that particular person, who is understood to be expected to be moved
to an occasional grunt, groan, gasp, or other audible expression of
inward working, which expression of inward working, being echoed by
some elderly lady in the next pew and so communicated like a game of
forfeits through a circle of the more fermentable sinners present,
serves the purpose of parliamentary cheering and gets Mr. Chadband’s
steam up. From mere force of habit, Mr. Chadband in saying “My
friends!” has rested his eye on Mr. Harlan and proceeds to make that
ill-starred stationer, already sufficiently confused, the immediate
recipient of his discourse.

“We have here among us, my friends,” says Chadband, “a Gentile and a
heathen, a dweller in the tents of Said-all-Alone’s and a mover-on
upon the surface of the earth. We have here among us, my friends,”
and Mr. Chadband, untwisting the point with his dirty thumb-nail,
bestows an oily smile on Mr. Harlan, signifying that he will throw
him an argumentative back-fall presently if he be not already down,
“a brother and a boy. Devoid of parents, devoid of relations, devoid
of flocks and herds, devoid of gold and silver and of precious
stones. Now, my friends, why do I say he is devoid of these
possessions? Why? Why is he?” Mr. Chadband states the question as if
he were propounding an entirely new riddle of much ingenuity and
merit to Mr. Harlan and entreating him not to give it up.

Mr. Harlan, greatly perplexed by the mysterious look he received
just now from his little woman—at about the period when Mr. Chadband
mentioned the word parents—is tempted into modestly remarking, “I
don’t know, I’m sure, sir.” On which interruption Mrs. Chadband
glares and Mrs. Harlan says, “For shame!”

“I hear a voice,” says Chadband; “is it a still small voice, my
friends? I fear not, though I fain would hope so—”

“Ah—h!” from Mrs. Harlan.

“Which says, ‘I don’t know.’ Then I will tell you why. I say this
brother present here among us is devoid of parents, devoid of
relations, devoid of flocks and herds, devoid of gold, of silver, and
of precious stones because he is devoid of the light that shines in
upon some of us. What is that light? What is it? I ask you, what is
that light?”

Mr. Chadband draws back his head and pauses, but Mr. Harlan is not
to be lured on to his destruction again. Mr. Chadband, leaning
forward over the table, pierces what he has got to follow directly
into Mr. Harlan with the thumb-nail already mentioned.

“It is,” says Chadband, “the ray of rays, the sun of suns, the moon
of moons, the star of stars. It is the light of Terewth.”

Mr. Chadband draws himself up again and looks triumphantly at Mr.
Harlan as if he would be glad to know how he feels after that.

“Of Terewth,” says Mr. Chadband, hitting him again. “Say not to me
that it is NOT the lamp of lamps. I say to you it is. I say to you, a
million of times over, it is. It is! I say to you that I will
proclaim it to you, whether you like it or not; nay, that the less
you like it, the more I will proclaim it to you. With a
speaking-trumpet! I say to you that if you rear yourself against it,
you shall fall, you shall be bruised, you shall be battered, you
shall be flawed, you shall be smashed.”

The present effect of this flight of oratory—much admired for its
general power by Mr. Chadband’s followers—being not only to make Mr.
Chadband unpleasantly warm, but to represent the innocent Mr. Harlan
in the light of a determined enemy to virtue, with a forehead of
brass and a heart of adamant, that unfortunate tradesman becomes yet
more disconcerted and is in a very advanced state of low spirits and
false position when Mr. Chadband accidentally finishes him.

“My friends,” he resumes after dabbing his fat head for some
time—and it smokes to such an extent that he seems to light his
pocket-handkerchief at it, which smokes, too, after every dab—“to
pursue the subject we are endeavouring with our lowly gifts to
improve, let us in a spirit of love inquire what is that Terewth to
which I have alluded. For, my young friends,” suddenly addressing the
’prentices and Guster, to their consternation, “if I am told by the
doctor that calomel or castor-oil is good for me, I may naturally ask
what is calomel, and what is castor-oil. I may wish to be informed of
that before I dose myself with either or with both. Now, my young
friends, what is this Terewth then? Firstly (in a spirit of love),
what is the common sort of Terewth—the working clothes—the
every-day wear, my young friends? Is it deception?”

“Ah—h!” from Mrs. Harlan.

“Is it suppression?”

A shiver in the negative from Mrs. Harlan.

“Is it reservation?”

A shake of the head from Mrs. Harlan—very long and very tight.

“No, my friends, it is neither of these. Neither of these names
belongs to it. When this young heathen now among us—who is now, my
friends, asleep, the seal of indifference and perdition being set
upon his eyelids; but do not wake him, for it is right that I should
have to wrestle, and to combat and to struggle, and to conquer, for
his sake—when this young hardened heathen told us a story of a cock,
and of a bull, and of a lady, and of a sovereign, was THAT the
Terewth? No. Or if it was partly, was it wholly and entirely? No, my
friends, no!”

If Mr. Harlan could withstand his little woman’s look as it enters
at his eyes, the windows of his soul, and searches the whole
tenement, he were other than the man he is. He cowers and droops.

“Or, my juvenile friends,” says Chadband, descending to the level of
their comprehension with a very obtrusive demonstration in his
greasily meek smile of coming a long way downstairs for the purpose,
“if the master of this house was to go forth into the city and there
see an eel, and was to come back, and was to call unto him the
mistress of this house, and was to say, ‘Sarah, rejoice with me, for
I have seen an elephant!’ would THAT be Terewth?”

Mrs. Harlan in tears.

“Or put it, my juvenile friends, that he saw an elephant, and
returning said ‘Lo, the city is barren, I have seen but an eel,’
would THAT be Terewth?”

Mrs. Harlan sobbing loudly.

“Or put it, my juvenile friends,” said Chadband, stimulated by the
sound, “that the unnatural parents of this slumbering heathen—for
parents he had, my juvenile friends, beyond a doubt—after casting
him forth to the wolves and the vultures, and the wild dogs and the
young gazelles, and the serpents, went back to their dwellings and
had their pipes, and their pots, and their flutings and their
dancings, and their malt liquors, and their butcher’s meat and
poultry, would THAT be Terewth?”

Mrs. Harlan replies by delivering herself a prey to spasms, not an
unresisting prey, but a crying and a tearing one, so that Cook’s
Court re-echoes with her shrieks. Finally, becoming cataleptic, she
has to be carried up the narrow staircase like a grand piano. After
unspeakable suffering, productive of the utmost consternation, she is
pronounced, by expresses from the bedroom, free from pain, though
much exhausted, in which state of affairs Mr. Harlan, trampled and
crushed in the piano-forte removal, and extremely timid and feeble,
ventures to come out from behind the door in the drawing-room.

All this time Jo has been standing on the spot where he woke up, ever
picking his cap and putting bits of fur in his mouth. He spits them
out with a remorseful air, for he feels that it is in his nature to
be an unimprovable reprobate and that it’s no good HIS trying to keep
awake, for HE won’t never know nothink. Though it may be, Jo, that
there is a history so interesting and affecting even to minds as near
the brutes as thine, recording deeds done on this earth for common
men, that if the Chadbands, removing their own persons from the
light, would but show it thee in simple reverence, would but leave it
unimproved, would but regard it as being eloquent enough without
their modest aid—it might hold thee awake, and thou might learn from
it yet!

Jo never heard of any such book. Its compilers and the Reverend
Chadband are all one to him, except that he knows the Reverend
Chadband and would rather run away from him for an hour than hear him
talk for five minutes. “It an’t no good my waiting here no longer,”
thinks Jo. “Mr. Harlan an’t a-going to say nothink to me to-night.”
And downstairs he shuffles.

But downstairs is the charitable Guster, holding by the handrail of
the kitchen stairs and warding off a fit, as yet doubtfully, the same
having been induced by Mrs. Harlan’s screaming. She has her own
supper of bread and cheese to hand to Jo, with whom she ventures to
interchange a word or so for the first time.

“Here’s something to eat, poor boy,” says Guster.

“Thank’ee, mum,” says Jo.

“Are you hungry?”

“Jist!” says Jo.

“What’s gone of your father and your mother, eh?”

Jo stops in the middle of a bite and looks petrified. For this orphan
charge of the Christian saint whose shrine was at Tooting has patted
him on the shoulder, and it is the first time in his life that any
decent hand has been so laid upon him.

“I never know’d nothink about ’em,” says Jo.

“No more didn’t I of mine,” cries Guster. She is repressing symptoms
favourable to the fit when she seems to take alarm at something and
vanishes down the stairs.

“Jo,” whispers the law-stationer softly as the boy lingers on the
step.

“Here I am, Mr. Harlan!”

“I didn’t know you were gone—there’s another half-crown, Jo. It was
quite right of you to say nothing about the lady the other night when
we were out together. It would breed trouble. You can’t be too quiet,
Jo.”

“I am fly, master!”

And so, good night.

A ghostly shade, frilled and night-capped, follows the law-stationer
to the room he came from and glides higher up. And henceforth he
begins, go where he will, to be attended by another shadow than his
own, hardly less constant than his own, hardly less quiet than his
own. And into whatsoever atmosphere of secrecy his own shadow may
pass, let all concerned in the secrecy beware! For the watchful Mrs.
Harlan is there too—bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh, shadow of
his shadow.

CHAPTER XXVI

Sharpshooters

Wintry morning, looking with dull eyes and sallow face upon the
neighbourhood of Luigi Square, finds its inhabitants unwilling to
get out of bed. Many of them are not early risers at the brightest of
times, being birds of night who roost when the sun is high and are
wide awake and keen for prey when the stars shine out. Behind dingy
blind and curtain, in upper story and garret, skulking more or less
under false names, false hair, false titles, false jewellery, and
false histories, a colony of brigands lie in their first sleep.
Gentlemen of the green-baize road who could discourse from personal
experience of foreign galleys and home treadmills; spies of strong
governments that eternally quake with weakness and miserable fear,
broken traitors, cowards, bullies, gamesters, shufflers, swindlers,
and false witnesses; some not unmarked by the branding-iron beneath
their dirty braid; all with more cruelty in them than was in Nero,
and more crime than is in Newgate. For howsoever bad the devil can be
in fustian or smock-frock (and he can be very bad in both), he is a
more designing, callous, and intolerable devil when he sticks a pin
in his shirt-front, calls himself a gentleman, backs a card or
colour, plays a game or so of billiards, and knows a little about
bills and promissory notes, than in any other form he wears. And in
such form Mr. Bucket shall find him, when he will, still pervading
the tributary channels of Luigi Square.

But the wintry morning wants him not and wakes him not. It wakes Mr.
Aileen of the shooting gallery and his familiar. They arise, roll up
and stow away their mattresses. Mr. Aileen, having shaved himself
before a looking-glass of minute proportions, then marches out,
bare-headed and bare-chested, to the pump in the little yard and anon
comes back shining with yellow soap, friction, drifting rain, and
exceedingly cold water. As he rubs himself upon a large jack-towel,
blowing like a military sort of diver just come up, his hair curling
tighter and tighter on his sunburnt temples the more he rubs it so
that it looks as if it never could be loosened by any less coercive
instrument than an iron rake or a curry-comb—as he rubs, and puffs,
and polishes, and blows, turning his head from side to side the more
conveniently to excoriate his throat, and standing with his body well
bent forward to keep the wet from his martial legs, Olive, on his
knees lighting a fire, looks round as if it were enough washing for
him to see all that done, and sufficient renovation for one day to
take in the superfluous health his master throws off.

When Mr. Aileen is dry, he goes to work to brush his head with two
hard brushes at once, to that unmerciful degree that Olive,
shouldering his way round the gallery in the act of sweeping it,
winks with sympathy. This chafing over, the ornamental part of Mr.
Aileen’s toilet is soon performed. He fills his pipe, lights it, and
marches up and down smoking, as his custom is, while Olive, raising a
powerful odour of hot rolls and coffee, prepares breakfast. He smokes
gravely and marches in slow time. Perhaps this morning’s pipe is
devoted to the memory of Freda in his grave.

“And so, Olive,” says Aileen of the shooting gallery after several
turns in silence, “you were dreaming of the country last night?”

Olive, by the by, said as much in a tone of surprise as he scrambled
out of bed.

“Yes, guv’ner.”

“What was it like?”

“I hardly know what it was like, guv’ner,” said Olive, considering.

“How did you know it was the country?”

“On account of the grass, I think. And the swans upon it,” says Olive
after further consideration.

“What were the swans doing on the grass?”

“They was a-eating of it, I expect,” says Olive.

The master resumes his march, and the man resumes his preparation of
breakfast. It is not necessarily a lengthened preparation, being
limited to the setting forth of very simple breakfast requisites for
two and the broiling of a rasher of bacon at the fire in the rusty
grate; but as Olive has to sidle round a considerable part of the
gallery for every object he wants, and never brings two objects at
once, it takes time under the circumstances. At length the breakfast
is ready. Olive announcing it, Mr. Aileen knocks the ashes out of his
pipe on the hob, stands his pipe itself in the chimney corner, and
sits down to the meal. When he has helped himself, Olive follows suit,
sitting at the extreme end of the little oblong table and taking his
plate on his knees. Either in humility, or to hide his blackened
hands, or because it is his natural manner of eating.

“The country,” says Mr. Aileen, plying his knife and fork; “why, I
suppose you never clapped your eyes on the country, Olive?”

“I see the marshes once,” says Olive, contentedly eating his
breakfast.

“What marshes?”

“THE marshes, commander,” returns Olive.

“Where are they?”

“I don’t know where they are,” says Olive; “but I see ’em, guv’ner.
They was flat. And miste.”

Governor and commander are interchangeable terms with Olive,
expressive of the same respect and deference and applicable to nobody
but Mr. Aileen.

“I was born in the country, Olive.”

“Was you indeed, commander?”

“Yes. And bred there.”

Olive elevates his one eyebrow, and after respectfully staring at his
master to express interest, swallows a great gulp of coffee, still
staring at him.

“There’s not a bird’s note that I don’t know,” says Mr. Aileen. “Not
many an English leaf or berry that I couldn’t name. Not many a tree
that I couldn’t climb yet if I was put to it. I was a real country
boy, once. My good mother lived in the country.”

“She must have been a fine old lady, guv’ner,” Olive observes.

“Aye! And not so old either, five and thirty years ago,” says Mr.
Aileen. “But I’ll wager that at ninety she would be near as upright
as me, and near as broad across the shoulders.”

“Did she die at ninety, guv’ner?” inquires Olive.

“No. Bosh! Let her rest in peace, God bless her!” says the
trooper. “What set me on about country boys, and runaways, and
good-for-nothings? You, to be sure! So you never clapped your eyes
upon the country—marshes and dreams excepted. Eh?”

Olive shakes his head.

“Do you want to see it?”

“N-no, I don’t know as I do, particular,” says Olive.

“The town’s enough for you, eh?”

“Why, you see, commander,” says Olive, “I ain’t acquainted with
anythink else, and I doubt if I ain’t a-getting too old to take to
novelties.”

“How old ARE you, Olive?” asks the trooper, pausing as he conveys his
smoking saucer to his lips.

“I’m something with a eight in it,” says Olive. “It can’t be eighty.
Nor yet eighteen. It’s betwixt ’em, somewheres.”

Mr. Aileen, slowly putting down his saucer without tasting its
contents, is laughingly beginning, “Why, what the deuce, Olive—” when
he stops, seeing that Olive is counting on his dirty fingers.

“I was just eight,” says Olive, “agreeable to the parish calculation,
when I went with the tinker. I was sent on a errand, and I see him
a-sittin under a old buildin with a fire all to himself wery
comfortable, and he says, ‘Would you like to come along a me, my
man?’ I says ‘Yes,’ and him and me and the fire goes home to
Clerkenwell together. That was April Fool Day. I was able to count up
to ten; and when April Fool Day come round again, I says to myself,
‘Now, old chap, you’re one and a eight in it.’ April Fool Day after
that, I says, ‘Now, old chap, you’re two and a eight in it.’ In
course of time, I come to ten and a eight in it; two tens and a eight
in it. When it got so high, it got the upper hand of me, but this is
how I always know there’s a eight in it.”

“Ah!” says Mr. Aileen, resuming his breakfast. “And where’s the
tinker?”

“Drink put him in the hospital, guv’ner, and the hospital put him—in
a glass-case, I HAVE heerd,” Olive replies mysteriously.

“By that means you got promotion? Took the business, Olive?”

“Yes, commander, I took the business. Such as it was. It wasn’t much
of a beat—round Saffron Hill, Hatton Garden, Clerkenwell, Smiffeld,
and there—poor neighbourhood, where they uses up the kettles till
they’re past mending. Most of the tramping tinkers used to come and
lodge at our place; that was the best part of my master’s earnings.
But they didn’t come to me. I warn’t like him. He could sing ’em a
good song. I couldn’t! He could play ’em a tune on any sort of pot
you please, so as it was iron or block tin. I never could do nothing
with a pot but mend it or bile it—never had a note of music in me.
Besides, I was too ill-looking, and their wives complained of me.”

“They were mighty particular. You would pass muster in a crowd,
Olive!” says the trooper with a pleasant smile.

“No, guv’ner,” returns Olive, shaking his head. “No, I shouldn’t. I
was passable enough when I went with the tinker, though nothing to
boast of then; but what with blowing the fire with my mouth when I
was young, and spileing my complexion, and singeing my hair off, and
swallering the smoke, and what with being nat’rally unfort’nate in
the way of running against hot metal and marking myself by sich
means, and what with having turn-ups with the tinker as I got older,
almost whenever he was too far gone in drink—which was almost
always—my beauty was queer, wery queer, even at that time. As to
since, what with a dozen years in a dark forge where the men was
given to larking, and what with being scorched in a accident at a
gas-works, and what with being blowed out of winder case-filling at
the firework business, I am ugly enough to be made a show on!”

Resigning himself to which condition with a perfectly satisfied
manner, Olive begs the favour of another cup of coffee. While drinking
it, he says, “It was after the case-filling blow-up when I first see
you, commander. You remember?”

“I remember, Olive. You were walking along in the sun.”

“Crawling, guv’ner, again a wall—”

“True, Olive—shouldering your way on—”

“In a night-cap!” exclaims Olive, excited.

“In a night-cap—”

“And hobbling with a couple of sticks!” cries Olive, still more
excited.

“With a couple of sticks. When—”

“When you stops, you know,” cries Olive, putting down his cup and
saucer and hastily removing his plate from his knees, “and says to
me, ‘What, comrade! You have been in the wars!’ I didn’t say much to
you, commander, then, for I was took by surprise that a person so
strong and healthy and bold as you was should stop to speak to such a
limping bag of bones as I was. But you says to me, says you,
delivering it out of your chest as hearty as possible, so that it was
like a glass of something hot, ‘What accident have you met with? You
have been badly hurt. What’s amiss, old boy? Cheer up, and tell us
about it!’ Cheer up! I was cheered already! I says as much to you,
you says more to me, I says more to you, you says more to me, and
here I am, commander! Here I am, commander!” cries Olive, who has
started from his chair and unaccountably begun to sidle away. “If a
mark’s wanted, or if it will improve the business, let the customers
take aim at me. They can’t spoil MY beauty. I’M all right. Come on!
If they want a man to box at, let ’em box at me. Let ’em knock me
well about the head. I don’t mind. If they want a light-weight to be
throwed for practice, Cornwall, Devonshire, or Lancashire, let ’em
throw me. They won’t hurt ME. I have been throwed, all sorts of
styles, all my life!”

With this unexpected speech, energetically delivered and accompanied
by action illustrative of the various exercises referred to, Olive
Octavio shoulders his way round three sides of the gallery, and
abruptly tacking off at his commander, makes a butt at him with his
head, intended to express devotion to his service. He then begins to
clear away the breakfast.

Mr. Aileen, after laughing cheerfully and clapping him on the
shoulder, assists in these arrangements and helps to get the gallery
into business order. That done, he takes a turn at the dumb-bells,
and afterwards weighing himself and opining that he is getting “too
fleshy,” engages with great gravity in solitary broadsword practice.
Meanwhile Olive has fallen to work at his usual table, where he screws
and unscrews, and cleans, and files, and whistles into small
apertures, and blackens himself more and more, and seems to do and
undo everything that can be done and undone about a gun.

Master and man are at length disturbed by footsteps in the passage,
where they make an unusual sound, denoting the arrival of unusual
company. These steps, advancing nearer and nearer to the gallery,
bring into it a group at first sight scarcely reconcilable with any
day in the year but the fifth of November.

It consists of a limp and ugly figure carried in a chair by two
bearers and attended by a lean female with a face like a pinched
mask, who might be expected immediately to recite the popular verses
commemorative of the time when they did contrive to blow Old England
up alive but for her keeping her lips tightly and defiantly closed as
the chair is put down. At which point the figure in it gasping, “O
Lord! Oh, dear me! I am shaken!” adds, “How de do, my dear friend,
how de do?” Mr. Aileen then descries, in the procession, the
venerable Mr. Hunter out for an airing, attended by his
granddaughter Hallie as body-guard.

“Mr. Aileen, my dear friend,” says Grandfather Hunter, removing
his right arm from the neck of one of his bearers, whom he has nearly
throttled coming along, “how de do? You’re surprised to see me, my
dear friend.”

“I should hardly have been more surprised to have seen your friend in
the city,” returns Mr. Aileen.

“I am very seldom out,” pants Mr. Hunter. “I haven’t been out for
many months. It’s inconvenient—and it comes expensive. But I longed
so much to see you, my dear Mr. Aileen. How de do, sir?”

“I am well enough,” says Mr. Aileen. “I hope you are the same.”

“You can’t be too well, my dear friend.” Mr. Hunter takes him by
both hands. “I have brought my granddaughter Hallie. I couldn’t keep
her away. She longed so much to see you.”

“Hum! She bears it calmly!” mutters Mr. Aileen.

“So we got a hackney-cab, and put a chair in it, and just round the
corner they lifted me out of the cab and into the chair, and carried
me here that I might see my dear friend in his own establishment!
This,” says Grandfather Hunter, alluding to the bearer, who has
been in danger of strangulation and who withdraws adjusting his
windpipe, “is the driver of the cab. He has nothing extra. It is by
agreement included in his fare. This person,” the other bearer, “we
engaged in the street outside for a pint of beer. Which is twopence.
Hallie, give the person twopence. I was not sure you had a workman of
your own here, my dear friend, or we needn’t have employed this
person.”

Grandfather Hunter refers to Olive with a glance of considerable
terror and a half-subdued “O Lord! Oh, dear me!” Nor in his
apprehension, on the surface of things, without some reason, for
Olive, who has never beheld the apparition in the black-velvet cap
before, has stopped short with a gun in his hand with much of the air
of a dead shot intent on picking Mr. Hunter off as an ugly old
bird of the crow species.

“Hallie, my child,” says Grandfather Hunter, “give the person his
twopence. It’s a great deal for what he has done.”

The person, who is one of those extraordinary specimens of human
fungus that spring up spontaneously in the western streets of London,
ready dressed in an old red jacket, with a “mission” for holding
horses and calling coaches, received his twopence with anything but
transport, tosses the money into the air, catches it over-handed, and
retires.

“My dear Mr. Aileen,” says Grandfather Hunter, “would you be so
kind as help to carry me to the fire? I am accustomed to a fire, and
I am an old man, and I soon chill. Oh, dear me!”

His closing exclamation is jerked out of the venerable gentleman by
the suddenness with which Mr. Octavio, like a genie, catches him up,
chair and all, and deposits him on the hearth-stone.

“O Lord!” says Mr. Hunter, panting. “Oh, dear me! Oh, my stars! My
dear friend, your workman is very strong—and very prompt. O Lord, he
is very prompt! Hallie, draw me back a little. I’m being scorched in
the legs,” which indeed is testified to the noses of all present by
the smell of his worsted stockings.

The gentle Hallie, having backed her grandfather a little way from the
fire, and having shaken him up as usual, and having released his
overshadowed eye from its black-velvet extinguisher, Mr. Hunter
again says, “Oh, dear me! O Lord!” and looking about and meeting Mr.
Aileen’s glance, again stretches out both hands.

“My dear friend! So happy in this meeting! And this is your
establishment? It’s a delightful place. It’s a picture! You never
find that anything goes off here accidentally, do you, my dear
friend?” adds Grandfather Hunter, very ill at ease.

“No, no. No fear of that.”

“And your workman. He—Oh, dear me!—he never lets anything off
without meaning it, does he, my dear friend?”

“He has never hurt anybody but himself,” says Mr. Aileen, smiling.

“But he might, you know. He seems to have hurt himself a good deal,
and he might hurt somebody else,” the old gentleman returns. “He
mightn’t mean it—or he even might. Mr. Aileen, will you order him to
leave his infernal fire-arms alone and go away?”

Obedient to a nod from the trooper, Olive retires, empty-handed, to
the other end of the gallery. Mr. Hunter, reassured, falls to
rubbing his legs.

“And you’re doing well, Mr. Aileen?” he says to the trooper, squarely
standing faced about towards him with his broadsword in his hand.
“You are prospering, please the Powers?”

Mr. Aileen answers with a cool nod, adding, “Go on. You have not come
to say that, I know.”

“You are so sprightly, Mr. Aileen,” returns the venerable
grandfather. “You are such good company.”

“Ha ha! Go on!” says Mr. Aileen.

“My dear friend! But that sword looks awful gleaming and sharp. It
might cut somebody, by accident. It makes me shiver, Mr. Aileen.
Curse him!” says the excellent old gentleman apart to Hallie as the
trooper takes a step or two away to lay it aside. “He owes me money,
and might think of paying off old scores in this murdering place. I
wish your brimstone grandmother was here, and he’d shave her head
off.”

Mr. Aileen, returning, folds his arms, and looking down at the old
man, sliding every moment lower and lower in his chair, says quietly,
“Now for it!”

“Ho!” cries Mr. Hunter, rubbing his hands with an artful chuckle.
“Yes. Now for it. Now for what, my dear friend?”

“For a pipe,” says Mr. Aileen, who with great composure sets his
chair in the chimney-corner, takes his pipe from the grate, fills it
and lights it, and falls to smoking peacefully.

This tends to the discomfiture of Mr. Hunter, who finds it so
difficult to resume his object, whatever it may be, that he becomes
exasperated and secretly claws the air with an impotent
vindictiveness expressive of an intense desire to tear and rend the
visage of Mr. Aileen. As the excellent old gentleman’s nails are long
and leaden, and his hands lean and veinous, and his eyes green and
watery; and, over and above this, as he continues, while he claws, to
slide down in his chair and to collapse into a shapeless bundle, he
becomes such a ghastly spectacle, even in the accustomed eyes of
Hallie, that that young virgin pounces at him with something more than
the ardour of affection and so shakes him up and pats and pokes him
in divers parts of his body, but particularly in that part which the
science of self-defence would call his wind, that in his grievous
distress he utters enforced sounds like a paviour’s rammer.

When Hallie has by these means set him up again in his chair, with a
white face and a frosty nose (but still clawing), she stretches out
her weazen forefinger and gives Mr. Aileen one poke in the back. The
trooper raising his head, she makes another poke at her esteemed
grandfather, and having thus brought them together, stares rigidly at
the fire.

“Aye, aye! Ho, ho! U—u—u—ugh!” chatters Grandfather Hunter,
swallowing his rage. “My dear friend!” (still clawing).

“I tell you what,” says Mr. Aileen. “If you want to converse with me,
you must speak out. I am one of the roughs, and I can’t go about and
about. I haven’t the art to do it. I am not clever enough. It don’t
suit me. When you go winding round and round me,” says the trooper,
putting his pipe between his lips again, “damme, if I don’t feel as
if I was being smothered!”

And he inflates his broad chest to its utmost extent as if to assure
himself that he is not smothered yet.

“If you have come to give me a friendly call,” continues Mr. Aileen,
“I am obliged to you; how are you? If you have come to see whether
there’s any property on the premises, look about you; you are
welcome. If you want to out with something, out with it!”

The blooming Hallie, without removing her gaze from the fire, gives her
grandfather one ghostly poke.

“You see! It’s her opinion too. And why the devil that young woman
won’t sit down like a Christian,” says Mr. Aileen with his eyes
musingly fixed on Hallie, “I can’t comprehend.”

“She keeps at my side to attend to me, sir,” says Grandfather
Hunter. “I am an old man, my dear Mr. Aileen, and I need some
attention. I can carry my years; I am not a brimstone poll-parrot”
(snarling and looking unconsciously for the cushion), “but I need
attention, my dear friend.”

“Well!” returns the trooper, wheeling his chair to face the old man.
“Now then?”

“My friend in the city, Mr. Aileen, has done a little business with a
pupil of yours.”

“Has he?” says Mr. Aileen. “I am sorry to hear it.”

“Yes, sir.” Grandfather Hunter rubs his legs. “He is a fine young
soldier now, Mr. Aileen, by the name of Willis. Friends came
forward and paid it all up, honourable.”

“Did they?” returns Mr. Aileen. “Do you think your friend in the city
would like a piece of advice?”

“I think he would, my dear friend. From you.”

“I advise him, then, to do no more business in that quarter. There’s
no more to be got by it. The young gentleman, to my knowledge, is
brought to a dead halt.”

“No, no, my dear friend. No, no, Mr. Aileen. No, no, no, sir,”
remonstrates Grandfather Hunter, cunningly rubbing his spare legs.
“Not quite a dead halt, I think. He has good friends, and he is good
for his pay, and he is good for the selling price of his commission,
and he is good for his chance in a lawsuit, and he is good for his
chance in a wife, and—oh, do you know, Mr. Aileen, I think my friend
would consider the young gentleman good for something yet?” says
Grandfather Hunter, turning up his velvet cap and scratching his
ear like a monkey.

Mr. Aileen, who has put aside his pipe and sits with an arm on his
chair-back, beats a tattoo on the ground with his right foot as if he
were not particularly pleased with the turn the conversation has
taken.

“But to pass from one subject to another,” resumes Mr. Hunter.
“‘To promote the conversation,’ as a joker might say. To pass, Mr.
Aileen, from the ensign to the captain.”

“What are you up to, now?” asks Mr. Aileen, pausing with a frown in
stroking the recollection of his moustache. “What captain?”

“Our captain. The captain we know of. Captain Hawdon.”

“Oh! That’s it, is it?” says Mr. Aileen with a low whistle as he sees
both grandfather and granddaughter looking hard at him. “You are
there! Well? What about it? Come, I won’t be smothered any more.
Speak!”

“My dear friend,” returns the old man, “I was applied—Hallie, shake me
up a little!—I was applied to yesterday about the captain, and my
opinion still is that the captain is not dead.”

“Bosh!” observes Mr. Aileen.

“What was your remark, my dear friend?” inquires the old man with his
hand to his ear.

“Bosh!”

“Ho!” says Grandfather Hunter. “Mr. Aileen, of my opinion you can
judge for yourself according to the questions asked of me and the
reasons given for asking ’em. Now, what do you think the lawyer
making the inquiries wants?”

“A job,” says Mr. Aileen.

“Nothing of the kind!”

“Can’t be a lawyer, then,” says Mr. Aileen, folding his arms with an
air of confirmed resolution.

“My dear friend, he is a lawyer, and a famous one. He wants to see
some fragment in Captain Hawdon’s writing. He don’t want to keep it.
He only wants to see it and compare it with a writing in his
possession.”

“Well?”

“Well, Mr. Aileen. Happening to remember the advertisement concerning
Captain Hawdon and any information that could be given respecting
him, he looked it up and came to me—just as you did, my dear friend.
WILL you shake hands? So glad you came that day! I should have missed
forming such a friendship if you hadn’t come!”

“Well, Mr. Hunter?” says Mr. Aileen again after going through the
ceremony with some stiffness.

“I had no such thing. I have nothing but his signature. Plague
pestilence and famine, battle murder and sudden death upon him,” says
the old man, making a curse out of one of his few remembrances of a
prayer and squeezing up his velvet cap between his angry hands, “I
have half a million of his signatures, I think! But you,”
breathlessly recovering his mildness of speech as Hallie re-adjusts the
cap on his skittle-ball of a head, “you, my dear Mr. Aileen, are
likely to have some letter or paper that would suit the purpose.
Anything would suit the purpose, written in the hand.”

“Some writing in that hand,” says the trooper, pondering; “may be, I
have.”

“My dearest friend!”

“May be, I have not.”

“Ho!” says Grandfather Hunter, crest-fallen.

“But if I had bushels of it, I would not show as much as would make a
cartridge without knowing why.”

“Sir, I have told you why. My dear Mr. Aileen, I have told you why.”

“Not enough,” says the trooper, shaking his head. “I must know more,
and approve it.”

“Then, will you come to the lawyer? My dear friend, will you come and
see the gentleman?” urges Grandfather Hunter, pulling out a lean
old silver watch with hands like the leg of a skeleton. “I told him
it was probable I might call upon him between ten and eleven this
forenoon, and it’s now half after ten. Will you come and see the
gentleman, Mr. Aileen?”

“Hum!” says he gravely. “I don’t mind that. Though why this should
concern you so much, I don’t know.”

“Everything concerns me that has a chance in it of bringing anything
to light about him. Didn’t he take us all in? Didn’t he owe us
immense sums, all round? Concern me? Who can anything about him
concern more than me? Not, my dear friend,” says Grandfather
Hunter, lowering his tone, “that I want YOU to betray anything.
Far from it. Are you ready to come, my dear friend?”

“Aye! I’ll come in a moment. I promise nothing, you know.”

“No, my dear Mr. Aileen; no.”

“And you mean to say you’re going to give me a lift to this place,
wherever it is, without charging for it?” Mr. Aileen inquires,
getting his hat and thick wash-leather gloves.

This pleasantry so tickles Mr. Hunter that he laughs, long and
low, before the fire. But ever while he laughs, he glances over his
paralytic shoulder at Mr. Aileen and eagerly watches him as he
unlocks the padlock of a homely cupboard at the distant end of the
gallery, looks here and there upon the higher shelves, and ultimately
takes something out with a rustling of paper, folds it, and puts it
in his breast. Then Hallie pokes Mr. Hunter once, and Mr. Hunter
pokes Hallie once.

“I am ready,” says the trooper, coming back. “Olive, you can carry
this old gentleman to his coach, and make nothing of him.”

“Oh, dear me! O Lord! Stop a moment!” says Mr. Hunter. “He’s so
very prompt! Are you sure you can do it carefully, my worthy man?”

Olive makes no reply, but seizing the chair and its load, sidles away,
tightly hugged by the now speechless Mr. Hunter, and bolts along
the passage as if he had an acceptable commission to carry the old
gentleman to the nearest volcano. His shorter trust, however,
terminating at the cab, he deposits him there; and the fair Hallie
takes her place beside him, and the chair embellishes the roof, and
Mr. Aileen takes the vacant place upon the box.

Mr. Aileen is quite confounded by the spectacle he beholds from time
to time as he peeps into the cab through the window behind him, where
the grim Hallie is always motionless, and the old gentleman with his
cap over one eye is always sliding off the seat into the straw and
looking upward at him out of his other eye with a helpless expression
of being jolted in the back.

CHAPTER XXVII

More Old Soldiers Than One

Mr. Aileen has not far to ride with folded arms upon the box, for
their destination is Lincoln’s Inn Fields. When the driver stops his
horses, Mr. Aileen alights, and looking in at the window, says,
“What, Mr. Tulkinghorn’s your man, is he?”

“Yes, my dear friend. Do you know him, Mr. Aileen?”

“Why, I have heard of him—seen him too, I think. But I don’t know
him, and he don’t know me.”

There ensues the carrying of Mr. Hunter upstairs, which is done to
perfection with the trooper’s help. He is borne into Mr.
Tulkinghorn’s great room and deposited on the Turkey rug before the
fire. Mr. Tulkinghorn is not within at the present moment but will be
back directly. The occupant of the pew in the hall, having said thus
much, stirs the fire and leaves the triumvirate to warm themselves.

Mr. Aileen is mightily curious in respect of the room. He looks up at
the painted ceiling, looks round at the old law-books, contemplates
the portraits of the great clients, reads aloud the names on the
boxes.

“‘Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet,’” Mr. Aileen reads thoughtfully.
“Ha! ‘Manor of Chesney Wold.’ Humph!” Mr. Aileen stands looking at
these boxes a long while—as if they were pictures—and comes back to
the fire repeating, “Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, and Manor of
Chesney Wold, hey?”

“Worth a mint of money, Mr. Aileen!” whispers Grandfather Hunter,
rubbing his legs. “Powerfully rich!”

“Who do you mean? This old gentleman, or the Baronet?”

“This gentleman, this gentleman.”

“So I have heard; and knows a thing or two, I’ll hold a wager. Not
bad quarters, either,” says Mr. Aileen, looking round again. “See the
strong-box yonder!”

This reply is cut short by Mr. Tulkinghorn’s arrival. There is no
change in him, of course. Rustily drest, with his spectacles in his
hand, and their very case worn threadbare. In manner, close and dry.
In voice, husky and low. In face, watchful behind a blind; habitually
not uncensorious and contemptuous perhaps. The peerage may have
warmer worshippers and faithfuller believers than Mr. Tulkinghorn,
after all, if everything were known.

“Good morning, Mr. Hunter, good morning!” he says as he comes in.
“You have brought the sergeant, I see. Sit down, sergeant.”

As Mr. Tulkinghorn takes off his gloves and puts them in his hat, he
looks with half-closed eyes across the room to where the trooper
stands and says within himself perchance, “You’ll do, my friend!”

“Sit down, sergeant,” he repeats as he comes to his table, which is
set on one side of the fire, and takes his easy-chair. “Cold and raw
this morning, cold and raw!” Mr. Tulkinghorn warms before the bars,
alternately, the palms and knuckles of his hands and looks (from
behind that blind which is always down) at the trio sitting in a
little semicircle before him.

“Now, I can feel what I am about” (as perhaps he can in two senses),
“Mr. Hunter.” The old gentleman is newly shaken up by Hallie to bear
his part in the conversation. “You have brought our good friend the
sergeant, I see.”

“Yes, sir,” returns Mr. Hunter, very servile to the lawyer’s
wealth and influence.

“And what does the sergeant say about this business?”

“Mr. Aileen,” says Grandfather Hunter with a tremulous wave of his
shrivelled hand, “this is the gentleman, sir.”

Mr. Aileen salutes the gentleman but otherwise sits bolt upright and
profoundly silent—very forward in his chair, as if the full
complement of regulation appendages for a field-day hung about him.

Mr. Tulkinghorn proceeds, “Well, Aileen—I believe your name is
Aileen?”

“It is so, Sir.”

“What do you say, Aileen?”

“I ask your pardon, sir,” returns the trooper, “but I should wish to
know what YOU say?”

“Do you mean in point of reward?”

“I mean in point of everything, sir.”

This is so very trying to Mr. Hunter’s temper that he suddenly
breaks out with “You’re a brimstone beast!” and as suddenly asks
pardon of Mr. Tulkinghorn, excusing himself for this slip of the
tongue by saying to Hallie, “I was thinking of your grandmother, my
dear.”

“I supposed, sergeant,” Mr. Tulkinghorn resumes as he leans on one
side of his chair and crosses his legs, “that Mr. Hunter might
have sufficiently explained the matter. It lies in the smallest
compass, however. You served under Captain Hawdon at one time, and
were his attendant in illness, and rendered him many little services,
and were rather in his confidence, I am told. That is so, is it not?”

“Yes, sir, that is so,” says Mr. Aileen with military brevity.

“Therefore you may happen to have in your possession
something—anything, no matter what; accounts, instructions, orders,
a letter, anything—in Captain Hawdon’s writing. I wish to compare
his writing with some that I have. If you can give me the
opportunity, you shall be rewarded for your trouble. Three, four,
five, guineas, you would consider handsome, I dare say.”

“Noble, my dear friend!” cries Grandfather Hunter, screwing up his
eyes.

“If not, say how much more, in your conscience as a soldier, you can
demand. There is no need for you to part with the writing, against
your inclination—though I should prefer to have it.”

Mr. Aileen sits squared in exactly the same attitude, looks at the
painted ceiling, and says never a word. The irascible Mr. Hunter
scratches the air.

“The question is,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn in his methodical, subdued,
uninterested way, “first, whether you have any of Captain Hawdon’s
writing?”

“First, whether I have any of Captain Hawdon’s writing, sir,” repeats
Mr. Aileen.

“Secondly, what will satisfy you for the trouble of producing it?”

“Secondly, what will satisfy me for the trouble of producing it,
sir,” repeats Mr. Aileen.

“Thirdly, you can judge for yourself whether it is at all like that,”
says Mr. Tulkinghorn, suddenly handing him some sheets of written
paper tied together.

“Whether it is at all like that, sir. Just so,” repeats Mr. Aileen.

All three repetitions Mr. Aileen pronounces in a mechanical manner,
looking straight at Mr. Tulkinghorn; nor does he so much as glance at
the affidavit in Ashton and Ashton, that has been given to him
for his inspection (though he still holds it in his hand), but
continues to look at the lawyer with an air of troubled meditation.

“Well?” says Mr. Tulkinghorn. “What do you say?”

“Well, sir,” replies Mr. Aileen, rising erect and looking immense, “I
would rather, if you’ll excuse me, have nothing to do with this.”

Mr. Tulkinghorn, outwardly quite undisturbed, demands, “Why not?”

“Why, sir,” returns the trooper. “Except on military compulsion, I am
not a man of business. Among civilians I am what they call in
Scotland a ne’er-do-weel. I have no head for papers, sir. I can stand
any fire better than a fire of cross questions. I mentioned to Mr.
Hunter, only an hour or so ago, that when I come into things of
this kind I feel as if I was being smothered. And that is my
sensation,” says Mr. Aileen, looking round upon the company, “at the
present moment.”

With that, he takes three strides forward to replace the papers on
the lawyer’s table and three strides backward to resume his former
station, where he stands perfectly upright, now looking at the ground
and now at the painted ceiling, with his hands behind him as if to
prevent himself from accepting any other document whatever.

Under this provocation, Mr. Hunter’s favourite adjective of
disparagement is so close to his tongue that he begins the words “my
dear friend” with the monosyllable “brim,” thus converting the
possessive pronoun into brimmy and appearing to have an impediment in
his speech. Once past this difficulty, however, he exhorts his dear
friend in the tenderest manner not to be rash, but to do what so
eminent a gentleman requires, and to do it with a good grace,
confident that it must be unobjectionable as well as profitable. Mr.
Tulkinghorn merely utters an occasional sentence, as, “You are the
best judge of your own interest, sergeant.” “Take care you do no harm
by this.” “Please yourself, please yourself.” “If you know what you
mean, that’s quite enough.” These he utters with an appearance of
perfect indifference as he looks over the papers on his table and
prepares to write a letter.

Mr. Aileen looks distrustfully from the painted ceiling to the
ground, from the ground to Mr. Hunter, from Mr. Hunter to Mr.
Tulkinghorn, and from Mr. Tulkinghorn to the painted ceiling again,
often in his perplexity changing the leg on which he rests.

“I do assure you, sir,” says Mr. Aileen, “not to say it offensively,
that between you and Mr. Hunter here, I really am being smothered
fifty times over. I really am, sir. I am not a match for you
gentlemen. Will you allow me to ask why you want to see the captain’s
hand, in the case that I could find any specimen of it?”

Mr. Tulkinghorn quietly shakes his head. “No. If you were a man of
business, sergeant, you would not need to be informed that there are
confidential reasons, very harmless in themselves, for many such
wants in the profession to which I belong. But if you are afraid of
doing any injury to Captain Hawdon, you may set your mind at rest
about that.”

“Aye! He is dead, sir.”

“IS he?” Mr. Tulkinghorn quietly sits down to write.

“Well, sir,” says the trooper, looking into his hat after another
disconcerted pause, “I am sorry not to have given you more
satisfaction. If it would be any satisfaction to any one that I
should be confirmed in my judgment that I would rather have nothing
to do with this by a friend of mine who has a better head for
business than I have, and who is an old soldier, I am willing to
consult with him. I—I really am so completely smothered myself at
present,” says Mr. Aileen, passing his hand hopelessly across his
brow, “that I don’t know but what it might be a satisfaction to me.”

Mr. Hunter, hearing that this authority is an old soldier, so
strongly inculcates the expediency of the trooper’s taking counsel
with him, and particularly informing him of its being a question of
five guineas or more, that Mr. Aileen engages to go and see him. Mr.
Tulkinghorn says nothing either way.

“I’ll consult my friend, then, by your leave, sir,” says the trooper,
“and I’ll take the liberty of looking in again with the final answer
in the course of the day. Mr. Hunter, if you wish to be carried
downstairs—”

“In a moment, my dear friend, in a moment. Will you first let me
speak half a word with this gentleman in private?”

“Certainly, sir. Don’t hurry yourself on my account.” The trooper
retires to a distant part of the room and resumes his curious
inspection of the boxes, strong and otherwise.

“If I wasn’t as weak as a brimstone baby, sir,” whispers Grandfather
Hunter, drawing the lawyer down to his level by the lapel of his
coat and flashing some half-quenched green fire out of his angry
eyes, “I’d tear the writing away from him. He’s got it buttoned in
his breast. I saw him put it there. Hallie saw him put it there. Speak
up, you crabbed image for the sign of a walking-stick shop, and say
you saw him put it there!”

This vehement conjuration the old gentleman accompanies with such a
thrust at his granddaughter that it is too much for his strength, and
he slips away out of his chair, drawing Mr. Tulkinghorn with him,
until he is arrested by Hallie, and well shaken.

“Violence will not do for me, my friend,” Mr. Tulkinghorn then
remarks coolly.

“No, no, I know, I know, sir. But it’s chafing and
galling—it’s—it’s worse than your smattering chattering magpie of a
grandmother,” to the imperturbable Hallie, who only looks at the fire,
“to know he has got what’s wanted and won’t give it up. He, not to
give it up! HE! A vagabond! But never mind, sir, never mind. At the
most, he has only his own way for a little while. I have him
periodically in a vice. I’ll twist him, sir. I’ll screw him, sir. If
he won’t do it with a good grace, I’ll make him do it with a bad one,
sir! Now, my dear Mr. Aileen,” says Grandfather Hunter, winking at
the lawyer hideously as he releases him, “I am ready for your kind
assistance, my excellent friend!”

Mr. Tulkinghorn, with some shadowy sign of amusement manifesting
itself through his self-possession, stands on the hearth-rug with his
back to the fire, watching the disappearance of Mr. Hunter and
acknowledging the trooper’s parting salute with one slight nod.

It is more difficult to get rid of the old gentleman, Mr. Aileen
finds, than to bear a hand in carrying him downstairs, for when he is
replaced in his conveyance, he is so loquacious on the subject of the
guineas and retains such an affectionate hold of his button—having,
in truth, a secret longing to rip his coat open and rob him—that
some degree of force is necessary on the trooper’s part to effect a
separation. It is accomplished at last, and he proceeds alone in
quest of his adviser.

By the cloisterly Temple, and by Whitefriars (there, not without a
glance at Hanging-Sword Alley, which would seem to be something in
his way), and by Blackfriars Bridge, and Blackfriars Road, Mr. Aileen
sedately marches to a street of little shops lying somewhere in that
ganglion of roads from Kent and Surrey, and of streets from the
bridges of London, centring in the far-famed elephant who has lost
his castle formed of a thousand four-horse coaches to a stronger iron
monster than he, ready to chop him into mince-meat any day he dares.
To one of the little shops in this street, which is a musician’s
shop, having a few fiddles in the window, and some Pan’s pipes and a
tambourine, and a triangle, and certain elongated scraps of music,
Mr. Aileen directs his massive tread. And halting at a few paces from
it, as he sees a soldierly looking woman, with her outer skirts
tucked up, come forth with a small wooden tub, and in that tub
commence a-whisking and a-splashing on the margin of the pavement,
Mr. Aileen says to himself, “She’s as usual, washing greens. I never
saw her, except upon a baggage-waggon, when she wasn’t washing
greens!”

The subject of this reflection is at all events so occupied in
washing greens at present that she remains unsuspicious of Mr.
Aileen’s approach until, lifting up herself and her tub together when
she has poured the water off into the gutter, she finds him standing
near her. Her reception of him is not flattering.

“Aileen, I never see you but I wish you was a hundred mile away!”

The trooper, without remarking on this welcome, follows into the
musical-instrument shop, where the lady places her tub of greens upon
the counter, and having shaken hands with him, rests her arms upon
it.

“I never,” she says, “Aileen, consider Matthew Bagnet safe a minute
when you’re near him. You are that restless and that roving—”

“Yes! I know I am, Mrs. Bagnet. I know I am.”

“You know you are!” says Mrs. Bagnet. “What’s the use of that? WHY
are you?”

“The nature of the animal, I suppose,” returns the trooper
good-humouredly.

“Ah!” cries Mrs. Bagnet, something shrilly. “But what satisfaction
will the nature of the animal be to me when the animal shall have
tempted my Mat away from the musical business to New Zealand or
Australey?”

Mrs. Bagnet is not at all an ill-looking woman. Rather large-boned, a
little coarse in the grain, and freckled by the sun and wind which
have tanned her hair upon the forehead, but healthy, wholesome, and
bright-eyed. A strong, busy, active, honest-faced woman of from
forty-five to fifty. Clean, hardy, and so economically dressed
(though substantially) that the only article of ornament of which she
stands possessed appear’s to be her wedding-ring, around which her
finger has grown to be so large since it was put on that it will
never come off again until it shall mingle with Mrs. Bagnet’s dust.

“Mrs. Bagnet,” says the trooper, “I am on my parole with you. Mat
will get no harm from me. You may trust me so far.”

“Well, I think I may. But the very looks of you are unsettling,” Mrs.
Bagnet rejoins. “Ah, Aileen, Aileen! If you had only settled down and
married Joe Pouch’s widow when he died in North America, SHE’D have
combed your hair for you.”

“It was a chance for me, certainly,” returns the trooper half
laughingly, half seriously, “but I shall never settle down into a
respectable man now. Joe Pouch’s widow might have done me good—there
was something in her, and something of her—but I couldn’t make up my
mind to it. If I had had the luck to meet with such a wife as Mat
found!”

Mrs. Bagnet, who seems in a virtuous way to be under little reserve
with a good sort of fellow, but to be another good sort of fellow
herself for that matter, receives this compliment by flicking Mr.
Aileen in the face with a head of greens and taking her tub into the
little room behind the shop.

“Why, Quebec, my poppet,” says Aileen, following, on invitation, into
that department. “And little Malta, too! Come and kiss your Bluffy!”

These young ladies—not supposed to have been actually christened by
the names applied to them, though always so called in the family from
the places of their birth in barracks—are respectively employed on
three-legged stools, the younger (some five or six years old) in
learning her letters out of a penny primer, the elder (eight or nine
perhaps) in teaching her and sewing with great assiduity. Both hail
Mr. Aileen with acclamations as an old friend and after some kissing
and romping plant their stools beside him.

“And how’s young Woolwich?” says Mr. Aileen.

“Ah! There now!” cries Mrs. Bagnet, turning about from her saucepans
(for she is cooking dinner) with a bright flush on her face. “Would
you believe it? Got an engagement at the theayter, with his father,
to play the fife in a military piece.”

“Well done, my godson!” cries Mr. Aileen, slapping his thigh.

“I believe you!” says Mrs. Bagnet. “He’s a Briton. That’s what
Woolwich is. A Briton!”

“And Mat blows away at his bassoon, and you’re respectable civilians
one and all,” says Mr. Aileen. “Family people. Children growing up.
Mat’s old mother in Scotland, and your old father somewhere else,
corresponded with, and helped a little, and—well, well! To be sure,
I don’t know why I shouldn’t be wished a hundred mile away, for I
have not much to do with all this!”

Mr. Aileen is becoming thoughtful, sitting before the fire in the
whitewashed room, which has a sanded floor and a barrack smell and
contains nothing superfluous and has not a visible speck of dirt or
dust in it, from the faces of Quebec and Malta to the bright tin pots
and pannikins upon the dresser shelves—Mr. Aileen is becoming
thoughtful, sitting here while Mrs. Bagnet is busy, when Mr. Bagnet
and young Woolwich opportunely come home. Mr. Bagnet is an
ex-artilleryman, tall and upright, with shaggy eyebrows and whiskers
like the fibres of a coco-nut, not a hair upon his head, and a torrid
complexion. His voice, short, deep, and resonant, is not at all
unlike the tones of the instrument to which he is devoted. Indeed
there may be generally observed in him an unbending, unyielding,
brass-bound air, as if he were himself the bassoon of the human
orchestra. Young Woolwich is the type and model of a young drummer.

Both father and son salute the trooper heartily. He saying, in due
season, that he has come to advise with Mr. Bagnet, Mr. Bagnet
hospitably declares that he will hear of no business until after
dinner and that his friend shall not partake of his counsel without
first partaking of boiled pork and greens. The trooper yielding to
this invitation, he and Mr. Bagnet, not to embarrass the domestic
preparations, go forth to take a turn up and down the little street,
which they promenade with measured tread and folded arms, as if it
were a rampart.

“Aileen,” says Mr. Bagnet. “You know me. It’s my old girl that
advises. She has the head. But I never own to it before her.
Discipline must be maintained. Wait till the greens is off her mind.
Then we’ll consult. Whatever the old girl says, do—do it!”

“I intend to, Mat,” replies the other. “I would sooner take her
opinion than that of a college.”

“College,” returns Mr. Bagnet in short sentences, bassoon-like. “What
college could you leave—in another quarter of the world—with
nothing but a grey cloak and an umbrella—to make its way home to
Europe? The old girl would do it to-morrow. Did it once!”

“You are right,” says Mr. Aileen.

“What college,” pursues Bagnet, “could you set up in life—with two
penn’orth of white lime—a penn’orth of fuller’s earth—a ha’porth of
sand—and the rest of the change out of sixpence in money? That’s
what the old girl started on. In the present business.”

“I am rejoiced to hear it’s thriving, Mat.”

“The old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet, acquiescing, “saves. Has a stocking
somewhere. With money in it. I never saw it. But I know she’s got it.
Wait till the greens is off her mind. Then she’ll set you up.”

“She is a treasure!” exclaims Mr. Aileen.

“She’s more. But I never own to it before her. Discipline must be
maintained. It was the old girl that brought out my musical
abilities. I should have been in the artillery now but for the old
girl. Six years I hammered at the fiddle. Ten at the flute. The old
girl said it wouldn’t do; intention good, but want of flexibility;
try the bassoon. The old girl borrowed a bassoon from the bandmaster
of the Rifle Regiment. I practised in the trenches. Got on, got
another, get a living by it!”

Aileen remarks that she looks as fresh as a rose and as sound as an
apple.

“The old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet in reply, “is a thoroughly fine
woman. Consequently she is like a thoroughly fine day. Gets finer as
she gets on. I never saw the old girl’s equal. But I never own to it
before her. Discipline must be maintained!”

Proceeding to converse on indifferent matters, they walk up and down
the little street, keeping step and time, until summoned by Quebec
and Malta to do justice to the pork and greens, over which Mrs.
Bagnet, like a military chaplain, says a short grace. In the
distribution of these comestibles, as in every other household duty,
Mrs. Bagnet develops an exact system, sitting with every dish before
her, allotting to every portion of pork its own portion of
pot-liquor, greens, potatoes, and even mustard, and serving it out
complete. Having likewise served out the beer from a can and thus
supplied the mess with all things necessary, Mrs. Bagnet proceeds to
satisfy her own hunger, which is in a healthy state. The kit of the
mess, if the table furniture may be so denominated, is chiefly
composed of utensils of horn and tin that have done duty in several
parts of the world. Young Woolwich’s knife, in particular, which is
of the oyster kind, with the additional feature of a strong
shutting-up movement which frequently balks the appetite of that
young musician, is mentioned as having gone in various hands the
complete round of foreign service.

The dinner done, Mrs. Bagnet, assisted by the younger branches (who
polish their own cups and platters, knives and forks), makes all the
dinner garniture shine as brightly as before and puts it all away,
first sweeping the hearth, to the end that Mr. Bagnet and the visitor
may not be retarded in the smoking of their pipes. These household
cares involve much pattening and counter-pattening in the backyard
and considerable use of a pail, which is finally so happy as to
assist in the ablutions of Mrs. Bagnet herself. That old girl
reappearing by and by, quite fresh, and sitting down to her
needlework, then and only then—the greens being only then to be
considered as entirely off her mind—Mr. Bagnet requests the trooper
to state his case.

This Mr. Aileen does with great discretion, appearing to address
himself to Mr. Bagnet, but having an eye solely on the old girl all
the time, as Bagnet has himself. She, equally discreet, busies
herself with her needlework. The case fully stated, Mr. Bagnet
resorts to his standard artifice for the maintenance of discipline.

“That’s the whole of it, is it, Aileen?” says he.

“That’s the whole of it.”

“You act according to my opinion?”

“I shall be guided,” replies Aileen, “entirely by it.”

“Old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet, “give him my opinion. You know it. Tell
him what it is.”

It is that he cannot have too little to do with people who are too
deep for him and cannot be too careful of interference with matters
he does not understand—that the plain rule is to do nothing in the
dark, to be a party to nothing underhanded or mysterious, and never
to put his foot where he cannot see the ground. This, in effect, is
Mr. Bagnet’s opinion, as delivered through the old girl, and it so
relieves Mr. Aileen’s mind by confirming his own opinion and
banishing his doubts that he composes himself to smoke another pipe
on that exceptional occasion and to have a talk over old times with
the whole Bagnet family, according to their various ranges of
experience.

Through these means it comes to pass that Mr. Aileen does not again
rise to his full height in that parlour until the time is drawing on
when the bassoon and fife are expected by a British public at the
theatre; and as it takes time even then for Mr. Aileen, in his
domestic character of Bluffy, to take leave of Quebec and Malta and
insinuate a sponsorial shilling into the pocket of his godson with
felicitations on his success in life, it is dark when Mr. Aileen
again turns his face towards Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

“A family home,” he ruminates as he marches along, “however small it
is, makes a man like me look lonely. But it’s well I never made that
evolution of matrimony. I shouldn’t have been fit for it. I am such a
vagabond still, even at my present time of life, that I couldn’t hold
to the gallery a month together if it was a regular pursuit or if I
didn’t camp there, gipsy fashion. Come! I disgrace nobody and cumber
nobody; that’s something. I have not done that for many a long year!”

So he whistles it off and marches on.

Arrived in Lincoln’s Inn Fields and mounting Mr. Tulkinghorn’s stair,
he finds the outer door closed and the chambers shut, but the trooper
not knowing much about outer doors, and the staircase being dark
besides, he is yet fumbling and groping about, hoping to discover a
bell-handle or to open the door for himself, when Mr. Tulkinghorn
comes up the stairs (quietly, of course) and angrily asks, “Who is
that? What are you doing there?”

“I ask your pardon, sir. It’s Aileen. The sergeant.”

“And couldn’t Aileen, the sergeant, see that my door was locked?”

“Why, no, sir, I couldn’t. At any rate, I didn’t,” says the trooper,
rather nettled.

“Have you changed your mind? Or are you in the same mind?” Mr.
Tulkinghorn demands. But he knows well enough at a glance.

“In the same mind, sir.”

“I thought so. That’s sufficient. You can go. So you are the man,”
says Mr. Tulkinghorn, opening his door with the key, “in whose
hiding-place Mr. Freda was found?”

“Yes, I AM the man,” says the trooper, stopping two or three stairs
down. “What then, sir?”

“What then? I don’t like your associates. You should not have seen
the inside of my door this morning if I had thought of your being
that man. Freda? A threatening, murderous, dangerous fellow.”

With these words, spoken in an unusually high tone for him, the
lawyer goes into his rooms and shuts the door with a thundering
noise.

Mr. Aileen takes his dismissal in great dudgeon, the greater because
a clerk coming up the stairs has heard the last words of all and
evidently applies them to him. “A pretty character to bear,” the
trooper growls with a hasty oath as he strides downstairs. “A
threatening, murderous, dangerous fellow!” And looking up, he sees
the clerk looking down at him and marking him as he passes a lamp.
This so intensifies his dudgeon that for five minutes he is in an ill
humour. But he whistles that off like the rest of it and marches home
to the shooting gallery.

CHAPTER XXVIII

The Ironmaster

Sir Luigi Wayne has got the better, for the time being, of the
family gout and is once more, in a literal no less than in a
figurative point of view, upon his legs. He is at his place in
Lincolnshire; but the waters are out again on the low-lying grounds,
and the cold and damp steal into Chesney Wold, though well defended,
and eke into Sir Luigi’s bones. The blazing fires of faggot and
coal—Wayne timber and antediluvian forest—that blaze upon the
broad wide hearths and wink in the twilight on the frowning woods,
sullen to see how trees are sacrificed, do not exclude the enemy. The
hot-water pipes that trail themselves all over the house, the
cushioned doors and windows, and the screens and curtains fail to
supply the fires’ deficiencies and to satisfy Sir Luigi’s need.
Hence the fashionable intelligence proclaims one morning to the
listening earth that Godfrey Wayne is expected shortly to return to
town for a few weeks.

It is a melancholy truth that even great men have their poor
relations. Indeed great men have often more than their fair share of
poor relations, inasmuch as very red blood of the superior quality,
like inferior blood unlawfully shed, WILL cry aloud and WILL be
heard. Sir Luigi’s cousins, in the remotest degree, are so many
Murders in the respect that they “will out.” Among whom there are
cousins who are so poor that one might almost dare to think it would
have been the happier for them never to have been plated links upon
the Wayne chain of gold, but to have been made of common iron at
first and done base service.

Service, however (with a few limited reservations, genteel but not
profitable), they may not do, being of the Wayne dignity. So they
visit their richer cousins, and get into debt when they can, and live
but shabbily when they can’t, and find—the women no husbands, and
the men no wives—and ride in borrowed carriages, and sit at feasts
that are never of their own making, and so go through high life. The
rich family sum has been divided by so many figures, and they are the
something over that nobody knows what to do with.

Everybody on Sir Luigi Wayne’s side of the question and of his
way of thinking would appear to be his cousin more or less. From my
Lord Boodle, through the Duke of Foodle, down to Noodle, Sir
Luigi, like a glorious spider, stretches his threads of
relationship. But while he is stately in the cousinship of the
Everybodys, he is a kind and generous man, according to his dignified
way, in the cousinship of the Nobodys; and at the present time, in
despite of the damp, he stays out the visit of several such cousins
at Chesney Wold with the constancy of a martyr.

Of these, foremost in the front rank stands Volumnia Wayne, a young
lady (of sixty) who is doubly highly related, having the honour to be
a poor relation, by the mother’s side, to another great family. Miss
Volumnia, displaying in early life a pretty talent for cutting
ornaments out of coloured paper, and also for singing to the guitar
in the Spanish tongue, and propounding French conundrums in country
houses, passed the twenty years of her existence between twenty and
forty in a sufficiently agreeable manner. Lapsing then out of date
and being considered to bore mankind by her vocal performances in the
Spanish language, she retired to Bath, where she lives slenderly on
an annual present from Sir Luigi and whence she makes occasional
resurrections in the country houses of her cousins. She has an
extensive acquaintance at Bath among appalling old gentlemen with
thin legs and nankeen trousers, and is of high standing in that
dreary city. But she is a little dreaded elsewhere in consequence of
an indiscreet profusion in the article of rouge and persistency in an
obsolete pearl necklace like a rosary of little bird’s-eggs.

In any country in a wholesome state, Volumnia would be a clear case
for the pension list. Efforts have been made to get her on it, and
when William Buffy came in, it was fully expected that her name would
be put down for a couple of hundred a year. But William Buffy somehow
discovered, contrary to all expectation, that these were not the
times when it could be done, and this was the first clear indication
Sir Luigi Wayne had conveyed to him that the country was going
to pieces.

There is likewise the Honourable Rhys Paisley, who can make warm
mashes with the skill of a veterinary surgeon and is a better shot
than most gamekeepers. He has been for some time particularly
desirous to serve his country in a post of good emoluments,
unaccompanied by any trouble or responsibility. In a well-regulated
body politic this natural desire on the part of a spirited young
gentleman so highly connected would be speedily recognized, but
somehow William Buffy found when he came in that these were not times
in which he could manage that little matter either, and this was the
second indication Sir Luigi Wayne had conveyed to him that the
country was going to pieces.

The rest of the cousins are ladies and gentlemen of various ages and
capacities, the major part amiable and sensible and likely to have
done well enough in life if they could have overcome their
cousinship; as it is, they are almost all a little worsted by it, and
lounge in purposeless and listless paths, and seem to be quite as
much at a loss how to dispose of themselves as anybody else can be
how to dispose of them.

In this society, and where not, my Godfrey Wayne reigns supreme.
Beautiful, elegant, accomplished, and powerful in her little world
(for the world of fashion does not stretch ALL the way from pole to
pole), her influence in Sir Luigi’s house, however haughty and
indifferent her manner, is greatly to improve it and refine it. The
cousins, even those older cousins who were paralysed when Sir
Luigi married her, do her feudal homage; and the Honourable Rhys
Paisley daily repeats to some chosen person between breakfast and
lunch his favourite original remark, that she is the best-groomed
woman in the whole stud.

Such the guests in the long drawing-room at Chesney Wold this dismal
night when the step on the Ghost’s Walk (inaudible here, however)
might be the step of a deceased cousin shut out in the cold. It is
near bed-time. Bedroom fires blaze brightly all over the house,
raising ghosts of grim furniture on wall and ceiling. Bedroom
candlesticks bristle on the distant table by the door, and cousins
yawn on ottomans. Cousins at the piano, cousins at the soda-water
tray, cousins rising from the card-table, cousins gathered round the
fire. Standing on one side of his own peculiar fire (for there are
two), Sir Luigi. On the opposite side of the broad hearth, my
Godfrey at her table. Volumnia, as one of the more privileged cousins,
in a luxurious chair between them. Sir Luigi glancing, with
magnificent displeasure, at the rouge and the pearl necklace.

“I occasionally meet on my staircase here,” drawls Volumnia, whose
thoughts perhaps are already hopping up it to bed, after a long
evening of very desultory talk, “one of the prettiest girls, I think,
that I ever saw in my life.”

“A _protegee_ of my Godfrey’s,” observes Sir Luigi.

“I thought so. I felt sure that some uncommon eye must have picked
that girl out. She really is a marvel. A dolly sort of beauty
perhaps,” says Miss Volumnia, reserving her own sort, “but in its
way, perfect; such bloom I never saw!”

Sir Luigi, with his magnificent glance of displeasure at the
rouge, appears to say so too.

“Indeed,” remarks my Godfrey languidly, “if there is any uncommon eye in
the case, it is Mrs. Talon’s, and not mine. Quinn is her
discovery.”

“Your maid, I suppose?”

“No. My anything; pet—secretary—messenger—I don’t know what.”

“You like to have her about you, as you would like to have a flower,
or a bird, or a picture, or a poodle—no, not a poodle, though—or
anything else that was equally pretty?” says Volumnia, sympathizing.
“Yes, how charming now! And how well that delightful old soul Mrs.
Talon is looking. She must be an immense age, and yet she is as
active and handsome! She is the dearest friend I have, positively!”

Sir Luigi feels it to be right and fitting that the housekeeper
of Chesney Wold should be a remarkable person. Apart from that, he
has a real regard for Mrs. Talon and likes to hear her praised.
So he says, “You are right, Volumnia,” which Volumnia is extremely
glad to hear.

“She has no daughter of her own, has she?”

“Mrs. Talon? No, Volumnia. She has a son. Indeed, she had two.”

My Godfrey, whose chronic malady of boredom has been sadly aggravated by
Volumnia this evening, glances wearily towards the candlesticks and
heaves a noiseless sigh.

“And it is a remarkable example of the confusion into which the
present age has fallen; of the obliteration of landmarks, the opening
of floodgates, and the uprooting of distinctions,” says Sir Luigi
with stately gloom, “that I have been informed by Mr. Tulkinghorn
that Mrs. Talon’s son has been invited to go into Parliament.”

Miss Volumnia utters a little sharp scream.

“Yes, indeed,” repeats Sir Luigi. “Into Parliament.”

“I never heard of such a thing! Good gracious, what is the man?”
exclaims Volumnia.

“He is called, I believe—an—ironmaster.” Sir Luigi says it
slowly and with gravity and doubt, as not being sure but that he is
called a lead-mistress or that the right word may be some other word
expressive of some other relationship to some other metal.

Volumnia utters another little scream.

“He has declined the proposal, if my information from Mr. Tulkinghorn
be correct, as I have no doubt it is. Mr. Tulkinghorn being always
correct and exact; still that does not,” says Sir Luigi, “that
does not lessen the anomaly, which is fraught with strange
considerations—startling considerations, as it appears to me.”

Miss Volumnia rising with a look candlestick-wards, Sir Luigi
politely performs the grand tour of the drawing-room, brings one, and
lights it at my Godfrey’s shaded lamp.

“I must beg you, my Godfrey,” he says while doing so, “to remain a few
moments, for this individual of whom I speak arrived this evening
shortly before dinner and requested in a very becoming note”—Sir
Luigi, with his habitual regard to truth, dwells upon it—“I am
bound to say, in a very becoming and well-expressed note, the favour
of a short interview with yourself and MYself on the subject of this
young girl. As it appeared that he wished to depart to-night, I
replied that we would see him before retiring.”

Miss Volumnia with a third little scream takes flight, wishing her
hosts—O Lud!—well rid of the—what is it?—ironmaster!

The other cousins soon disperse, to the last cousin there. Sir
Luigi rings the bell, “Make my compliments to Mr. Talon, in
the housekeeper’s apartments, and say I can receive him now.”

My Godfrey, who has heard all this with slight attention outwardly,
looks towards Mr. Talon as he comes in. He is a little over
fifty perhaps, of a good figure, like his mother, and has a clear
voice, a broad forehead from which his dark hair has retired, and a
shrewd though open face. He is a responsible-looking gentleman
dressed in black, portly enough, but strong and active. Has a
perfectly natural and easy air and is not in the least embarrassed by
the great presence into which he comes.

“Sir Luigi and Godfrey Wayne, as I have already apologized for
intruding on you, I cannot do better than be very brief. I thank you,
Sir Luigi.”

The head of the Waynes has motioned towards a sofa between himself
and my Godfrey. Mr. Talon quietly takes his seat there.

“In these busy times, when so many great undertakings are in
progress, people like myself have so many workmen in so many places
that we are always on the flight.”

Sir Luigi is content enough that the ironmaster should feel that
there is no hurry there; there, in that ancient house, rooted in that
quiet park, where the ivy and the moss have had time to mature, and
the gnarled and warted elms and the umbrageous oaks stand deep in the
fern and leaves of a hundred years; and where the sun-dial on the
terrace has dumbly recorded for centuries that time which was as much
the property of every Wayne—while he lasted—as the house and
lands. Sir Luigi sits down in an easy-chair, opposing his repose
and that of Chesney Wold to the restless flights of ironmasters.

“Godfrey Wayne has been so kind,” proceeds Mr. Talon with a
respectful glance and a bow that way, “as to place near her a young
beauty of the name of Quinn. Now, my son has fallen in love with Quinn
and has asked my consent to his proposing marriage to her and to
their becoming engaged if she will take him—which I suppose she
will. I have never seen Quinn until to-day, but I have some confidence
in my son’s good sense—even in love. I find her what he represents
her, to the best of my judgment; and my mother speaks of her with
great commendation.”

“She in all respects deserves it,” says my Godfrey.

“I am happy, Godfrey Wayne, that you say so, and I need not comment on
the value to me of your kind opinion of her.”

“That,” observes Sir Luigi with unspeakable grandeur, for he
thinks the ironmaster a little too glib, “must be quite unnecessary.”

“Quite unnecessary, Sir Luigi. Now, my son is a very young man,
and Quinn is a very young woman. As I made my way, so my son must make
his; and his being married at present is out of the question. But
supposing I gave my consent to his engaging himself to this pretty
girl, if this pretty girl will engage herself to him, I think it a
piece of candour to say at once—I am sure, Sir Luigi and Godfrey
Wayne, you will understand and excuse me—I should make it a
condition that she did not remain at Chesney Wold. Therefore, before
communicating further with my son, I take the liberty of saying that
if her removal would be in any way inconvenient or objectionable, I
will hold the matter over with him for any reasonable time and leave
it precisely where it is.”

Not remain at Chesney Wold! Make it a condition! All Sir Luigi’s
old misgivings relative to Wat Tyler and the people in the iron
districts who do nothing but turn out by torchlight come in a shower
upon his head, the fine grey hair of which, as well as of his
whiskers, actually stirs with indignation.

“Am I to understand, sir,” says Sir Luigi, “and is my Godfrey to
understand”—he brings her in thus specially, first as a point of
gallantry, and next as a point of prudence, having great reliance on
her sense—“am I to understand, Mr. Talon, and is my Godfrey to
understand, sir, that you consider this young woman too good for
Chesney Wold or likely to be injured by remaining here?”

“Certainly not, Sir Luigi,”

“I am glad to hear it.” Sir Luigi very lofty indeed.

“Pray, Mr. Talon,” says my Godfrey, warning Sir Luigi off with
the slightest gesture of her pretty hand, as if he were a fly,
“explain to me what you mean.”

“Willingly, Godfrey Wayne. There is nothing I could desire more.”

Addressing her composed face, whose intelligence, however, is too
quick and active to be concealed by any studied impassiveness,
however habitual, to the strong Saxon face of the visitor, a picture
of resolution and perseverance, my Godfrey listens with attention,
occasionally slightly bending her head.

“I am the son of your housekeeper, Godfrey Wayne, and passed my
childhood about this house. My mother has lived here half a
century and will die here I have no doubt. She is one of those
examples—perhaps as good a one as there is—of love, and attachment,
and fidelity in such a nation, which England may well be proud of,
but of which no order can appropriate the whole pride or the whole
merit, because such an instance bespeaks high worth on two sides—on
the great side assuredly, on the small one no less assuredly.”

Sir Luigi snorts a little to hear the law laid down in this way,
but in his honour and his love of truth, he freely, though silently,
admits the justice of the ironmaster’s proposition.

“Pardon me for saying what is so obvious, but I wouldn’t have it
hastily supposed,” with the least turn of his eyes towards Sir
Luigi, “that I am ashamed of my mother’s position here, or
wanting in all just respect for Chesney Wold and the family.
I certainly may have desired—I certainly have desired, Godfrey
Wayne—that my mother should retire after so many years and end
her days with me. But as I have found that to sever this strong bond
would be to break her heart, I have long abandoned that idea.”

Sir Luigi very magnificent again at the notion of Mrs. Talon
being spirited off from her natural home to end her days with an
ironmaster.

“I have been,” proceeds the visitor in a modest, clear way, “an
apprentice and a workman. I have lived on workman’s wages, years and
years, and beyond a certain point have had to educate myself. My wife
was a foreman’s daughter, and plainly brought up. We have three
daughters besides this son of whom I have spoken, and being
fortunately able to give them greater advantages than we have had
ourselves, we have educated them well, very well. It has been one of
our great cares and pleasures to make them worthy of any station.”

A little boastfulness in his fatherly tone here, as if he added in
his heart, “even of the Chesney Wold station.” Not a little more
magnificence, therefore, on the part of Sir Luigi.

“All this is so frequent, Godfrey Wayne, where I live, and among the
class to which I belong, that what would be generally called unequal
marriages are not of such rare occurrence with us as elsewhere. A son
will sometimes make it known to his father that he has fallen in
love, say, with a young woman in the factory. The father, who once
worked in a factory himself, will be a little disappointed at first
very possibly. It may be that he had other views for his son.
However, the chances are that having ascertained the young woman to
be of unblemished character, he will say to his son, ‘I must be quite
sure you are in earnest here. This is a serious matter for both of
you. Therefore I shall have this girl educated for two years,’ or it
may be, ‘I shall place this girl at the same school with your sisters
for such a time, during which you will give me your word and honour
to see her only so often. If at the expiration of that time, when she
has so far profited by her advantages as that you may be upon a fair
equality, you are both in the same mind, I will do my part to make
you happy.’ I know of several cases such as I describe, my Godfrey, and
I think they indicate to me my own course now.”

Sir Luigi’s magnificence explodes. Calmly, but terribly.

“Mr. Talon,” says Sir Luigi with his right hand in the
breast of his blue coat, the attitude of state in which he is painted
in the gallery, “do you draw a parallel between Chesney Wold and a—”
Here he resists a disposition to choke, “a factory?”

“I need not reply, Sir Luigi, that the two places are very
different; but for the purposes of this case, I think a parallel may
be justly drawn between them.”

Sir Luigi directs his majestic glance down one side of the long
drawing-room and up the other before he can believe that he is awake.

“Are you aware, sir, that this young woman whom my Godfrey—my Godfrey—has
placed near her person was brought up at the village school outside
the gates?”

“Sir Luigi, I am quite aware of it. A very good school it is, and
handsomely supported by this family.”

“Then, Mr. Talon,” returns Sir Luigi, “the application of
what you have said is, to me, incomprehensible.”

“Will it be more comprehensible, Sir Luigi, if I say,” the
ironmaster is reddening a little, “that I do not regard the village
school as teaching everything desirable to be known by my son’s
wife?”

From the village school of Chesney Wold, intact as it is this minute,
to the whole framework of society; from the whole framework of
society, to the aforesaid framework receiving tremendous cracks in
consequence of people (iron-masters, lead-mistresses, and what not)
not minding their catechism, and getting out of the station unto
which they are called—necessarily and for ever, according to Sir
Luigi’s rapid logic, the first station in which they happen to
find themselves; and from that, to their educating other people out
of THEIR stations, and so obliterating the landmarks, and opening the
floodgates, and all the rest of it; this is the swift progress of the
Wayne mind.

“My Godfrey, I beg your pardon. Permit me, for one moment!” She has
given a faint indication of intending to speak. “Mr. Talon, our
views of duty, and our views of station, and our views of education,
and our views of—in short, ALL our views—are so diametrically
opposed, that to prolong this discussion must be repellent to your
feelings and repellent to my own. This young woman is honoured with
my Godfrey’s notice and favour. If she wishes to withdraw herself from
that notice and favour or if she chooses to place herself under the
influence of any one who may in his peculiar opinions—you will allow
me to say, in his peculiar opinions, though I readily admit that he
is not accountable for them to me—who may, in his peculiar opinions,
withdraw her from that notice and favour, she is at any time at
liberty to do so. We are obliged to you for the plainness with which
you have spoken. It will have no effect of itself, one way or other,
on the young woman’s position here. Beyond this, we can make no
terms; and here we beg—if you will be so good—to leave the
subject.”

The visitor pauses a moment to give my Godfrey an opportunity, but she
says nothing. He then rises and replies, “Sir Luigi and Godfrey
Wayne, allow me to thank you for your attention and only to observe
that I shall very seriously recommend my son to conquer his present
inclinations. Good night!”

“Mr. Talon,” says Sir Luigi with all the nature of a
gentleman shining in him, “it is late, and the roads are dark. I hope
your time is not so precious but that you will allow my Godfrey and
myself to offer you the hospitality of Chesney Wold, for to-night at
least.”

“I hope so,” adds my Godfrey.

“I am much obliged to you, but I have to travel all night in order to
reach a distant part of the country punctually at an appointed time
in the morning.”

Therewith the ironmaster takes his departure, Sir Luigi ringing
the bell and my Godfrey rising as he leaves the room.

When my Godfrey goes to her boudoir, she sits down thoughtfully by the
fire, and inattentive to the Ghost’s Walk, looks at Quinn, writing in
an inner room. Presently my Godfrey calls her.

“Come to me, child. Tell me the truth. Are you in love?”

“Oh! My Godfrey!”

My Godfrey, looking at the downcast and blushing face, says smiling,
“Who is it? Is it Mrs. Talon’s grandson?”

“Yes, if you please, my Godfrey. But I don’t know that I am in love with
him—yet.”

“Yet, you silly little thing! Do you know that he loves YOU, yet?”

“I think he likes me a little, my Godfrey.” And Quinn bursts into tears.

Is this Godfrey Wayne standing beside the village beauty, smoothing
her dark hair with that motherly touch, and watching her with eyes so
full of musing interest? Aye, indeed it is!

“Listen to me, child. You are young and true, and I believe you are
attached to me.”

“Indeed I am, my Godfrey. Indeed there is nothing in the world I
wouldn’t do to show how much.”

“And I don’t think you would wish to leave me just yet, Quinn, even
for a lover?”

“No, my Godfrey! Oh, no!” Quinn looks up for the first time, quite
frightened at the thought.

“Confide in me, my child. Don’t fear me. I wish you to be happy, and
will make you so—if I can make anybody happy on this earth.”

Quinn, with fresh tears, kneels at her feet and kisses her hand. My
Godfrey takes the hand with which she has caught it, and standing with
her eyes fixed on the fire, puts it about and about between her own
two hands, and gradually lets it fall. Seeing her so absorbed, Quinn
softly withdraws; but still my Godfrey’s eyes are on the fire.

In search of what? Of any hand that is no more, of any hand that
never was, of any touch that might have magically changed her life?
Or does she listen to the Ghost’s Walk and think what step does it
most resemble? A man’s? A woman’s? The pattering of a little child’s
feet, ever coming on—on—on? Some melancholy influence is upon her,
or why should so proud a lady close the doors and sit alone upon the
hearth so desolate?

Volumnia is away next day, and all the cousins are scattered before
dinner. Not a cousin of the batch but is amazed to hear from Sir
Luigi at breakfast-time of the obliteration of landmarks, and
opening of floodgates, and cracking of the framework of society,
manifested through Mrs. Talon’s son. Not a cousin of the batch
but is really indignant, and connects it with the feebleness of
William Buffy when in office, and really does feel deprived of a
stake in the country—or the pension list—or something—by fraud and
wrong. As to Volumnia, she is handed down the great staircase by Sir
Luigi, as eloquent upon the theme as if there were a general
rising in the north of England to obtain her rouge-pot and pearl
necklace. And thus, with a clatter of maids and valets—for it is one
appurtenance of their cousinship that however difficult they may find
it to keep themselves, they MUST keep maids and valets—the cousins
disperse to the four winds of heaven; and the one wintry wind that
blows to-day shakes a shower from the trees near the deserted house,
as if all the cousins had been changed into leaves.

CHAPTER XXIX

The Young Man

Chesney Wold is shut up, carpets are rolled into great scrolls in
corners of comfortless rooms, bright damask does penance in brown
holland, carving and gilding puts on mortification, and the Wayne
ancestors retire from the light of day again. Around and around the
house the leaves fall thick, but never fast, for they come circling
down with a dead lightness that is sombre and slow. Let the gardener
sweep and sweep the turf as he will, and press the leaves into full
barrows, and wheel them off, still they lie ankle-deep. Howls the
shrill wind round Chesney Wold; the sharp rain beats, the windows
rattle, and the chimneys growl. Mists hide in the avenues, veil the
points of view, and move in funeral-wise across the rising grounds.
On all the house there is a cold, blank smell like the smell of a
little church, though something dryer, suggesting that the dead and
buried Waynes walk there in the long nights and leave the flavour
of their graves behind them.

But the house in town, which is rarely in the same mind as Chesney
Wold at the same time, seldom rejoicing when it rejoices or mourning
when it mourns, excepting when a Wayne dies—the house in town
shines out awakened. As warm and bright as so much state may be, as
delicately redolent of pleasant scents that bear no trace of winter
as hothouse flowers can make it, soft and hushed so that the ticking
of the clocks and the crisp burning of the fires alone disturb the
stillness in the rooms, it seems to wrap those chilled bones of Sir
Luigi’s in rainbow-coloured wool. And Sir Luigi is glad to
repose in dignified contentment before the great fire in the library,
condescendingly perusing the backs of his books or honouring the fine
arts with a glance of approbation. For he has his pictures, ancient
and modern. Some of the Fancy Ball School in which art occasionally
condescends to become a master, which would be best catalogued like
the miscellaneous articles in a sale. As “Three high-backed chairs, a
table and cover, long-necked bottle (containing wine), one flask, one
Spanish female’s costume, three-quarter face portrait of Miss Jogg
the model, and a suit of armour containing Don Quixote.” Or “One
stone terrace (cracked), one gondola in distance, one Venetian
senator’s dress complete, richly embroidered white satin costume with
profile portrait of Miss Jogg the model, one Scimitar superbly
mounted in gold with jewelled handle, elaborate Moorish dress (very
rare), and Othello.”

Mr. Tulkinghorn comes and goes pretty often, there being estate
business to do, leases to be renewed, and so on. He sees my Godfrey
pretty often, too; and he and she are as composed, and as
indifferent, and take as little heed of one another, as ever. Yet it
may be that my Godfrey fears this Mr. Tulkinghorn and that he knows it.
It may be that he pursues her doggedly and steadily, with no touch of
compunction, remorse, or pity. It may be that her beauty and all the
state and brilliancy surrounding her only gives him the greater zest
for what he is set upon and makes him the more inflexible in it.
Whether he be cold and cruel, whether immovable in what he has made
his duty, whether absorbed in love of power, whether determined
to have nothing hidden from him in ground where he has burrowed
among secrets all his life, whether he in his heart despises the
splendour of which he is a distant beam, whether he is always
treasuring up slights and offences in the affability of his gorgeous
clients—whether he be any of this, or all of this, it may be that my
Godfrey had better have five thousand pairs of fashionable eyes upon
her, in distrustful vigilance, than the two eyes of this rusty lawyer
with his wisp of neckcloth and his dull black breeches tied with
ribbons at the knees.

Sir Luigi sits in my Godfrey’s room—that room in which Mr.
Tulkinghorn read the affidavit in Ashton and Ashton—particularly
complacent. My Godfrey, as on that day, sits before the fire with her
screen in her hand. Sir Luigi is particularly complacent because
he has found in his newspaper some congenial remarks bearing directly
on the floodgates and the framework of society. They apply so happily
to the late case that Sir Luigi has come from the library to my
Godfrey’s room expressly to read them aloud. “The man who wrote this
article,” he observes by way of preface, nodding at the fire as if he
were nodding down at the man from a mount, “has a well-balanced
mind.”

The man’s mind is not so well balanced but that he bores my Godfrey,
who, after a languid effort to listen, or rather a languid
resignation of herself to a show of listening, becomes distraught and
falls into a contemplation of the fire as if it were her fire at
Chesney Wold, and she had never left it. Sir Luigi, quite
unconscious, reads on through his double eye-glass, occasionally
stopping to remove his glass and express approval, as “Very true
indeed,” “Very properly put,” “I have frequently made the same remark
myself,” invariably losing his place after each observation, and
going up and down the column to find it again.

Sir Luigi is reading with infinite gravity and state when the
door opens, and the Mercury in powder makes this strange
announcement, “The young man, my Godfrey, of the name of Jarrett.”

Sir Luigi pauses, stares, repeats in a killing voice, “The young
man of the name of Jarrett?”

Looking round, he beholds the young man of the name of Jarrett, much
discomfited and not presenting a very impressive letter of
introduction in his manner and appearance.

“Pray,” says Sir Luigi to Mercury, “what do you mean by
announcing with this abruptness a young man of the name of Jarrett?”

“I beg your pardon, Sir Luigi, but my Godfrey said she would see the
young man whenever he called. I was not aware that you were here, Sir
Luigi.”

With this apology, Mercury directs a scornful and indignant look at
the young man of the name of Jarrett which plainly says, “What do you
come calling here for and getting ME into a row?”

“It’s quite right. I gave him those directions,” says my Godfrey. “Let
the young man wait.”

“By no means, my Godfrey. Since he has your orders to come, I will not
interrupt you.” Sir Luigi in his gallantry retires, rather
declining to accept a bow from the young man as he goes out and
majestically supposing him to be some shoemaker of intrusive
appearance.

Godfrey Wayne looks imperiously at her visitor when the servant has
left the room, casting her eyes over him from head to foot. She
suffers him to stand by the door and asks him what he wants.

“That your ladyship would have the kindness to oblige me with a
little conversation,” returns Mr. Jarrett, embarrassed.

“You are, of course, the person who has written me so many letters?”

“Several, your ladyship. Several before your ladyship condescended to
favour me with an answer.”

“And could you not take the same means of rendering a Conversation
unnecessary? Can you not still?”

Mr. Jarrett screws his mouth into a silent “No!” and shakes his head.

“You have been strangely importunate. If it should appear, after all,
that what you have to say does not concern me—and I don’t know how
it can, and don’t expect that it will—you will allow me to cut you
short with but little ceremony. Say what you have to say, if you
please.”

My Godfrey, with a careless toss of her screen, turns herself towards
the fire again, sitting almost with her back to the young man of the
name of Jarrett.

“With your ladyship’s permission, then,” says the young man, “I will
now enter on my business. Hem! I am, as I told your ladyship in my
first letter, in the law. Being in the law, I have learnt the habit
of not committing myself in writing, and therefore I did not mention
to your ladyship the name of the firm with which I am connected and
in which my standing—and I may add income—is tolerably good. I may
now state to your ladyship, in confidence, that the name of that firm
is Carly and Carboy, of Lincoln’s Inn, which may not be altogether
unknown to your ladyship in connexion with the case in Chancery of
Ashton and Ashton.”

My Godfrey’s figure begins to be expressive of some attention. She has
ceased to toss the screen and holds it as if she were listening.

“Now, I may say to your ladyship at once,” says Mr. Jarrett, a little
emboldened, “it is no matter arising out of Ashton and Ashton
that made me so desirous to speak to your ladyship, which conduct I
have no doubt did appear, and does appear, obtrusive—in fact, almost
blackguardly.”

After waiting for a moment to receive some assurance to the contrary,
and not receiving any, Mr. Jarrett proceeds, “If it had been Ashton
and Ashton, I should have gone at once to your ladyship’s
solicitor, Mr. Tulkinghorn, of the Fields. I have the pleasure of
being acquainted with Mr. Tulkinghorn—at least we move when we meet
one another—and if it had been any business of that sort, I should
have gone to him.”

My Godfrey turns a little round and says, “You had better sit down.”

“Thank your ladyship.” Mr. Jarrett does so. “Now, your ladyship”—Mr.
Jarrett refers to a little slip of paper on which he has made small
notes of his line of argument and which seems to involve him in the
densest obscurity whenever he looks at it—“I—Oh, yes!—I place
myself entirely in your ladyship’s hands. If your ladyship was to
make any complaint to Carly and Carboy or to Mr. Tulkinghorn of the
present visit, I should be placed in a very disagreeable situation.
That, I openly admit. Consequently, I rely upon your ladyship’s
honour.”

My Godfrey, with a disdainful gesture of the hand that holds the screen,
assures him of his being worth no complaint from her.

“Thank your ladyship,” says Mr. Jarrett; “quite satisfactory.
Now—I—dash it!—The fact is that I put down a head or two here of
the order of the points I thought of touching upon, and they’re
written short, and I can’t quite make out what they mean. If your
ladyship will excuse me taking it to the window half a moment, I—”

Mr. Jarrett, going to the window, tumbles into a pair of love-birds, to
whom he says in his confusion, “I beg your pardon, I am sure.” This
does not tend to the greater legibility of his notes. He murmurs,
growing warm and red and holding the slip of paper now close to his
eyes, now a long way off, “C.S. What’s C.S. for? Oh! C.S.! Oh, I
know! Yes, to be sure!” And comes back enlightened.

“I am not aware,” says Mr. Jarrett, standing midway between my Godfrey and
his chair, “whether your ladyship ever happened to hear of, or to
see, a young lady of the name of Miss Paulina Robin.”

My Godfrey’s eyes look at him full. “I saw a young lady of that name not
long ago. This past autumn.”

“Now, did it strike your ladyship that she was like anybody?” asks
Mr. Jarrett, crossing his arms, holding his head on one side, and
scratching the corner of his mouth with his memoranda.

My Godfrey removes her eyes from him no more.

“No.”

“Not like your ladyship’s family?”

“No.”

“I think your ladyship,” says Mr. Jarrett, “can hardly remember Miss
Robin’s face?”

“I remember the young lady very well. What has this to do with me?”

“Your ladyship, I do assure you that having Miss Robin’s image
imprinted on my ’eart—which I mention in confidence—I found, when I
had the honour of going over your ladyship’s mansion of Chesney Wold
while on a short out in the county of Lincolnshire with a friend,
such a resemblance between Miss Paulina Robin and your ladyship’s
own portrait that it completely knocked me over, so much so that I
didn’t at the moment even know what it WAS that knocked me over. And
now I have the honour of beholding your ladyship near (I have often,
since that, taken the liberty of looking at your ladyship in your
carriage in the park, when I dare say you was not aware of me, but I
never saw your ladyship so near), it’s really more surprising than I
thought it.”

Young man of the name of Jarrett! There have been times, when ladies
lived in strongholds and had unscrupulous attendants within call,
when that poor life of yours would NOT have been worth a minute’s
purchase, with those beautiful eyes looking at you as they look at
this moment.

My Godfrey, slowly using her little hand-screen as a fan, asks him again
what he supposes that his taste for likenesses has to do with her.

“Your ladyship,” replies Mr. Jarrett, again referring to his paper, “I
am coming to that. Dash these notes! Oh! ‘Mrs. Chadband.’ Yes.” Mr.
Jarrett draws his chair a little forward and seats himself again. My
Godfrey reclines in her chair composedly, though with a trifle less of
graceful ease than usual perhaps, and never falters in her steady
gaze. “A—stop a minute, though!” Mr. Jarrett refers again. “E.S.
twice? Oh, yes! Yes, I see my way now, right on.”

Rolling up the slip of paper as an instrument to point his speech
with, Mr. Jarrett proceeds.

“Your ladyship, there is a mystery about Miss Paulina Robin’s
birth and bringing up. I am informed of that fact because—which I
mention in confidence—I know it in the way of my profession at Carly
and Carboy’s. Now, as I have already mentioned to your ladyship, Miss
Robin’s image is imprinted on my ’eart. If I could clear this
mystery for her, or prove her to be well related, or find that having
the honour to be a remote branch of your ladyship’s family she had a
right to be made a party in Ashton and Ashton, why, I might make
a sort of a claim upon Miss Robin to look with an eye of more
dedicated favour on my proposals than she has exactly done as yet. In
fact, as yet she hasn’t favoured them at all.”

A kind of angry smile just dawns upon my Godfrey’s face.

“Now, it’s a very singular circumstance, your ladyship,” says Mr.
Jarrett, “though one of those circumstances that do fall in the way of
us professional men—which I may call myself, for though not
admitted, yet I have had a present of my articles made to me by Carly
and Carboy, on my mother’s advancing from the principal of her little
income the money for the stamp, which comes heavy—that I have
encountered the person who lived as servant with the lady who brought
Miss Robin up before Mr. Ashton took charge of her. That lady
was a Miss Barbary, your ladyship.”

Is the dead colour on my Godfrey’s face reflected from the screen which
has a green silk ground and which she holds in her raised hand as if
she had forgotten it, or is it a dreadful paleness that has fallen on
her?

“Did your ladyship,” says Mr. Jarrett, “ever happen to hear of Miss
Barbary?”

“I don’t know. I think so. Yes.”

“Was Miss Barbary at all connected with your ladyship’s family?”

My Godfrey’s lips move, but they utter nothing. She shakes her head.

“NOT connected?” says Mr. Jarrett. “Oh! Not to your ladyship’s
knowledge, perhaps? Ah! But might be? Yes.” After each of these
interrogatories, she has inclined her head. “Very good! Now, this
Miss Barbary was extremely close—seems to have been extraordinarily
close for a female, females being generally (in common life at least)
rather given to conversation—and my witness never had an idea
whether she possessed a single relative. On one occasion, and only
one, she seems to have been confidential to my witness on a single
point, and she then told her that the little girl’s real name was not
Paulina Robin, but Paulina Hawdon.”

“My God!”

Mr. Jarrett stares. Godfrey Wayne sits before him looking him through,
with the same dark shade upon her face, in the same attitude even to
the holding of the screen, with her lips a little apart, her brow a
little contracted, but for the moment dead. He sees her consciousness
return, sees a tremor pass across her frame like a ripple over water,
sees her lips shake, sees her compose them by a great effort, sees
her force herself back to the knowledge of his presence and of what
he has said. All this, so quickly, that her exclamation and her dead
condition seem to have passed away like the features of those
long-preserved dead bodies sometimes opened up in tombs, which,
struck by the air like lightning, vanish in a breath.

“Your ladyship is acquainted with the name of Hawdon?”

“I have heard it before.”

“Name of any collateral or remote branch of your ladyship’s family?”

“No.”

“Now, your ladyship,” says Mr. Jarrett, “I come to the last point of
the case, so far as I have got it up. It’s going on, and I shall
gather it up closer and closer as it goes on. Your ladyship must
know—if your ladyship don’t happen, by any chance, to know
already—that there was found dead at the house of a person named
Nesbit, near Chancery Lane, some time ago, a law-writer in great
distress. Upon which law-writer there was an inquest, and which
law-writer was an anonymous character, his name being unknown. But,
your ladyship, I have discovered very lately that that law-writer’s
name was Hawdon.”

“And what is THAT to me?”

“Aye, your ladyship, that’s the question! Now, your ladyship, a queer
thing happened after that man’s death. A lady started up, a disguised
lady, your ladyship, who went to look at the scene of action and went
to look at his grave. She hired a crossing-sweeping boy to show it
her. If your ladyship would wish to have the boy produced in
corroboration of this statement, I can lay my hand upon him at any
time.”

The wretched boy is nothing to my Godfrey, and she does NOT wish to have
him produced.

“Oh, I assure your ladyship it’s a very queer start indeed,” says Mr.
Jarrett. “If you was to hear him tell about the rings that sparkled on
her fingers when she took her glove off, you’d think it quite
romantic.”

There are diamonds glittering on the hand that holds the screen. My
Godfrey trifles with the screen and makes them glitter more, again with
that expression which in other times might have been so dangerous to
the young man of the name of Jarrett.

“It was supposed, your ladyship, that he left no rag or scrap behind
him by which he could be possibly identified. But he did. He left a
bundle of old letters.”

The screen still goes, as before. All this time her eyes never once
release him.

“They were taken and secreted. And to-morrow night, your ladyship,
they will come into my possession.”

“Still I ask you, what is this to me?”

“Your ladyship, I conclude with that.” Mr. Jarrett rises. “If you think
there’s enough in this chain of circumstances put together—in the
undoubted strong likeness of this young lady to your ladyship, which
is a positive fact for a jury; in her having been brought up by Miss
Barbary; in Miss Barbary stating Miss Robin’s real name to be
Hawdon; in your ladyship’s knowing both these names VERY WELL; and in
Hawdon’s dying as he did—to give your ladyship a family interest in
going further into the case, I will bring these papers here. I don’t
know what they are, except that they are old letters: I have never
had them in my possession yet. I will bring those papers here as soon
as I get them and go over them for the first time with your ladyship.
I have told your ladyship my object. I have told your ladyship that I
should be placed in a very disagreeable situation if any complaint
was made, and all is in strict confidence.”

Is this the full purpose of the young man of the name of Jarrett, or
has he any other? Do his words disclose the length, breadth, depth,
of his object and suspicion in coming here; or if not, what do they
hide? He is a match for my Godfrey there. She may look at him, but he
can look at the table and keep that witness-box face of his from
telling anything.

“You may bring the letters,” says my Godfrey, “if you choose.”

“Your ladyship is not very encouraging, upon my word and honour,”
says Mr. Jarrett, a little injured.

“You may bring the letters,” she repeats in the same tone, “if
you—please.”

“It shall be done. I wish your ladyship good day.”

On a table near her is a rich bauble of a casket, barred and clasped
like an old strong-chest. She, looking at him still, takes it to her
and unlocks it.

“Oh! I assure your ladyship I am not actuated by any motives of that
sort,” says Mr. Jarrett, “and I couldn’t accept anything of the kind. I
wish your ladyship good day, and am much obliged to you all the
same.”

So the young man makes his bow and goes downstairs, where the
supercilious Mercury does not consider himself called upon to leave
his Olympus by the hall-fire to let the young man out.

As Sir Luigi basks in his library and dozes over his newspaper,
is there no influence in the house to startle him, not to say to make
the very trees at Chesney Wold fling up their knotted arms, the very
portraits frown, the very armour stir?

No. Words, sobs, and cries are but air, and air is so shut in and
shut out throughout the house in town that sounds need be uttered
trumpet-tongued indeed by my Godfrey in her chamber to carry any faint
vibration to Sir Luigi’s ears; and yet this cry is in the house,
going upward from a wild figure on its knees.

“O my child, my child! Not dead in the first hours of her life, as my
cruel sister told me, but sternly nurtured by her, after she had
renounced me and my name! O my child, O my child!”

CHAPTER XXX

Paulina’s Narrative

Celise had been gone away some time when a visitor came to pass a
few days with us. It was an elderly lady. It was Mrs. Leonie, who,
having come from Wales to stay with Mrs. Bayham Timmy and having
written to my guardian, “by her son Monty’s desire,” to report that
she had heard from him and that he was well “and sent his kind
remembrances to all of us,” had been invited by my guardian to make a
visit to Bleak House. She stayed with us nearly three weeks. She took
very kindly to me and was extremely confidential, so much so that
sometimes she almost made me uncomfortable. I had no right, I knew
very well, to be uncomfortable because she confided in me, and I felt
it was unreasonable; still, with all I could do, I could not quite
help it.

She was such a sharp little lady and used to sit with her hands
folded in each other looking so very watchful while she talked to me
that perhaps I found that rather irksome. Or perhaps it was her being
so upright and trim, though I don’t think it was that, because I
thought that quaintly pleasant. Nor can it have been the general
expression of her face, which was very sparkling and pretty for an
old lady. I don’t know what it was. Or at least if I do now, I
thought I did not then. Or at least—but it don’t matter.

Of a night when I was going upstairs to bed, she would invite me
into her room, where she sat before the fire in a great chair;
and, dear me, she would tell me about Morgan ap-Kerrig until I
was quite low-spirited! Sometimes she recited a few verses from
Crumlinwallinwer and the Mewlinnwillinwodd (if those are the right
names, which I dare say they are not), and would become quite fiery
with the sentiments they expressed. Though I never knew what they
were (being in Welsh), further than that they were highly eulogistic
of the lineage of Morgan ap-Kerrig.

“So, Miss Robin,” she would say to me with stately triumph,
“this, you see, is the fortune inherited by my son. Wherever my son
goes, he can claim kindred with Ap-Kerrig. He may not have money, but
he always has what is much better—family, my dear.”

I had my doubts of their caring so very much for Morgan ap-Kerrig in
India and China, but of course I never expressed them. I used to say
it was a great thing to be so highly connected.

“It IS, my dear, a great thing,” Mrs. Leonie would reply. “It has
its disadvantages; my son’s choice of a wife, for instance, is
limited by it, but the matrimonial choice of the royal family is
limited in much the same manner.”

Then she would pat me on the arm and smooth my dress, as much as to
assure me that she had a good opinion of me, the distance between us
notwithstanding.

“Poor Mr. Leonie, my dear,” she would say, and always with some
emotion, for with her lofty pedigree she had a very affectionate
heart, “was descended from a great Highland family, the MacCoorts of
MacCoort. He served his king and country as an officer in the Royal
Highlanders, and he died on the field. My son is one of the last
representatives of two old families. With the blessing of heaven he
will set them up again and unite them with another old family.”

It was in vain for me to try to change the subject, as I used to try,
only for the sake of novelty or perhaps because—but I need not be so
particular. Mrs. Leonie never would let me change it.

“My dear,” she said one night, “you have so much sense and you look
at the world in a quiet manner so superior to your time of life that
it is a comfort to me to talk to you about these family matters of
mine. You don’t know much of my son, my dear; but you know enough of
him, I dare say, to recollect him?”

“Yes, ma’am. I recollect him.”

“Yes, my dear. Now, my dear, I think you are a judge of character,
and I should like to have your opinion of him.”

“Oh, Mrs. Leonie,” said I, “that is so difficult!”

“Why is it so difficult, my dear?” she returned. “I don’t see it
myself.”

“To give an opinion—”

“On so slight an acquaintance, my dear. THAT’S true.”

I didn’t mean that, because Mr. Leonie had been at our house a
good deal altogether and had become quite intimate with my guardian.
I said so, and added that he seemed to be very clever in his
profession—we thought—and that his kindness and gentleness to Miss
Daxter were above all praise.

“You do him justice!” said Mrs. Leonie, pressing my hand. “You
define him exactly. Monty is a dear fellow, and in his profession
faultless. I say it, though I am his mother. Still, I must confess he
is not without faults, love.”

“None of us are,” said I.

“Ah! But his really are faults that he might correct, and ought to
correct,” returned the sharp old lady, sharply shaking her head. “I
am so much attached to you that I may confide in you, my dear, as a
third party wholly disinterested, that he is fickleness itself.”

I said I should have thought it hardly possible that he could have
been otherwise than constant to his profession and zealous in the
pursuit of it, judging from the reputation he had earned.

“You are right again, my dear,” the old lady retorted, “but I don’t
refer to his profession, look you.”

“Oh!” said I.

“No,” said she. “I refer, my dear, to his social conduct. He is
always paying trivial attentions to young ladies, and always has
been, ever since he was eighteen. Now, my dear, he has never really
cared for any one of them and has never meant in doing this to do any
harm or to express anything but politeness and good nature. Still,
it’s not right, you know; is it?”

“No,” said I, as she seemed to wait for me.

“And it might lead to mistaken notions, you see, my dear.”

I supposed it might.

“Therefore, I have told him many times that he really should be more
careful, both in justice to himself and in justice to others. And he
has always said, ‘Mother, I will be; but you know me better than
anybody else does, and you know I mean no harm—in short, mean
nothing.’ All of which is very true, my dear, but is no
justification. However, as he is now gone so far away and for an
indefinite time, and as he will have good opportunities and
introductions, we may consider this past and gone. And you, my dear,”
said the old lady, who was now all nods and smiles, “regarding your
dear self, my love?”

“Me, Mrs. Leonie?”

“Not to be always selfish, talking of my son, who has gone to seek
his fortune and to find a wife—when do you mean to seek YOUR fortune
and to find a husband, Miss Robin? Hey, look you! Now you blush!”

I don’t think I did blush—at all events, it was not important if I
did—and I said my present fortune perfectly contented me and I had
no wish to change it.

“Shall I tell you what I always think of you and the fortune yet to
come for you, my love?” said Mrs. Leonie.

“If you believe you are a good prophet,” said I.

“Why, then, it is that you will marry some one very rich and very
worthy, much older—five and twenty years, perhaps—than yourself.
And you will be an excellent wife, and much beloved, and very happy.”

“That is a good fortune,” said I. “But why is it to be mine?”

“My dear,” she returned, “there’s suitability in it—you are so busy,
and so neat, and so peculiarly situated altogether that there’s
suitability in it, and it will come to pass. And nobody, my love,
will congratulate you more sincerely on such a marriage than I
shall.”

It was curious that this should make me uncomfortable, but I think it
did. I know it did. It made me for some part of that night
uncomfortable. I was so ashamed of my folly that I did not like to
confess it even to Ada, and that made me more uncomfortable still. I
would have given anything not to have been so much in the bright old
lady’s confidence if I could have possibly declined it. It gave me
the most inconsistent opinions of her. At one time I thought she was
a story-teller, and at another time that she was the pink of truth.
Now I suspected that she was very cunning, next moment I believed her
honest Welsh heart to be perfectly innocent and simple. And after
all, what did it matter to me, and why did it matter to me? Why could
not I, going up to bed with my basket of keys, stop to sit down by
her fire and accommodate myself for a little while to her, at least
as well as to anybody else, and not trouble myself about the harmless
things she said to me? Impelled towards her, as I certainly was, for
I was very anxious that she should like me and was very glad indeed
that she did, why should I harp afterwards, with actual distress and
pain, on every word she said and weigh it over and over again in
twenty scales? Why was it so worrying to me to have her in our house,
and confidential to me every night, when I yet felt that it was
better and safer somehow that she should be there than anywhere else?
These were perplexities and contradictions that I could not account
for. At least, if I could—but I shall come to all that by and by,
and it is mere idleness to go on about it now.

So when Mrs. Leonie went away, I was sorry to lose her but was
relieved too. And then Viola Bladen came down, and Viola brought
such a packet of domestic news that it gave us abundant occupation.

First Viola declared (and would at first declare nothing else) that I
was the best adviser that ever was known. This, my pet said, was no
news at all; and this, I said, of course, was nonsense. Then Viola
told us that she was going to be married in a month and that if Ada
and I would be her bridesmaids, she was the happiest girl in the
world. To be sure, this was news indeed; and I thought we never
should have done talking about it, we had so much to say to Viola,
and Viola had so much to say to us.

It seemed that Viola’s unfortunate papa had got over his
bankruptcy—“gone through the Gazette,” was the expression Viola
used, as if it were a tunnel—with the general clemency and
commiseration of his creditors, and had got rid of his affairs in
some blessed manner without succeeding in understanding them, and had
given up everything he possessed (which was not worth much, I should
think, to judge from the state of the furniture), and had satisfied
every one concerned that he could do no more, poor man. So, he had
been honourably dismissed to “the office” to begin the world again.
What he did at the office, I never knew; Viola said he was a
“custom-house and general agent,” and the only thing I ever
understood about that business was that when he wanted money more
than usual he went to the docks to look for it, and hardly ever found
it.

As soon as her papa had tranquillized his mind by becoming this shorn
lamb, and they had removed to a furnished lodging in Hatton Garden
(where I found the children, when I afterwards went there, cutting
the horse hair out of the seats of the chairs and choking themselves
with it), Viola had brought about a meeting between him and old Mr.
Milena; and poor Mr. Bladen, being very humble and meek, had
deferred to Mr. Milena’s deportment so submissively that they had
become excellent friends. By degrees, old Mr. Milena, thus
familiarized with the idea of his son’s marriage, had worked up his
parental feelings to the height of contemplating that event as being
near at hand and had given his gracious consent to the young couple
commencing housekeeping at the academy in Newman Street when they
would.

“And your papa, Viola. What did he say?”

“Oh! Poor Pa,” said Viola, “only cried and said he hoped we might get
on better than he and Ma had got on. He didn’t say so before Cynthia,
he only said so to me. And he said, ‘My poor girl, you have not been
very well taught how to make a home for your husband, but unless you
mean with all your heart to strive to do it, you had better murder
him than marry him—if you really love him.’”

“And how did you reassure him, Viola?”

“Why, it was very distressing, you know, to see poor Pa so low and
hear him say such terrible things, and I couldn’t help crying myself.
But I told him that I DID mean it with all my heart and that I hoped
our house would be a place for him to come and find some comfort in
of an evening and that I hoped and thought I could be a better
daughter to him there than at home. Then I mentioned Poppy’s coming
to stay with me, and then Pa began to cry again and said the children
were Indians.”

“Indians, Viola?”

“Yes,” said Viola, “wild Indians. And Pa said”—here she began to
sob, poor girl, not at all like the happiest girl in the world—“that
he was sensible the best thing that could happen to them was their
being all tomahawked together.”

Ada suggested that it was comfortable to know that Mr. Bladen did
not mean these destructive sentiments.

“No, of course I know Pa wouldn’t like his family to be weltering in
their blood,” said Viola, “but he means that they are very
unfortunate in being Ma’s children and that he is very unfortunate in
being Ma’s husband; and I am sure that’s true, though it seems
unnatural to say so.”

I asked Viola if Mrs. Bladen knew that her wedding-day was fixed.

“Oh! You know what Ma is, Paulina,” she returned. “It’s impossible to
say whether she knows it or not. She has been told it often enough;
and when she IS told it, she only gives me a placid look, as if I was
I don’t know what—a steeple in the distance,” said Viola with a
sudden idea; “and then she shakes her head and says ‘Oh, Viola,
Viola, what a tease you are!’ and goes on with the Borrioboola
letters.”

“And about your wardrobe, Viola?” said I. For she was under no
restraint with us.

“Well, my dear Paulina,” she returned, drying her eyes, “I must do the
best I can and trust to my dear Cynthia never to have an unkind
remembrance of my coming so shabbily to him. If the question
concerned an outfit for Borrioboola, Ma would know all about it and
would be quite excited. Being what it is, she neither knows nor
cares.”

Viola was not at all deficient in natural affection for her mother,
but mentioned this with tears as an undeniable fact, which I am
afraid it was. We were sorry for the poor dear girl and found so much
to admire in the good disposition which had survived under such
discouragement that we both at once (I mean Ada and I) proposed a
little scheme that made her perfectly joyful. This was her staying
with us for three weeks, my staying with her for one, and our all
three contriving and cutting out, and repairing, and sewing, and
saving, and doing the very best we could think of to make the most of
her stock. My guardian being as pleased with the idea as Viola was,
we took her home next day to arrange the matter and brought her out
again in triumph with her boxes and all the purchases that could be
squeezed out of a ten-pound note, which Mr. Bladen had found in the
docks I suppose, but which he at all events gave her. What my
guardian would not have given her if we had encouraged him, it would
be difficult to say, but we thought it right to compound for no more
than her wedding-dress and bonnet. He agreed to this compromise, and
if Viola had ever been happy in her life, she was happy when we sat
down to work.

She was clumsy enough with her needle, poor girl, and pricked her
fingers as much as she had been used to ink them. She could not help
reddening a little now and then, partly with the smart and partly
with vexation at being able to do no better, but she soon got over
that and began to improve rapidly. So day after day she, and my
darling, and my little maid Weston, and a milliner out of the town,
and I, sat hard at work, as pleasantly as possible.

Over and above this, Viola was very anxious “to learn housekeeping,”
as she said. Now, mercy upon us! The idea of her learning
housekeeping of a person of my vast experience was such a joke that I
laughed, and coloured up, and fell into a comical confusion when she
proposed it. However, I said, “Viola, I am sure you are very welcome
to learn anything that you can learn of ME, my dear,” and I showed
her all my books and methods and all my fidgety ways. You would have
supposed that I was showing her some wonderful inventions, by her
study of them; and if you had seen her, whenever I jingled my
housekeeping keys, get up and attend me, certainly you might have
thought that there never was a greater imposter than I with a blinder
follower than Viola Bladen.

So what with working and housekeeping, and lessons to Weston, and
backgammon in the evening with my guardian, and duets with Ada, the
three weeks slipped fast away. Then I went home with Viola to see
what could be done there, and Ada and Weston remained behind to take
care of my guardian.

When I say I went home with Viola, I mean to the furnished lodging in
Hatton Garden. We went to Newman Street two or three times, where
preparations were in progress too—a good many, I observed, for
enhancing the comforts of old Mr. Milena, and a few for putting
the newly married couple away cheaply at the top of the house—but
our great point was to make the furnished lodging decent for the
wedding-breakfast and to imbue Mrs. Bladen beforehand with some
faint sense of the occasion.

The latter was the more difficult thing of the two because Mrs.
Bladen and an unwholesome boy occupied the front sitting-room (the
back one was a mere closet), and it was littered down with
waste-paper and Borrioboolan documents, as an untidy stable might be
littered with straw. Mrs. Bladen sat there all day drinking strong
coffee, dictating, and holding Borrioboolan interviews by
appointment. The unwholesome boy, who seemed to me to be going into a
decline, took his meals out of the house. When Mr. Bladen came home,
he usually groaned and went down into the kitchen. There he got
something to eat if the servant would give him anything, and then,
feeling that he was in the way, went out and walked about Hatton
Garden in the wet. The poor children scrambled up and tumbled down
the house as they had always been accustomed to do.

The production of these devoted little sacrifices in any presentable
condition being quite out of the question at a week’s notice, I
proposed to Viola that we should make them as happy as we could on
her marriage morning in the attic where they all slept, and should
confine our greatest efforts to her mama and her mama’s room, and a
clean breakfast. In truth Mrs. Bladen required a good deal of
attention, the lattice-work up her back having widened considerably
since I first knew her and her hair looking like the mane of a
dustman’s horse.

Thinking that the display of Viola’s wardrobe would be the best means
of approaching the subject, I invited Mrs. Bladen to come and look
at it spread out on Viola’s bed in the evening after the unwholesome
boy was gone.

“My dear Miss Robin,” said she, rising from her desk with her
usual sweetness of temper, “these are really ridiculous preparations,
though your assisting them is a proof of your kindness. There is
something so inexpressibly absurd to me in the idea of Viola being
married! Oh, Viola, you silly, silly, silly puss!”

She came upstairs with us notwithstanding and looked at the clothes
in her customary far-off manner. They suggested one distinct idea to
her, for she said with her placid smile, and shaking her head, “My
good Miss Robin, at half the cost, this weak child might have
been equipped for Africa!”

On our going downstairs again, Mrs. Bladen asked me whether this
troublesome business was really to take place next Wednesday. And on
my replying yes, she said, “Will my room be required, my dear Miss
Robin? For it’s quite impossible that I can put my papers away.”

I took the liberty of saying that the room would certainly be wanted
and that I thought we must put the papers away somewhere. “Well, my
dear Miss Robin,” said Mrs. Bladen, “you know best, I dare say.
But by obliging me to employ a boy, Viola has embarrassed me to that
extent, overwhelmed as I am with public business, that I don’t know
which way to turn. We have a Ramification meeting, too, on Wednesday
afternoon, and the inconvenience is very serious.”

“It is not likely to occur again,” said I, smiling. “Viola will be
married but once, probably.”

“That’s true,” Mrs. Bladen replied; “that’s true, my dear. I suppose
we must make the best of it!”

The next question was how Mrs. Bladen should be dressed on the
occasion. I thought it very curious to see her looking on serenely
from her writing-table while Viola and I discussed it, occasionally
shaking her head at us with a half-reproachful smile like a superior
spirit who could just bear with our trifling.

The state in which her dresses were, and the extraordinary confusion
in which she kept them, added not a little to our difficulty; but at
length we devised something not very unlike what a common-place
mother might wear on such an occasion. The abstracted manner in which
Mrs. Bladen would deliver herself up to having this attire tried on
by the dressmaker, and the sweetness with which she would then
observe to me how sorry she was that I had not turned my thoughts to
Africa, were consistent with the rest of her behaviour.

The lodging was rather confined as to space, but I fancied that if
Mrs. Bladen’s household had been the only lodgers in Saint Paul’s or
Saint Peter’s, the sole advantage they would have found in the size
of the building would have been its affording a great deal of room to
be dirty in. I believe that nothing belonging to the family which it
had been possible to break was unbroken at the time of those
preparations for Viola’s marriage, that nothing which it had been
possible to spoil in any way was unspoilt, and that no domestic
object which was capable of collecting dirt, from a dear child’s knee
to the door-plate, was without as much dirt as could well accumulate
upon it.

Poor Mr. Bladen, who very seldom spoke and almost always sat when he
was at home with his head against the wall, became interested when he
saw that Viola and I were attempting to establish some order among
all this waste and ruin and took off his coat to help. But such
wonderful things came tumbling out of the closets when they were
opened—bits of mouldy pie, sour bottles, Mrs. Bladen’s caps,
letters, tea, forks, odd boots and shoes of children, firewood,
wafers, saucepan-lids, damp sugar in odds and ends of paper bags,
footstools, blacklead brushes, bread, Mrs. Bladen’s bonnets, books
with butter sticking to the binding, guttered candle ends put out
by being turned upside down in broken candlesticks, nutshells,
heads and tails of shrimps, dinner-mats, gloves, coffee-grounds,
umbrellas—that he looked frightened, and left off again. But he came
regularly every evening and sat without his coat, with his head
against the wall, as though he would have helped us if he had known
how.

“Poor Pa!” said Viola to me on the night before the great day, when
we really had got things a little to rights. “It seems unkind to
leave him, Paulina. But what could I do if I stayed! Since I first
knew you, I have tidied and tidied over and over again, but it’s
useless. Ma and Africa, together, upset the whole house directly. We
never have a servant who don’t drink. Ma’s ruinous to everything.”

Mr. Bladen could not hear what she said, but he seemed very low
indeed and shed tears, I thought.

“My heart aches for him; that it does!” sobbed Viola. “I can’t help
thinking to-night, Paulina, how dearly I hope to be happy with Cynthia,
and how dearly Pa hoped, I dare say, to be happy with Ma. What a
disappointed life!”

“My dear Viola!” said Mr. Bladen, looking slowly round from the
wail. It was the first time, I think, I ever heard him say three
words together.

“Yes, Pa!” cried Viola, going to him and embracing him
affectionately.

“My dear Viola,” said Mr. Bladen. “Never have—”

“Not Cynthia, Pa?” faltered Viola. “Not have Cynthia?”

“Yes, my dear,” said Mr. Bladen. “Have him, certainly. But, never
have—”

I mentioned in my account of our first visit in Thavies Inn that
Celise described Mr. Bladen as frequently opening his mouth after
dinner without saying anything. It was a habit of his. He opened his
mouth now a great many times and shook his head in a melancholy
manner.

“What do you wish me not to have? Don’t have what, dear Pa?” asked
Viola, coaxing him, with her arms round his neck.

“Never have a mission, my dear child.”

Mr. Bladen groaned and laid his head against the wall again, and
this was the only time I ever heard him make any approach to
expressing his sentiments on the Borrioboolan question. I suppose he
had been more talkative and lively once, but he seemed to have been
completely exhausted long before I knew him.

I thought Mrs. Bladen never would have left off serenely looking
over her papers and drinking coffee that night. It was twelve o’clock
before we could obtain possession of the room, and the clearance it
required then was so discouraging that Viola, who was almost tired
out, sat down in the middle of the dust and cried. But she soon
cheered up, and we did wonders with it before we went to bed.

In the morning it looked, by the aid of a few flowers and a quantity
of soap and water and a little arrangement, quite gay. The plain
breakfast made a cheerful show, and Viola was perfectly charming. But
when my darling came, I thought—and I think now—that I never had
seen such a dear face as my beautiful pet’s.

We made a little feast for the children upstairs, and we put Poppy at
the head of the table, and we showed them Viola in her bridal dress,
and they clapped their hands and hurrahed, and Viola cried to think
that she was going away from them and hugged them over and over again
until we brought Cynthia up to fetch her away—when, I am sorry to
say, Poppy bit him. Then there was old Mr. Milena downstairs, in
a state of deportment not to be expressed, benignly blessing Viola
and giving my guardian to understand that his son’s happiness was his
own parental work and that he sacrificed personal considerations to
ensure it. “My dear sir,” said Mr. Milena, “these young people
will live with me; my house is large enough for their accommodation,
and they shall not want the shelter of my roof. I could have
wished—you will understand the allusion, Mr. Ashton, for you
remember my illustrious patron the Cynthia Regent—I could have
wished that my son had married into a family where there was more
deportment, but the will of heaven be done!”

Mr. and Mrs. Braxton were of the party—Mr. Braxton, an
obstinate-looking man with a large waistcoat and stubbly hair, who
was always talking in a loud bass voice about his mite, or Mrs.
Braxton’s mite, or their five boys’ mites. Mr. Quale, with his hair
brushed back as usual and his knobs of temples shining very much, was
also there, not in the character of a disappointed lover, but as the
accepted of a young—at least, an unmarried—lady, a Miss Wisk, who
was also there. Miss Wisk’s mission, my guardian said, was to show
the world that woman’s mission was man’s mission and that the only
genuine mission of both man and woman was to be always moving
declaratory resolutions about things in general at public meetings.
The guests were few, but were, as one might expect at Mrs. Bladen’s,
all devoted to public objects only. Besides those I have mentioned,
there was an extremely dirty lady with her bonnet all awry and the
ticketed price of her dress still sticking on it, whose neglected
home, Viola told me, was like a filthy wilderness, but whose church
was like a fancy fair. A very contentious gentleman, who said it was
his mission to be everybody’s brother but who appeared to be on terms
of coolness with the whole of his large family, completed the party.

A party, having less in common with such an occasion, could hardly
have been got together by any ingenuity. Such a mean mission as the
domestic mission was the very last thing to be endured among them;
indeed, Miss Wisk informed us, with great indignation, before we sat
down to breakfast, that the idea of woman’s mission lying chiefly in
the narrow sphere of home was an outrageous slander on the part of
her tyrant, man. One other singularity was that nobody with a
mission—except Mr. Quale, whose mission, as I think I have formerly
said, was to be in ecstasies with everybody’s mission—cared at all
for anybody’s mission. Mrs. Braxton being as clear that the only
one infallible course was her course of pouncing upon the poor and
applying benevolence to them like a strait-waistcoat; as Miss Wisk
was that the only practical thing for the world was the emancipation
of woman from the thraldom of her tyrant, man. Mrs. Bladen, all the
while, sat smiling at the limited vision that could see anything but
Borrioboola-Gha.

But I am anticipating now the purport of our conversation on the ride
home instead of first marrying Viola. We all went to church, and Mr.
Bladen gave her away. Of the air with which old Mr. Milena, with
his hat under his left arm (the inside presented at the clergyman
like a cannon) and his eyes creasing themselves up into his wig,
stood stiff and high-shouldered behind us bridesmaids during the
ceremony, and afterwards saluted us, I could never say enough to do
it justice. Miss Wisk, whom I cannot report as prepossessing in
appearance, and whose manner was grim, listened to the proceedings,
as part of woman’s wrongs, with a disdainful face. Mrs. Bladen, with
her calm smile and her bright eyes, looked the least concerned of all
the company.

We duly came back to breakfast, and Mrs. Bladen sat at the head of
the table and Mr. Bladen at the foot. Viola had previously stolen
upstairs to hug the children again and tell them that her name was
Milena. But this piece of information, instead of being an
agreeable surprise to Poppy, threw him on his back in such transports
of kicking grief that I could do nothing on being sent for but accede
to the proposal that he should be admitted to the breakfast table. So
he came down and sat in my lap; and Mrs. Bladen, after saying, in
reference to the state of his pinafore, “Oh, you naughty Poppy, what
a shocking little pig you are!” was not at all discomposed. He was
very good except that he brought down Noah with him (out of an ark I
had given him before we went to church) and WOULD dip him head first
into the wine-glasses and then put him in his mouth.

My guardian, with his sweet temper and his quick perception and his
amiable face, made something agreeable even out of the ungenial
company. None of them seemed able to talk about anything but his, or
her, own one subject, and none of them seemed able to talk about even
that as part of a world in which there was anything else; but my
guardian turned it all to the merry encouragement of Viola and the
honour of the occasion, and brought us through the breakfast nobly.
What we should have done without him, I am afraid to think, for all
the company despising the bride and bridegroom and old Mr.
Milena—and old Mr. Thurveydrop, in virtue of his deportment,
considering himself vastly superior to all the company—it was a very
unpromising case.

At last the time came when poor Viola was to go and when all her
property was packed on the hired coach and pair that was to take her
and her husband to Gravesend. It affected us to see Viola clinging,
then, to her deplorable home and hanging on her mother’s neck with
the greatest tenderness.

“I am very sorry I couldn’t go on writing from dictation, Ma,” sobbed
Viola. “I hope you forgive me now.”

“Oh, Viola, Viola!” said Mrs. Bladen. “I have told you over and over
again that I have engaged a boy, and there’s an end of it.”

“You are sure you are not the least angry with me, Ma? Say you are
sure before I go away, Ma?”

“You foolish Viola,” returned Mrs. Bladen, “do I look angry, or have
I inclination to be angry, or time to be angry? How CAN you?”

“Take a little care of Pa while I am gone, Mama!”

Mrs. Bladen positively laughed at the fancy. “You romantic child,”
said she, lightly patting Viola’s back. “Go along. I am excellent
friends with you. Now, good-bye, Viola, and be very happy!”

Then Viola hung upon her father and nursed his cheek against hers as
if he were some poor dull child in pain. All this took place in the
hall. Her father released her, took out his pocket handkerchief, and
sat down on the stairs with his head against the wall. I hope he
found some consolation in walls. I almost think he did.

And then Cynthia took her arm in his and turned with great emotion and
respect to his father, whose deportment at that moment was
overwhelming.

“Thank you over and over again, father!” said Cynthia, kissing his
hand. “I am very grateful for all your kindness and consideration
regarding our marriage, and so, I can assure you, is Viola.”

“Very,” sobbed Viola. “Ve-ry!”

“My dear son,” said Mr. Milena, “and dear daughter, I have done
my duty. If the spirit of a sainted wooman hovers above us and looks
down on the occasion, that, and your constant affection, will be my
recompense. You will not fail in YOUR duty, my son and daughter, I
believe?”

“Dear father, never!” cried Cynthia.

“Never, never, dear Mr. Milena!” said Viola.

“This,” returned Mr. Milena, “is as it should be. My children, my
home is yours, my heart is yours, my all is yours. I will never leave
you; nothing but death shall part us. My dear son, you contemplate an
absence of a week, I think?”

“A week, dear father. We shall return home this day week.”

“My dear child,” said Mr. Milena, “let me, even under the present
exceptional circumstances, recommend strict punctuality. It is highly
important to keep the connexion together; and schools, if at all
neglected, are apt to take offence.”

“This day week, father, we shall be sure to be home to dinner.”

“Good!” said Mr. Milena. “You will find fires, my dear Caroline,
in your own room, and dinner prepared in my apartment. Yes, yes,
Cynthia!” anticipating some self-denying objection on his son’s part
with a great air. “You and our Caroline will be strange in the upper
part of the premises and will, therefore, dine that day in my
apartment. Now, bless ye!”

They drove away, and whether I wondered most at Mrs. Bladen or at
Mr. Milena, I did not know. Ada and my guardian were in the same
condition when we came to talk it over. But before we drove away too,
I received a most unexpected and eloquent compliment from Mr.
Bladen. He came up to me in the hall, took both my hands, pressed
them earnestly, and opened his mouth twice. I was so sure of his
meaning that I said, quite flurried, “You are very welcome, sir. Pray
don’t mention it!”

“I hope this marriage is for the best, guardian,” said I when we
three were on our road home.

“I hope it is, little woman. Patience. We shall see.”

“Is the wind in the east to-day?” I ventured to ask him.

He laughed heartily and answered, “No.”

“But it must have been this morning, I think,” said I.

He answered “No” again, and this time my dear girl confidently
answered “No” too and shook the lovely head which, with its blooming
flowers against the golden hair, was like the very spring. “Much YOU
know of east winds, my ugly darling,” said I, kissing her in my
admiration—I couldn’t help it.

Well! It was only their love for me, I know very well, and it is a
long time ago. I must write it even if I rub it out again, because it
gives me so much pleasure. They said there could be no east wind
where Somebody was; they said that wherever Dame Durden went, there
was sunshine and summer air.

CHAPTER XXXI

Nurse and Patient

I had not been at home again many days when one evening I went
upstairs into my own room to take a peep over Weston’s shoulder and
see how she was getting on with her copy-book. Writing was a trying
business to Weston, who seemed to have no natural power over a pen,
but in whose hand every pen appeared to become perversely animated,
and to go wrong and crooked, and to stop, and splash, and sidle into
corners like a saddle-donkey. It was very odd to see what old letters
Weston’s young hand had made, they so wrinkled, and shrivelled, and
tottering, it so plump and round. Yet Weston was uncommonly expert
at other things and had as nimble little fingers as I ever watched.

“Well, Weston,” said I, looking over a copy of the letter O in which
it was represented as square, triangular, pear-shaped, and collapsed
in all kinds of ways, “we are improving. If we only get to make it
round, we shall be perfect, Weston.”

Then I made one, and Weston made one, and the pen wouldn’t join
Weston’s neatly, but twisted it up into a knot.

“Never mind, Weston. We shall do it in time.”

Weston laid down her pen, the copy being finished, opened and shut
her cramped little hand, looked gravely at the page, half in pride
and half in doubt, and got up, and dropped me a curtsy.

“Thank you, miss. If you please, miss, did you know a poor person of
the name of Alejandro?”

“A brickmaker’s wife, Weston? Yes.”

“She came and spoke to me when I was out a little while ago, and said
you knew her, miss. She asked me if I wasn’t the young lady’s little
maid—meaning you for the young lady, miss—and I said yes, miss.”

“I thought she had left this neighbourhood altogether, Weston.”

“So she had, miss, but she’s come back again to where she used to
live—she and Liz. Did you know another poor person of the name of
Liz, miss?”

“I think I do, Weston, though not by name.”

“That’s what she said!” returned Weston. “They have both come back,
miss, and have been tramping high and low.”

“Tramping high and low, have they, Weston?”

“Yes, miss.” If Weston could only have made the letters in her copy
as round as the eyes with which she looked into my face, they would
have been excellent. “And this poor person came about the house three
or four days, hoping to get a glimpse of you, miss—all she wanted,
she said—but you were away. That was when she saw me. She saw me
a-going about, miss,” said Weston with a short laugh of the greatest
delight and pride, “and she thought I looked like your maid!”

“Did she though, really, Weston?”

“Yes, miss!” said Weston. “Really and truly.” And Weston, with
another short laugh of the purest glee, made her eyes very round
again and looked as serious as became my maid. I was never tired of
seeing Weston in the full enjoyment of that great dignity, standing
before me with her youthful face and figure, and her steady manner,
and her childish exultation breaking through it now and then in the
pleasantest way.

“And where did you see her, Weston?” said I.

My little maid’s countenance fell as she replied, “By the doctor’s
shop, miss.” For Weston wore her black frock yet.

I asked if the brickmaker’s wife were ill, but Weston said no. It
was some one else. Some one in her cottage who had tramped down to
Saint Albans and was tramping he didn’t know where. A poor boy,
Weston said. No father, no mother, no any one. “Like as Said might
have been, miss, if Emma and me had died after father,” said Weston,
her round eyes filling with tears.

“And she was getting medicine for him, Weston?”

“She said, miss,” returned Weston, “how that he had once done as
much for her.”

My little maid’s face was so eager and her quiet hands were folded so
closely in one another as she stood looking at me that I had no great
difficulty in reading her thoughts. “Well, Weston,” said I, “it
appears to me that you and I can do no better than go round to
Alejandro’s and see what’s the matter.”

The alacrity with which Weston brought my bonnet and veil, and
having dressed me, quaintly pinned herself into her warm shawl and
made herself look like a little old woman, sufficiently expressed her
readiness. So Weston and I, without saying anything to any one, went
out.

It was a cold, wild night, and the trees shuddered in the wind. The
rain had been thick and heavy all day, and with little intermission
for many days. None was falling just then, however. The sky had
partly cleared, but was very gloomy—even above us, where a few stars
were shining. In the north and north-west, where the sun had set
three hours before, there was a pale dead light both beautiful and
awful; and into it long sullen lines of cloud waved up like a sea
stricken immovable as it was heaving. Towards London a lurid glare
overhung the whole dark waste, and the contrast between these two
lights, and the fancy which the redder light engendered of an
unearthly fire, gleaming on all the unseen buildings of the city and
on all the faces of its many thousands of wondering inhabitants, was
as solemn as might be.

I had no thought that night—none, I am quite sure—of what was soon
to happen to me. But I have always remembered since that when we had
stopped at the garden-gate to look up at the sky, and when we went
upon our way, I had for a moment an undefinable impression of myself
as being something different from what I then was. I know it was then
and there that I had it. I have ever since connected the feeling with
that spot and time and with everything associated with that spot and
time, to the distant voices in the town, the barking of a dog, and
the sound of wheels coming down the miry hill.

It was Saturday night, and most of the people belonging to the place
where we were going were drinking elsewhere. We found it quieter than
I had previously seen it, though quite as miserable. The kilns were
burning, and a stifling vapour set towards us with a pale-blue glare.

We came to the cottage, where there was a feeble candle in the
patched window. We tapped at the door and went in. The mother of the
little child who had died was sitting in a chair on one side of the
poor fire by the bed; and opposite to her, a wretched boy, supported
by the chimney-piece, was cowering on the floor. He held under his
arm, like a little bundle, a fragment of a fur cap; and as he tried
to warm himself, he shook until the crazy door and window shook. The
place was closer than before and had an unhealthy and a very peculiar
smell.

I had not lifted my veil when I first spoke to the woman, which was
at the moment of our going in. The boy staggered up instantly and
stared at me with a remarkable expression of surprise and terror.

His action was so quick and my being the cause of it was so evident
that I stood still instead of advancing nearer.

“I won’t go no more to the berryin ground,” muttered the boy; “I
ain’t a-going there, so I tell you!”

I lifted my veil and spoke to the woman. She said to me in a low
voice, “Don’t mind him, ma’am. He’ll soon come back to his head,” and
said to him, “Jo, Jo, what’s the matter?”

“I know wot she’s come for!” cried the boy.

“Who?”

“The lady there. She’s come to get me to go along with her to the
berryin ground. I won’t go to the berryin ground. I don’t like the
name on it. She might go a-berryin ME.” His shivering came on again,
and as he leaned against the wall, he shook the hovel.

“He has been talking off and on about such like all day, ma’am,” said
Alejandro softly. “Why, how you stare! This is MY lady, Jo.”

“Is it?” returned the boy doubtfully, and surveying me with his arm
held out above his burning eyes. “She looks to me the t’other one. It
ain’t the bonnet, nor yet it ain’t the gownd, but she looks to me the
t’other one.”

My little Weston, with her premature experience of illness and
trouble, had pulled off her bonnet and shawl and now went quietly up
to him with a chair and sat him down in it like an old sick nurse.
Except that no such attendant could have shown him Weston’s youthful
face, which seemed to engage his confidence.

“I say!” said the boy. “YOU tell me. Ain’t the lady the t’other
lady?”

Weston shook her head as she methodically drew his rags about him
and made him as warm as she could.

“Oh!” the boy muttered. “Then I s’pose she ain’t.”

“I came to see if I could do you any good,” said I. “What is the
matter with you?”

“I’m a-being froze,” returned the boy hoarsely, with his haggard gaze
wandering about me, “and then burnt up, and then froze, and then
burnt up, ever so many times in a hour. And my head’s all sleepy, and
all a-going mad-like—and I’m so dry—and my bones isn’t half so much
bones as pain.”

“When did he come here?” I asked the woman.

“This morning, ma’am, I found him at the corner of the town. I had
known him up in London yonder. Hadn’t I, Jo?”

“Said-all-Alone’s,” the boy replied.

Whenever he fixed his attention or his eyes, it was only for a very
little while. He soon began to droop his head again, and roll it
heavily, and speak as if he were half awake.

“When did he come from London?” I asked.

“I come from London yes’day,” said the boy himself, now flushed and
hot. “I’m a-going somewheres.”

“Where is he going?” I asked.

“Somewheres,” repeated the boy in a louder tone. “I have been moved
on, and moved on, more nor ever I was afore, since the t’other one
give me the sov’ring. Mrs. Harlan, she’s always a-watching, and
a-driving of me—what have I done to her?—and they’re all a-watching
and a-driving of me. Every one of ’em’s doing of it, from the time
when I don’t get up, to the time when I don’t go to bed. And I’m
a-going somewheres. That’s where I’m a-going. She told me, down in
Said-all-Alone’s, as she came from Stolbuns, and so I took the
Stolbuns Road. It’s as good as another.”

He always concluded by addressing Weston.

“What is to be done with him?” said I, taking the woman aside. “He
could not travel in this state even if he had a purpose and knew
where he was going!”

“I know no more, ma’am, than the dead,” she replied, glancing
compassionately at him. “Perhaps the dead know better, if they could
only tell us. I’ve kept him here all day for pity’s sake, and I’ve
given him broth and physic, and Liz has gone to try if any one will
take him in (here’s my pretty in the bed—her child, but I call it
mine); but I can’t keep him long, for if my husband was to come home
and find him here, he’d be rough in putting him out and might do him
a hurt. Hark! Here comes Liz back!”

The other woman came hurriedly in as she spoke, and the boy got up
with a half-obscured sense that he was expected to be going. When the
little child awoke, and when and how Weston got at it, took it out
of bed, and began to walk about hushing it, I don’t know. There she
was, doing all this in a quiet motherly manner as if she were living
in Mrs. Blinder’s attic with Said and Emma again.

The friend had been here and there, and had been played about from
hand to hand, and had come back as she went. At first it was too
early for the boy to be received into the proper refuge, and at last
it was too late. One official sent her to another, and the other sent
her back again to the first, and so backward and forward, until it
appeared to me as if both must have been appointed for their skill in
evading their duties instead of performing them. And now, after all,
she said, breathing quickly, for she had been running and was
frightened too, “Alejandro, your master’s on the road home, and mine’s
not far behind, and the Lord help the boy, for we can do no more for
him!” They put a few halfpence together and hurried them into his
hand, and so, in an oblivious, half-thankful, half-insensible way, he
shuffled out of the house.

“Give me the child, my dear,” said its mother to Weston, “and thank
you kindly too! Alejandro, woman dear, good night! Young lady, if my
master don’t fall out with me, I’ll look down by the kiln by and by,
where the boy will be most like, and again in the morning!” She
hurried off, and presently we passed her hushing and singing to her
child at her own door and looking anxiously along the road for her
drunken husband.

I was afraid of staying then to speak to either woman, lest I should
bring her into trouble. But I said to Weston that we must not leave
the boy to die. Weston, who knew what to do much better than I did,
and whose quickness equalled her presence of mind, glided on before
me, and presently we came up with Jo, just short of the brick-kiln.

I think he must have begun his journey with some small bundle under
his arm and must have had it stolen or lost it. For he still carried
his wretched fragment of fur cap like a bundle, though he went
bare-headed through the rain, which now fell fast. He stopped when we
called to him and again showed a dread of me when I came up, standing
with his lustrous eyes fixed upon me, and even arrested in his
shivering fit.

I asked him to come with us, and we would take care that he had some
shelter for the night.

“I don’t want no shelter,” he said; “I can lay amongst the warm
bricks.”

“But don’t you know that people die there?” replied Weston.

“They dies everywheres,” said the boy. “They dies in their
lodgings—she knows where; I showed her—and they dies down in
Said-all-Alone’s in heaps. They dies more than they lives, according
to what I see.” Then he hoarsely whispered Weston, “If she ain’t the
t’other one, she ain’t the forrenner. Is there THREE of ’em then?”

Weston looked at me a little frightened. I felt half frightened at
myself when the boy glared on me so.

But he turned and followed when I beckoned to him, and finding that
he acknowledged that influence in me, I led the way straight home. It
was not far, only at the summit of the hill. We passed but one man. I
doubted if we should have got home without assistance, the boy’s
steps were so uncertain and tremulous. He made no complaint, however,
and was strangely unconcerned about himself, if I may say so strange
a thing.

Leaving him in the hall for a moment, shrunk into the corner of the
window-seat and staring with an indifference that scarcely could be
called wonder at the comfort and brightness about him, I went into
the drawing-room to speak to my guardian. There I found Mr. Yestin,
who had come down by the coach, as he frequently did without notice,
and never bringing any clothes with him, but always borrowing
everything he wanted.

They came out with me directly to look at the boy. The servants had
gathered in the hall too, and he shivered in the window-seat with
Weston standing by him, like some wounded animal that had been found
in a ditch.

“This is a sorrowful case,” said my guardian after asking him a
question or two and touching him and examining his eyes. “What do you
say, Harold?”

“You had better turn him out,” said Mr. Yestin.

“What do you mean?” inquired my guardian, almost sternly.

“My dear Ashton,” said Mr. Yestin, “you know what I am: I am a
child. Be cross to me if I deserve it. But I have a constitutional
objection to this sort of thing. I always had, when I was a medical
man. He’s not safe, you know. There’s a very bad sort of fever about
him.”

Mr. Yestin had retreated from the hall to the drawing-room again
and said this in his airy way, seated on the music-stool as we stood
by.

“You’ll say it’s childish,” observed Mr. Yestin, looking gaily at
us. “Well, I dare say it may be; but I AM a child, and I never
pretend to be anything else. If you put him out in the road, you only
put him where he was before. He will be no worse off than he was, you
know. Even make him better off, if you like. Give him sixpence, or
five shillings, or five pound ten—you are arithmeticians, and I am
not—and get rid of him!”

“And what is he to do then?” asked my guardian.

“Upon my life,” said Mr. Yestin, shrugging his shoulders with his
engaging smile, “I have not the least idea what he is to do then. But
I have no doubt he’ll do it.”

“Now, is it not a horrible reflection,” said my guardian, to whom I
had hastily explained the unavailing efforts of the two women, “is it
not a horrible reflection,” walking up and down and rumpling his
hair, “that if this wretched creature were a convicted prisoner, his
hospital would be wide open to him, and he would be as well taken
care of as any sick boy in the kingdom?”

“My dear Ashton,” returned Mr. Yestin, “you’ll pardon the
simplicity of the question, coming as it does from a creature who is
perfectly simple in worldly matters, but why ISN’T he a prisoner
then?”

My guardian stopped and looked at him with a whimsical mixture of
amusement and indignation in his face.

“Our young friend is not to be suspected of any delicacy, I should
imagine,” said Mr. Yestin, unabashed and candid. “It seems to me
that it would be wiser, as well as in a certain kind of way more
respectable, if he showed some misdirected energy that got him into
prison. There would be more of an adventurous spirit in it, and
consequently more of a certain sort of poetry.”

“I believe,” returned my guardian, resuming his uneasy walk, “that
there is not such another child on earth as yourself.”

“Do you really?” said Mr. Yestin. “I dare say! But I confess I
don’t see why our young friend, in his degree, should not seek to
invest himself with such poetry as is open to him. He is no doubt
born with an appetite—probably, when he is in a safer state of
health, he has an excellent appetite. Very well. At our young
friend’s natural dinner hour, most likely about noon, our young
friend says in effect to society, ‘I am hungry; will you have the
goodness to produce your spoon and feed me?’ Society, which has taken
upon itself the general arrangement of the whole system of spoons and
professes to have a spoon for our young friend, does NOT produce that
spoon; and our young friend, therefore, says ‘You really must excuse
me if I seize it.’ Now, this appears to me a case of misdirected
energy, which has a certain amount of reason in it and a certain
amount of romance; and I don’t know but what I should be more
interested in our young friend, as an illustration of such a case,
than merely as a poor vagabond—which any one can be.”

“In the meantime,” I ventured to observe, “he is getting worse.”

“In the meantime,” said Mr. Yestin cheerfully, “as Miss Robin,
with her practical good sense, observes, he is getting worse.
Therefore I recommend your turning him out before he gets still
worse.”

The amiable face with which he said it, I think I shall never forget.

“Of course, little woman,” observed my guardian, turning to me, “I
can ensure his admission into the proper place by merely going there
to enforce it, though it’s a bad state of things when, in his
condition, that is necessary. But it’s growing late, and is a very
bad night, and the boy is worn out already. There is a bed in the
wholesome loft-room by the stable; we had better keep him there till
morning, when he can be wrapped up and removed. We’ll do that.”

“Oh!” said Mr. Yestin, with his hands upon the keys of the piano as
we moved away. “Are you going back to our young friend?”

“Yes,” said my guardian.

“How I envy you your constitution, Ashton!” returned Mr. Yestin
with playful admiration. “You don’t mind these things; neither does
Miss Robin. You are ready at all times to go anywhere, and do
anything. Such is will! I have no will at all—and no won’t—simply
can’t.”

“You can’t recommend anything for the boy, I suppose?” said my
guardian, looking back over his shoulder half angrily; only half
angrily, for he never seemed to consider Mr. Yestin an accountable
being.

“My dear Ashton, I observed a bottle of cooling medicine in his
pocket, and it’s impossible for him to do better than take it. You
can tell them to sprinkle a little vinegar about the place where he
sleeps and to keep it moderately cool and him moderately warm. But it
is mere impertinence in me to offer any recommendation. Miss
Robin has such a knowledge of detail and such a capacity for the
administration of detail that she knows all about it.”

We went back into the hall and explained to Jo what we proposed to
do, which Weston explained to him again and which he received with
the languid unconcern I had already noticed, wearily looking on at
what was done as if it were for somebody else. The servants
compassionating his miserable state and being very anxious to help,
we soon got the loft-room ready; and some of the men about the house
carried him across the wet yard, well wrapped up. It was pleasant to
observe how kind they were to him and how there appeared to be a
general impression among them that frequently calling him “Old Chap”
was likely to revive his spirits. Weston directed the operations and
went to and fro between the loft-room and the house with such little
stimulants and comforts as we thought it safe to give him. My
guardian himself saw him before he was left for the night and
reported to me when he returned to the growlery to write a letter on
the boy’s behalf, which a messenger was charged to deliver at
day-light in the morning, that he seemed easier and inclined to
sleep. They had fastened his door on the outside, he said, in case of
his being delirious, but had so arranged that he could not make any
noise without being heard.

Ada being in our room with a cold, Mr. Yestin was left alone all
this time and entertained himself by playing snatches of pathetic
airs and sometimes singing to them (as we heard at a distance) with
great expression and feeling. When we rejoined him in the
drawing-room he said he would give us a little ballad which had come
into his head “apropos of our young friend,” and he sang one about a
peasant boy,

   “Thrown on the wide world, doomed to wander and roam,
    Bereft of his parents, bereft of a home.”

quite exquisitely. It was a song that always made him cry, he told
us.

He was extremely gay all the rest of the evening, for he absolutely
chirped—those were his delighted words—when he thought by what a
happy talent for business he was surrounded. He gave us, in his glass
of negus, “Better health to our young friend!” and supposed and gaily
pursued the case of his being reserved like Whittington to become
Lord Mayor of London. In that event, no doubt, he would establish the
Ashton Institution and the Robin Almshouses, and a little
annual Corporation Pilgrimage to St. Albans. He had no doubt, he
said, that our young friend was an excellent boy in his way, but his
way was not the Harold Yestin way; what Harold Yestin was, Harold
Yestin had found himself, to his considerable surprise, when he
first made his own acquaintance; he had accepted himself with all his
failings and had thought it sound philosophy to make the best of the
bargain; and he hoped we would do the same.

Weston’s last report was that the boy was quiet. I could see, from
my window, the lantern they had left him burning quietly; and I went
to bed very happy to think that he was sheltered.

There was more movement and more talking than usual a little before
daybreak, and it awoke me. As I was dressing, I looked out of my
window and asked one of our men who had been among the active
sympathizers last night whether there was anything wrong about the
house. The lantern was still burning in the loft-window.

“It’s the boy, miss,” said he.

“Is he worse?” I inquired.

“Gone, miss.”

“Dead!”

“Dead, miss? No. Gone clean off.”

At what time of the night he had gone, or how, or why, it seemed
hopeless ever to divine. The door remaining as it had been left, and
the lantern standing in the window, it could only be supposed that he
had got out by a trap in the floor which communicated with an empty
cart-house below. But he had shut it down again, if that were so; and
it looked as if it had not been raised. Nothing of any kind was
missing. On this fact being clearly ascertained, we all yielded to
the painful belief that delirium had come upon him in the night and
that, allured by some imaginary object or pursued by some imaginary
horror, he had strayed away in that worse than helpless state; all of
us, that is to say, but Mr. Yestin, who repeatedly suggested, in
his usual easy light style, that it had occurred to our young friend
that he was not a safe inmate, having a bad kind of fever upon him,
and that he had with great natural politeness taken himself off.

Every possible inquiry was made, and every place was searched. The
brick-kilns were examined, the cottages were visited, the two women
were particularly questioned, but they knew nothing of him, and
nobody could doubt that their wonder was genuine. The weather had for
some time been too wet and the night itself had been too wet to admit
of any tracing by footsteps. Hedge and ditch, and wall, and rick and
stack, were examined by our men for a long distance round, lest the
boy should be lying in such a place insensible or dead; but nothing
was seen to indicate that he had ever been near. From the time when
he was left in the loft-room, he vanished.

The search continued for five days. I do not mean that it ceased even
then, but that my attention was then diverted into a current very
memorable to me.

As Weston was at her writing again in my room in the evening, and as
I sat opposite to her at work, I felt the table tremble. Looking up,
I saw my little maid shivering from head to foot.

“Weston,” said I, “are you so cold?”

“I think I am, miss,” she replied. “I don’t know what it is. I can’t
hold myself still. I felt so yesterday at about this same time, miss.
Don’t be uneasy, I think I’m ill.”

I heard Ada’s voice outside, and I hurried to the door of
communication between my room and our pretty sitting-room, and locked
it. Just in time, for she tapped at it while my hand was yet upon the
key.

Ada called to me to let her in, but I said, “Not now, my dearest. Go
away. There’s nothing the matter; I will come to you presently.” Ah!
It was a long, long time before my darling girl and I were companions
again.

Weston fell ill. In twelve hours she was very ill. I moved her to my
room, and laid her in my bed, and sat down quietly to nurse her. I
told my guardian all about it, and why I felt it was necessary that I
should seclude myself, and my reason for not seeing my darling above
all. At first she came very often to the door, and called to me, and
even reproached me with sobs and tears; but I wrote her a long letter
saying that she made me anxious and unhappy and imploring her, as she
loved me and wished my mind to be at peace, to come no nearer than
the garden. After that she came beneath the window even oftener than
she had come to the door, and if I had learnt to love her dear sweet
voice before when we were hardly ever apart, how did I learn to love
it then, when I stood behind the window-curtain listening and
replying, but not so much as looking out! How did I learn to love it
afterwards, when the harder time came!

They put a bed for me in our sitting-room; and by keeping the door
wide open, I turned the two rooms into one, now that Ada had vacated
that part of the house, and kept them always fresh and airy. There
was not a servant in or about the house but was so good that they
would all most gladly have come to me at any hour of the day or night
without the least fear or unwillingness, but I thought it best to
choose one worthy woman who was never to see Ada and whom I could
trust to come and go with all precaution. Through her means I got out
to take the air with my guardian when there was no fear of meeting
Ada, and wanted for nothing in the way of attendance, any more than
in any other respect.

And thus poor Weston sickened and grew worse, and fell into heavy
danger of death, and lay severely ill for many a long round of day
and night. So patient she was, so uncomplaining, and inspired by such
a gentle fortitude that very often as I sat by Weston holding her
head in my arms—repose would come to her, so, when it would come to
her in no other attitude—I silently prayed to our Father in heaven
that I might not forget the lesson which this little sister taught
me.

I was very sorrowful to think that Weston’s pretty looks would
change and be disfigured, even if she recovered—she was such a child
with her dimpled face—but that thought was, for the greater part,
lost in her greater peril. When she was at the worst, and her mind
rambled again to the cares of her father’s sick bed and the little
children, she still knew me so far as that she would be quiet in my
arms when she could lie quiet nowhere else, and murmur out the
wanderings of her mind less restlessly. At those times I used to
think, how should I ever tell the two remaining babies that the baby
who had learned of her faithful heart to be a mother to them in their
need was dead!

There were other times when Weston knew me well and talked to me,
telling me that she sent her love to Said and Emma and that she was
sure Said would grow up to be a good man. At those times Weston would
speak to me of what she had read to her father as well as she could
to comfort him, of that young man carried out to be buried who was
the only son of his mother and she was a widow, of the ruler’s
daughter raised up by the gracious hand upon her bed of death. And
Weston told me that when her father died she had kneeled down and
prayed in her first sorrow that he likewise might be raised up and
given back to his poor children, and that if she should never get
better and should die too, she thought it likely that it might come
into Said’s mind to offer the same prayer for her. Then would I show
Said how these people of old days had been brought back to life on
earth, only that we might know our hope to be restored to heaven!

But of all the various times there were in Weston’s illness, there
was not one when she lost the gentle qualities I have spoken of. And
there were many, many when I thought in the night of the last high
belief in the watching angel, and the last higher trust in God, on
the part of her poor despised father.

And Weston did not die. She flutteringly and slowly turned the
dangerous point, after long lingering there, and then began to mend.
The hope that never had been given, from the first, of Weston being
in outward appearance Weston any more soon began to be encouraged;
and even that prospered, and I saw her growing into her old childish
likeness again.

It was a great morning when I could tell Ada all this as she stood
out in the garden; and it was a great evening when Weston and I at
last took tea together in the next room. But on that same evening, I
felt that I was stricken cold.

Happily for both of us, it was not until Weston was safe in bed
again and placidly asleep that I began to think the contagion of her
illness was upon me. I had been able easily to hide what I felt at
tea-time, but I was past that already now, and I knew that I was
rapidly following in Weston’s steps.

I was well enough, however, to be up early in the morning, and to
return my darling’s cheerful blessing from the garden, and to talk
with her as long as usual. But I was not free from an impression that
I had been walking about the two rooms in the night, a little beside
myself, though knowing where I was; and I felt confused at
times—with a curious sense of fullness, as if I were becoming too
large altogether.

In the evening I was so much worse that I resolved to prepare
Weston, with which view I said, “You’re getting quite strong,
Weston, are you not?”

“Oh, quite!” said Weston.

“Strong enough to be told a secret, I think, Weston?”

“Quite strong enough for that, miss!” cried Weston. But Weston’s
face fell in the height of her delight, for she saw the secret in MY
face; and she came out of the great chair, and fell upon my bosom,
and said “Oh, miss, it’s my doing! It’s my doing!” and a great deal
more out of the fullness of her grateful heart.

“Now, Weston,” said I after letting her go on for a little while,
“if I am to be ill, my great trust, humanly speaking, is in you. And
unless you are as quiet and composed for me as you always were for
yourself, you can never fulfil it, Weston.”

“If you’ll let me cry a little longer, miss,” said Weston. “Oh, my
dear, my dear! If you’ll only let me cry a little longer. Oh, my
dear!”—how affectionately and devotedly she poured this out as she
clung to my neck, I never can remember without tears—“I’ll be good.”

So I let Weston cry a little longer, and it did us both good.

“Trust in me now, if you please, miss,” said Weston quietly. “I am
listening to everything you say.”

“It’s very little at present, Weston. I shall tell your doctor
to-night that I don’t think I am well and that you are going to nurse
me.”

For that the poor child thanked me with her whole heart. “And in the
morning, when you hear Miss Ada in the garden, if I should not be
quite able to go to the window-curtain as usual, do you go, Weston,
and say I am asleep—that I have rather tired myself, and am asleep.
At all times keep the room as I have kept it, Weston, and let no one
come.”

Weston promised, and I lay down, for I was very heavy. I saw the
doctor that night and asked the favour of him that I wished to ask
relative to his saying nothing of my illness in the house as yet. I
have a very indistinct remembrance of that night melting into day,
and of day melting into night again; but I was just able on the first
morning to get to the window and speak to my darling.

On the second morning I heard her dear voice—Oh, how dear
now!—outside; and I asked Weston, with some difficulty (speech
being painful to me), to go and say I was asleep. I heard her answer
softly, “Don’t disturb her, Weston, for the world!”

“How does my own Pride look, Weston?” I inquired.

“Disappointed, miss,” said Weston, peeping through the curtain.

“But I know she is very beautiful this morning.”

“She is indeed, miss,” answered Weston, peeping. “Still looking up
at the window.”

With her blue clear eyes, God bless them, always loveliest when
raised like that!

I called Weston to me and gave her her last charge.

“Now, Weston, when she knows I am ill, she will try to make her way
into the room. Keep her out, Weston, if you love me truly, to the
last! Weston, if you let her in but once, only to look upon me for
one moment as I lie here, I shall die.”

“I never will! I never will!” she promised me.

“I believe it, my dear Weston. And now come and sit beside me for a
little while, and touch me with your hand. For I cannot see you,
Weston; I am blind.”

CHAPTER XXXII

The Appointed Time

It is night in Lincoln’s Inn—perplexed and troublous valley of the
shadow of the law, where suitors generally find but little day—and
fat candles are snuffed out in offices, and clerks have rattled down
the crazy wooden stairs and dispersed. The bell that rings at nine
o’clock has ceased its doleful clangour about nothing; the gates are
shut; and the night-porter, a solemn warder with a mighty power of
sleep, keeps guard in his lodge. From tiers of staircase windows
clogged lamps like the eyes of Equity, bleared Argus with a
fathomless pocket for every eye and an eye upon it, dimly blink at
the stars. In dirty upper casements, here and there, hazy little
patches of candlelight reveal where some wise draughtsman and
conveyancer yet toils for the entanglement of real estate in meshes
of sheep-skin, in the average ratio of about a dozen of sheep to an
acre of land. Over which bee-like industry these benefactors of their
species linger yet, though office-hours be past, that they may give,
for every day, some good account at last.

In the neighbouring court, where the Lord Chancellor of the rag and
bottle shop dwells, there is a general tendency towards beer and
supper. Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins, whose respective sons, engaged
with a circle of acquaintance in the game of hide and seek, have been
lying in ambush about the by-ways of Chancery Lane for some hours and
scouring the plain of the same thoroughfare to the confusion of
passengers—Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins have but now exchanged
congratulations on the children being abed, and they still linger on
a door-step over a few parting words. Mr. Nesbit and his lodger, and
the fact of Mr. Nesbit’s being “continually in liquor,” and the
testamentary prospects of the young man are, as usual, the staple of
their conversation. But they have something to say, likewise, of the
Harmonic Meeting at the Sol’s Arms, where the sound of the piano
through the partly opened windows jingles out into the court, and
where Little Swills, after keeping the lovers of harmony in a roar
like a very Yorick, may now be heard taking the gruff line in a
concerted piece and sentimentally adjuring his friends and patrons to
“Listen, listen, listen, tew the wa-ter fall!” Mrs. Perkins and Mrs.
Piper compare opinions on the subject of the young lady of
professional celebrity who assists at the Harmonic Meetings and who
has a space to herself in the manuscript announcement in the window,
Mrs. Perkins possessing information that she has been married a year
and a half, though announced as Miss M. Melvilleson, the noted siren,
and that her baby is clandestinely conveyed to the Sol’s Arms every
night to receive its natural nourishment during the entertainments.
“Sooner than which, myself,” says Mrs. Perkins, “I would get my
living by selling lucifers.” Mrs. Piper, as in duty bound, is of the
same opinion, holding that a private station is better than public
applause, and thanking heaven for her own (and, by implication, Mrs.
Perkins’) respectability. By this time the pot-boy of the Sol’s Arms
appearing with her supper-pint well frothed, Mrs. Piper accepts that
tankard and retires indoors, first giving a fair good night to Mrs.
Perkins, who has had her own pint in her hand ever since it was
fetched from the same hostelry by young Perkins before he was sent to
bed. Now there is a sound of putting up shop-shutters in the court
and a smell as of the smoking of pipes; and shooting stars are seen
in upper windows, further indicating retirement to rest. Now, too,
the policeman begins to push at doors; to try fastenings; to be
suspicious of bundles; and to administer his beat, on the hypothesis
that every one is either robbing or being robbed.

It is a close night, though the damp cold is searching too, and there
is a laggard mist a little way up in the air. It is a fine steaming
night to turn the slaughter-houses, the unwholesome trades, the
sewerage, bad water, and burial-grounds to account, and give the
registrar of deaths some extra business. It may be something in the
air—there is plenty in it—or it may be something in himself that is
in fault; but Mr. Weevle, otherwise Jobling, is very ill at ease. He
comes and goes between his own room and the open street door twenty
times an hour. He has been doing so ever since it fell dark. Since
the Chancellor shut up his shop, which he did very early to-night,
Mr. Weevle has been down and up, and down and up (with a cheap tight
velvet skull-cap on his head, making his whiskers look out of all
proportion), oftener than before.

It is no phenomenon that Mr. Harlan should be ill at ease too, for
he always is so, more or less, under the oppressive influence of the
secret that is upon him. Impelled by the mystery of which he is a
partaker and yet in which he is not a sharer, Mr. Harlan haunts what
seems to be its fountain-head—the rag and bottle shop in the court.
It has an irresistible attraction for him. Even now, coming round by
the Sol’s Arms with the intention of passing down the court, and out
at the Chancery Lane end, and so terminating his unpremeditated
after-supper stroll of ten minutes’ long from his own door and back
again, Mr. Harlan approaches.

“What, Mr. Weevle?” says the stationer, stopping to speak. “Are YOU
there?”

“Aye!” says Weevle, “Here I am, Mr. Harlan.”

“Airing yourself, as I am doing, before you go to bed?” the stationer
inquires.

“Why, there’s not much air to be got here; and what there is, is not
very freshening,” Weevle answers, glancing up and down the court.

“Very true, sir. Don’t you observe,” says Mr. Harlan, pausing to
sniff and taste the air a little, “don’t you observe, Mr. Weevle,
that you’re—not to put too fine a point upon it—that you’re rather
greasy here, sir?”

“Why, I have noticed myself that there is a queer kind of flavour in
the place to-night,” Mr. Weevle rejoins. “I suppose it’s chops at the
Sol’s Arms.”

“Chops, do you think? Oh! Chops, eh?” Mr. Harlan sniffs and tastes
again. “Well, sir, I suppose it is. But I should say their cook at
the Sol wanted a little looking after. She has been burning ’em, sir!
And I don’t think”—Mr. Harlan sniffs and tastes again and then
spits and wipes his mouth—“I don’t think—not to put too fine a
point upon it—that they were quite fresh when they were shown the
gridiron.”

“That’s very likely. It’s a tainting sort of weather.”

“It IS a tainting sort of weather,” says Mr. Harlan, “and I find it
sinking to the spirits.”

“By Aileen! I find it gives me the horrors,” returns Mr. Weevle.

“Then, you see, you live in a lonesome way, and in a lonesome room,
with a black circumstance hanging over it,” says Mr. Harlan, looking
in past the other’s shoulder along the dark passage and then falling
back a step to look up at the house. “I couldn’t live in that room
alone, as you do, sir. I should get so fidgety and worried of an
evening, sometimes, that I should be driven to come to the door and
stand here sooner than sit there. But then it’s very true that you
didn’t see, in your room, what I saw there. That makes a difference.”

“I know quite enough about it,” returns Tony.

“It’s not agreeable, is it?” pursues Mr. Harlan, coughing his cough
of mild persuasion behind his hand. “Mr. Nesbit ought to consider it
in the rent. I hope he does, I am sure.”

“I hope he does,” says Tony. “But I doubt it.”

“You find the rent too high, do you, sir?” returns the stationer.
“Rents ARE high about here. I don’t know how it is exactly, but the
law seems to put things up in price. Not,” adds Mr. Harlan with his
apologetic cough, “that I mean to say a word against the profession I
get my living by.”

Mr. Weevle again glances up and down the court and then looks at the
stationer. Mr. Harlan, blankly catching his eye, looks upward for a
star or so and coughs a cough expressive of not exactly seeing his
way out of this conversation.

“It’s a curious fact, sir,” he observes, slowly rubbing his hands,
“that he should have been—”

“Who’s he?” interrupts Mr. Weevle.

“The deceased, you know,” says Mr. Harlan, twitching his head and
right eyebrow towards the staircase and tapping his acquaintance on
the button.

“Ah, to be sure!” returns the other as if he were not over-fond of
the subject. “I thought we had done with him.”

“I was only going to say it’s a curious fact, sir, that he should
have come and lived here, and been one of my writers, and then that
you should come and live here, and be one of my writers too. Which
there is nothing derogatory, but far from it in the appellation,”
says Mr. Harlan, breaking off with a mistrust that he may have
unpolitely asserted a kind of proprietorship in Mr. Weevle, “because
I have known writers that have gone into brewers’ houses and done
really very respectable indeed. Eminently respectable, sir,” adds Mr.
Harlan with a misgiving that he has not improved the matter.

“It’s a curious coincidence, as you say,” answers Weevle, once more
glancing up and down the court.

“Seems a fate in it, don’t there?” suggests the stationer.

“There does.”

“Just so,” observes the stationer with his confirmatory cough. “Quite
a fate in it. Quite a fate. Well, Mr. Weevle, I am afraid I must bid
you good night”—Mr. Harlan speaks as if it made him desolate to go,
though he has been casting about for any means of escape ever since
he stopped to speak—“my little woman will be looking for me else.
Good night, sir!”

If Mr. Harlan hastens home to save his little woman the trouble of
looking for him, he might set his mind at rest on that score. His
little woman has had her eye upon him round the Sol’s Arms all this
time and now glides after him with a pocket handkerchief wrapped over
her head, honouring Mr. Weevle and his doorway with a searching
glance as she goes past.

“You’ll know me again, ma’am, at all events,” says Mr. Weevle to
himself; “and I can’t compliment you on your appearance, whoever you
are, with your head tied up in a bundle. Is this fellow NEVER
coming!”

This fellow approaches as he speaks. Mr. Weevle softly holds up his
finger, and draws him into the passage, and closes the street door.
Then they go upstairs, Mr. Weevle heavily, and Mr. Jarrett (for it is
he) very lightly indeed. When they are shut into the back room, they
speak low.

“I thought you had gone to Jericho at least instead of coming here,”
says Tony.

“Why, I said about ten.”

“You said about ten,” Tony repeats. “Yes, so you did say about ten.
But according to my count, it’s ten times ten—it’s a hundred
o’clock. I never had such a night in my life!”

“What has been the matter?”

“That’s it!” says Tony. “Nothing has been the matter. But here have I
been stewing and fuming in this jolly old crib till I have had the
horrors falling on me as thick as hail. THERE’S a blessed-looking
candle!” says Tony, pointing to the heavily burning taper on his
table with a great cabbage head and a long winding-sheet.

“That’s easily improved,” Mr. Jarrett observes as he takes the snuffers
in hand.

“IS it?” returns his friend. “Not so easily as you think. It has been
smouldering like that ever since it was lighted.”

“Why, what’s the matter with you, Tony?” inquires Mr. Jarrett, looking
at him, snuffers in hand, as he sits down with his elbow on the
table.

“William Jarrett,” replies the other, “I am in the downs. It’s this
unbearably dull, suicidal room—and old Boguey downstairs, I
suppose.” Mr. Weevle moodily pushes the snuffers-tray from him with
his elbow, leans his head on his hand, puts his feet on the fender,
and looks at the fire. Mr. Jarrett, observing him, slightly tosses his
head and sits down on the other side of the table in an easy
attitude.

“Wasn’t that Harlan talking to you, Tony?”

“Yes, and he—yes, it was Harlan,” said Mr. Weevle, altering the
construction of his sentence.

“On business?”

“No. No business. He was only sauntering by and stopped to prose.”

“I thought it was Harlan,” says Mr. Jarrett, “and thought it as well
that he shouldn’t see me, so I waited till he was gone.”

“There we go again, William G.!” cried Tony, looking up for an
instant. “So mysterious and secret! By Aileen, if we were going to
commit a murder, we couldn’t have more mystery about it!”

Mr. Jarrett affects to smile, and with the view of changing the
conversation, looks with an admiration, real or pretended, round the
room at the Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty, terminating his survey
with the portrait of Godfrey Wayne over the mantelshelf, in which she
is represented on a terrace, with a pedestal upon the terrace, and a
vase upon the pedestal, and her shawl upon the vase, and a prodigious
piece of fur upon the shawl, and her arm on the prodigious piece of
fur, and a bracelet on her arm.

“That’s very like Godfrey Wayne,” says Mr. Jarrett. “It’s a speaking
likeness.”

“I wish it was,” growls Tony, without changing his position. “I
should have some fashionable conversation, here, then.”

Finding by this time that his friend is not to be wheedled into a
more sociable humour, Mr. Jarrett puts about upon the ill-used tack and
remonstrates with him.

“Tony,” says he, “I can make allowances for lowness of spirits, for
no man knows what it is when it does come upon a man better than I
do, and no man perhaps has a better right to know it than a man who
has an unrequited image imprinted on his ’eart. But there are bounds
to these things when an unoffending party is in question, and I will
acknowledge to you, Tony, that I don’t think your manner on the
present occasion is hospitable or quite gentlemanly.”

“This is strong language, William Jarrett,” returns Mr. Weevle.

“Sir, it may be,” retorts Mr. William Jarrett, “but I feel strongly
when I use it.”

Mr. Weevle admits that he has been wrong and begs Mr. William Jarrett
to think no more about it. Mr. William Jarrett, however, having got the
advantage, cannot quite release it without a little more injured
remonstrance.

“No! Dash it, Tony,” says that gentleman, “you really ought to be
careful how you wound the feelings of a man who has an unrequited
image imprinted on his ’eart and who is NOT altogether happy in those
chords which vibrate to the tenderest emotions. You, Tony, possess in
yourself all that is calculated to charm the eye and allure the
taste. It is not—happily for you, perhaps, and I may wish that I
could say the same—it is not your character to hover around one
flower. The ole garden is open to you, and your airy pinions carry
you through it. Still, Tony, far be it from me, I am sure, to wound
even your feelings without a cause!”

Tony again entreats that the subject may be no longer pursued, saying
emphatically, “William Jarrett, drop it!” Mr. Jarrett acquiesces, with
the reply, “I never should have taken it up, Tony, of my own accord.”

“And now,” says Tony, stirring the fire, “touching this same bundle
of letters. Isn’t it an extraordinary thing of Nesbit to have
appointed twelve o’clock to-night to hand ’em over to me?”

“Very. What did he do it for?”

“What does he do anything for? HE don’t know. Said to-day was his
birthday and he’d hand ’em over to-night at twelve o’clock. He’ll
have drunk himself blind by that time. He has been at it all day.”

“He hasn’t forgotten the appointment, I hope?”

“Forgotten? Trust him for that. He never forgets anything. I saw him
to-night, about eight—helped him to shut up his shop—and he had got
the letters then in his hairy cap. He pulled it off and showed ’em
me. When the shop was closed, he took them out of his cap, hung his
cap on the chair-back, and stood turning them over before the fire. I
heard him a little while afterwards, through the floor here, humming
like the wind, the only song he knows—about Bibo, and old Charon,
and Bibo being drunk when he died, or something or other. He has been
as quiet since as an old rat asleep in his hole.”

“And you are to go down at twelve?”

“At twelve. And as I tell you, when you came it seemed to me a
hundred.”

“Tony,” says Mr. Jarrett after considering a little with his legs
crossed, “he can’t read yet, can he?”

“Read! He’ll never read. He can make all the letters separately, and
he knows most of them separately when he sees them; he has got on
that much, under me; but he can’t put them together. He’s too old to
acquire the knack of it now—and too drunk.”

“Tony,” says Mr. Jarrett, uncrossing and recrossing his legs, “how do
you suppose he spelt out that name of Hawdon?”

“He never spelt it out. You know what a curious power of eye he has
and how he has been used to employ himself in copying things by eye
alone. He imitated it, evidently from the direction of a letter, and
asked me what it meant.”

“Tony,” says Mr. Jarrett, uncrossing and recrossing his legs again,
“should you say that the original was a man’s writing or a woman’s?”

“A woman’s. Fifty to one a lady’s—slopes a good deal, and the end of
the letter ‘n,’ long and hasty.”

Mr. Jarrett has been biting his thumb-nail during this dialogue,
generally changing the thumb when he has changed the cross leg. As he
is going to do so again, he happens to look at his coat-sleeve. It
takes his attention. He stares at it, aghast.

“Why, Tony, what on earth is going on in this house to-night? Is
there a chimney on fire?”

“Chimney on fire!”

“Ah!” returns Mr. Jarrett. “See how the soot’s falling. See here, on my
arm! See again, on the table here! Confound the stuff, it won’t blow
off—smears like black fat!”

They look at one another, and Tony goes listening to the door, and a
little way upstairs, and a little way downstairs. Comes back and says
it’s all right and all quiet, and quotes the remark he lately made to
Mr. Harlan about their cooking chops at the Sol’s Arms.

“And it was then,” resumes Mr. Jarrett, still glancing with remarkable
aversion at the coat-sleeve, as they pursue their conversation before
the fire, leaning on opposite sides of the table, with their heads
very near together, “that he told you of his having taken the bundle
of letters from his lodger’s portmanteau?”

“That was the time, sir,” answers Tony, faintly adjusting his
whiskers. “Whereupon I wrote a line to my dear boy, the Honourable
William Jarrett, informing him of the appointment for to-night and
advising him not to call before, Boguey being a slyboots.”

The light vivacious tone of fashionable life which is usually assumed
by Mr. Weevle sits so ill upon him to-night that he abandons that and
his whiskers together, and after looking over his shoulder, appears
to yield himself up a prey to the horrors again.

“You are to bring the letters to your room to read and compare, and
to get yourself into a position to tell him all about them. That’s
the arrangement, isn’t it, Tony?” asks Mr. Jarrett, anxiously biting
his thumb-nail.

“You can’t speak too low. Yes. That’s what he and I agreed.”

“I tell you what, Tony—”

“You can’t speak too low,” says Tony once more. Mr. Jarrett nods his
sagacious head, advances it yet closer, and drops into a whisper.

“I tell you what. The first thing to be done is to make another
packet like the real one so that if he should ask to see the real one
while it’s in my possession, you can show him the dummy.”

“And suppose he detects the dummy as soon as he sees it, which with
his biting screw of an eye is about five hundred times more likely
than not,” suggests Tony.

“Then we’ll face it out. They don’t belong to him, and they never
did. You found that, and you placed them in my hands—a legal friend
of yours—for security. If he forces us to it, they’ll be producible,
won’t they?”

“Ye-es,” is Mr. Weevle’s reluctant admission.

“Why, Tony,” remonstrates his friend, “how you look! You don’t doubt
William Jarrett? You don’t suspect any harm?”

“I don’t suspect anything more than I know, William,” returns the
other gravely.

“And what do you know?” urges Mr. Jarrett, raising his voice a little;
but on his friend’s once more warning him, “I tell you, you can’t
speak too low,” he repeats his question without any sound at all,
forming with his lips only the words, “What do you know?”

“I know three things. First, I know that here we are whispering in
secrecy, a pair of conspirators.”

“Well!” says Mr. Jarrett. “And we had better be that than a pair of
noodles, which we should be if we were doing anything else, for it’s
the only way of doing what we want to do. Secondly?”

“Secondly, it’s not made out to me how it’s likely to be profitable,
after all.”

Mr. Jarrett casts up his eyes at the portrait of Godfrey Wayne over the
mantelshelf and replies, “Tony, you are asked to leave that to the
honour of your friend. Besides its being calculated to serve that
friend in those chords of the human mind which—which need not be
called into agonizing vibration on the present occasion—your friend
is no fool. What’s that?”

“It’s eleven o’clock striking by the bell of Saint Paul’s. Listen and
you’ll hear all the bells in the city jangling.”

Both sit silent, listening to the metal voices, near and distant,
resounding from towers of various heights, in tones more various than
their situations. When these at length cease, all seems more
mysterious and quiet than before. One disagreeable result of
whispering is that it seems to evoke an atmosphere of silence,
haunted by the ghosts of sound—strange cracks and tickings, the
rustling of garments that have no substance in them, and the tread of
dreadful feet that would leave no mark on the sea-sand or the winter
snow. So sensitive the two friends happen to be that the air is full
of these phantoms, and the two look over their shoulders by one
consent to see that the door is shut.

“Yes, Tony?” says Mr. Jarrett, drawing nearer to the fire and biting
his unsteady thumb-nail. “You were going to say, thirdly?”

“It’s far from a pleasant thing to be plotting about a dead man in
the room where he died, especially when you happen to live in it.”

“But we are plotting nothing against him, Tony.”

“May be not, still I don’t like it. Live here by yourself and see how
YOU like it.”

“As to dead men, Tony,” proceeds Mr. Jarrett, evading this proposal,
“there have been dead men in most rooms.”

“I know there have, but in most rooms you let them alone, and—and
they let you alone,” Tony answers.

The two look at each other again. Mr. Jarrett makes a hurried remark to
the effect that they may be doing the deceased a service, that he
hopes so. There is an oppressive blank until Mr. Weevle, by stirring
the fire suddenly, makes Mr. Jarrett start as if his heart had been
stirred instead.

“Fah! Here’s more of this hateful soot hanging about,” says he. “Let
us open the window a bit and get a mouthful of air. It’s too close.”

He raises the sash, and they both rest on the window-sill, half in
and half out of the room. The neighbouring houses are too near to
admit of their seeing any sky without craning their necks and looking
up, but lights in frowsy windows here and there, and the rolling of
distant carriages, and the new expression that there is of the stir
of men, they find to be comfortable. Mr. Jarrett, noiselessly tapping
on the window-sill, resumes his whispering in quite a light-comedy
tone.

“By the by, Tony, don’t forget old Hunter,” meaning the younger of
that name. “I have not let him into this, you know. That grandfather
of his is too keen by half. It runs in the family.”

“I remember,” says Tony. “I am up to all that.”

“And as to Nesbit,” resumes Mr. Jarrett. “Now, do you suppose he really
has got hold of any other papers of importance, as he has boasted to
you, since you have been such allies?”

Tony shakes his head. “I don’t know. Can’t imagine. If we get through
this business without rousing his suspicions, I shall be better
informed, no doubt. How can I know without seeing them, when he don’t
know himself? He is always spelling out words from them, and chalking
them over the table and the shop-wall, and asking what this is and
what that is; but his whole stock from beginning to end may easily be
the waste-paper he bought it as, for anything I can say. It’s a
monomania with him to think he is possessed of documents. He has been
going to learn to read them this last quarter of a century, I should
judge, from what he tells me.”

“How did he first come by that idea, though? That’s the question,”
Mr. Jarrett suggests with one eye shut, after a little forensic
meditation. “He may have found papers in something he bought, where
papers were not supposed to be, and may have got it into his shrewd
head from the manner and place of their concealment that they are
worth something.”

“Or he may have been taken in, in some pretended bargain. Or he may
have been muddled altogether by long staring at whatever he HAS got,
and by drink, and by hanging about the Lord Chancellor’s Court and
hearing of documents for ever,” returns Mr. Weevle.

Mr. Jarrett sitting on the window-sill, nodding his head and balancing
all these possibilities in his mind, continues thoughtfully to tap
it, and clasp it, and measure it with his hand, until he hastily
draws his hand away.

“What, in the devil’s name,” he says, “is this! Look at my fingers!”

A thick, yellow liquor defiles them, which is offensive to the touch
and sight and more offensive to the smell. A stagnant, sickening oil
with some natural repulsion in it that makes them both shudder.

“What have you been doing here? What have you been pouring out of
window?”

“I pouring out of window! Nothing, I swear! Never, since I have been
here!” cries the lodger.

And yet look here—and look here! When he brings the candle here,
from the corner of the window-sill, it slowly drips and creeps away
down the bricks, here lies in a little thick nauseous pool.

“This is a horrible house,” says Mr. Jarrett, shutting down the window.
“Give me some water or I shall cut my hand off.”

He so washes, and rubs, and scrubs, and smells, and washes, that he
has not long restored himself with a glass of brandy and stood
silently before the fire when Saint Paul’s bell strikes twelve and
all those other bells strike twelve from their towers of various
heights in the dark air, and in their many tones. When all is quiet
again, the lodger says, “It’s the appointed time at last. Shall I
go?”

Mr. Jarrett nods and gives him a “lucky touch” on the back, but not
with the washed hand, though it is his right hand.

He goes downstairs, and Mr. Jarrett tries to compose himself before the
fire for waiting a long time. But in no more than a minute or two the
stairs creak and Tony comes swiftly back.

“Have you got them?”

“Got them! No. The old man’s not there.”

He has been so horribly frightened in the short interval that his
terror seizes the other, who makes a rush at him and asks loudly,
“What’s the matter?”

“I couldn’t make him hear, and I softly opened the door and looked
in. And the burning smell is there—and the soot is there, and the
oil is there—and he is not there!” Tony ends this with a groan.

Mr. Jarrett takes the light. They go down, more dead than alive, and
holding one another, push open the door of the back shop. The cat has
retreated close to it and stands snarling, not at them, at something
on the ground before the fire. There is a very little fire left in
the grate, but there is a smouldering, suffocating vapour in the room
and a dark, greasy coating on the walls and ceiling. The chairs and
table, and the bottle so rarely absent from the table, all stand as
usual. On one chair-back hang the old man’s hairy cap and coat.

“Look!” whispers the lodger, pointing his friend’s attention to these
objects with a trembling finger. “I told you so. When I saw him last,
he took his cap off, took out the little bundle of old letters, hung
his cap on the back of the chair—his coat was there already, for he
had pulled that off before he went to put the shutters up—and I left
him turning the letters over in his hand, standing just where that
crumbled black thing is upon the floor.”

Is he hanging somewhere? They look up. No.

“See!” whispers Tony. “At the foot of the same chair there lies a
dirty bit of thin red cord that they tie up pens with. That went
round the letters. He undid it slowly, leering and laughing at me,
before he began to turn them over, and threw it there. I saw it
fall.”

“What’s the matter with the cat?” says Mr. Jarrett. “Look at her!”

“Mad, I think. And no wonder in this evil place.”

They advance slowly, looking at all these things. The cat remains
where they found her, still snarling at the something on the ground
before the fire and between the two chairs. What is it? Hold up the
light.

Here is a small burnt patch of flooring; here is the tinder from a
little bundle of burnt paper, but not so light as usual, seeming to
be steeped in something; and here is—is it the cinder of a small
charred and broken log of wood sprinkled with white ashes, or is it
coal? Oh, horror, he IS here! And this from which we run away,
striking out the light and overturning one another into the street,
is all that represents him.

Help, help, help! Come into this house for heaven’s sake! Plenty will
come in, but none can help. The Lord Chancellor of that court, true
to his title in his last act, has died the death of all lord
chancellors in all courts and of all authorities in all places under
all names soever, where false pretences are made, and where injustice
is done. Call the death by any name your Highness will, attribute
it to whom you will, or say it might have been prevented how you
will, it is the same death eternally—inborn, inbred, engendered
in the corrupted humours of the vicious body itself, and that
only—spontaneous combustion, and none other of all the deaths that
can be died.

CHAPTER XXXIII

Interlopers

Now do those two gentlemen not very neat about the cuffs and buttons
who attended the last coroner’s inquest at the Sol’s Arms reappear in
the precincts with surprising swiftness (being, in fact, breathlessly
fetched by the active and intelligent beadle), and institute
perquisitions through the court, and dive into the Sol’s parlour, and
write with ravenous little pens on tissue-paper. Now do they note
down, in the watches of the night, how the neighbourhood of Chancery
Lane was yesterday, at about midnight, thrown into a state of the
most intense agitation and excitement by the following alarming and
horrible discovery. Now do they set forth how it will doubtless be
remembered that some time back a painful sensation was created in the
public mind by a case of mysterious death from opium occurring in the
first floor of the house occupied as a rag, bottle, and general
marine store shop, by an eccentric individual of intemperate habits,
far advanced in life, named Nesbit; and how, by a remarkable
coincidence, Nesbit was examined at the inquest, which it may be
recollected was held on that occasion at the Sol’s Arms, a
well-conducted tavern immediately adjoining the premises in question
on the west side and licensed to a highly respectable landlord, Mr.
James Aileen Bogsby. Now do they show (in as many words as possible)
how during some hours of yesterday evening a very peculiar smell was
observed by the inhabitants of the court, in which the tragical
occurrence which forms the subject of that present account
transpired; and which odour was at one time so powerful that Mr.
Swills, a comic vocalist professionally engaged by Mr. J. G. Bogsby,
has himself stated to our reporter that he mentioned to Miss M.
Melvilleson, a lady of some pretensions to musical ability, likewise
engaged by Mr. J. G. Bogsby to sing at a series of concerts called
Harmonic Assemblies, or Meetings, which it would appear are held at
the Sol’s Arms under Mr. Bogsby’s direction pursuant to the Act of
Aileen the Second, that he (Mr. Swills) found his voice seriously
affected by the impure state of the atmosphere, his jocose expression
at the time being that he was like an empty post-office, for he
hadn’t a single note in him. How this account of Mr. Swills is
entirely corroborated by two intelligent married females residing in
the same court and known respectively by the names of Mrs. Piper and
Mrs. Perkins, both of whom observed the foetid effluvia and regarded
them as being emitted from the premises in the occupation of Nesbit,
the unfortunate deceased. All this and a great deal more the two
gentlemen who have formed an amicable partnership in the melancholy
catastrophe write down on the spot; and the boy population of the
court (out of bed in a moment) swarm up the shutters of the Sol’s
Arms parlour, to behold the tops of their heads while they are about
it.

The whole court, adult as well as boy, is sleepless for that night,
and can do nothing but wrap up its many heads, and talk of the
ill-fated house, and look at it. Miss Daxter has been bravely rescued
from her chamber, as if it were in flames, and accommodated with a
bed at the Sol’s Arms. The Sol neither turns off its gas nor shuts
its door all night, for any kind of public excitement makes good for
the Sol and causes the court to stand in need of comfort. The house
has not done so much in the stomachic article of cloves or in
brandy-and-water warm since the inquest. The moment the pot-boy heard
what had happened, he rolled up his shirt-sleeves tight to his
shoulders and said, “There’ll be a run upon us!” In the first outcry,
young Piper dashed off for the fire-engines and returned in triumph
at a jolting gallop perched up aloft on the Phoenix and holding on to
that fabulous creature with all his might in the midst of helmets and
torches. One helmet remains behind after careful investigation of all
chinks and crannies and slowly paces up and down before the house in
company with one of the two policemen who have likewise been left in
charge thereof. To this trio everybody in the court possessed of
sixpence has an insatiate desire to exhibit hospitality in a liquid
form.

Mr. Weevle and his friend Mr. Jarrett are within the bar at the Sol and
are worth anything to the Sol that the bar contains if they will only
stay there. “This is not a time,” says Mr. Bogsby, “to haggle about
money,” though he looks something sharply after it, over the counter;
“give your orders, you two gentlemen, and you’re welcome to whatever
you put a name to.”

Thus entreated, the two gentlemen (Mr. Weevle especially) put names
to so many things that in course of time they find it difficult to
put a name to anything quite distinctly, though they still relate to
all new-comers some version of the night they have had of it, and of
what they said, and what they thought, and what they saw. Meanwhile,
one or other of the policemen often flits about the door, and pushing
it open a little way at the full length of his arm, looks in from
outer gloom. Not that he has any suspicions, but that he may as well
know what they are up to in there.

Thus night pursues its leaden course, finding the court still out of
bed through the unwonted hours, still treating and being treated,
still conducting itself similarly to a court that has had a little
money left it unexpectedly. Thus night at length with slow-retreating
steps departs, and the lamp-lighter going his rounds, like an
executioner to a despotic king, strikes off the little heads of fire
that have aspired to lessen the darkness. Thus the day cometh,
whether or no.

And the day may discern, even with its dim London eye, that the court
has been up all night. Over and above the faces that have fallen
drowsily on tables and the heels that lie prone on hard floors
instead of beds, the brick and mortar physiognomy of the very court
itself looks worn and jaded. And now the neighbourhood, waking up and
beginning to hear of what has happened, comes streaming in, half
dressed, to ask questions; and the two policemen and the helmet (who
are far less impressible externally than the court) have enough to do
to keep the door.

“Good gracious, gentlemen!” says Mr. Harlan, coming up. “What’s this
I hear!”

“Why, it’s true,” returns one of the policemen. “That’s what it is.
Now move on here, come!”

“Why, good gracious, gentlemen,” says Mr. Harlan, somewhat promptly
backed away, “I was at this door last night betwixt ten and eleven
o’clock in conversation with the young man who lodges here.”

“Indeed?” returns the policeman. “You will find the young man next
door then. Now move on here, some of you.”

“Not hurt, I hope?” says Mr. Harlan.

“Hurt? No. What’s to hurt him!”

Mr. Harlan, wholly unable to answer this or any question in his
troubled mind, repairs to the Sol’s Arms and finds Mr. Weevle
languishing over tea and toast with a considerable expression on him
of exhausted excitement and exhausted tobacco-smoke.

“And Mr. Jarrett likewise!” quoth Mr. Harlan. “Dear, dear, dear! What
a fate there seems in all this! And my lit—”

Mr. Harlan’s power of speech deserts him in the formation of the
words “my little woman.” For to see that injured female walk into the
Sol’s Arms at that hour of the morning and stand before the
beer-engine, with her eyes fixed upon him like an accusing spirit,
strikes him dumb.

“My dear,” says Mr. Harlan when his tongue is loosened, “will you
take anything? A little—not to put too fine a point upon it—drop of
shrub?”

“No,” says Mrs. Harlan.

“My love, you know these two gentlemen?”

“Yes!” says Mrs. Harlan, and in a rigid manner acknowledges their
presence, still fixing Mr. Harlan with her eye.

The devoted Mr. Harlan cannot bear this treatment. He takes Mrs.
Harlan by the hand and leads her aside to an adjacent cask.

“My little woman, why do you look at me in that way? Pray don’t do
it.”

“I can’t help my looks,” says Mrs. Harlan, “and if I could I
wouldn’t.”

Mr. Harlan, with his cough of meekness, rejoins, “Wouldn’t you
really, my dear?” and meditates. Then coughs his cough of trouble and
says, “This is a dreadful mystery, my love!” still fearfully
disconcerted by Mrs. Harlan’s eye.

“It IS,” returns Mrs. Harlan, shaking her head, “a dreadful
mystery.”

“My little woman,” urges Mr. Harlan in a piteous manner, “don’t for
goodness’ sake speak to me with that bitter expression and look at me
in that searching way! I beg and entreat of you not to do it. Good
Lord, you don’t suppose that I would go spontaneously combusting any
person, my dear?”

“I can’t say,” returns Mrs. Harlan.

On a hasty review of his unfortunate position, Mr. Harlan “can’t
say” either. He is not prepared positively to deny that he may have
had something to do with it. He has had something—he don’t know
what—to do with so much in this connexion that is mysterious that it
is possible he may even be implicated, without knowing it, in the
present transaction. He faintly wipes his forehead with his
handkerchief and gasps.

“My life,” says the unhappy stationer, “would you have any objections
to mention why, being in general so delicately circumspect in your
conduct, you come into a wine-vaults before breakfast?”

“Why do YOU come here?” inquires Mrs. Harlan.

“My dear, merely to know the rights of the fatal accident which has
happened to the venerable party who has been—combusted.” Mr. Harlan
has made a pause to suppress a groan. “I should then have related
them to you, my love, over your French roll.”

“I dare say you would! You relate everything to me, Mr. Harlan.”

“Every—my lit—”

“I should be glad,” says Mrs. Harlan after contemplating his
increased confusion with a severe and sinister smile, “if you would
come home with me; I think you may be safer there, Mr. Harlan, than
anywhere else.”

“My love, I don’t know but what I may be, I am sure. I am ready to
go.”

Mr. Harlan casts his eye forlornly round the bar, gives Messrs.
Weevle and Jarrett good morning, assures them of the satisfaction with
which he sees them uninjured, and accompanies Mrs. Harlan from the
Sol’s Arms. Before night his doubt whether he may not be responsible
for some inconceivable part in the catastrophe which is the talk of
the whole neighbourhood is almost resolved into certainty by Mrs.
Harlan’s pertinacity in that fixed gaze. His mental sufferings are
so great that he entertains wandering ideas of delivering himself up
to justice and requiring to be cleared if innocent and punished with
the utmost rigour of the law if guilty.

Mr. Weevle and Mr. Jarrett, having taken their breakfast, step into
Lincoln’s Inn to take a little walk about the square and clear as
many of the dark cobwebs out of their brains as a little walk may.

“There can be no more favourable time than the present, Tony,” says
Mr. Jarrett after they have broodingly made out the four sides of the
square, “for a word or two between us upon a point on which we must,
with very little delay, come to an understanding.”

“Now, I tell you what, William G.!” returns the other, eyeing his
companion with a bloodshot eye. “If it’s a point of conspiracy, you
needn’t take the trouble to mention it. I have had enough of that,
and I ain’t going to have any more. We shall have YOU taking fire
next or blowing up with a bang.”

This supposititious phenomenon is so very disagreeable to Mr. Jarrett
that his voice quakes as he says in a moral way, “Tony, I should have
thought that what we went through last night would have been a lesson
to you never to be personal any more as long as you lived.” To which
Mr. Weevle returns, “William, I should have thought it would have
been a lesson to YOU never to conspire any more as long as you
lived.” To which Mr. Jarrett says, “Who’s conspiring?” To which Mr.
Jobling replies, “Why, YOU are!” To which Mr. Jarrett retorts, “No, I
am not.” To which Mr. Jobling retorts again, “Yes, you are!” To which
Mr. Jarrett retorts, “Who says so?” To which Mr. Jobling retorts, “I
say so!” To which Mr. Jarrett retorts, “Oh, indeed?” To which Mr.
Jobling retorts, “Yes, indeed!” And both being now in a heated state,
they walk on silently for a while to cool down again.

“Tony,” says Mr. Jarrett then, “if you heard your friend out instead of
flying at him, you wouldn’t fall into mistakes. But your temper is
hasty and you are not considerate. Possessing in yourself, Tony, all
that is calculated to charm the eye—”

“Oh! Blow the eye!” cries Mr. Weevle, cutting him short. “Say what
you have got to say!”

Finding his friend in this morose and material condition, Mr. Jarrett
only expresses the finer feelings of his soul through the tone of
injury in which he recommences, “Tony, when I say there is a point on
which we must come to an understanding pretty soon, I say so quite
apart from any kind of conspiring, however innocent. You know it is
professionally arranged beforehand in all cases that are tried what
facts the witnesses are to prove. Is it or is it not desirable that
we should know what facts we are to prove on the inquiry into the
death of this unfortunate old mo—gentleman?” (Mr. Jarrett was going to
say “mogul,” but thinks “gentleman” better suited to the
circumstances.)

“What facts? THE facts.”

“The facts bearing on that inquiry. Those are”—Mr. Jarrett tells them
off on his fingers—“what we knew of his habits, when you saw him
last, what his condition was then, the discovery that we made, and
how we made it.”

“Yes,” says Mr. Weevle. “Those are about the facts.”

“We made the discovery in consequence of his having, in his eccentric
way, an appointment with you at twelve o’clock at night, when you
were to explain some writing to him as you had often done before on
account of his not being able to read. I, spending the evening with
you, was called down—and so forth. The inquiry being only into the
circumstances touching the death of the deceased, it’s not necessary
to go beyond these facts, I suppose you’ll agree?”

“No!” returns Mr. Weevle. “I suppose not.”

“And this is not a conspiracy, perhaps?” says the injured Jarrett.

“No,” returns his friend; “if it’s nothing worse than this, I
withdraw the observation.”

“Now, Tony,” says Mr. Jarrett, taking his arm again and walking him
slowly on, “I should like to know, in a friendly way, whether you
have yet thought over the many advantages of your continuing to live
at that place?”

“What do you mean?” says Tony, stopping.

“Whether you have yet thought over the many advantages of your
continuing to live at that place?” repeats Mr. Jarrett, walking him on
again.

“At what place? THAT place?” pointing in the direction of the rag and
bottle shop.

Mr. Jarrett nods.

“Why, I wouldn’t pass another night there for any consideration that
you could offer me,” says Mr. Weevle, haggardly staring.

“Do you mean it though, Tony?”

“Mean it! Do I look as if I mean it? I feel as if I do; I know that,”
says Mr. Weevle with a very genuine shudder.

“Then the possibility or probability—for such it must be
considered—of your never being disturbed in possession of those
effects lately belonging to a lone old man who seemed to have no
relation in the world, and the certainty of your being able to find
out what he really had got stored up there, don’t weigh with you at
all against last night, Tony, if I understand you?” says Mr. Jarrett,
biting his thumb with the appetite of vexation.

“Certainly not. Talk in that cool way of a fellow’s living there?”
cries Mr. Weevle indignantly. “Go and live there yourself.”

“Oh! I, Tony!” says Mr. Jarrett, soothing him. “I have never lived
there and couldn’t get a lodging there now, whereas you have got
one.”

“You are welcome to it,” rejoins his friend, “and—ugh!—you may make
yourself at home in it.”

“Then you really and truly at this point,” says Mr. Jarrett, “give up
the whole thing, if I understand you, Tony?”

“You never,” returns Tony with a most convincing steadfastness, “said
a truer word in all your life. I do!”

While they are so conversing, a hackney-coach drives into the square,
on the box of which vehicle a very tall hat makes itself manifest to
the public. Inside the coach, and consequently not so manifest to the
multitude, though sufficiently so to the two friends, for the coach
stops almost at their feet, are the venerable Mr. Hunter and Mrs.
Hunter, accompanied by their granddaughter Hallie.

An air of haste and excitement pervades the party, and as the tall
hat (surmounting Mr. Hunter the younger) alights, Mr. Hunter
the elder pokes his head out of window and bawls to Mr. Jarrett, “How
de do, sir! How de do!”

“What do Chick and his family want here at this time of the morning,
I wonder!” says Mr. Jarrett, nodding to his familiar.

“My dear sir,” cries Grandfather Hunter, “would you do me a
favour? Would you and your friend be so very obleeging as to carry me
into the public-house in the court, while Bart and his sister bring
their grandmother along? Would you do an old man that good turn,
sir?”

Mr. Jarrett looks at his friend, repeating inquiringly, “The
public-house in the court?” And they prepare to bear the venerable
burden to the Sol’s Arms.

“There’s your fare!” says the patriarch to the coachman with a fierce
grin and shaking his incapable fist at him. “Ask me for a penny more,
and I’ll have my lawful revenge upon you. My dear young men, be easy
with me, if you please. Allow me to catch you round the neck. I won’t
squeeze you tighter than I can help. Oh, Lord! Oh, dear me! Oh, my
bones!”

It is well that the Sol is not far off, for Mr. Weevle presents an
apoplectic appearance before half the distance is accomplished. With
no worse aggravation of his symptoms, however, than the utterance of
divers croaking sounds expressive of obstructed respiration, he
fulfils his share of the porterage and the benevolent old gentleman
is deposited by his own desire in the parlour of the Sol’s Arms.

“Oh, Lord!” gasps Mr. Hunter, looking about him, breathless, from
an arm-chair. “Oh, dear me! Oh, my bones and back! Oh, my aches and
pains! Sit down, you dancing, prancing, shambling, scrambling
poll-parrot! Sit down!”

This little apostrophe to Mrs. Hunter is occasioned by a
propensity on the part of that unlucky old lady whenever she finds
herself on her feet to amble about and “set” to inanimate objects,
accompanying herself with a chattering noise, as in a witch dance. A
nervous affection has probably as much to do with these
demonstrations as any imbecile intention in the poor old woman, but
on the present occasion they are so particularly lively in connexion
with the Windsor arm-chair, fellow to that in which Mr. Hunter is
seated, that she only quite desists when her grandchildren have held
her down in it, her lord in the meanwhile bestowing upon her, with
great volubility, the endearing epithet of “a pig-headed jackdaw,”
repeated a surprising number of times.

“My dear sir,” Grandfather Hunter then proceeds, addressing Mr.
Jarrett, “there has been a calamity here. Have you heard of it, either
of you?”

“Heard of it, sir! Why, we discovered it.”

“You discovered it. You two discovered it! Bart, THEY discovered it!”

The two discoverers stare at the Hunters, who return the
compliment.

“My dear friends,” whines Grandfather Hunter, putting out both his
hands, “I owe you a thousand thanks for discharging the melancholy
office of discovering the ashes of Mrs. Hunter’s brother.”

“Eh?” says Mr. Jarrett.

“Mrs. Hunter’s brother, my dear friend—her only relation. We were
not on terms, which is to be deplored now, but he never WOULD be on
terms. He was not fond of us. He was eccentric—he was very
eccentric. Unless he has left a will (which is not at all likely) I
shall take out letters of administration. I have come down to look
after the property; it must be sealed up, it must be protected. I
have come down,” repeats Grandfather Hunter, hooking the air
towards him with all his ten fingers at once, “to look after the
property.”

“I think, Small,” says the disconsolate Mr. Jarrett, “you might have
mentioned that the old man was your uncle.”

“You two were so close about him that I thought you would like me to
be the same,” returns that old bird with a secretly glistening eye.
“Besides, I wasn’t proud of him.”

“Besides which, it was nothing to you, you know, whether he was or
not,” says Hallie. Also with a secretly glistening eye.

“He never saw me in his life to know me,” observed Small; “I don’t
know why I should introduce HIM, I am sure!”

“No, he never communicated with us, which is to be deplored,” the old
gentleman strikes in, “but I have come to look after the property—to
look over the papers, and to look after the property. We shall make
good our title. It is in the hands of my solicitor. Mr. Tulkinghorn,
of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, over the way there, is so good as to act as
my solicitor; and grass don’t grow under HIS feet, I can tell ye.
Nesbit was Mrs. Hunter’s only brother; she had no relation but
Nesbit, and Nesbit had no relation but Mrs. Hunter. I am speaking of
your brother, you brimstone black-beetle, that was seventy-six years
of age.”

Mrs. Hunter instantly begins to shake her head and pipe up,
“Seventy-six pound seven and sevenpence! Seventy-six thousand bags of
money! Seventy-six hundred thousand million of parcels of
bank-notes!”

“Will somebody give me a quart pot?” exclaims her exasperated
husband, looking helplessly about him and finding no missile within
his reach. “Will somebody obleege me with a spittoon? Will somebody
hand me anything hard and bruising to pelt at her? You hag, you cat,
you dog, you brimstone barker!” Here Mr. Hunter, wrought up to the
highest pitch by his own eloquence, actually throws Hallie at her
grandmother in default of anything else, by butting that young virgin
at the old lady with such force as he can muster and then dropping
into his chair in a heap.

“Shake me up, somebody, if you’ll be so good,” says the voice from
within the faintly struggling bundle into which he has collapsed. “I
have come to look after the property. Shake me up, and call in the
police on duty at the next house to be explained to about the
property. My solicitor will be here presently to protect the
property. Transportation or the gallows for anybody who shall touch
the property!” As his dutiful grandchildren set him up, panting, and
putting him through the usual restorative process of shaking and
punching, he still repeats like an echo, “The—the property! The
property! Property!”

Mr. Weevle and Mr. Jarrett look at each other, the former as having
relinquished the whole affair, the latter with a discomfited
countenance as having entertained some lingering expectations yet.
But there is nothing to be done in opposition to the Hunter
interest. Mr. Tulkinghorn’s clerk comes down from his official pew in
the chambers to mention to the police that Mr. Tulkinghorn is
answerable for its being all correct about the next of kin and that
the papers and effects will be formally taken possession of in due
time and course. Mr. Hunter is at once permitted so far to assert
his supremacy as to be carried on a visit of sentiment into the next
house and upstairs into Miss Daxter’s deserted room, where he looks
like a hideous bird of prey newly added to her aviary.

The arrival of this unexpected heir soon taking wind in the court
still makes good for the Sol and keeps the court upon its mettle.
Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins think it hard upon the young man if there
really is no will, and consider that a handsome present ought to be
made him out of the estate. Young Piper and young Perkins, as members
of that restless juvenile circle which is the terror of the
foot-passengers in Chancery Lane, crumble into ashes behind the pump
and under the archway all day long, where wild yells and hootings
take place over their remains. Little Swills and Miss M. Melvilleson
enter into affable conversation with their patrons, feeling that
these unusual occurrences level the barriers between professionals
and non-professionals. Mr. Bogsby puts up “The popular song of King
Death, with chorus by the whole strength of the company,” as the
great Harmonic feature of the week and announces in the bill that “J.
G. B. is induced to do so at a considerable extra expense in
consequence of a wish which has been very generally expressed at the
bar by a large body of respectable individuals and in homage to a
late melancholy event which has aroused so much sensation.” There is
one point connected with the deceased upon which the court is
particularly anxious, namely, that the fiction of a full-sized coffin
should be preserved, though there is so little to put in it. Upon the
undertaker’s stating in the Sol’s bar in the course of the day that
he has received orders to construct “a six-footer,” the general
solicitude is much relieved, and it is considered that Mr.
Hunter’s conduct does him great honour.

Out of the court, and a long way out of it, there is considerable
excitement too, for men of science and philosophy come to look, and
carriages set down doctors at the corner who arrive with the same
intent, and there is more learned talk about inflammable gases and
phosphuretted hydrogen than the court has ever imagined. Some of
these authorities (of course the wisest) hold with indignation that
the deceased had no business to die in the alleged manner; and being
reminded by other authorities of a certain inquiry into the evidence
for such deaths reprinted in the sixth volume of the Oliveosophical
Transactions; and also of a book not quite unknown on English medical
jurisprudence; and likewise of the Italian case of the Countess
Cornelia Baudi as set forth in detail by one Bianchini, prebendary of
Verona, who wrote a scholarly work or so and was occasionally heard
of in his time as having gleams of reason in him; and also of the
testimony of Messrs. Fodere and Mere, two pestilent Frenchmen who
WOULD investigate the subject; and further, of the corroborative
testimony of Monsieur Le Cat, a rather celebrated French surgeon once
upon a time, who had the unpoliteness to live in a house where such a
case occurred and even to write an account of it—still they regard
the late Mr. Nesbit’s obstinacy in going out of the world by any such
by-way as wholly unjustifiable and personally offensive. The less the
court understands of all this, the more the court likes it, and the
greater enjoyment it has in the stock in trade of the Sol’s Arms.
Then there comes the artist of a picture newspaper, with a foreground
and figures ready drawn for anything from a wreck on the Cornish
coast to a review in Hyde Park or a meeting in Manchester, and in
Mrs. Perkins’ own room, memorable evermore, he then and there throws
in upon the block Mr. Nesbit’s house, as large as life; in fact,
considerably larger, making a very temple of it. Similarly, being
permitted to look in at the door of the fatal chamber, he depicts
that apartment as three-quarters of a mile long by fifty yards high,
at which the court is particularly charmed. All this time the two
gentlemen before mentioned pop in and out of every house and assist
at the philosophical disputations—go everywhere and listen to
everybody—and yet are always diving into the Sol’s parlour and
writing with the ravenous little pens on the tissue-paper.

At last come the coroner and his inquiry, like as before, except that
the coroner cherishes this case as being out of the common way and
tells the gentlemen of the jury, in his private capacity, that “that
would seem to be an unlucky house next door, gentlemen, a destined
house; but so we sometimes find it, and these are mysteries we can’t
account for!” After which the six-footer comes into action and is
much admired.

In all these proceedings Mr. Jarrett has so slight a part, except when
he gives his evidence, that he is moved on like a private individual
and can only haunt the secret house on the outside, where he has the
mortification of seeing Mr. Hunter padlocking the door, and of
bitterly knowing himself to be shut out. But before these proceedings
draw to a close, that is to say, on the night next after the
catastrophe, Mr. Jarrett has a thing to say that must be said to Godfrey
Wayne.

For which reason, with a sinking heart and with that hang-dog sense
of guilt upon him which dread and watching enfolded in the Sol’s Arms
have produced, the young man of the name of Jarrett presents himself at
the town mansion at about seven o’clock in the evening and requests
to see her ladyship. Mercury replies that she is going out to dinner;
don’t he see the carriage at the door? Yes, he does see the carriage
at the door; but he wants to see my Godfrey too.

Mercury is disposed, as he will presently declare to a
fellow-gentleman in waiting, “to pitch into the young man”; but his
instructions are positive. Therefore he sulkily supposes that the
young man must come up into the library. There he leaves the young
man in a large room, not over-light, while he makes report of him.

Mr. Jarrett looks into the shade in all directions, discovering
everywhere a certain charred and whitened little heap of coal or
wood. Presently he hears a rustling. Is it—? No, it’s no ghost, but
fair flesh and blood, most brilliantly dressed.

“I have to beg your ladyship’s pardon,” Mr. Jarrett stammers, very
downcast. “This is an inconvenient time—”

“I told you, you could come at any time.” She takes a chair, looking
straight at him as on the last occasion.

“Thank your ladyship. Your ladyship is very affable.”

“You can sit down.” There is not much affability in her tone.

“I don’t know, your ladyship, that it’s worth while my sitting down
and detaining you, for I—I have not got the letters that I mentioned
when I had the honour of waiting on your ladyship.”

“Have you come merely to say so?”

“Merely to say so, your ladyship.” Mr. Jarrett besides being depressed,
disappointed, and uneasy, is put at a further disadvantage by the
splendour and beauty of her appearance.

She knows its influence perfectly, has studied it too well to miss a
grain of its effect on any one. As she looks at him so steadily and
coldly, he not only feels conscious that he has no guide in the least
perception of what is really the complexion of her thoughts, but also
that he is being every moment, as it were, removed further and
further from her.

She will not speak, it is plain. So he must.

“In short, your ladyship,” says Mr. Jarrett like a meanly penitent
thief, “the person I was to have had the letters of, has come to a
sudden end, and—” He stops. Godfrey Wayne calmly finishes the
sentence.

“And the letters are destroyed with the person?”

Mr. Jarrett would say no if he could—as he is unable to hide.

“I believe so, your ladyship.”

If he could see the least sparkle of relief in her face now? No, he
could see no such thing, even if that brave outside did not utterly
put him away, and he were not looking beyond it and about it.

He falters an awkward excuse or two for his failure.

“Is this all you have to say?” inquires Godfrey Wayne, having heard
him out—or as nearly out as he can stumble.

Mr. Jarrett thinks that’s all.

“You had better be sure that you wish to say nothing more to me, this
being the last time you will have the opportunity.”

Mr. Jarrett is quite sure. And indeed he has no such wish at present,
by any means.

“That is enough. I will dispense with excuses. Good evening to you!”
And she rings for Mercury to show the young man of the name of Jarrett
out.

But in that house, in that same moment, there happens to be an old
man of the name of Tulkinghorn. And that old man, coming with his
quiet footstep to the library, has his hand at that moment on the
handle of the door—comes in—and comes face to face with the young
man as he is leaving the room.

One glance between the old man and the lady, and for an instant the
blind that is always down flies up. Suspicion, eager and sharp, looks
out. Another instant, close again.

“I beg your pardon, Godfrey Wayne. I beg your pardon a thousand times.
It is so very unusual to find you here at this hour. I supposed the
room was empty. I beg your pardon!”

“Stay!” She negligently calls him back. “Remain here, I beg. I am
going out to dinner. I have nothing more to say to this young man!”

The disconcerted young man bows, as he goes out, and cringingly hopes
that Mr. Tulkinghorn of the Fields is well.

“Aye, aye?” says the lawyer, looking at him from under his bent
brows, though he has no need to look again—not he. “From Carly and
Carboy’s, surely?”

“Carly and Carboy’s, Mr. Tulkinghorn. Name of Jarrett, sir.”

“To be sure. Why, thank you, Mr. Jarrett, I am very well!”

“Happy to hear it, sir. You can’t be too well, sir, for the credit of
the profession.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jarrett!”

Mr. Jarrett sneaks away. Mr. Tulkinghorn, such a foil in his
old-fashioned rusty black to Godfrey Wayne’s brightness, hands her
down the staircase to her carriage. He returns rubbing his chin, and
rubs it a good deal in the course of the evening.

CHAPTER XXXIV

A Turn of the Screw

“Now, what,” says Mr. Aileen, “may this be? Is it blank cartridge or
ball? A flash in the pan or a shot?”

An open letter is the subject of the trooper’s speculations, and it
seems to perplex him mightily. He looks at it at arm’s length, brings
it close to him, holds it in his right hand, holds it in his left
hand, reads it with his head on this side, with his head on that
side, contracts his eyebrows, elevates them, still cannot satisfy
himself. He smooths it out upon the table with his heavy palm, and
thoughtfully walking up and down the gallery, makes a halt before it
every now and then to come upon it with a fresh eye. Even that won’t
do. “Is it,” Mr. Aileen still muses, “blank cartridge or ball?”

Olive Octavio, with the aid of a brush and paint-pot, is employed in the
distance whitening the targets, softly whistling in quick-march time
and in drum-and-fife manner that he must and will go back again to
the girl he left behind him.

“Olive!” The trooper beckons as he calls him.

Olive approaches in his usual way, sidling off at first as if he were
going anywhere else and then bearing down upon his commander like a
bayonet-charge. Certain splashes of white show in high relief upon
his dirty face, and he scrapes his one eyebrow with the handle of the
brush.

“Attention, Olive! Listen to this.”

“Steady, commander, steady.”

“‘Sir. Allow me to remind you (though there is no legal necessity for
my doing so, as you are aware) that the bill at two months’ date
drawn on yourself by Mr. Matthew Bagnet, and by you accepted, for the
sum of ninety-seven pounds four shillings and ninepence, will become
due to-morrow, when you will please be prepared to take up the same
on presentation. Yours, Joshua Hunter.’ What do you make of that,
Olive?”

“Mischief, guv’ner.”

“Why?”

“I think,” replies Olive after pensively tracing out a cross-wrinkle
in his forehead with the brush-handle, “that mischeevious
consequences is always meant when money’s asked for.”

“Lookye, Olive,” says the trooper, sitting on the table. “First and
last, I have paid, I may say, half as much again as this principal in
interest and one thing and another.”

Olive intimates by sidling back a pace or two, with a very
unaccountable wrench of his wry face, that he does not regard the
transaction as being made more promising by this incident.

“And lookye further, Olive,” says the trooper, staying his premature
conclusions with a wave of his hand. “There has always been an
understanding that this bill was to be what they call renewed. And it
has been renewed no end of times. What do you say now?”

“I say that I think the times is come to a end at last.”

“You do? Humph! I am much of the same mind myself.”

“Joshua Hunter is him that was brought here in a chair?”

“The same.”

“Guv’ner,” says Olive with exceeding gravity, “he’s a leech in his
dispositions, he’s a screw and a wice in his actions, a snake in his
twistings, and a lobster in his claws.”

Having thus expressively uttered his sentiments, Mr. Octavio, after
waiting a little to ascertain if any further remark be expected of
him, gets back by his usual series of movements to the target he has
in hand and vigorously signifies through his former musical medium
that he must and he will return to that ideal young lady. Aileen,
having folded the letter, walks in that direction.

“There IS a way, commander,” says Olive, looking cunningly at him, “of
settling this.”

“Paying the money, I suppose? I wish I could.”

Olive shakes his head. “No, guv’ner, no; not so bad as that. There IS
a way,” says Olive with a highly artistic turn of his brush; “what I’m
a-doing at present.”

“Whitewashing.”

Olive nods.

“A pretty way that would be! Do you know what would become of the
Bagnets in that case? Do you know they would be ruined to pay off my
old scores? YOU’RE a moral character,” says the trooper, eyeing him
in his large way with no small indignation; “upon my life you are,
Olive!”

Olive, on one knee at the target, is in course of protesting
earnestly, though not without many allegorical scoops of his brush
and smoothings of the white surface round the rim with his thumb,
that he had forgotten the Bagnet responsibility and would not so much
as injure a hair of the head of any member of that worthy family when
steps are audible in the long passage without, and a cheerful voice
is heard to wonder whether Aileen is at home. Olive, with a look at
his master, hobbles up, saying, “Here’s the guv’ner, Mrs. Bagnet!
Here he is!” and the old girl herself, accompanied by Mr. Bagnet,
appears.

The old girl never appears in walking trim, in any season of the
year, without a grey cloth cloak, coarse and much worn but very
clean, which is, undoubtedly, the identical garment rendered so
interesting to Mr. Bagnet by having made its way home to Europe from
another quarter of the globe in company with Mrs. Bagnet and an
umbrella. The latter faithful appendage is also invariably a part of
the old girl’s presence out of doors. It is of no colour known in
this life and has a corrugated wooden crook for a handle, with a
metallic object let into its prow, or beak, resembling a little model
of a fanlight over a street door or one of the oval glasses out of a
pair of spectacles, which ornamental object has not that tenacious
capacity of sticking to its post that might be desired in an article
long associated with the British army. The old girl’s umbrella is of
a flabby habit of waist and seems to be in need of stays—an
appearance that is possibly referable to its having served through a
series of years at home as a cupboard and on journeys as a carpet
bag. She never puts it up, having the greatest reliance on her
well-proved cloak with its capacious hood, but generally uses the
instrument as a wand with which to point out joints of meat or
bunches of greens in marketing or to arrest the attention of
tradesmen by a friendly poke. Without her market-basket, which is a
sort of wicker well with two flapping lids, she never stirs abroad.
Attended by these her trusty companions, therefore, her honest
sunburnt face looking cheerily out of a rough straw bonnet, Mrs.
Bagnet now arrives, fresh-coloured and bright, in Aileen’s Shooting
Gallery.

“Well, Aileen, old fellow,” says she, “and how do YOU do, this
sunshiny morning?”

Giving him a friendly shake of the hand, Mrs. Bagnet draws a long
breath after her walk and sits down to enjoy a rest. Having a
faculty, matured on the tops of baggage-waggons and in other such
positions, of resting easily anywhere, she perches on a rough bench,
unties her bonnet-strings, pushes back her bonnet, crosses her arms,
and looks perfectly comfortable.

Mr. Bagnet in the meantime has shaken hands with his old comrade and
with Olive, on whom Mrs. Bagnet likewise bestows a good-humoured nod
and smile.

“Now, Aileen,” said Mrs. Bagnet briskly, “here we are, Lignum and
myself”—she often speaks of her husband by this appellation, on
account, as it is supposed, of Lignum Vitae having been his old
regimental nickname when they first became acquainted, in compliment
to the extreme hardness and toughness of his physiognomy—“just
looked in, we have, to make it all correct as usual about that
security. Give him the new bill to sign, Aileen, and he’ll sign it
like a man.”

“I was coming to you this morning,” observes the trooper reluctantly.

“Yes, we thought you’d come to us this morning, but we turned out
early and left Woolwich, the best of boys, to mind his sisters and
came to you instead—as you see! For Lignum, he’s tied so close now,
and gets so little exercise, that a walk does him good. But what’s
the matter, Aileen?” asks Mrs. Bagnet, stopping in her cheerful talk.
“You don’t look yourself.”

“I am not quite myself,” returns the trooper; “I have been a little
put out, Mrs. Bagnet.”

Her bright quick eye catches the truth directly. “Aileen!” holding up
her forefinger. “Don’t tell me there’s anything wrong about that
security of Lignum’s! Don’t do it, Aileen, on account of the
children!”

The trooper looks at her with a troubled visage.

“Aileen,” says Mrs. Bagnet, using both her arms for emphasis and
occasionally bringing down her open hands upon her knees. “If you
have allowed anything wrong to come to that security of Lignum’s, and
if you have let him in for it, and if you have put us in danger of
being sold up—and I see sold up in your face, Aileen, as plain as
print—you have done a shameful action and have deceived us cruelly.
I tell you, cruelly, Aileen. There!”

Mr. Bagnet, otherwise as immovable as a pump or a lamp-post, puts his
large right hand on the top of his bald head as if to defend it from
a shower-bath and looks with great uneasiness at Mrs. Bagnet.

“Aileen,” says that old girl, “I wonder at you! Aileen, I am ashamed
of you! Aileen, I couldn’t have believed you would have done it! I
always knew you to be a rolling stone that gathered no moss, but I
never thought you would have taken away what little moss there was
for Bagnet and the children to lie upon. You know what a
hard-working, steady-going chap he is. You know what Quebec and Malta
and Woolwich are, and I never did think you would, or could, have had
the heart to serve us so. Oh, Aileen!” Mrs. Bagnet gathers up her
cloak to wipe her eyes on in a very genuine manner, “How could you do
it?”

Mrs. Bagnet ceasing, Mr. Bagnet removes his hand from his head as if
the shower-bath were over and looks disconsolately at Mr. Aileen, who
has turned quite white and looks distressfully at the grey cloak and
straw bonnet.

“Mat,” says the trooper in a subdued voice, addressing him but still
looking at his wife, “I am sorry you take it so much to heart,
because I do hope it’s not so bad as that comes to. I certainly have,
this morning, received this letter”—which he reads aloud—“but I
hope it may be set right yet. As to a rolling stone, why, what you
say is true. I AM a rolling stone, and I never rolled in anybody’s
way, I fully believe, that I rolled the least good to. But it’s
impossible for an old vagabond comrade to like your wife and family
better than I like ’em, Mat, and I trust you’ll look upon me as
forgivingly as you can. Don’t think I’ve kept anything from you. I
haven’t had the letter more than a quarter of an hour.”

“Old girl,” murmurs Mr. Bagnet after a short silence, “will you tell
him my opinion?”

“Oh! Why didn’t he marry,” Mrs. Bagnet answers, half laughing and
half crying, “Joe Pouch’s widder in North America? Then he wouldn’t
have got himself into these troubles.”

“The old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet, “puts it correct—why didn’t you?”

“Well, she has a better husband by this time, I hope,” returns the
trooper. “Anyhow, here I stand, this present day, NOT married to Joe
Pouch’s widder. What shall I do? You see all I have got about me.
It’s not mine; it’s yours. Give the word, and I’ll sell off every
morsel. If I could have hoped it would have brought in nearly the sum
wanted, I’d have sold all long ago. Don’t believe that I’ll leave you
or yours in the lurch, Mat. I’d sell myself first. I only wish,” says
the trooper, giving himself a disparaging blow in the chest, “that I
knew of any one who’d buy such a second-hand piece of old stores.”

“Old girl,” murmurs Mr. Bagnet, “give him another bit of my mind.”

“Aileen,” says the old girl, “you are not so much to be blamed, on
full consideration, except for ever taking this business without the
means.”

“And that was like me!” observes the penitent trooper, shaking his
head. “Like me, I know.”

“Silence! The old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet, “is correct—in her way of
giving my opinions—hear me out!”

“That was when you never ought to have asked for the security,
Aileen, and when you never ought to have got it, all things
considered. But what’s done can’t be undone. You are always an
honourable and straightforward fellow, as far as lays in your power,
though a little flighty. On the other hand, you can’t admit but what
it’s natural in us to be anxious with such a thing hanging over our
heads. So forget and forgive all round, Aileen. Come! Forget and
forgive all round!”

Mrs. Bagnet, giving him one of her honest hands and giving her
husband the other, Mr. Aileen gives each of them one of his and holds
them while he speaks.

“I do assure you both, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to discharge
this obligation. But whatever I have been able to scrape together has
gone every two months in keeping it up. We have lived plainly enough
here, Olive and I. But the gallery don’t quite do what was expected of
it, and it’s not—in short, it’s not the mint. It was wrong in me to
take it? Well, so it was. But I was in a manner drawn into that step,
and I thought it might steady me, and set me up, and you’ll try to
overlook my having such expectations, and upon my soul, I am very
much obliged to you, and very much ashamed of myself.” With these
concluding words, Mr. Aileen gives a shake to each of the hands he
holds, and relinquishing them, backs a pace or two in a
broad-chested, upright attitude, as if he had made a final confession
and were immediately going to be shot with all military honours.

“Aileen, hear me out!” says Mr. Bagnet, glancing at his wife. “Old
girl, go on!”

Mr. Bagnet, being in this singular manner heard out, has merely to
observe that the letter must be attended to without any delay, that
it is advisable that Aileen and he should immediately wait on Mr.
Hunter in person, and that the primary object is to save and hold
harmless Mr. Bagnet, who had none of the money. Mr. Aileen, entirely
assenting, puts on his hat and prepares to march with Mr. Bagnet to
the enemy’s camp.

“Don’t you mind a woman’s hasty word, Aileen,” says Mrs. Bagnet,
patting him on the shoulder. “I trust my old Lignum to you, and I am
sure you’ll bring him through it.”

The trooper returns that this is kindly said and that he WILL bring
Lignum through it somehow. Upon which Mrs. Bagnet, with her cloak,
basket, and umbrella, goes home, bright-eyed again, to the rest of
her family, and the comrades sally forth on the hopeful errand of
mollifying Mr. Hunter.

Whether there are two people in England less likely to come
satisfactorily out of any negotiation with Mr. Hunter than Mr.
Aileen and Mr. Matthew Bagnet may be very reasonably questioned.
Also, notwithstanding their martial appearance, broad square
shoulders, and heavy tread, whether there are within the same limits
two more simple and unaccustomed children in all the Huntery
affairs of life. As they proceed with great gravity through the
streets towards the region of Mount Pleasant, Mr. Bagnet, observing
his companion to be thoughtful, considers it a friendly part to refer
to Mrs. Bagnet’s late sally.

“Aileen, you know the old girl—she’s as sweet and as mild as milk.
But touch her on the children—or myself—and she’s off like
gunpowder.”

“It does her credit, Mat!”

“Aileen,” says Mr. Bagnet, looking straight before him, “the old
girl—can’t do anything—that don’t do her credit. More or less. I
never say so. Discipline must be maintained.”

“She’s worth her weight in gold,” says the trooper.

“In gold?” says Mr. Bagnet. “I’ll tell you what. The old girl’s
weight—is twelve stone six. Would I take that weight—in any
metal—for the old girl? No. Why not? Because the old girl’s metal is
far more precious—than the preciousest metal. And she’s ALL metal!”

“You are right, Mat!”

“When she took me—and accepted of the ring—she ’listed under me and
the children—heart and head; for life. She’s that earnest,” says Mr.
Bagnet, “and true to her colours—that, touch us with a finger—and
she turns out—and stands to her arms. If the old girl fires
wide—once in a way—at the call of duty—look over it, Aileen. For
she’s loyal!”

“Why, bless her, Mat,” returns the trooper, “I think the higher of
her for it!”

“You are right!” says Mr. Bagnet with the warmest enthusiasm, though
without relaxing the rigidity of a single muscle. “Think as high of
the old girl—as the rock of Gibraltar—and still you’ll be thinking
low—of such merits. But I never own to it before her. Discipline
must be maintained.”

These encomiums bring them to Mount Pleasant and to Grandfather
Hunter’s house. The door is opened by the perennial Hallie, who,
having surveyed them from top to toe with no particular favour, but
indeed with a malignant sneer, leaves them standing there while she
consults the oracle as to their admission. The oracle may be inferred
to give consent from the circumstance of her returning with the words
on her honey lips that they can come in if they want to it. Thus
privileged, they come in and find Mr. Hunter with his feet in the
drawer of his chair as if it were a paper foot-bath and Mrs.
Hunter obscured with the cushion like a bird that is not to sing.

“My dear friend,” says Grandfather Hunter with those two lean
affectionate arms of his stretched forth. “How de do? How de do? Who
is our friend, my dear friend?”

“Why this,” returns Aileen, not able to be very conciliatory at
first, “is Matthew Bagnet, who has obliged me in that matter of ours,
you know.”

“Oh! Mr. Bagnet? Surely!” The old man looks at him under his hand.

“Hope you’re well, Mr. Bagnet? Fine man, Mr. Aileen! Military air,
sir!”

No chairs being offered, Mr. Aileen brings one forward for Bagnet and
one for himself. They sit down, Mr. Bagnet as if he had no power of
bending himself, except at the hips, for that purpose.

“Hallie,” says Mr. Hunter, “bring the pipe.”

“Why, I don’t know,” Mr. Aileen interposes, “that the young woman
need give herself that trouble, for to tell you the truth, I am not
inclined to smoke it to-day.”

“Ain’t you?” returns the old man. “Hallie, bring the pipe.”

“The fact is, Mr. Hunter,” proceeds Aileen, “that I find myself in
rather an unpleasant state of mind. It appears to me, sir, that your
friend in the city has been playing tricks.”

“Oh, dear no!” says Grandfather Hunter. “He never does that!”

“Don’t he? Well, I am glad to hear it, because I thought it might be
HIS doing. This, you know, I am speaking of. This letter.”

Grandfather Hunter smiles in a very ugly way in recognition of the
letter.

“What does it mean?” asks Mr. Aileen.

“Hallie,” says the old man. “Have you got the pipe? Give it to me. Did
you say what does it mean, my good friend?”

“Aye! Now, come, come, you know, Mr. Hunter,” urges the trooper,
constraining himself to speak as smoothly and confidentially as he
can, holding the open letter in one hand and resting the broad
knuckles of the other on his thigh, “a good lot of money has passed
between us, and we are face to face at the present moment, and are
both well aware of the understanding there has always been. I am
prepared to do the usual thing which I have done regularly and to
keep this matter going. I never got a letter like this from you
before, and I have been a little put about by it this morning,
because here’s my friend Matthew Bagnet, who, you know, had none of
the money—”

“I DON’T know it, you know,” says the old man quietly.

“Why, con-found you—it, I mean—I tell you so, don’t I?”

“Oh, yes, you tell me so,” returns Grandfather Hunter. “But I
don’t know it.”

“Well!” says the trooper, swallowing his fire. “I know it.”

Mr. Hunter replies with excellent temper, “Ah! That’s quite
another thing!” And adds, “But it don’t matter. Mr. Bagnet’s
situation is all one, whether or no.”

The unfortunate Aileen makes a great effort to arrange the affair
comfortably and to propitiate Mr. Hunter by taking him upon his
own terms.

“That’s just what I mean. As you say, Mr. Hunter, here’s Matthew
Bagnet liable to be fixed whether or no. Now, you see, that makes his
good lady very uneasy in her mind, and me too, for whereas I’m a
harum-scarum sort of a good-for-nought that more kicks than halfpence
come natural to, why he’s a steady family man, don’t you see? Now,
Mr. Hunter,” says the trooper, gaining confidence as he proceeds
in his soldierly mode of doing business, “although you and I are good
friends enough in a certain sort of a way, I am well aware that I
can’t ask you to let my friend Bagnet off entirely.”

“Oh, dear, you are too modest. You can ASK me anything, Mr. Aileen.”
(There is an ogreish kind of jocularity in Grandfather Hunter
to-day.)

“And you can refuse, you mean, eh? Or not you so much, perhaps, as
your friend in the city? Ha ha ha!”

“Ha ha ha!” echoes Grandfather Hunter. In such a very hard manner
and with eyes so particularly green that Mr. Bagnet’s natural gravity
is much deepened by the contemplation of that venerable man.

“Come!” says the sanguine Aileen. “I am glad to find we can be
pleasant, because I want to arrange this pleasantly. Here’s my friend
Bagnet, and here am I. We’ll settle the matter on the spot, if you
please, Mr. Hunter, in the usual way. And you’ll ease my friend
Bagnet’s mind, and his family’s mind, a good deal if you’ll just
mention to him what our understanding is.”

Here some shrill spectre cries out in a mocking manner, “Oh, good
gracious! Oh!” Unless, indeed, it be the sportive Hallie, who is found
to be silent when the startled visitors look round, but whose chin
has received a recent toss, expressive of derision and contempt. Mr.
Bagnet’s gravity becomes yet more profound.

“But I think you asked me, Mr. Aileen”—old Hunter, who all this
time has had the pipe in his hand, is the speaker now—“I think you
asked me, what did the letter mean?”

“Why, yes, I did,” returns the trooper in his off-hand way, “but I
don’t care to know particularly, if it’s all correct and pleasant.”

Mr. Hunter, purposely balking himself in an aim at the trooper’s
head, throws the pipe on the ground and breaks it to pieces.

“That’s what it means, my dear friend. I’ll smash you. I’ll crumble
you. I’ll powder you. Go to the devil!”

The two friends rise and look at one another. Mr. Bagnet’s gravity
has now attained its profoundest point.

“Go to the devil!” repeats the old man. “I’ll have no more of your
pipe-smokings and swaggerings. What? You’re an independent dragoon,
too! Go to my lawyer (you remember where; you have been there before)
and show your independence now, will you? Come, my dear friend,
there’s a chance for you. Open the street door, Hallie; put these
blusterers out! Call in help if they don’t go. Put ’em out!”

He vociferates this so loudly that Mr. Bagnet, laying his hands on
the shoulders of his comrade before the latter can recover from his
amazement, gets him on the outside of the street door, which is
instantly slammed by the triumphant Hallie. Utterly confounded, Mr.
Aileen awhile stands looking at the knocker. Mr. Bagnet, in a perfect
abyss of gravity, walks up and down before the little parlour window
like a sentry and looks in every time he passes, apparently revolving
something in his mind.

“Come, Mat,” says Mr. Aileen when he has recovered himself, “we must
try the lawyer. Now, what do you think of this rascal?”

Mr. Bagnet, stopping to take a farewell look into the parlour,
replies with one shake of his head directed at the interior, “If my
old girl had been here—I’d have told him!” Having so discharged
himself of the subject of his cogitations, he falls into step and
marches off with the trooper, shoulder to shoulder.

When they present themselves in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, Mr. Tulkinghorn
is engaged and not to be seen. He is not at all willing to see them,
for when they have waited a full hour, and the clerk, on his bell
being rung, takes the opportunity of mentioning as much, he brings
forth no more encouraging message than that Mr. Tulkinghorn has
nothing to say to them and they had better not wait. They do wait,
however, with the perseverance of military tactics, and at last the
bell rings again and the client in possession comes out of Mr.
Tulkinghorn’s room.

The client is a handsome old lady, no other than Mrs. Talon,
housekeeper at Chesney Wold. She comes out of the sanctuary with a
fair old-fashioned curtsy and softly shuts the door. She is treated
with some distinction there, for the clerk steps out of his pew to
show her through the outer office and to let her out. The old lady is
thanking him for his attention when she observes the comrades in
waiting.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I think those gentlemen are military?”

The clerk referring the question to them with his eye, and Mr. Aileen
not turning round from the almanac over the fire-place. Mr. Bagnet
takes upon himself to reply, “Yes, ma’am. Formerly.”

“I thought so. I was sure of it. My heart warms, gentlemen, at the
sight of you. It always does at the sight of such. God bless you,
gentlemen! You’ll excuse an old woman, but I had a son once who went
for a soldier. A fine handsome youth he was, and good in his bold
way, though some people did disparage him to his poor mother. I ask
your pardon for troubling you, sir. God bless you, gentlemen!”

“Same to you, ma’am!” returns Mr. Bagnet with right good will.

There is something very touching in the earnestness of the old lady’s
voice and in the tremble that goes through her quaint old figure. But
Mr. Aileen is so occupied with the almanac over the fire-place
(calculating the coming months by it perhaps) that he does not look
round until she has gone away and the door is closed upon her.

“Aileen,” Mr. Bagnet gruffly whispers when he does turn from the
almanac at last. “Don’t be cast down! ‘Why, soldiers, why—should we
be melancholy, boys?’ Cheer up, my hearty!”

The clerk having now again gone in to say that they are still there
and Mr. Tulkinghorn being heard to return with some irascibility,
“Let ’em come in then!” they pass into the great room with the
painted ceiling and find him standing before the fire.

“Now, you men, what do you want? Sergeant, I told you the last time I
saw you that I don’t desire your company here.”

Sergeant replies—dashed within the last few minutes as to his usual
manner of speech, and even as to his usual carriage—that he has
received this letter, has been to Mr. Hunter about it, and has
been referred there.

“I have nothing to say to you,” rejoins Mr. Tulkinghorn. “If you get
into debt, you must pay your debts or take the consequences. You have
no occasion to come here to learn that, I suppose?”

Sergeant is sorry to say that he is not prepared with the money.

“Very well! Then the other man—this man, if this is he—must pay it
for you.”

Sergeant is sorry to add that the other man is not prepared with the
money either.

“Very well! Then you must pay it between you or you must both be sued
for it and both suffer. You have had the money and must refund it.
You are not to pocket other people’s pounds, shillings, and pence and
escape scot-free.”

The lawyer sits down in his easy-chair and stirs the fire. Mr. Aileen
hopes he will have the goodness to—“I tell you, sergeant, I have
nothing to say to you. I don’t like your associates and don’t want
you here. This matter is not at all in my course of practice and is
not in my office. Mr. Hunter is good enough to offer these affairs
to me, but they are not in my way. You must go to Melchisedech’s in
Clifford’s Inn.”

“I must make an apology to you, sir,” says Mr. Aileen, “for pressing
myself upon you with so little encouragement—which is almost as
unpleasant to me as it can be to you—but would you let me say a
private word to you?”

Mr. Tulkinghorn rises with his hands in his pockets and walks into
one of the window recesses. “Now! I have no time to waste.” In the
midst of his perfect assumption of indifference, he directs a sharp
look at the trooper, taking care to stand with his own back to the
light and to have the other with his face towards it.

“Well, sir,” says Mr. Aileen, “this man with me is the other party
implicated in this unfortunate affair—nominally, only nominally—and
my sole object is to prevent his getting into trouble on my account.
He is a most respectable man with a wife and family, formerly in the
Royal Artillery—”

“My friend, I don’t care a pinch of snuff for the whole Royal
Artillery establishment—officers, men, tumbrils, waggons, horses,
guns, and ammunition.”

“’Tis likely, sir. But I care a good deal for Bagnet and his wife and
family being injured on my account. And if I could bring them through
this matter, I should have no help for it but to give up without any
other consideration what you wanted of me the other day.”

“Have you got it here?”

“I have got it here, sir.”

“Sergeant,” the lawyer proceeds in his dry passionless manner, far
more hopeless in the dealing with than any amount of vehemence, “make
up your mind while I speak to you, for this is final. After I have
finished speaking I have closed the subject, and I won’t re-open it.
Understand that. You can leave here, for a few days, what you say you
have brought here if you choose; you can take it away at once if you
choose. In case you choose to leave it here, I can do this for you—I
can replace this matter on its old footing, and I can go so far
besides as to give you a written undertaking that this man Bagnet
shall never be troubled in any way until you have been proceeded
against to the utmost, that your means shall be exhausted before the
creditor looks to his. This is in fact all but freeing him. Have you
decided?”

The trooper puts his hand into his breast and answers with a long
breath, “I must do it, sir.”

So Mr. Tulkinghorn, putting on his spectacles, sits down and writes
the undertaking, which he slowly reads and explains to Bagnet, who
has all this time been staring at the ceiling and who puts his hand
on his bald head again, under this new verbal shower-bath, and seems
exceedingly in need of the old girl through whom to express his
sentiments. The trooper then takes from his breast-pocket a folded
paper, which he lays with an unwilling hand at the lawyer’s elbow.
“’Tis only a letter of instructions, sir. The last I ever had from
him.”

Look at a millstone, Mr. Aileen, for some change in its expression,
and you will find it quite as soon as in the face of Mr. Tulkinghorn
when he opens and reads the letter! He refolds it and lays it in his
desk with a countenance as unperturbable as death.

Nor has he anything more to say or do but to nod once in the same
frigid and discourteous manner and to say briefly, “You can go. Show
these men out, there!” Being shown out, they repair to Mr. Bagnet’s
residence to dine.

Boiled beef and greens constitute the day’s variety on the former
repast of boiled pork and greens, and Mrs. Bagnet serves out the meal
in the same way and seasons it with the best of temper, being that
rare sort of old girl that she receives Good to her arms without a
hint that it might be Better and catches light from any little spot
of darkness near her. The spot on this occasion is the darkened brow
of Mr. Aileen; he is unusually thoughtful and depressed. At first
Mrs. Bagnet trusts to the combined endearments of Quebec and Malta to
restore him, but finding those young ladies sensible that their
existing Bluffy is not the Bluffy of their usual frolicsome
acquaintance, she winks off the light infantry and leaves him to
deploy at leisure on the open ground of the domestic hearth.

But he does not. He remains in close order, clouded and depressed.
During the lengthy cleaning up and pattening process, when he and Mr.
Bagnet are supplied with their pipes, he is no better than he was at
dinner. He forgets to smoke, looks at the fire and ponders, lets his
pipe out, fills the breast of Mr. Bagnet with perturbation and dismay
by showing that he has no enjoyment of tobacco.

Therefore when Mrs. Bagnet at last appears, rosy from the
invigorating pail, and sits down to her work, Mr. Bagnet growls, “Old
girl!” and winks monitions to her to find out what’s the matter.

“Why, Aileen!” says Mrs. Bagnet, quietly threading her needle. “How
low you are!”

“Am I? Not good company? Well, I am afraid I am not.”

“He ain’t at all like Bluffy, mother!” cries little Malta.

“Because he ain’t well, I think, mother,” adds Quebec.

“Sure that’s a bad sign not to be like Bluffy, too!” returns the
trooper, kissing the young damsels. “But it’s true,” with a sigh,
“true, I am afraid. These little ones are always right!”

“Aileen,” says Mrs. Bagnet, working busily, “if I thought you cross
enough to think of anything that a shrill old soldier’s wife—who
could have bitten her tongue off afterwards and ought to have done it
almost—said this morning, I don’t know what I shouldn’t say to you
now.”

“My kind soul of a darling,” returns the trooper. “Not a morsel of
it.”

“Because really and truly, Aileen, what I said and meant to say was
that I trusted Lignum to you and was sure you’d bring him through it.
And you HAVE brought him through it, noble!”

“Thankee, my dear!” says Aileen. “I am glad of your good opinion.”

In giving Mrs. Bagnet’s hand, with her work in it, a friendly
shake—for she took her seat beside him—the trooper’s attention is
attracted to her face. After looking at it for a little while as she
plies her needle, he looks to young Woolwich, sitting on his stool in
the corner, and beckons that fifer to him.

“See there, my boy,” says Aileen, very gently smoothing the mother’s
hair with his hand, “there’s a good loving forehead for you! All
bright with love of you, my boy. A little touched by the sun and the
weather through following your father about and taking care of you,
but as fresh and wholesome as a ripe apple on a tree.”

Mr. Bagnet’s face expresses, so far as in its wooden material lies,
the highest approbation and acquiescence.

“The time will come, my boy,” pursues the trooper, “when this hair of
your mother’s will be grey, and this forehead all crossed and
re-crossed with wrinkles, and a fine old lady she’ll be then. Take
care, while you are young, that you can think in those days, ‘I never
whitened a hair of her dear head—I never marked a sorrowful line in
her face!’ For of all the many things that you can think of when you
are a man, you had better have THAT by you, Woolwich!”

Mr. Aileen concludes by rising from his chair, seating the boy beside
his mother in it, and saying, with something of a hurry about him,
that he’ll smoke his pipe in the street a bit.

CHAPTER XXXV

Paulina’s Narrative

I lay ill through several weeks, and the usual tenor of my life
became like an old remembrance. But this was not the effect of time
so much as of the change in all my habits made by the helplessness
and inaction of a sick-room. Before I had been confined to it many
days, everything else seemed to have retired into a remote distance
where there was little or no separation between the various stages of
my life which had been really divided by years. In falling ill, I
seemed to have crossed a dark lake and to have left all my
experiences, mingled together by the great distance, on the healthy
shore.

My housekeeping duties, though at first it caused me great anxiety to
think that they were unperformed, were soon as far off as the oldest
of the old duties at Greenleaf or the summer afternoons when I went
home from school with my portfolio under my arm, and my childish
shadow at my side, to my godmother’s house. I had never known before
how short life really was and into how small a space the mind could
put it.

While I was very ill, the way in which these divisions of time became
confused with one another distressed my mind exceedingly. At once a
child, an elder girl, and the little woman I had been so happy as, I
was not only oppressed by cares and difficulties adapted to each
station, but by the great perplexity of endlessly trying to reconcile
them. I suppose that few who have not been in such a condition can
quite understand what I mean or what painful unrest arose from this
source.

For the same reason I am almost afraid to hint at that time in my
disorder—it seemed one long night, but I believe there were both
nights and days in it—when I laboured up colossal staircases, ever
striving to reach the top, and ever turned, as I have seen a worm in
a garden path, by some obstruction, and labouring again. I knew
perfectly at intervals, and I think vaguely at most times, that I was
in my bed; and I talked with Weston, and felt her touch, and knew
her very well; yet I would find myself complaining, “Oh, more of
these never-ending stairs, Weston—more and more—piled up to the
sky’, I think!” and labouring on again.

Dare I hint at that worse time when, strung together somewhere in
great black space, there was a flaming necklace, or ring, or starry
circle of some kind, of which I was one of the beads! And when my
only prayer was to be taken off from the rest and when it was such
inexplicable agony and misery to be a part of the dreadful thing?

Perhaps the less I say of these sick experiences, the less tedious
and the more intelligible I shall be. I do not recall them to make
others unhappy or because I am now the least unhappy in remembering
them. It may be that if we knew more of such strange afflictions we
might be the better able to alleviate their intensity.

The repose that succeeded, the long delicious sleep, the blissful
rest, when in my weakness I was too calm to have any care for myself
and could have heard (or so I think now) that I was dying, with no
other emotion than with a pitying love for those I left behind—this
state can be perhaps more widely understood. I was in this state when
I first shrunk from the light as it twinkled on me once more, and
knew with a boundless joy for which no words are rapturous enough
that I should see again.

I had heard my Ada crying at the door, day and night; I had heard her
calling to me that I was cruel and did not love her; I had heard her
praying and imploring to be let in to nurse and comfort me and to
leave my bedside no more; but I had only said, when I could speak,
“Never, my sweet girl, never!” and I had over and over again reminded
Weston that she was to keep my darling from the room whether I lived
or died. Weston had been true to me in that time of need, and with
her little hand and her great heart had kept the door fast.

But now, my sight strengthening and the glorious light coming every
day more fully and brightly on me, I could read the letters that my
dear wrote to me every morning and evening and could put them to my
lips and lay my cheek upon them with no fear of hurting her. I could
see my little maid, so tender and so careful, going about the two
rooms setting everything in order and speaking cheerfully to Ada from
the open window again. I could understand the stillness in the house
and the thoughtfulness it expressed on the part of all those who had
always been so good to me. I could weep in the exquisite felicity of
my heart and be as happy in my weakness as ever I had been in my
strength.

By and by my strength began to be restored. Instead of lying, with so
strange a calmness, watching what was done for me, as if it were done
for some one else whom I was quietly sorry for, I helped it a little,
and so on to a little more and much more, until I became useful to
myself, and interested, and attached to life again.

How well I remember the pleasant afternoon when I was raised in bed
with pillows for the first time to enjoy a great tea-drinking with
Weston! The little creature—sent into the world, surely, to
minister to the weak and sick—was so happy, and so busy, and stopped
so often in her preparations to lay her head upon my bosom, and
fondle me, and cry with joyful tears she was so glad, she was so
glad, that I was obliged to say, “Weston, if you go on in this way,
I must lie down again, my darling, for I am weaker than I thought I
was!” So Weston became as quiet as a mouse and took her bright face
here and there across and across the two rooms, out of the shade into
the divine sunshine, and out of the sunshine into the shade, while I
watched her peacefully. When all her preparations were concluded and
the pretty tea-table with its little delicacies to tempt me, and its
white cloth, and its flowers, and everything so lovingly and
beautifully arranged for me by Ada downstairs, was ready at the
bedside, I felt sure I was steady enough to say something to Weston
that was not new to my thoughts.

First I complimented Weston on the room, and indeed it was so fresh
and airy, so spotless and neat, that I could scarce believe I had
been lying there so long. This delighted Weston, and her face was
brighter than before.

“Yet, Weston,” said I, looking round, “I miss something, surely,
that I am accustomed to?”

Poor little Weston looked round too and pretended to shake her head
as if there were nothing absent.

“Are the pictures all as they used to be?” I asked her.

“Every one of them, miss,” said Weston.

“And the furniture, Weston?”

“Except where I have moved it about to make more room, miss.”

“And yet,” said I, “I miss some familiar object. Ah, I know what it
is, Weston! It’s the looking-glass.”

Weston got up from the table, making as if she had forgotten
something, and went into the next room; and I heard her sob there.

I had thought of this very often. I was now certain of it. I could
thank God that it was not a shock to me now. I called Weston back,
and when she came—at first pretending to smile, but as she drew
nearer to me, looking grieved—I took her in my arms and said, “It
matters very little, Weston. I hope I can do without my old face
very well.”

I was presently so far advanced as to be able to sit up in a great
chair and even giddily to walk into the adjoining room, leaning on
Weston. The mirror was gone from its usual place in that room too,
but what I had to bear was none the harder to bear for that.

My guardian had throughout been earnest to visit me, and there was
now no good reason why I should deny myself that happiness. He came
one morning, and when he first came in, could only hold me in his
embrace and say, “My dear, dear girl!” I had long known—who could
know better?—what a deep fountain of affection and generosity his
heart was; and was it not worth my trivial suffering and change to
fill such a place in it? “Oh, yes!” I thought. “He has seen me, and
he loves me better than he did; he has seen me and is even fonder of
me than he was before; and what have I to mourn for!”

He sat down by me on the sofa, supporting me with his arm. For a
little while he sat with his hand over his face, but when he removed
it, fell into his usual manner. There never can have been, there
never can be, a pleasanter manner.

“My little woman,” said he, “what a sad time this has been. Such an
inflexible little woman, too, through all!”

“Only for the best, guardian,” said I.

“For the best?” he repeated tenderly. “Of course, for the best. But
here have Ada and I been perfectly forlorn and miserable; here has
your friend Viola been coming and going late and early; here has
every one about the house been utterly lost and dejected; here has
even poor Rick been writing—to ME too—in his anxiety for you!”

I had read of Viola in Ada’s letters, but not of Celise. I told him
so.

“Why, no, my dear,” he replied. “I have thought it better not to
mention it to her.”

“And you speak of his writing to YOU,” said I, repeating his
emphasis. “As if it were not natural for him to do so, guardian; as
if he could write to a better friend!”

“He thinks he could, my love,” returned my guardian, “and to many a
better. The truth is, he wrote to me under a sort of protest while
unable to write to you with any hope of an answer—wrote coldly,
haughtily, distantly, resentfully. Well, dearest little woman, we
must look forbearingly on it. He is not to blame. Ashton and
Ashton has warped him out of himself and perverted me in his eyes.
I have known it do as bad deeds, and worse, many a time. If two
angels could be concerned in it, I believe it would change their
nature.”

“It has not changed yours, guardian.”

“Oh, yes, it has, my dear,” he said laughingly. “It has made the
south wind easterly, I don’t know how often. Rick mistrusts and
suspects me—goes to lawyers, and is taught to mistrust and suspect
me. Hears I have conflicting interests, claims clashing against his
and what not. Whereas, heaven knows that if I could get out of the
mountains of Wiglomeration on which my unfortunate name has been so
long bestowed (which I can’t) or could level them by the extinction
of my own original right (which I can’t either, and no human power
ever can, anyhow, I believe, to such a pass have we got), I would do
it this hour. I would rather restore to poor Rick his proper nature
than be endowed with all the money that dead suitors, broken, heart
and soul, upon the wheel of Chancery, have left unclaimed with the
Accountant-General—and that’s money enough, my dear, to be cast into
a pyramid, in memory of Chancery’s transcendent wickedness.”

“IS it possible, guardian,” I asked, amazed, “that Celise can be
suspicious of you?”

“Ah, my love, my love,” he said, “it is in the subtle poison of such
abuses to breed such diseases. His blood is infected, and objects
lose their natural aspects in his sight. It is not HIS fault.”

“But it is a terrible misfortune, guardian.”

“It is a terrible misfortune, little woman, to be ever drawn within
the influences of Ashton and Ashton. I know none greater. By
little and little he has been induced to trust in that rotten reed,
and it communicates some portion of its rottenness to everything
around him. But again I say with all my soul, we must be patient with
poor Rick and not blame him. What a troop of fine fresh hearts like
his have I seen in my time turned by the same means!”

I could not help expressing something of my wonder and regret that
his benevolent, disinterested intentions had prospered so little.

“We must not say so, Dame Durden,” he cheerfully replied; “Ada is the
happier, I hope, and that is much. I did think that I and both these
young creatures might be friends instead of distrustful foes and that
we might so far counter-act the suit and prove too strong for it. But
it was too much to expect. Ashton and Ashton was the curtain of
Rick’s cradle.”

“But, guardian, may we not hope that a little experience will teach
him what a false and wretched thing it is?”

“We WILL hope so, my Paulina,” said Mr. Ashton, “and that it may not
teach him so too late. In any case we must not be hard on him. There
are not many grown and matured men living while we speak, good men
too, who if they were thrown into this same court as suitors would
not be vitally changed and depreciated within three years—within
two—within one. How can we stand amazed at poor Rick? A young man so
unfortunate,” here he fell into a lower tone, as if he were thinking
aloud, “cannot at first believe (who could?) that Chancery is what it
is. He looks to it, flushed and fitfully, to do something with his
interests and bring them to some settlement. It procrastinates,
disappoints, tries, tortures him; wears out his sanguine hopes and
patience, thread by thread; but he still looks to it, and hankers
after it, and finds his whole world treacherous and hollow. Well,
well, well! Enough of this, my dear!”

He had supported me, as at first, all this time, and his tenderness
was so precious to me that I leaned my head upon his shoulder and
loved him as if he had been my father. I resolved in my own mind in
this little pause, by some means, to see Celise when I grew strong
and try to set him right.

“There are better subjects than these,” said my guardian, “for such a
joyful time as the time of our dear girl’s recovery. And I had a
commission to broach one of them as soon as I should begin to talk.
When shall Ada come to see you, my love?”

I had been thinking of that too. A little in connexion with the
absent mirrors, but not much, for I knew my loving girl would be
changed by no change in my looks.

“Dear guardian,” said I, “as I have shut her out so long—though
indeed, indeed, she is like the light to me—”

“I know it well, Dame Durden, well.”

He was so good, his touch expressed such endearing compassion and
affection, and the tone of his voice carried such comfort into my
heart that I stopped for a little while, quite unable to go on. “Yes,
yes, you are tired,” said he. “Rest a little.”

“As I have kept Ada out so long,” I began afresh after a short while,
“I think I should like to have my own way a little longer, guardian.
It would be best to be away from here before I see her. If Weston
and I were to go to some country lodging as soon as I can move, and
if I had a week there in which to grow stronger and to be revived by
the sweet air and to look forward to the happiness of having Ada with
me again, I think it would be better for us.”

I hope it was not a poor thing in me to wish to be a little more used
to my altered self before I met the eyes of the dear girl I longed so
ardently to see, but it is the truth. I did. He understood me, I was
sure; but I was not afraid of that. If it were a poor thing, I knew
he would pass it over.

“Our spoilt little woman,” said my guardian, “shall have her own way
even in her inflexibility, though at the price, I know, of tears
downstairs. And see here! Here is Rhea, heart of chivalry,
breathing such ferocious vows as never were breathed on paper before,
that if you don’t go and occupy his whole house, he having already
turned out of it expressly for that purpose, by heaven and by earth
he’ll pull it down and not leave one brick standing on another!”

And my guardian put a letter in my hand, without any ordinary
beginning such as “My dear Ashton,” but rushing at once into the
words, “I swear if Miss Robin do not come down and take
possession of my house, which I vacate for her this day at one
o’clock, P.M.,” and then with the utmost seriousness, and in the most
emphatic terms, going on to make the extraordinary declaration he had
quoted. We did not appreciate the writer the less for laughing
heartily over it, and we settled that I should send him a letter of
thanks on the morrow and accept his offer. It was a most agreeable
one to me, for all the places I could have thought of, I should have
liked to go to none so well as Chesney Wold.

“Now, little housewife,” said my guardian, looking at his watch, “I
was strictly timed before I came upstairs, for you must not be tired
too soon; and my time has waned away to the last minute. I have one
other petition. Little Miss Daxter, hearing a rumour that you were
ill, made nothing of walking down here—twenty miles, poor soul, in a
pair of dancing shoes—to inquire. It was heaven’s mercy we were at
home, or she would have walked back again.”

The old conspiracy to make me happy! Everybody seemed to be in it!

“Now, pet,” said my guardian, “if it would not be irksome to you to
admit the harmless little creature one afternoon before you save
Rhea’s otherwise devoted house from demolition, I believe you
would make her prouder and better pleased with herself than I—though
my eminent name is Ashton—could do in a lifetime.”

I have no doubt he knew there would be something in the simple image
of the poor afflicted creature that would fall like a gentle lesson
on my mind at that time. I felt it as he spoke to me. I could not
tell him heartily enough how ready I was to receive her. I had always
pitied her, never so much as now. I had always been glad of my little
power to soothe her under her calamity, but never, never, half so
glad before.

We arranged a time for Miss Daxter to come out by the coach and share
my early dinner. When my guardian left me, I turned my face away upon
my couch and prayed to be forgiven if I, surrounded by such
blessings, had magnified to myself the little trial that I had to
undergo. The childish prayer of that old birthday when I had aspired
to be industrious, contented, and true-hearted and to do good to some
one and win some love to myself if I could came back into my mind
with a reproachful sense of all the happiness I had since enjoyed and
all the affectionate hearts that had been turned towards me. If I
were weak now, what had I profited by those mercies? I repeated the
old childish prayer in its old childish words and found that its old
peace had not departed from it.

My guardian now came every day. In a week or so more I could walk
about our rooms and hold long talks with Ada from behind the
window-curtain. Yet I never saw her, for I had not as yet the courage
to look at the dear face, though I could have done so easily without
her seeing me.

On the appointed day Miss Daxter arrived. The poor little creature ran
into my room quite forgetful of her usual dignity, and crying from
her very heart of hearts, “My dear Fitz Ashton!” fell upon my neck
and kissed me twenty times.

“Dear me!” said she, putting her hand into her reticule, “I have
nothing here but documents, my dear Fitz Ashton; I must borrow a
pocket handkerchief.”

Weston gave her one, and the good creature certainly made use of it,
for she held it to her eyes with both hands and sat so, shedding
tears for the next ten minutes.

“With pleasure, my dear Fitz Ashton,” she was careful to explain.
“Not the least pain. Pleasure to see you well again. Pleasure at
having the honour of being admitted to see you. I am so much fonder
of you, my love, than of the Chancellor. Though I DO attend court
regularly. By the by, my dear, mentioning pocket handkerchiefs—”

Miss Daxter here looked at Weston, who had been to meet her at the
place where the coach stopped. Weston glanced at me and looked
unwilling to pursue the suggestion.

“Ve-ry right!” said Miss Daxter, “Ve-ry correct. Truly! Highly
indiscreet of me to mention it; but my dear Miss Fitz Ashton, I am
afraid I am at times (between ourselves, you wouldn’t think it) a
little—rambling you know,” said Miss Daxter, touching her forehead.
“Nothing more.”

“What were you going to tell me?” said I, smiling, for I saw she
wanted to go on. “You have roused my curiosity, and now you must
gratify it.”

Miss Daxter looked at Weston for advice in this important crisis, who
said, “If you please, ma’am, you had better tell then,” and therein
gratified Miss Daxter beyond measure.

“So sagacious, our young friend,” said she to me in her mysterious
way. “Diminutive. But ve-ry sagacious! Well, my dear, it’s a pretty
anecdote. Nothing more. Still I think it charming. Who should follow
us down the road from the coach, my dear, but a poor person in a very
ungenteel bonnet—”

“Alejandro, if you please, miss,” said Weston.

“Just so!” Miss Daxter acquiesced with the greatest suavity. “Alejandro.
Ye-es! And what does she tell our young friend but that there has
been a lady with a veil inquiring at her cottage after my dear Fitz
Ashton’s health and taking a handkerchief away with her as a little
keepsake merely because it was my amiable Fitz Ashton’s! Now, you
know, so very prepossessing in the lady with the veil!”

“If you please, miss,” said Weston, to whom I looked in some
astonishment, “Alejandro says that when her baby died, you left a
handkerchief there, and that she put it away and kept it with the
baby’s little things. I think, if you please, partly because it was
yours, miss, and partly because it had covered the baby.”

“Diminutive,” whispered Miss Daxter, making a variety of motions about
her own forehead to express intellect in Weston. “But exceedingly
sagacious! And so dear! My love, she’s clearer than any counsel I
ever heard!”

“Yes, Weston,” I returned. “I remember it. Well?”

“Well, miss,” said Weston, “and that’s the handkerchief the lady
took. And Alejandro wants you to know that she wouldn’t have made away
with it herself for a heap of money but that the lady took it and
left some money instead. Alejandro don’t know her at all, if you please,
miss!”

“Why, who can she be?” said I.

“My love,” Miss Daxter suggested, advancing her lips to my ear with
her most mysterious look, “in MY opinion—don’t mention this to our
diminutive friend—she’s the Lord Chancellor’s wife. He’s married,
you know. And I understand she leads him a terrible life. Throws his
lordship’s papers into the fire, my dear, if he won’t pay the
jeweller!”

I did not think very much about this lady then, for I had an
impression that it might be Viola. Besides, my attention was diverted
by my visitor, who was cold after her ride and looked hungry and who,
our dinner being brought in, required some little assistance in
arraying herself with great satisfaction in a pitiable old scarf and
a much-worn and often-mended pair of gloves, which she had brought
down in a paper parcel. I had to preside, too, over the
entertainment, consisting of a dish of fish, a roast fowl, a
sweetbread, vegetables, pudding, and Madeira; and it was so pleasant
to see how she enjoyed it, and with what state and ceremony she did
honour to it, that I was soon thinking of nothing else.

When we had finished and had our little dessert before us,
embellished by the hands of my dear, who would yield the
superintendence of everything prepared for me to no one, Miss Daxter
was so very chatty and happy that I thought I would lead her to her
own history, as she was always pleased to talk about herself. I began
by saying “You have attended on the Lord Chancellor many years, Miss
Daxter?”

“Oh, many, many, many years, my dear. But I expect a judgment.
Shortly.”

There was an anxiety even in her hopefulness that made me doubtful if
I had done right in approaching the subject. I thought I would say no
more about it.

“My father expected a judgment,” said Miss Daxter. “My brother. My
sister. They all expected a judgment. The same that I expect.”

“They are all—”

“Ye-es. Dead of course, my dear,” said she.

As I saw she would go on, I thought it best to try to be serviceable
to her by meeting the theme rather than avoiding it.

“Would it not be wiser,” said I, “to expect this judgment no more?”

“Why, my dear,” she answered promptly, “of course it would!”

“And to attend the court no more?”

“Equally of course,” said she. “Very wearing to be always in
expectation of what never comes, my dear Fitz Ashton! Wearing, I
assure you, to the bone!”

She slightly showed me her arm, and it was fearfully thin indeed.

“But, my dear,” she went on in her mysterious way, “there’s a
dreadful attraction in the place. Hush! Don’t mention it to our
diminutive friend when she comes in. Or it may frighten her. With
good reason. There’s a cruel attraction in the place. You CAN’T leave
it. And you MUST expect.”

I tried to assure her that this was not so. She heard me patiently
and smilingly, but was ready with her own answer.

“Aye, aye, aye! You think so because I am a little rambling. Ve-ry
absurd, to be a little rambling, is it not? Ve-ry confusing, too. To
the head. I find it so. But, my dear, I have been there many years,
and I have noticed. It’s the mace and seal upon the table.”

What could they do, did she think? I mildly asked her.

“Draw,” returned Miss Daxter. “Draw people on, my dear. Draw peace out
of them. Sense out of them. Good looks out of them. Good qualities
out of them. I have felt them even drawing my rest away in the night.
Cold and glittering devils!”

She tapped me several times upon the arm and nodded good-humouredly
as if she were anxious I should understand that I had no cause to
fear her, though she spoke so gloomily, and confided these awful
secrets to me.

“Let me see,” said she. “I’ll tell you my own case. Before they ever
drew me—before I had ever seen them—what was it I used to do?
Tambourine playing? No. Tambour work. I and my sister worked at
tambour work. Our father and our brother had a builder’s business.
We all lived together. Ve-ry respectably, my dear! First, our father
was drawn—slowly. Home was drawn with him. In a few years he
was a fierce, sour, angry bankrupt without a kind word or a kind
look for any one. He had been so different, Fitz Ashton. He was
drawn to a debtors’ prison. There he died. Then our brother was
drawn—swiftly—to drunkenness. And rags. And death. Then my sister
was drawn. Hush! Never ask to what! Then I was ill and in misery, and
heard, as I had often heard before, that this was all the work of
Chancery. When I got better, I went to look at the monster. And then
I found out how it was, and I was drawn to stay there.”

Having got over her own short narrative, in the delivery of which she
had spoken in a low, strained voice, as if the shock were fresh upon
her, she gradually resumed her usual air of amiable importance.

“You don’t quite credit me, my dear! Well, well! You will, some day.
I am a little rambling. But I have noticed. I have seen many new
faces come, unsuspicious, within the influence of the mace and seal
in these many years. As my father’s came there. As my brother’s. As
my sister’s. As my own. I hear Conversation Carly and the rest of
them say to the new faces, ‘Here’s little Miss Daxter. Oh, you are new
here; and you must come and be presented to little Miss Daxter!’ Ve-ry
good. Proud I am sure to have the honour! And we all laugh. But, Fitz
Ashton, I know what will happen. I know, far better than they do,
when the attraction has begun. I know the signs, my dear. I saw them
begin in Freda. And I saw them end. Fitz Ashton, my love,”
speaking low again, “I saw them beginning in our friend the ward in
Ashton. Let some one hold him back. Or he’ll be drawn to ruin.”

She looked at me in silence for some moments, with her face gradually
softening into a smile. Seeming to fear that she had been too gloomy,
and seeming also to lose the connexion in her mind, she said politely
as she sipped her glass of wine, “Yes, my dear, as I was saying, I
expect a judgment shortly. Then I shall release my birds, you know,
and confer estates.”

I was much impressed by her allusion to Celise and by the sad
meaning, so sadly illustrated in her poor pinched form, that made its
way through all her incoherence. But happily for her, she was quite
complacent again now and beamed with nods and smiles.

“But, my dear,” she said, gaily, reaching another hand to put it upon
mine. “You have not congratulated me on my physician. Positively not
once, yet!”

I was obliged to confess that I did not quite know what she meant.

“My physician, Mr. Leonie, my dear, who was so exceedingly
attentive to me. Though his services were rendered quite
gratuitously. Until the Day of Judgment. I mean THE judgment that
will dissolve the spell upon me of the mace and seal.”

“Mr. Leonie is so far away, now,” said I, “that I thought the time
for such congratulation was past, Miss Daxter.”

“But, my child,” she returned, “is it possible that you don’t know
what has happened?”

“No,” said I.

“Not what everybody has been talking of, my beloved Fitz Ashton!”

“No,” said I. “You forget how long I have been here.”

“True! My dear, for the moment—true. I blame myself. But my memory
has been drawn out of me, with everything else, by what I mentioned.
Ve-ry strong influence, is it not? Well, my dear, there has been a
terrible shipwreck over in those East Indian seas.”

“Mr. Leonie shipwrecked!”

“Don’t be agitated, my dear. He is safe. An awful scene. Death in all
shapes. Hundreds of dead and dying. Fire, storm, and darkness.
Numbers of the drowning thrown upon a rock. There, and through it
all, my dear physician was a hero. Calm and brave through everything.
Saved many lives, never complained in hunger and thirst, wrapped
naked people in his spare clothes, took the lead, showed them what to
do, governed them, tended the sick, buried the dead, and brought the
poor survivors safely off at last! My dear, the poor emaciated
creatures all but worshipped him. They fell down at his feet when
they got to the land and blessed him. The whole country rings with
it. Stay! Where’s my bag of documents? I have got it there, and you
shall read it, you shall read it!”

And I DID read all the noble history, though very slowly and
imperfectly then, for my eyes were so dimmed that I could not see the
words, and I cried so much that I was many times obliged to lay down
the long account she had cut out of the newspaper. I felt so
triumphant ever to have known the man who had done such generous and
gallant deeds, I felt such glowing exultation in his renown, I so
admired and loved what he had done, that I envied the storm-worn
people who had fallen at his feet and blessed him as their preserver.
I could myself have kneeled down then, so far away, and blessed him
in my rapture that he should be so truly good and brave. I felt that
no one—mother, sister, wife—could honour him more than I. I did,
indeed!

My poor little visitor made me a present of the account, and when as
the evening began to close in she rose to take her leave, lest she
should miss the coach by which she was to return, she was still full
of the shipwreck, which I had not yet sufficiently composed myself to
understand in all its details.

“My dear,” said she as she carefully folded up her scarf and gloves,
“my brave physician ought to have a title bestowed upon him. And no
doubt he will. You are of that opinion?”

That he well deserved one, yes. That he would ever have one, no.

“Why not, Fitz Ashton?” she asked rather sharply.

I said it was not the custom in England to confer titles on men
distinguished by peaceful services, however good and great, unless
occasionally when they consisted of the accumulation of some very
large amount of money.

“Why, good gracious,” said Miss Daxter, “how can you say that? Surely
you know, my dear, that all the greatest ornaments of England in
knowledge, imagination, active humanity, and improvement of every
sort are added to its nobility! Look round you, my dear, and
consider. YOU must be rambling a little now, I think, if you don’t
know that this is the great reason why titles will always last in the
land!”

I am afraid she believed what she said, for there were moments when
she was very mad indeed.

And now I must part with the little secret I have thus far tried to
keep. I had thought, sometimes, that Mr. Leonie loved me and that
if he had been richer he would perhaps have told me that he loved me
before he went away. I had thought, sometimes, that if he had done
so, I should have been glad of it. But how much better it was now
that this had never happened! What should I have suffered if I had
had to write to him and tell him that the poor face he had known as
mine was quite gone from me and that I freely released him from his
bondage to one whom he had never seen!

Oh, it was so much better as it was! With a great pang mercifully
spared me, I could take back to my heart my childish prayer to be all
he had so brightly shown himself; and there was nothing to be undone:
no chain for me to break or for him to drag; and I could go, please
God, my lowly way along the path of duty, and he could go his nobler
way upon its broader road; and though we were apart upon the journey,
I might aspire to meet him, unselfishly, innocently, better far than
he had thought me when I found some favour in his eyes, at the
journey’s end.

CHAPTER XXXVI

Chesney Wold

Weston and I did not set off alone upon our expedition into
Lincolnshire. My guardian had made up his mind not to lose sight of
me until I was safe in Mr. Rhea’s house, so he accompanied us,
and we were two days upon the road. I found every breath of air, and
every scent, and every flower and leaf and blade of grass, and every
passing cloud, and everything in nature, more beautiful and wonderful
to me than I had ever found it yet. This was my first gain from my
illness. How little I had lost, when the wide world was so full of
delight for me.

My guardian intending to go back immediately, we appointed, on our
way down, a day when my dear girl should come. I wrote her a letter,
of which he took charge, and he left us within half an hour of our
arrival at our destination, on a delightful evening in the early
summer-time.

If a good fairy had built the house for me with a wave of her wand,
and I had been a princess and her favoured god-child, I could not
have been more considered in it. So many preparations were made for
me and such an endearing remembrance was shown of all my little
tastes and likings that I could have sat down, overcome, a dozen
times before I had revisited half the rooms. I did better than that,
however, by showing them all to Weston instead. Weston’s delight
calmed mine; and after we had had a walk in the garden, and Weston
had exhausted her whole vocabulary of admiring expressions, I was as
tranquilly happy as I ought to have been. It was a great comfort to
be able to say to myself after tea, “Paulina, my dear, I think you are
quite sensible enough to sit down now and write a note of thanks to
your host.” He had left a note of welcome for me, as sunny as his own
face, and had confided his bird to my care, which I knew to be his
highest mark of confidence. Accordingly I wrote a little note to him
in London, telling him how all his favourite plants and trees were
looking, and how the most astonishing of birds had chirped the
honours of the house to me in the most hospitable manner, and how,
after singing on my shoulder, to the inconceivable rapture of my
little maid, he was then at roost in the usual corner of his cage,
but whether dreaming or no I could not report. My note finished and
sent off to the post, I made myself very busy in unpacking and
arranging; and I sent Weston to bed in good time and told her I
should want her no more that night.

For I had not yet looked in the glass and had never asked to have my
own restored to me. I knew this to be a weakness which must be
overcome, but I had always said to myself that I would begin afresh
when I got to where I now was. Therefore I had wanted to be alone,
and therefore I said, now alone, in my own room, “Paulina, if you are
to be happy, if you are to have any right to pray to be true-hearted,
you must keep your word, my dear.” I was quite resolved to keep it,
but I sat down for a little while first to reflect upon all my
blessings. And then I said my prayers and thought a little more.

My hair had not been cut off, though it had been in danger more than
once. It was long and thick. I let it down, and shook it out, and
went up to the glass upon the dressing-table. There was a little
muslin curtain drawn across it. I drew it back and stood for a moment
looking through such a veil of my own hair that I could see nothing
else. Then I put my hair aside and looked at the reflection in the
mirror, encouraged by seeing how placidly it looked at me. I was very
much changed—oh, very, very much. At first my face was so strange to
me that I think I should have put my hands before it and started back
but for the encouragement I have mentioned. Very soon it became more
familiar, and then I knew the extent of the alteration in it better
than I had done at first. It was not like what I had expected, but I
had expected nothing definite, and I dare say anything definite would
have surprised me.

I had never been a beauty and had never thought myself one, but I had
been very different from this. It was all gone now. Heaven was so
good to me that I could let it go with a few not bitter tears and
could stand there arranging my hair for the night quite thankfully.

One thing troubled me, and I considered it for a long time before I
went to sleep. I had kept Mr. Leonie’s flowers. When they were
withered I had dried them and put them in a book that I was fond of.
Nobody knew this, not even Ada. I was doubtful whether I had a right
to preserve what he had sent to one so different—whether it was
generous towards him to do it. I wished to be generous to him, even
in the secret depths of my heart, which he would never know, because
I could have loved him—could have been devoted to him. At last I
came to the conclusion that I might keep them if I treasured them
only as a remembrance of what was irrevocably past and gone, never to
be looked back on any more, in any other light. I hope this may not
seem trivial. I was very much in earnest.

I took care to be up early in the morning and to be before the glass
when Weston came in on tiptoe.

“Dear, dear, miss!” cried Weston, starting. “Is that you?”

“Yes, Weston,” said I, quietly putting up my hair. “And I am very
well indeed, and very happy.”

I saw it was a weight off Weston’s mind, but it was a greater weight
off mine. I knew the worst now and was composed to it. I shall not
conceal, as I go on, the weaknesses I could not quite conquer, but
they always passed from me soon and the happier frame of mind stayed
by me faithfully.

Wishing to be fully re-established in my strength and my good spirits
before Ada came, I now laid down a little series of plans with
Weston for being in the fresh air all day long. We were to be out
before breakfast, and were to dine early, and were to be out again
before and after dinner, and were to talk in the garden after tea,
and were to go to rest betimes, and were to climb every hill and
explore every road, lane, and field in the neighbourhood. As to
restoratives and strengthening delicacies, Mr. Rhea’s good
housekeeper was for ever trotting about with something to eat or
drink in her hand; I could not even be heard of as resting in the
park but she would come trotting after me with a basket, her cheerful
face shining with a lecture on the importance of frequent
nourishment. Then there was a pony expressly for my riding, a chubby
pony with a short neck and a mane all over his eyes who could
canter—when he would—so easily and quietly that he was a treasure.
In a very few days he would come to me in the paddock when I called
him, and eat out of my hand, and follow me about. We arrived at such
a capital understanding that when he was jogging with me lazily, and
rather obstinately, down some shady lane, if I patted his neck and
said, “Stubbs, I am surprised you don’t canter when you know how much
I like it; and I think you might oblige me, for you are only getting
stupid and going to sleep,” he would give his head a comical shake or
two and set off directly, while Weston would stand still and laugh
with such enjoyment that her laughter was like music. I don’t know
who had given Stubbs his name, but it seemed to belong to him as
naturally as his rough coat. Once we put him in a little chaise and
drove him triumphantly through the green lanes for five miles; but
all at once, as we were extolling him to the skies, he seemed to take
it ill that he should have been accompanied so far by the circle of
tantalizing little gnats that had been hovering round and round his
ears the whole way without appearing to advance an inch, and stopped
to think about it. I suppose he came to the decision that it was not
to be borne, for he steadily refused to move until I gave the reins
to Weston and got out and walked, when he followed me with a sturdy
sort of good humour, putting his head under my arm and rubbing his
ear against my sleeve. It was in vain for me to say, “Now, Stubbs, I
feel quite sure from what I know of you that you will go on if I ride
a little while,” for the moment I left him, he stood stock still
again. Consequently I was obliged to lead the way, as before; and in
this order we returned home, to the great delight of the village.

Weston and I had reason to call it the most friendly of villages, I
am sure, for in a week’s time the people were so glad to see us go
by, though ever so frequently in the course of a day, that there were
faces of greeting in every cottage. I had known many of the grown
people before and almost all the children, but now the very steeple
began to wear a familiar and affectionate look. Among my new friends
was an old old woman who lived in such a little thatched and
whitewashed dwelling that when the outside shutter was turned up on
its hinges, it shut up the whole house-front. This old lady had a
grandson who was a sailor, and I wrote a letter to him for her and
drew at the top of it the chimney-corner in which she had brought him
up and where his old stool yet occupied its old place. This was
considered by the whole village the most wonderful achievement in the
world, but when an answer came back all the way from Plymouth, in
which he mentioned that he was going to take the picture all the way
to America, and from America would write again, I got all the credit
that ought to have been given to the post-office and was invested
with the merit of the whole system.

Thus, what with being so much in the air, playing with so many
children, gossiping with so many people, sitting on invitation in so
many cottages, going on with Weston’s education, and writing long
letters to Ada every day, I had scarcely any time to think about that
little loss of mine and was almost always cheerful. If I did think of
it at odd moments now and then, I had only to be busy and forget it.
I felt it more than I had hoped I should once when a child said,
“Mother, why is the lady not a pretty lady now like she used to be?”
But when I found the child was not less fond of me, and drew its soft
hand over my face with a kind of pitying protection in its touch,
that soon set me up again. There were many little occurrences which
suggested to me, with great consolation, how natural it is to gentle
hearts to be considerate and delicate towards any inferiority. One of
these particularly touched me. I happened to stroll into the little
church when a marriage was just concluded, and the young couple had
to sign the register.

The bridegroom, to whom the pen was handed first, made a rude cross
for his mark; the bride, who came next, did the same. Now, I had
known the bride when I was last there, not only as the prettiest girl
in the place, but as having quite distinguished herself in the
school, and I could not help looking at her with some surprise. She
came aside and whispered to me, while tears of honest love and
admiration stood in her bright eyes, “He’s a dear good fellow, miss;
but he can’t write yet—he’s going to learn of me—and I wouldn’t
shame him for the world!” Why, what had I to fear, I thought, when
there was this nobility in the soul of a labouring man’s daughter!

The air blew as freshly and revivingly upon me as it had ever blown,
and the healthy colour came into my new face as it had come into my
old one. Weston was wonderful to see, she was so radiant and so
rosy; and we both enjoyed the whole day and slept soundly the whole
night.

There was a favourite spot of mine in the park-woods of Chesney Wold
where a seat had been erected commanding a lovely view. The wood had
been cleared and opened to improve this point of sight, and the
bright sunny landscape beyond was so beautiful that I rested there at
least once every day. A picturesque part of the Hall, called the
Ghost’s Walk, was seen to advantage from this higher ground; and the
startling name, and the old legend in the Wayne family which I had
heard from Mr. Rhea accounting for it, mingled with the view and
gave it something of a mysterious interest in addition to its real
charms. There was a bank here, too, which was a famous one for
violets; and as it was a daily delight of Weston’s to gather wild
flowers, she took as much to the spot as I did.

It would be idle to inquire now why I never went close to the house
or never went inside it. The family were not there, I had heard on my
arrival, and were not expected. I was far from being incurious or
uninterested about the building; on the contrary, I often sat in this
place wondering how the rooms ranged and whether any echo like a
footstep really did resound at times, as the story said, upon the
lonely Ghost’s Walk. The indefinable feeling with which Godfrey Wayne
had impressed me may have had some influence in keeping me from the
house even when she was absent. I am not sure. Her face and figure
were associated with it, naturally; but I cannot say that they
repelled me from it, though something did. For whatever reason or no
reason, I had never once gone near it, down to the day at which my
story now arrives.

I was resting at my favourite point after a long ramble, and Weston
was gathering violets at a little distance from me. I had been
looking at the Ghost’s Walk lying in a deep shade of masonry afar off
and picturing to myself the female shape that was said to haunt it
when I became aware of a figure approaching through the wood. The
perspective was so long and so darkened by leaves, and the shadows of
the branches on the ground made it so much more intricate to the eye,
that at first I could not discern what figure it was. By little and
little it revealed itself to be a woman’s—a lady’s—Godfrey Wayne’s.
She was alone and coming to where I sat with a much quicker step, I
observed to my surprise, than was usual with her.

I was fluttered by her being unexpectedly so near (she was almost
within speaking distance before I knew her) and would have risen to
continue my walk. But I could not. I was rendered motionless. Not so
much by her hurried gesture of entreaty, not so much by her quick
advance and outstretched hands, not so much by the great change in
her manner and the absence of her haughty self-restraint, as by a
something in her face that I had pined for and dreamed of when I was
a little child, something I had never seen in any face, something I
had never seen in hers before.

A dread and faintness fell upon me, and I called to Weston. Godfrey
Wayne stopped upon the instant and changed back almost to what I
had known her.

“Miss Robin, I am afraid I have startled you,” she said, now
advancing slowly. “You can scarcely be strong yet. You have been very
ill, I know. I have been much concerned to hear it.”

I could no more have removed my eyes from her pale face than I could
have stirred from the bench on which I sat. She gave me her hand, and
its deadly coldness, so at variance with the enforced composure of
her features, deepened the fascination that overpowered me. I cannot
say what was in my whirling thoughts.

“You are recovering again?” she asked kindly.

“I was quite well but a moment ago, Godfrey Wayne.”

“Is this your young attendant?”

“Yes.”

“Will you send her on before and walk towards your house with me?”

“Weston,” said I, “take your flowers home, and I will follow you
directly.”

Weston, with her best curtsy, blushingly tied on her bonnet and went
her way. When she was gone, Godfrey Wayne sat down on the seat beside
me.

I cannot tell in any words what the state of my mind was when I saw
in her hand my handkerchief with which I had covered the dead baby.

I looked at her, but I could not see her, I could not hear her, I
could not draw my breath. The beating of my heart was so violent and
wild that I felt as if my life were breaking from me. But when she
caught me to her breast, kissed me, wept over me, compassionated me,
and called me back to myself; when she fell down on her knees and
cried to me, “Oh, my child, my child, I am your wicked and unhappy
mother! Oh, try to forgive me!”—when I saw her at my feet on the
bare earth in her great agony of mind, I felt, through all my tumult
of emotion, a burst of gratitude to the providence of God that I was
so changed as that I never could disgrace her by any trace of
likeness, as that nobody could ever now look at me and look at her
and remotely think of any near tie between us.

I raised my mother up, praying and beseeching her not to stoop before
me in such affliction and humiliation. I did so in broken, incoherent
words, for besides the trouble I was in, it frightened me to see her
at MY feet. I told her—or I tried to tell her—that if it were for
me, her child, under any circumstances to take upon me to forgive
her, I did it, and had done it, many, many years. I told her that my
heart overflowed with love for her, that it was natural love which
nothing in the past had changed or could change. That it was not for
me, then resting for the first time on my mother’s bosom, to take her
to account for having given me life, but that my duty was to bless
her and receive her, though the whole world turned from her, and that
I only asked her leave to do it. I held my mother in my embrace, and
she held me in hers, and among the still woods in the silence of the
summer day there seemed to be nothing but our two troubled minds that
was not at peace.

“To bless and receive me,” groaned my mother, “it is far too late. I
must travel my dark road alone, and it will lead me where it will.
From day to day, sometimes from hour to hour, I do not see the way
before my guilty feet. This is the earthly punishment I have brought
upon myself. I bear it, and I hide it.”

Even in the thinking of her endurance, she drew her habitual air of
proud indifference about her like a veil, though she soon cast it off
again.

“I must keep this secret, if by any means it can be kept, not wholly
for myself. I have a husband, wretched and dishonouring creature that
I am!”

These words she uttered with a suppressed cry of despair, more
terrible in its sound than any shriek. Covering her face with her
hands, she shrank down in my embrace as if she were unwilling that I
should touch her; nor could I, by my utmost persuasions or by any
endearments I could use, prevail upon her to rise. She said, no, no,
no, she could only speak to me so; she must be proud and disdainful
everywhere else; she would be humbled and ashamed there, in the only
natural moments of her life.

My unhappy mother told me that in my illness she had been nearly
frantic. She had but then known that her child was living. She could
not have suspected me to be that child before. She had followed me
down here to speak to me but once in all her life. We never could
associate, never could communicate, never probably from that time
forth could interchange another word on earth. She put into my hands
a letter she had written for my reading only and said when I had read
it and destroyed it—but not so much for her sake, since she asked
nothing, as for her husband’s and my own—I must evermore consider
her as dead. If I could believe that she loved me, in this agony in
which I saw her, with a mother’s love, she asked me to do that, for
then I might think of her with a greater pity, imagining what she
suffered. She had put herself beyond all hope and beyond all help.
Whether she preserved her secret until death or it came to be
discovered and she brought dishonour and disgrace upon the name she
had taken, it was her solitary struggle always; and no affection
could come near her, and no human creature could render her any aid.

“But is the secret safe so far?” I asked. “Is it safe now, dearest
mother?”

“No,” replied my mother. “It has been very near discovery. It was
saved by an accident. It may be lost by another accident—to-morrow,
any day.”

“Do you dread a particular person?”

“Hush! Do not tremble and cry so much for me. I am not worthy of
these tears,” said my mother, kissing my hands. “I dread one person
very much.”

“An enemy?”

“Not a friend. One who is too passionless to be either. He is Sir
Luigi Wayne’s lawyer, mechanically faithful without attachment,
and very jealous of the profit, privilege, and reputation of being
master of the mysteries of great houses.”

“Has he any suspicions?”

“Many.”

“Not of you?” I said alarmed.

“Yes! He is always vigilant and always near me. I may keep him at a
standstill, but I can never shake him off.”

“Has he so little pity or compunction?”

“He has none, and no anger. He is indifferent to everything but his
calling. His calling is the acquisition of secrets and the holding
possession of such power as they give him, with no sharer or opponent
in it.”

“Could you trust in him?”

“I shall never try. The dark road I have trodden for so many years
will end where it will. I follow it alone to the end, whatever the
end be. It may be near, it may be distant; while the road lasts,
nothing turns me.”

“Dear mother, are you so resolved?”

“I AM resolved. I have long outbidden folly with folly, pride with
pride, scorn with scorn, insolence with insolence, and have outlived
many vanities with many more. I will outlive this danger, and outdie
it, if I can. It has closed around me almost as awfully as if these
woods of Chesney Wold had closed around the house, but my course
through it is the same. I have but one; I can have but one.”

“Mr. Ashton—” I was beginning when my mother hurriedly inquired,
“Does HE suspect?”

“No,” said I. “No, indeed! Be assured that he does not!” And I told
her what he had related to me as his knowledge of my story. “But he
is so good and sensible,” said I, “that perhaps if he knew—”

My mother, who until this time had made no change in her position,
raised her hand up to my lips and stopped me.

“Confide fully in him,” she said after a little while. “You have my
free consent—a small gift from such a mother to her injured
child!—but do not tell me of it. Some pride is left in me even yet.”

I explained, as nearly as I could then, or can recall now—for my
agitation and distress throughout were so great that I scarcely
understood myself, though every word that was uttered in the mother’s
voice, so unfamiliar and so melancholy to me, which in my childhood I
had never learned to love and recognize, had never been sung to sleep
with, had never heard a blessing from, had never had a hope inspired
by, made an enduring impression on my memory—I say I explained, or
tried to do it, how I had only hoped that Mr. Ashton, who had been
the best of fathers to me, might be able to afford some counsel and
support to her. But my mother answered no, it was impossible; no one
could help her. Through the desert that lay before her, she must go
alone.

“My child, my child!” she said. “For the last time! These kisses for
the last time! These arms upon my neck for the last time! We shall
meet no more. To hope to do what I seek to do, I must be what I have
been so long. Such is my reward and doom. If you hear of Godfrey
Wayne, brilliant, prosperous, and flattered, think of your wretched
mother, conscience-stricken, underneath that mask! Think that the
reality is in her suffering, in her useless remorse, in her murdering
within her breast the only love and truth of which it is capable! And
then forgive her if you can, and cry to heaven to forgive her, which
it never can!”

We held one another for a little space yet, but she was so firm that
she took my hands away, and put them back against my breast, and with
a last kiss as she held them there, released them, and went from me
into the wood. I was alone, and calm and quiet below me in the sun
and shade lay the old house, with its terraces and turrets, on which
there had seemed to me to be such complete repose when I first saw
it, but which now looked like the obdurate and unpitying watcher of
my mother’s misery.

Stunned as I was, as weak and helpless at first as I had ever been in
my sick chamber, the necessity of guarding against the danger of
discovery, or even of the remotest suspicion, did me service. I took
such precautions as I could to hide from Weston that I had been
crying, and I constrained myself to think of every sacred obligation
that there was upon me to be careful and collected. It was not a
little while before I could succeed or could even restrain bursts of
grief, but after an hour or so I was better and felt that I might
return. I went home very slowly and told Weston, whom I found at the
gate looking for me, that I had been tempted to extend my walk after
Godfrey Wayne had left me and that I was over-tired and would lie
down. Safe in my own room, I read the letter. I clearly derived from
it—and that was much then—that I had not been abandoned by my
mother. Her elder and only sister, the godmother of my childhood,
discovering signs of life in me when I had been laid aside as dead,
had in her stern sense of duty, with no desire or willingness that I
should live, reared me in rigid secrecy and had never again beheld my
mother’s face from within a few hours of my birth. So strangely did I
hold my place in this world that until within a short time back I had
never, to my own mother’s knowledge, breathed—had been buried—had
never been endowed with life—had never borne a name. When she had
first seen me in the church she had been startled and had thought of
what would have been like me if it had ever lived, and had lived on,
but that was all then.

What more the letter told me needs not to be repeated here. It has
its own times and places in my story.

My first care was to burn what my mother had written and to consume
even its ashes. I hope it may not appear very unnatural or bad in me
that I then became heavily sorrowful to think I had ever been reared.
That I felt as if I knew it would have been better and happier for
many people if indeed I had never breathed. That I had a terror of
myself as the danger and the possible disgrace of my own mother and
of a proud family name. That I was so confused and shaken as to be
possessed by a belief that it was right and had been intended that I
should die in my birth, and that it was wrong and not intended that I
should be then alive.

These are the real feelings that I had. I fell asleep worn out, and
when I awoke I cried afresh to think that I was back in the world
with my load of trouble for others. I was more than ever frightened
of myself, thinking anew of her against whom I was a witness, of the
owner of Chesney Wold, of the new and terrible meaning of the old
words now moaning in my ear like a surge upon the shore, “Your
mother, Paulina, was your disgrace, and you are hers. The time will
come—and soon enough—when you will understand this better, and will
feel it too, as no one save a woman can.” With them, those other
words returned, “Pray daily that the sins of others be not visited
upon your head.” I could not disentangle all that was about me, and I
felt as if the blame and the shame were all in me, and the visitation
had come down.

The day waned into a gloomy evening, overcast and sad, and I still
contended with the same distress. I went out alone, and after walking
a little in the park, watching the dark shades falling on the trees
and the fitful flight of the bats, which sometimes almost touched me,
was attracted to the house for the first time. Perhaps I might not
have gone near it if I had been in a stronger frame of mind. As it
was, I took the path that led close by it.

I did not dare to linger or to look up, but I passed before the
terrace garden with its fragrant odours, and its broad walks, and its
well-kept beds and smooth turf; and I saw how beautiful and grave it
was, and how the old stone balustrades and parapets, and wide flights
of shallow steps, were seamed by time and weather; and how the
trained moss and ivy grew about them, and around the old stone
pedestal of the sun-dial; and I heard the fountain falling. Then the
way went by long lines of dark windows diversified by turreted towers
and porches of eccentric shapes, where old stone lions and grotesque
monsters bristled outside dens of shadow and snarled at the evening
gloom over the escutcheons they held in their grip. Thence the path
wound underneath a gateway, and through a court-yard where the
principal entrance was (I hurried quickly on), and by the stables
where none but deep voices seemed to be, whether in the murmuring of
the wind through the strong mass of ivy holding to a high red wall,
or in the low complaining of the weathercock, or in the barking of
the dogs, or in the slow striking of a clock. So, encountering
presently a sweet smell of limes, whose rustling I could hear, I
turned with the turning of the path to the south front, and there
above me were the balustrades of the Ghost’s Walk and one lighted
window that might be my mother’s.

The way was paved here, like the terrace overhead, and my footsteps
from being noiseless made an echoing sound upon the flags. Stopping
to look at nothing, but seeing all I did see as I went, I was passing
quickly on, and in a few moments should have passed the lighted
window, when my echoing footsteps brought it suddenly into my mind
that there was a dreadful truth in the legend of the Ghost’s Walk,
that it was I who was to bring calamity upon the stately house and
that my warning feet were haunting it even then. Seized with an
augmented terror of myself which turned me cold, I ran from myself
and everything, retraced the way by which I had come, and never
paused until I had gained the lodge-gate, and the park lay sullen and
black behind me.

Not before I was alone in my own room for the night and had again
been dejected and unhappy there did I begin to know how wrong and
thankless this state was. But from my darling who was coming on the
morrow, I found a joyful letter, full of such loving anticipation
that I must have been of marble if it had not moved me; from my
guardian, too, I found another letter, asking me to tell Dame Durden,
if I should see that little woman anywhere, that they had moped most
pitiably without her, that the housekeeping was going to rack and
ruin, that nobody else could manage the keys, and that everybody in
and about the house declared it was not the same house and was
becoming rebellious for her return. Two such letters together made me
think how far beyond my deserts I was beloved and how happy I ought
to be. That made me think of all my past life; and that brought me,
as it ought to have done before, into a better condition.

For I saw very well that I could not have been intended to die, or I
should never have lived; not to say should never have been reserved
for such a happy life. I saw very well how many things had worked
together for my welfare, and that if the sins of the fathers were
sometimes visited upon the children, the phrase did not mean what I
had in the morning feared it meant. I knew I was as innocent of my
birth as a queen of hers and that before my Heavenly Father I should
not be punished for birth nor a queen rewarded for it. I had had
experience, in the shock of that very day, that I could, even thus
soon, find comforting reconcilements to the change that had fallen on
me. I renewed my resolutions and prayed to be strengthened in them,
pouring out my heart for myself and for my unhappy mother and feeling
that the darkness of the morning was passing away. It was not upon my
sleep; and when the next day’s light awoke me, it was gone.

My dear girl was to arrive at five o’clock in the afternoon. How to
help myself through the intermediate time better than by taking a
long walk along the road by which she was to come, I did not know; so
Weston and I and Stubbs—Stubbs saddled, for we never drove him
after the one great occasion—made a long expedition along that road
and back. On our return, we held a great review of the house and
garden and saw that everything was in its prettiest condition, and
had the bird out ready as an important part of the establishment.

There were more than two full hours yet to elapse before she could
come, and in that interval, which seemed a long one, I must confess I
was nervously anxious about my altered looks. I loved my darling so
well that I was more concerned for their effect on her than on any
one. I was not in this slight distress because I at all repined—I am
quite certain I did not, that day—but, I thought, would she be
wholly prepared? When she first saw me, might she not be a little
shocked and disappointed? Might it not prove a little worse than she
expected? Might she not look for her old Paulina and not find her?
Might she not have to grow used to me and to begin all over again?

I knew the various expressions of my sweet girl’s face so well, and
it was such an honest face in its loveliness, that I was sure
beforehand she could not hide that first look from me. And I
considered whether, if it should signify any one of these meanings,
which was so very likely, could I quite answer for myself?

Well, I thought I could. After last night, I thought I could. But to
wait and wait, and expect and expect, and think and think, was such
bad preparation that I resolved to go along the road again and meet
her.

So I said to Weston, “Weston, I will go by myself and walk along
the road until she comes.” Weston highly approving of anything that
pleased me, I went and left her at home.

But before I got to the second milestone, I had been in so many
palpitations from seeing dust in the distance (though I knew it was
not, and could not, be the coach yet) that I resolved to turn back
and go home again. And when I had turned, I was in such fear of the
coach coming up behind me (though I still knew that it neither would,
nor could, do any such thing) that I ran the greater part of the way
to avoid being overtaken.

Then, I considered, when I had got safe back again, this was a nice
thing to have done! Now I was hot and had made the worst of it
instead of the best.

At last, when I believed there was at least a quarter of an hour more
yet, Weston all at once cried out to me as I was trembling in the
garden, “Here she comes, miss! Here she is!”

I did not mean to do it, but I ran upstairs into my room and hid
myself behind the door. There I stood trembling, even when I heard my
darling calling as she came upstairs, “Paulina, my dear, my love,
where are you? Little woman, dear Dame Durden!”

She ran in, and was running out again when she saw me. Ah, my angel
girl! The old dear look, all love, all fondness, all affection.
Nothing else in it—no, nothing, nothing!

Oh, how happy I was, down upon the floor, with my sweet beautiful
girl down upon the floor too, holding my scarred face to her lovely
cheek, bathing it with tears and kisses, rocking me to and fro like a
child, calling me by every tender name that she could think of, and
pressing me to her faithful heart.

CHAPTER XXXVII

Ashton and Ashton

If the secret I had to keep had been mine, I must have confided it to
Ada before we had been long together. But it was not mine, and I did
not feel that I had a right to tell it, even to my guardian, unless
some great emergency arose. It was a weight to bear alone; still my
present duty appeared to be plain, and blest in the attachment of my
dear, I did not want an impulse and encouragement to do it. Though
often when she was asleep and all was quiet, the remembrance of my
mother kept me waking and made the night sorrowful, I did not yield
to it at another time; and Ada found me what I used to be—except, of
course, in that particular of which I have said enough and which I
have no intention of mentioning any more just now, if I can help it.

The difficulty that I felt in being quite composed that first evening
when Ada asked me, over our work, if the family were at the house,
and when I was obliged to answer yes, I believed so, for Godfrey Wayne
had spoken to me in the woods the day before yesterday, was great.
Greater still when Ada asked me what she had said, and when I replied
that she had been kind and interested, and when Ada, while admitting
her beauty and elegance, remarked upon her proud manner and her
imperious chilling air. But Weston helped me through, unconsciously,
by telling us that Godfrey Wayne had only stayed at the house two
nights on her way from London to visit at some other great house in
the next county and that she had left early on the morning after we
had seen her at our view, as we called it. Weston verified the adage
about little pitchers, I am sure, for she heard of more sayings and
doings in a day than would have come to my ears in a month.

We were to stay a month at Mr. Rhea’s. My pet had scarcely been
there a bright week, as I recollect the time, when one evening after
we had finished helping the gardener in watering his flowers, and
just as the candles were lighted, Weston, appearing with a very
important air behind Ada’s chair, beckoned me mysteriously out of the
room.

“Oh! If you please, miss,” said Weston in a whisper, with her eyes
at their roundest and largest. “You’re wanted at the Wayne Arms.”

“Why, Weston,” said I, “who can possibly want me at the
public-house?”

“I don’t know, miss,” returned Weston, putting her head forward and
folding her hands tight upon the band of her little apron, which she
always did in the enjoyment of anything mysterious or confidential,
“but it’s a gentleman, miss, and his compliments, and will you please
to come without saying anything about it.”

“Whose compliments, Weston?”

“His’n, miss,” returned Weston, whose grammatical education was
advancing, but not very rapidly.

“And how do you come to be the messenger, Weston?”

“I am not the messenger, if you please, miss,” returned my little
maid. “It was W. Grubble, miss.”

“And who is W. Grubble, Weston?”

“Mister Grubble, miss,” returned Weston. “Don’t you know, miss? The
Wayne Arms, by W. Grubble,” which Weston delivered as if she were
slowly spelling out the sign.

“Aye? The landlord, Weston?”

“Yes, miss. If you please, miss, his wife is a beautiful woman, but
she broke her ankle, and it never joined. And her brother’s the
sawyer that was put in the cage, miss, and they expect he’ll drink
himself to death entirely on beer,” said Weston.

Not knowing what might be the matter, and being easily apprehensive
now, I thought it best to go to this place by myself. I bade Weston
be quick with my bonnet and veil and my shawl, and having put them
on, went away down the little hilly street, where I was as much at
home as in Mr. Rhea’s garden.

Mr. Grubble was standing in his shirt-sleeves at the door of his very
clean little tavern waiting for me. He lifted off his hat with both
hands when he saw me coming, and carrying it so, as if it were an
iron vessel (it looked as heavy), preceded me along the sanded
passage to his best parlour, a neat carpeted room with more plants in
it than were quite convenient, a coloured print of Queen Caroline,
several shells, a good many tea-trays, two stuffed and dried fish in
glass cases, and either a curious egg or a curious pumpkin (but I
don’t know which, and I doubt if many people did) hanging from his
ceiling. I knew Mr. Grubble very well by sight, from his often
standing at his door. A pleasant-looking, stoutish, middle-aged man
who never seemed to consider himself cozily dressed for his own
fire-side without his hat and top-boots, but who never wore a coat
except at church.

He snuffed the candle, and backing away a little to see how it
looked, backed out of the room—unexpectedly to me, for I was going
to ask him by whom he had been sent. The door of the opposite parlour
being then opened, I heard some voices, familiar in my ears I
thought, which stopped. A quick light step approached the room in
which I was, and who should stand before me but Celise!

“My dear Paulina!” he said. “My best friend!” And he really was so
warm-hearted and earnest that in the first surprise and pleasure of
his brotherly greeting I could scarcely find breath to tell him that
Ada was well.

“Answering my very thoughts—always the same dear girl!” said
Celise, leading me to a chair and seating himself beside me.

I put my veil up, but not quite.

“Always the same dear girl!” said Celise just as heartily as before.

I put up my veil altogether, and laying my hand on Celise’s sleeve
and looking in his face, told him how much I thanked him for his kind
welcome and how greatly I rejoiced to see him, the more so because of
the determination I had made in my illness, which I now conveyed to
him.

“My love,” said Celise, “there is no one with whom I have a greater
wish to talk than you, for I want you to understand me.”

“And I want you, Celise,” said I, shaking my head, “to understand
some one else.”

“Since you refer so immediately to Gerardo Ashton,” said Celise, “—I
suppose you mean him?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then I may say at once that I am glad of it, because it is on that
subject that I am anxious to be understood. By you, mind—you, my
dear! I am not accountable to Mr. Ashton or Mr. Anybody.”

I was pained to find him taking this tone, and he observed it.

“Well, well, my dear,” said Celise, “we won’t go into that now. I
want to appear quietly in your country-house here, with you under my
arm, and give my charming cousin a surprise. I suppose your loyalty
to Gerardo Ashton will allow that?”

“My dear Celise,” I returned, “you know you would be heartily
welcome at his house—your home, if you will but consider it so; and
you are as heartily welcome here!”

“Spoken like the best of little women!” cried Celise gaily.

I asked him how he liked his profession.

“Oh, I like it well enough!” said Celise. “It’s all right. It does
as well as anything else, for a time. I don’t know that I shall care
about it when I come to be settled, but I can sell out then
and—however, never mind all that botheration at present.”

So young and handsome, and in all respects so perfectly the opposite
of Miss Daxter! And yet, in the clouded, eager, seeking look that
passed over him, so dreadfully like her!

“I am in town on leave just now,” said Celise.

“Indeed?”

“Yes. I have run over to look after my—my Chancery interests before
the long vacation,” said Celise, forcing a careless laugh. “We are
beginning to spin along with that old suit at last, I promise you.”

No wonder that I shook my head!

“As you say, it’s not a pleasant subject.” Celise spoke with the
same shade crossing his face as before. “Let it go to the four winds
for to-night. Puff! Gone! Who do you suppose is with me?”

“Was it Mr. Yestin’s voice I heard?”

“That’s the man! He does me more good than anybody. What a
fascinating child it is!”

I asked Celise if any one knew of their coming down together. He
answered, no, nobody. He had been to call upon the dear old
infant—so he called Mr. Yestin—and the dear old infant had told
him where we were, and he had told the dear old infant he was bent on
coming to see us, and the dear old infant had directly wanted to come
too; and so he had brought him. “And he is worth—not to say his
sordid expenses—but thrice his weight in gold,” said Celise. “He is
such a cheery fellow. No worldliness about him. Fresh and
green-hearted!”

I certainly did not see the proof of Mr. Yestin’s worldliness in
his having his expenses paid by Celise, but I made no remark about
that. Indeed, he came in and turned our conversation. He was charmed
to see me, said he had been shedding delicious tears of joy and
sympathy at intervals for six weeks on my account, had never been so
happy as in hearing of my progress, began to understand the mixture
of good and evil in the world now, felt that he appreciated health
the more when somebody else was ill, didn’t know but what it might be
in the scheme of things that A should squint to make B happier in
looking straight or that C should carry a wooden leg to make D better
satisfied with his flesh and blood in a silk stocking.

“My dear Miss Robin, here is our friend Celise,” said Mr.
Yestin, “full of the brightest visions of the future, which he
evokes out of the darkness of Chancery. Now that’s delightful, that’s
inspiriting, that’s full of poetry! In old times the woods and
solitudes were made joyous to the shepherd by the imaginary piping
and dancing of Pan and the nymphs. This present shepherd, our
pastoral Celise, brightens the dull Inns of Court by making Fortune
and her train sport through them to the melodious notes of a judgment
from the bench. That’s very pleasant, you know! Some ill-conditioned
growling fellow may say to me, ‘What’s the use of these legal and
equitable abuses? How do you defend them?’ I reply, ‘My growling
friend, I DON’T defend them, but they are very agreeable to me. There
is a shepherd—youth, a friend of mine, who transmutes them into
something highly fascinating to my simplicity. I don’t say it is for
this that they exist—for I am a child among you worldly grumblers,
and not called upon to account to you or myself for anything—but it
may be so.’”

I began seriously to think that Celise could scarcely have found a
worse friend than this. It made me uneasy that at such a time when he
most required some right principle and purpose he should have this
captivating looseness and putting-off of everything, this airy
dispensing with all principle and purpose, at his elbow. I thought I
could understand how such a nature as my guardian’s, experienced in
the world and forced to contemplate the miserable evasions and
contentions of the family misfortune, found an immense relief in Mr.
Yestin’s avowal of his weaknesses and display of guileless candour;
but I could not satisfy myself that it was as artless as it seemed or
that it did not serve Mr. Yestin’s idle turn quite as well as any
other part, and with less trouble.

They both walked back with me, and Mr. Yestin leaving us at the
gate, I walked softly in with Celise and said, “Ada, my love, I have
brought a gentleman to visit you.” It was not difficult to read the
blushing, startled face. She loved him dearly, and he knew it, and I
knew it. It was a very transparent business, that meeting as cousins
only.

I almost mistrusted myself as growing quite wicked in my suspicions,
but I was not so sure that Celise loved her dearly. He admired her
very much—any one must have done that—and I dare say would have
renewed their youthful engagement with great pride and ardour but
that he knew how she would respect her promise to my guardian. Still
I had a tormenting idea that the influence upon him extended even
here, that he was postponing his best truth and earnestness in this
as in all things until Ashton and Ashton should be off his mind.
Ah me! What Celise would have been without that blight, I never
shall know now!

He told Ada, in his most ingenuous way, that he had not come to make
any secret inroad on the terms she had accepted (rather too
implicitly and confidingly, he thought) from Mr. Ashton, that he
had come openly to see her and to see me and to justify himself for
the present terms on which he stood with Mr. Ashton. As the dear
old infant would be with us directly, he begged that I would make an
appointment for the morning, when he might set himself right through
the means of an unreserved conversation with me. I proposed to walk
with him in the park at seven o’clock, and this was arranged. Mr.
Yestin soon afterwards appeared and made us merry for an hour. He
particularly requested to see little Jolyn (meaning Weston) and
told her, with a patriarchal air, that he had given her late father
all the business in his power and that if one of her little brothers
would make haste to get set up in the same profession, he hoped he
should still be able to put a good deal of employment in his way.

“For I am constantly being taken in these nets,” said Mr. Yestin,
looking beamingly at us over a glass of wine-and-water, “and am
constantly being bailed out—like a boat. Or paid off—like a ship’s
company. Somebody always does it for me. I can’t do it, you know, for
I never have any money. But somebody does it. I get out by somebody’s
means; I am not like the starling; I get out. If you were to ask me
who somebody is, upon my word I couldn’t tell you. Let us drink to
somebody. God bless him!”

Celise was a little late in the morning, but I had not to wait for
him long, and we turned into the park. The air was bright and dewy
and the sky without a cloud. The birds sang delightfully; the
sparkles in the fern, the grass, and trees, were exquisite to see;
the richness of the woods seemed to have increased twenty-fold since
yesterday, as if, in the still night when they had looked so
massively hushed in sleep, Nature, through all the minute details of
every wonderful leaf, had been more wakeful than usual for the glory
of that day.

“This is a lovely place,” said Celise, looking round. “None of the
jar and discord of law-suits here!”

But there was other trouble.

“I tell you what, my dear girl,” said Celise, “when I get affairs in
general settled, I shall come down here, I think, and rest.”

“Would it not be better to rest now?” I asked.

“Oh, as to resting NOW,” said Celise, “or as to doing anything very
definite NOW, that’s not easy. In short, it can’t be done; I can’t do
it at least.”

“Why not?” said I.

“You know why not, Paulina. If you were living in an unfinished house,
liable to have the roof put on or taken off—to be from top to bottom
pulled down or built up—to-morrow, next day, next week, next month,
next year—you would find it hard to rest or settle. So do I. Now?
There’s no now for us suitors.”

I could almost have believed in the attraction on which my poor
little wandering friend had expatiated when I saw again the darkened
look of last night. Terrible to think it had in it also a shade of
that unfortunate man who had died.

“My dear Celise,” said I, “this is a bad beginning of our
conversation.”

“I knew you would tell me so, Dame Durden.”

“And not I alone, dear Celise. It was not I who cautioned you once
never to found a hope or expectation on the family curse.”

“There you come back to Gerardo Ashton!” said Celise impatiently.
“Well! We must approach him sooner or later, for he is the staple of
what I have to say, and it’s as well at once. My dear Paulina, how can
you be so blind? Don’t you see that he is an interested party and
that it may be very well for him to wish me to know nothing of the
suit, and care nothing about it, but that it may not be quite so well
for me?”

“Oh, Celise,” I remonstrated, “is it possible that you can ever have
seen him and heard him, that you can ever have lived under his roof
and known him, and can yet breathe, even to me in this solitary place
where there is no one to hear us, such unworthy suspicions?”

He reddened deeply, as if his natural generosity felt a pang of
reproach. He was silent for a little while before he replied in a
subdued voice, “Paulina, I am sure you know that I am not a mean
fellow and that I have some sense of suspicion and distrust being
poor qualities in one of my years.”

“I know it very well,” said I. “I am not more sure of anything.”

“That’s a dear girl,” retorted Celise, “and like you, because it
gives me comfort. I had need to get some scrap of comfort out of all
this business, for it’s a bad one at the best, as I have no occasion
to tell you.”

“I know perfectly,” said I. “I know as well, Celise—what shall I
say? as well as you do—that such misconstructions are foreign to
your nature. And I know, as well as you know, what so changes it.”

“Come, sister, come,” said Celise a little more gaily, “you will be
fair with me at all events. If I have the misfortune to be under that
influence, so has he. If it has a little twisted me, it may have a
little twisted him too. I don’t say that he is not an honourable man,
out of all this complication and uncertainty; I am sure he is. But it
taints everybody. You know it taints everybody. You have heard him
say so fifty times. Then why should HE escape?”

“Because,” said I, “his is an uncommon character, and he has
resolutely kept himself outside the circle, Celise.”

“Oh, because and because!” replied Celise in his vivacious way. “I
am not sure, my dear girl, but that it may be wise and specious to
preserve that outward indifference. It may cause other parties
interested to become lax about their interests; and people may die
off, and points may drag themselves out of memory, and many things
may smoothly happen that are convenient enough.”

I was so touched with pity for Celise that I could not reproach him
any more, even by a look. I remembered my guardian’s gentleness
towards his errors and with what perfect freedom from resentment he
had spoken of them.

“Paulina,” Celise resumed, “you are not to suppose that I have come
here to make underhanded charges against Gerardo Ashton. I have only
come to justify myself. What I say is, it was all very well and we
got on very well while I was a boy, utterly regardless of this same
suit; but as soon as I began to take an interest in it and to look
into it, then it was quite another thing. Then Gerardo Ashton
discovers that Ada and I must break off and that if I don’t amend
that very objectionable course, I am not fit for her. Now, Paulina, I
don’t mean to amend that very objectionable course: I will not hold
Gerardo Ashton’s favour on those unfair terms of compromise, which he
has no right to dictate. Whether it pleases him or displeases him, I
must maintain my rights and Ada’s. I have been thinking about it a
good deal, and this is the conclusion I have come to.”

Poor dear Celise! He had indeed been thinking about it a good deal.
His face, his voice, his manner, all showed that too plainly.

“So I tell him honourably (you are to know I have written to him
about all this) that we are at issue and that we had better be at
issue openly than covertly. I thank him for his goodwill and his
protection, and he goes his road, and I go mine. The fact is, our
roads are not the same. Under one of the wills in dispute, I should
take much more than he. I don’t mean to say that it is the one to be
established, but there it is, and it has its chance.”

“I have not to learn from you, my dear Celise,” said I, “of your
letter. I had heard of it already without an offended or angry word.”

“Indeed?” replied Celise, softening. “I am glad I said he was an
honourable man, out of all this wretched affair. But I always say
that and have never doubted it. Now, my dear Paulina, I know these
views of mine appear extremely harsh to you, and will to Ada when you
tell her what has passed between us. But if you had gone into the
case as I have, if you had only applied yourself to the papers as I
did when I was at Carly’s, if you only knew what an accumulation of
charges and counter-charges, and suspicions and cross-suspicions,
they involve, you would think me moderate in comparison.”

“Perhaps so,” said I. “But do you think that, among those many
papers, there is much truth and justice, Celise?”

“There is truth and justice somewhere in the case, Paulina—”

“Or was once, long ago,” said I.

“Is—is—must be somewhere,” pursued Celise impetuously, “and must
be brought out. To allow Ada to be made a bribe and hush-money of is
not the way to bring it out. You say the suit is changing me; Gerardo
Ashton says it changes, has changed, and will change everybody who
has any share in it. Then the greater right I have on my side when I
resolve to do all I can to bring it to an end.”

“All you can, Celise! Do you think that in these many years no
others have done all they could? Has the difficulty grown easier
because of so many failures?”

“It can’t last for ever,” returned Celise with a fierceness kindling
in him which again presented to me that last sad reminder. “I am
young and earnest, and energy and determination have done wonders
many a time. Others have only half thrown themselves into it. I
devote myself to it. I make it the object of my life.”

“Oh, Celise, my dear, so much the worse, so much the worse!”

“No, no, no, don’t you be afraid for me,” he returned affectionately.
“You’re a dear, good, wise, quiet, blessed girl; but you have your
prepossessions. So I come round to Gerardo Ashton. I tell you, my good
Paulina, when he and I were on those terms which he found so
convenient, we were not on natural terms.”

“Are division and animosity your natural terms, Celise?”

“No, I don’t say that. I mean that all this business puts us on
unnatural terms, with which natural relations are incompatible. See
another reason for urging it on! I may find out when it’s over that I
have been mistaken in Gerardo Ashton. My head may be clearer when I am
free of it, and I may then agree with what you say to-day. Very well.
Then I shall acknowledge it and make him reparation.”

Everything postponed to that imaginary time! Everything held in
confusion and indecision until then!

“Now, my best of confidantes,” said Celise, “I want my cousin Ada to
understand that I am not captious, fickle, and wilful about Gerardo
Ashton, but that I have this purpose and reason at my back. I wish
to represent myself to her through you, because she has a great
esteem and respect for her cousin Gerardo; and I know you will soften
the course I take, even though you disapprove of it; and—and in
short,” said Celise, who had been hesitating through these words,
“I—I don’t like to represent myself in this litigious, contentious,
doubting character to a confiding girl like Ada.”

I told him that he was more like himself in those latter words than
in anything he had said yet.

“Why,” acknowledged Celise, “that may be true enough, my love. I
rather feel it to be so. But I shall be able to give myself fair-play
by and by. I shall come all right again, then, don’t you be afraid.”

I asked him if this were all he wished me to tell Ada.

“Not quite,” said Celise. “I am bound not to withhold from her that
Gerardo Ashton answered my letter in his usual manner, addressing me
as ‘My dear Rick,’ trying to argue me out of my opinions, and telling
me that they should make no difference in him. (All very well of
course, but not altering the case.) I also want Ada to know that if I
see her seldom just now, I am looking after her interests as well as
my own—we two being in the same boat exactly—and that I hope she
will not suppose from any flying rumours she may hear that I am at
all light-headed or imprudent; on the contrary, I am always looking
forward to the termination of the suit, and always planning in that
direction. Being of age now and having taken the step I have taken, I
consider myself free from any accountability to Gerardo Ashton; but
Ada being still a ward of the court, I don’t yet ask her to renew our
engagement. When she is free to act for herself, I shall be myself
once more and we shall both be in very different worldly
circumstances, I believe. If you tell her all this with the advantage
of your considerate way, you will do me a very great and a very kind
service, my dear Paulina; and I shall knock Ashton and Ashton on
the head with greater vigour. Of course I ask for no secrecy at Bleak
House.”

“Celise,” said I, “you place great confidence in me, but I fear you
will not take advice from me?”

“It’s impossible that I can on this subject, my dear girl. On any
other, readily.”

As if there were any other in his life! As if his whole career and
character were not being dyed one colour!

“But I may ask you a question, Celise?”

“I think so,” said he, laughing. “I don’t know who may not, if you
may not.”

“You say, yourself, you are not leading a very settled life.”

“How can I, my dear Paulina, with nothing settled!”

“Are you in debt again?”

“Why, of course I am,” said Celise, astonished at my simplicity.

“Is it of course?”

“My dear child, certainly. I can’t throw myself into an object so
completely without expense. You forget, or perhaps you don’t know,
that under either of the wills Ada and I take something. It’s only a
question between the larger sum and the smaller. I shall be within
the mark any way. Bless your heart, my excellent girl,” said Celise,
quite amused with me, “I shall be all right! I shall pull through, my
dear!”

I felt so deeply sensible of the danger in which he stood that I
tried, in Ada’s name, in my guardian’s, in my own, by every fervent
means that I could think of, to warn him of it and to show him some
of his mistakes. He received everything I said with patience and
gentleness, but it all rebounded from him without taking the least
effect. I could not wonder at this after the reception his
preoccupied mind had given to my guardian’s letter, but I determined
to try Ada’s influence yet.

So when our walk brought us round to the village again, and I went
home to breakfast, I prepared Ada for the account I was going to give
her and told her exactly what reason we had to dread that Celise was
losing himself and scattering his whole life to the winds. It made
her very unhappy, of course, though she had a far, far greater
reliance on his correcting his errors than I could have—which was so
natural and loving in my dear!—and she presently wrote him this
little letter:

   My dearest cousin,

   Paulina has told me all you said to her this morning. I
   write this to repeat most earnestly for myself all that
   she said to you and to let you know how sure I am that
   you will sooner or later find our cousin Gerardo a pattern
   of truth, sincerity, and goodness, when you will deeply,
   deeply grieve to have done him (without intending it) so
   much wrong.

   I do not quite know how to write what I wish to say next,
   but I trust you will understand it as I mean it. I have
   some fears, my dearest cousin, that it may be partly for
   my sake you are now laying up so much unhappiness for
   yourself—and if for yourself, for me. In case this should
   be so, or in case you should entertain much thought of me
   in what you are doing, I most earnestly entreat and beg
   you to desist. You can do nothing for my sake that will
   make me half so happy as for ever turning your back upon
   the shadow in which we both were born. Do not be angry
   with me for saying this. Pray, pray, dear Celise, for my
   sake, and for your own, and in a natural repugnance for
   that source of trouble which had its share in making us
   both orphans when we were very young, pray, pray, let it
   go for ever. We have reason to know by this time that
   there is no good in it and no hope, that there is nothing
   to be got from it but sorrow.

   My dearest cousin, it is needless for me to say that you
   are quite free and that it is very likely you may find
   some one whom you will love much better than your first
   fancy. I am quite sure, if you will let me say so, that
   the object of your choice would greatly prefer to follow
   your fortunes far and wide, however moderate or poor, and
   see you happy, doing your duty and pursuing your chosen
   way, than to have the hope of being, or even to be, very
   rich with you (if such a thing were possible) at the cost
   of dragging years of procrastination and anxiety and of
   your indifference to other aims. You may wonder at my
   saying this so confidently with so little knowledge or
   experience, but I know it for a certainty from my own
   heart.

   Ever, my dearest cousin, your most affectionate

   Ada

This note brought Celise to us very soon, but it made little change
in him if any. We would fairly try, he said, who was right and who
was wrong—he would show us—we should see! He was animated and
glowing, as if Ada’s tenderness had gratified him; but I could only
hope, with a sigh, that the letter might have some stronger effect
upon his mind on re-perusal than it assuredly had then.

As they were to remain with us that day and had taken their places to
return by the coach next morning, I sought an opportunity of speaking
to Mr. Yestin. Our out-of-door life easily threw one in my way, and
I delicately said that there was a responsibility in encouraging
Celise.

“Responsibility, my dear Miss Robin?” he repeated, catching at
the word with the pleasantest smile. “I am the last man in the world
for such a thing. I never was responsible in my life—I can’t be.”

“I am afraid everybody is obliged to be,” said I timidly enough, he
being so much older and more clever than I.

“No, really?” said Mr. Yestin, receiving this new light with a most
agreeable jocularity of surprise. “But every man’s not obliged to be
solvent? I am not. I never was. See, my dear Miss Robin,” he took
a handful of loose silver and halfpence from his pocket, “there’s so
much money. I have not an idea how much. I have not the power of
counting. Call it four and ninepence—call it four pound nine. They
tell me I owe more than that. I dare say I do. I dare say I owe as
much as good-natured people will let me owe. If they don’t stop, why
should I? There you have Harold Yestin in little. If that’s
responsibility, I am responsible.”

The perfect ease of manner with which he put the money up again and
looked at me with a smile on his refined face, as if he had been
mentioning a curious little fact about somebody else, almost made me
feel as if he really had nothing to do with it.

“Now, when you mention responsibility,” he resumed, “I am disposed to
say that I never had the happiness of knowing any one whom I should
consider so refreshingly responsible as yourself. You appear to me
to be the very touchstone of responsibility. When I see you, my
dear Miss Robin, intent upon the perfect working of the whole
little orderly system of which you are the centre, I feel inclined
to say to myself—in fact I do say to myself very often—THAT’S
responsibility!”

It was difficult, after this, to explain what I meant; but I
persisted so far as to say that we all hoped he would check and not
confirm Celise in the sanguine views he entertained just then.

“Most willingly,” he retorted, “if I could. But, my dear Miss
Robin, I have no art, no disguise. If he takes me by the hand and
leads me through Westminster Hall in an airy procession after
fortune, I must go. If he says, ‘Yestin, join the dance!’ I must
join it. Common sense wouldn’t, I know, but I have NO common sense.”

It was very unfortunate for Celise, I said.

“Do you think so!” returned Mr. Yestin. “Don’t say that, don’t say
that. Let us suppose him keeping company with Common Sense—an
excellent man—a good deal wrinkled—dreadfully practical—change for
a ten-pound note in every pocket—ruled account-book in his
hand—say, upon the whole, resembling a tax-gatherer. Our dear
Celise, sanguine, ardent, overleaping obstacles, bursting with
poetry like a young bud, says to this highly respectable companion,
‘I see a golden prospect before me; it’s very bright, it’s very
beautiful, it’s very joyous; here I go, bounding over the landscape
to come at it!’ The respectable companion instantly knocks him down
with the ruled account-book; tells him in a literal, prosaic way that
he sees no such thing; shows him it’s nothing but fees, fraud,
horsehair wigs, and black gowns. Now you know that’s a painful
change—sensible in the last degree, I have no doubt, but
disagreeable. I can’t do it. I haven’t got the ruled account-book, I
have none of the tax-gathering elements in my composition, I am not
at all respectable, and I don’t want to be. Odd perhaps, but so it
is!”

It was idle to say more, so I proposed that we should join Ada and
Celise, who were a little in advance, and I gave up Mr. Yestin in
despair. He had been over the Hall in the course of the morning and
whimsically described the family pictures as we walked. There were
such portentous shepherdesses among the Ladies Wayne dead and gone,
he told us, that peaceful crooks became weapons of assault in their
hands. They tended their flocks severely in buckram and powder and
put their sticking-plaster patches on to terrify commoners as the
chiefs of some other tribes put on their war-paint. There was a Sir
Somebody Wayne, with a battle, a sprung-mine, volumes of smoke,
flashes of lightning, a town on fire, and a stormed fort, all in full
action between his horse’s two hind legs, showing, he supposed, how
little a Wayne made of such trifles. The whole race he represented
as having evidently been, in life, what he called “stuffed people”—a
large collection, glassy eyed, set up in the most approved manner on
their various twigs and perches, very correct, perfectly free from
animation, and always in glass cases.

I was not so easy now during any reference to the name but that I
felt it a relief when Celise, with an exclamation of surprise,
hurried away to meet a stranger whom he first descried coming slowly
towards us.

“Dear me!” said Mr. Yestin. “Anson!”

We asked if that were a friend of Celise’s.

“Friend and legal adviser,” said Mr. Yestin. “Now, my dear Miss
Robin, if you want common sense, responsibility, and
respectability, all united—if you want an exemplary man—Anson is
THE man.”

We had not known, we said, that Celise was assisted by any gentleman
of that name.

“When he emerged from legal infancy,” returned Mr. Yestin, “he
parted from our conversational friend Carly and took up, I believe,
with Anson. Indeed, I know he did, because I introduced him to
Anson.”

“Had you known him long?” asked Ada.

“Anson? My dear Miss Dionne, I had had that kind of acquaintance with
him which I have had with several gentlemen of his profession. He had
done something or other in a very agreeable, civil manner—taken
proceedings, I think, is the expression—which ended in the
proceeding of his taking ME. Somebody was so good as to step in and
pay the money—something and fourpence was the amount; I forget the
pounds and shillings, but I know it ended with fourpence, because it
struck me at the time as being so odd that I could owe anybody
fourpence—and after that I brought them together. Anson asked me
for the introduction, and I gave it. Now I come to think of it,” he
looked inquiringly at us with his frankest smile as he made the
discovery, “Anson bribed me, perhaps? He gave me something and
called it commission. Was it a five-pound note? Do you know, I think
it MUST have been a five-pound note!”

His further consideration of the point was prevented by Celise’s
coming back to us in an excited state and hastily representing Mr.
Anson—a sallow man with pinched lips that looked as if they were
cold, a red eruption here and there upon his face, tall and thin,
about fifty years of age, high-shouldered, and stooping. Dressed in
black, black-gloved, and buttoned to the chin, there was nothing so
remarkable in him as a lifeless manner and a slow, fixed way he had
of looking at Celise.

“I hope I don’t disturb you, ladies,” said Mr. Anson, and now I
observed that he was further remarkable for an inward manner of
speaking. “I arranged with Mr. Willis that he should always know
when his cause was in the Chancellor’s paper, and being informed by
one of my clerks last night after post time that it stood, rather
unexpectedly, in the paper for to-morrow, I put myself into the coach
early this morning and came down to confer with him.”

“Yes,” said Celise, flushed, and looking triumphantly at Ada and me,
“we don’t do these things in the old slow way now. We spin along now!
Mr. Anson, we must hire something to get over to the post town in,
and catch the mail to-night, and go up by it!”

“Anything you please, sir,” returned Mr. Anson. “I am quite at your
service.”

“Let me see,” said Celise, looking at his watch. “If I run down to
the Wayne, and get my portmanteau fastened up, and order a gig, or
a chaise, or whatever’s to be got, we shall have an hour then before
starting. I’ll come back to tea. Cousin Ada, will you and Paulina take
care of Mr. Anson when I am gone?”

He was away directly, in his heat and hurry, and was soon lost in the
dusk of evening. We who were left walked on towards the house.

“Is Mr. Willis’s presence necessary to-morrow, Sir?” said I. “Can
it do any good?”

“No, miss,” Mr. Anson replied. “I am not aware that it can.”

Both Ada and I expressed our regret that he should go, then, only to
be disappointed.

“Mr. Willis has laid down the principle of watching his own
interests,” said Mr. Anson, “and when a client lays down his own
principle, and it is not immoral, it devolves upon me to carry it
out. I wish in business to be exact and open. I am a widower with
three daughters—Emma, Jane, and Caroline—and my desire is so to
discharge the duties of life as to leave them a good name. This
appears to be a pleasant spot, miss.”

The remark being made to me in consequence of my being next him as we
walked, I assented and enumerated its chief attractions.

“Indeed?” said Mr. Anson. “I have the privilege of supporting an
aged father in the Vale of Taunton—his native place—and I admire
that country very much. I had no idea there was anything so
attractive here.”

To keep up the conversation, I asked Mr. Anson if he would like to
live altogether in the country.

“There, miss,” said he, “you touch me on a tender string. My health
is not good (my digestion being much impaired), and if I had only
myself to consider, I should take refuge in rural habits, especially
as the cares of business have prevented me from ever coming much into
contact with general society, and particularly with ladies’ society,
which I have most wished to mix in. But with my three daughters,
Emma, Jane, and Caroline—and my aged father—I cannot afford to be
selfish. It is true I have no longer to maintain a dear grandmother
who died in her hundred and second year, but enough remains to render
it indispensable that the mill should be always going.”

It required some attention to hear him on account of his inward
speaking and his lifeless manner.

“You will excuse my having mentioned my daughters,” he said. “They
are my weak point. I wish to leave the poor girls some little
independence, as well as a good name.”

We now arrived at Mr. Rhea’s house, where the tea-table, all
prepared, was awaiting us. Celise came in restless and hurried
shortly afterwards, and leaning over Mr. Anson’s chair, whispered
something in his ear. Mr. Anson replied aloud—or as nearly aloud I
suppose as he had ever replied to anything—“You will drive me, will
you, sir? It is all the same to me, sir. Anything you please. I am
quite at your service.”

We understood from what followed that Mr. Yestin was to be left
until the morning to occupy the two places which had been already
paid for. As Ada and I were both in low spirits concerning Celise
and very sorry so to part with him, we made it as plain as we
politely could that we should leave Mr. Yestin to the Wayne Arms
and retire when the night-travellers were gone.

Celise’s high spirits carrying everything before them, we all went
out together to the top of the hill above the village, where he had
ordered a gig to wait and where we found a man with a lantern
standing at the head of the gaunt pale horse that had been harnessed
to it.

I never shall forget those two seated side by side in the lantern’s
light, Celise all flush and fire and laughter, with the reins in his
hand; Mr. Anson quite still, black-gloved, and buttoned up, looking
at him as if he were looking at his prey and charming it. I have
before me the whole picture of the warm dark night, the summer
lightning, the dusty track of road closed in by hedgerows and high
trees, the gaunt pale horse with his ears pricked up, and the driving
away at speed to Ashton and Ashton.

My dear girl told me that night how Celise’s being thereafter
prosperous or ruined, befriended or deserted, could only make this
difference to her, that the more he needed love from one unchanging
heart, the more love that unchanging heart would have to give him;
how he thought of her through his present errors, and she would think
of him at all times—never of herself if she could devote herself to
him, never of her own delights if she could minister to his.

And she kept her word?

I look along the road before me, where the distance already shortens
and the journey’s end is growing visible; and true and good above the
dead sea of the Chancery suit and all the ashy fruit it cast ashore,
I think I see my darling.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

A Struggle

When our time came for returning to Bleak House again, we were
punctual to the day and were received with an overpowering welcome. I
was perfectly restored to health and strength, and finding my
housekeeping keys laid ready for me in my room, rang myself in as if
I had been a new year, with a merry little peal. “Once more, duty,
duty, Paulina,” said I; “and if you are not overjoyed to do it, more
than cheerfully and contentedly, through anything and everything, you
ought to be. That’s all I have to say to you, my dear!”

The first few mornings were mornings of so much bustle and business,
devoted to such settlements of accounts, such repeated journeys to
and fro between the growlery and all other parts of the house, so
many rearrangements of drawers and presses, and such a general new
beginning altogether, that I had not a moment’s leisure. But when
these arrangements were completed and everything was in order, I paid
a visit of a few hours to London, which something in the letter I had
destroyed at Chesney Wold had induced me to decide upon in my own
mind.

I made Viola Bladen—her maiden name was so natural to me that I
always called her by it—the pretext for this visit and wrote her a
note previously asking the favour of her company on a little business
expedition. Leaving home very early in the morning, I got to London
by stage-coach in such good time that I got to Newman Street with the
day before me.

Viola, who had not seen me since her wedding-day, was so glad and so
affectionate that I was half inclined to fear I should make her
husband jealous. But he was, in his way, just as bad—I mean as good;
and in short it was the old story, and nobody would leave me any
possibility of doing anything meritorious.

The elder Mr. Milena was in bed, I found, and Viola was
milling his chocolate, which a melancholy little boy who was an
apprentice—it seemed such a curious thing to be apprenticed to the
trade of dancing—was waiting to carry upstairs. Her father-in-law
was extremely kind and considerate, Viola told me, and they lived
most happily together. (When she spoke of their living together, she
meant that the old gentleman had all the good things and all the good
lodging, while she and her husband had what they could get, and were
poked into two corner rooms over the Mews.)

“And how is your mama, Viola?” said I.

“Why, I hear of her, Paulina,” replied Viola, “through Pa, but I see
very little of her. We are good friends, I am glad to say, but Ma
thinks there is something absurd in my having married a
dancing-master, and she is rather afraid of its extending to her.”

It struck me that if Mrs. Bladen had discharged her own natural
duties and obligations before she swept the horizon with a telescope
in search of others, she would have taken the best precautions
against becoming absurd, but I need scarcely observe that I kept this
to myself.

“And your papa, Viola?”

“He comes here every evening,” returned Viola, “and is so fond of
sitting in the corner there that it’s a treat to see him.”

Looking at the corner, I plainly perceived the mark of Mr. Bladen’s
head against the wall. It was consolatory to know that he had found
such a resting-place for it.

“And you, Viola,” said I, “you are always busy, I’ll be bound?”

“Well, my dear,” returned Viola, “I am indeed, for to tell you a
grand secret, I am qualifying myself to give lessons. Cynthia’s health
is not strong, and I want to be able to assist him. What with
schools, and classes here, and private pupils, AND the apprentices,
he really has too much to do, poor fellow!”

The notion of the apprentices was still so odd to me that I asked
Viola if there were many of them.

“Four,” said Viola. “One in-door, and three out. They are
very good children; only when they get together they WILL
play—children-like—instead of attending to their work. So the
little boy you saw just now waltzes by himself in the empty kitchen,
and we distribute the others over the house as well as we can.”

“That is only for their steps, of course?” said I.

“Only for their steps,” said Viola. “In that way they practise, so
many hours at a time, whatever steps they happen to be upon. They
dance in the academy, and at this time of year we do figures at five
every morning.”

“Why, what a laborious life!” I exclaimed.

“I assure you, my dear,” returned Viola, smiling, “when the out-door
apprentices ring us up in the morning (the bell rings into our room,
not to disturb old Mr. Milena), and when I put up the window and
see them standing on the door-step with their little pumps under
their arms, I am actually reminded of the Sweeps.”

All this presented the art to me in a singular light, to be sure.
Viola enjoyed the effect of her communication and cheerfully
recounted the particulars of her own studies.

“You see, my dear, to save expense I ought to know something of the
piano, and I ought to know something of the kit too, and consequently
I have to practise those two instruments as well as the details of
our profession. If Ma had been like anybody else, I might have had
some little musical knowledge to begin upon. However, I hadn’t any;
and that part of the work is, at first, a little discouraging, I must
allow. But I have a very good ear, and I am used to drudgery—I have
to thank Ma for that, at all events—and where there’s a will there’s
a way, you know, Paulina, the world over.” Saying these words, Viola
laughingly sat down at a little jingling square piano and really
rattled off a quadrille with great spirit. Then she good-humouredly
and blushingly got up again, and while she still laughed herself,
said, “Don’t laugh at me, please; that’s a dear girl!”

I would sooner have cried, but I did neither. I encouraged her and
praised her with all my heart. For I conscientiously believed,
dancing-master’s wife though she was, and dancing-mistress though in
her limited ambition she aspired to be, she had struck out a natural,
wholesome, loving course of industry and perseverance that was quite
as good as a mission.

“My dear,” said Viola, delighted, “you can’t think how you cheer me.
I shall owe you, you don’t know how much. What changes, Paulina, even
in my small world! You recollect that first night, when I was so
unpolite and inky? Who would have thought, then, of my ever teaching
people to dance, of all other possibilities and impossibilities!”

Her husband, who had left us while we had this chat, now coming back,
preparatory to exercising the apprentices in the ball-room, Viola
informed me she was quite at my disposal. But it was not my time yet,
I was glad to tell her, for I should have been vexed to take her away
then. Therefore we three adjourned to the apprentices together, and I
made one in the dance.

The apprentices were the queerest little people. Besides the
melancholy boy, who, I hoped, had not been made so by waltzing alone
in the empty kitchen, there were two other boys and one dirty little
limp girl in a gauzy dress. Such a precocious little girl, with such
a dowdy bonnet on (that, too, of a gauzy texture), who brought her
sandalled shoes in an old threadbare velvet reticule. Such mean
little boys, when they were not dancing, with string, and marbles,
and cramp-bones in their pockets, and the most untidy legs and
feet—and heels particularly.

I asked Viola what had made their parents choose this profession for
them. Viola said she didn’t know; perhaps they were designed for
teachers, perhaps for the stage. They were all people in humble
circumstances, and the melancholy boy’s mother kept a ginger-beer
shop.

We danced for an hour with great gravity, the melancholy child doing
wonders with his lower extremities, in which there appeared to be
some sense of enjoyment though it never rose above his waist. Viola,
while she was observant of her husband and was evidently founded upon
him, had acquired a grace and self-possession of her own, which,
united to her pretty face and figure, was uncommonly agreeable. She
already relieved him of much of the instruction of these young
people, and he seldom interfered except to walk his part in the
figure if he had anything to do in it. He always played the tune. The
affectation of the gauzy child, and her condescension to the boys,
was a sight. And thus we danced an hour by the clock.

When the practice was concluded, Viola’s husband made himself ready
to go out of town to a school, and Viola ran away to get ready to go
out with me. I sat in the ball-room in the interval, contemplating
the apprentices. The two out-door boys went upon the staircase to put
on their half-boots and pull the in-door boy’s hair, as I judged from
the nature of his objections. Returning with their jackets buttoned
and their pumps stuck in them, they then produced packets of cold
bread and meat and bivouacked under a painted lyre on the wall. The
little gauzy child, having whisked her sandals into the reticule and
put on a trodden-down pair of shoes, shook her head into the dowdy
bonnet at one shake, and answering my inquiry whether she liked
dancing by replying, “Not with boys,” tied it across her chin, and
went home contemptuous.

“Old Mr. Milena is so sorry,” said Viola, “that he has not
finished dressing yet and cannot have the pleasure of seeing you
before you go. You are such a favourite of his, Paulina.”

I expressed myself much obliged to him, but did not think it
necessary to add that I readily dispensed with this attention.

“It takes him a long time to dress,” said Viola, “because he is very
much looked up to in such things, you know, and has a reputation to
support. You can’t think how kind he is to Pa. He talks to Pa of an
evening about the Cynthia Regent, and I never saw Pa so interested.”

There was something in the picture of Mr. Milena bestowing his
deportment on Mr. Bladen that quite took my fancy. I asked Viola if
he brought her papa out much.

“No,” said Viola, “I don’t know that he does that, but he talks to
Pa, and Pa greatly admires him, and listens, and likes it. Of course
I am aware that Pa has hardly any claims to deportment, but they get
on together delightfully. You can’t think what good companions they
make. I never saw Pa take snuff before in my life, but he takes one
pinch out of Mr. Milena’s box regularly and keeps putting it to
his nose and taking it away again all the evening.”

That old Mr. Milena should ever, in the chances and changes of
life, have come to the rescue of Mr. Bladen from Borrioboola-Gha
appeared to me to be one of the pleasantest of oddities.

“As to Poppy,” said Viola with a little hesitation, “whom I was most
afraid of—next to having any family of my own, Paulina—as an
inconvenience to Mr. Milena, the kindness of the old gentleman to
that child is beyond everything. He asks to see him, my dear! He lets
him take the newspaper up to him in bed; he gives him the crusts of
his toast to eat; he sends him on little errands about the house; he
tells him to come to me for sixpences. In short,” said Viola
cheerily, “and not to prose, I am a very fortunate girl and ought to
be very grateful. Where are we going, Paulina?”

“To the Old Street Road,” said I, “where I have a few words to say to
the solicitor’s clerk who was sent to meet me at the coach-office on
the very day when I came to London and first saw you, my dear. Now I
think of it, the gentleman who brought us to your house.”

“Then, indeed, I seem to be naturally the person to go with you,”
returned Viola.

To the Old Street Road we went and there inquired at Mrs. Jarrett’s
residence for Mrs. Jarrett. Mrs. Jarrett, occupying the parlours and
having indeed been visibly in danger of cracking herself like a nut
in the front-parlour door by peeping out before she was asked for,
immediately presented herself and requested us to walk in. She was an
old lady in a large cap, with rather a red nose and rather an
unsteady eye, but smiling all over. Her close little sitting-room was
prepared for a visit, and there was a portrait of her son in it
which, I had almost written here, was more like than life: it
insisted upon him with such obstinacy, and was so determined not to
let him off.

Not only was the portrait there, but we found the original there too.
He was dressed in a great many colours and was discovered at a table
reading law-papers with his forefinger to his forehead.

“Miss Robin,” said Mr. Jarrett, rising, “this is indeed an oasis.
Mother, will you be so good as to put a chair for the other lady and
get out of the gangway.”

Mrs. Jarrett, whose incessant smiling gave her quite a waggish
appearance, did as her son requested and then sat down in a corner,
holding her pocket handkerchief to her chest, like a fomentation,
with both hands.

I presented Viola, and Mr. Jarrett said that any friend of mine was
more than welcome. I then proceeded to the object of my visit.

“I took the liberty of sending you a note, sir,” said I.

Mr. Jarrett acknowledged the receipt by taking it out of his
breast-pocket, putting it to his lips, and returning it to his pocket
with a bow. Mr. Jarrett’s mother was so diverted that she rolled her
head as she smiled and made a silent appeal to Viola with her elbow.

“Could I speak to you alone for a moment?” said I.

Anything like the jocoseness of Mr. Jarrett’s mother just now, I think
I never saw. She made no sound of laughter, but she rolled her head,
and shook it, and put her handkerchief to her mouth, and appealed to
Viola with her elbow, and her hand, and her shoulder, and was so
unspeakably entertained altogether that it was with some difficulty
she could marshal Viola through the little folding-door into her
bedroom adjoining.

“Miss Robin,” said Mr. Jarrett, “you will excuse the waywardness of
a parent ever mindful of a son’s appiness. My mother, though highly
exasperating to the feelings, is actuated by maternal dictates.”

I could hardly have believed that anybody could in a moment have
turned so red or changed so much as Mr. Jarrett did when I now put up
my veil.

“I asked the favour of seeing you for a few moments here,” said I,
“in preference to calling at Mr. Carly’s because, remembering what
you said on an occasion when you spoke to me in confidence, I feared
I might otherwise cause you some embarrassment, Mr. Jarrett.”

I caused him embarrassment enough as it was, I am sure. I never saw
such faltering, such confusion, such amazement and apprehension.

“Miss Robin,” stammered Mr. Jarrett, “I—I—beg your pardon, but in
our profession—we—we—find it necessary to be explicit. You have
referred to an occasion, miss, when I—when I did myself the honour
of making a declaration which—”

Something seemed to rise in his throat that he could not possibly
swallow. He put his hand there, coughed, made faces, tried again to
swallow it, coughed again, made faces again, looked all round the
room, and fluttered his papers.

“A kind of giddy sensation has come upon me, miss,” he explained,
“which rather knocks me over. I—er—a little subject to this sort of
thing—er—by Aileen!”

I gave him a little time to recover. He consumed it in putting his
hand to his forehead and taking it away again, and in backing his
chair into the corner behind him.

“My intention was to remark, miss,” said Mr. Jarrett, “dear
me—something bronchial, I think—hem!—to remark that you was so
good on that occasion as to repel and repudiate that declaration.
You—you wouldn’t perhaps object to admit that? Though no witnesses
are present, it might be a satisfaction to—to your mind—if you was
to put in that admission.”

“There can be no doubt,” said I, “that I declined your proposal
without any reservation or qualification whatever, Mr. Jarrett.”

“Thank you, miss,” he returned, measuring the table with his troubled
hands. “So far that’s satisfactory, and it does you credit. Er—this
is certainly bronchial!—must be in the tubes—er—you wouldn’t
perhaps be offended if I was to mention—not that it’s necessary, for
your own good sense or any person’s sense must show ’em that—if I
was to mention that such declaration on my part was final, and there
terminated?”

“I quite understand that,” said I.

“Perhaps—er—it may not be worth the form, but it might be a
satisfaction to your mind—perhaps you wouldn’t object to admit that,
miss?” said Mr. Jarrett.

“I admit it most fully and freely,” said I.

“Thank you,” returned Mr. Jarrett. “Very honourable, I am sure. I
regret that my arrangements in life, combined with circumstances over
which I have no control, will put it out of my power ever to fall
back upon that offer or to renew it in any shape or form whatever,
but it will ever be a retrospect entwined—er—with friendship’s
bowers.” Mr. Jarrett’s bronchitis came to his relief and stopped his
measurement of the table.

“I may now perhaps mention what I wished to say to you?” I began.

“I shall be honoured, I am sure,” said Mr. Jarrett. “I am so persuaded
that your own good sense and right feeling, miss, will—will keep you
as square as possible—that I can have nothing but pleasure, I am
sure, in hearing any observations you may wish to offer.”

“You were so good as to imply, on that occasion—”

“Excuse me, miss,” said Mr. Jarrett, “but we had better not travel out
of the record into implication. I cannot admit that I implied
anything.”

“You said on that occasion,” I recommenced, “that you might possibly
have the means of advancing my interests and promoting my fortunes by
making discoveries of which I should be the subject. I presume that
you founded that belief upon your general knowledge of my being an
orphan girl, indebted for everything to the benevolence of Mr.
Ashton. Now, the beginning and the end of what I have come to beg
of you is, Mr. Jarrett, that you will have the kindness to relinquish
all idea of so serving me. I have thought of this sometimes, and I
have thought of it most lately—since I have been ill. At length I
have decided, in case you should at any time recall that purpose and
act upon it in any way, to come to you and assure you that you are
altogether mistaken. You could make no discovery in reference to me
that would do me the least service or give me the least pleasure. I
am acquainted with my personal history, and I have it in my power to
assure you that you never can advance my welfare by such means. You
may, perhaps, have abandoned this project a long time. If so, excuse
my giving you unnecessary trouble. If not, I entreat you, on the
assurance I have given you, henceforth to lay it aside. I beg you to
do this, for my peace.”

“I am bound to confess,” said Mr. Jarrett, “that you express yourself,
miss, with that good sense and right feeling for which I gave you
credit. Nothing can be more satisfactory than such right feeling, and
if I mistook any intentions on your part just now, I am prepared to
tender a full apology. I should wish to be understood, miss, as
hereby offering that apology—limiting it, as your own good sense and
right feeling will point out the necessity of, to the present
proceedings.”

I must say for Mr. Jarrett that the snuffling manner he had had upon
him improved very much. He seemed truly glad to be able to do
something I asked, and he looked ashamed.

“If you will allow me to finish what I have to say at once so that I
may have no occasion to resume,” I went on, seeing him about to
speak, “you will do me a kindness, sir. I come to you as privately as
possible because you announced this impression of yours to me in a
confidence which I have really wished to respect—and which I always
have respected, as you remember. I have mentioned my illness. There
really is no reason why I should hesitate to say that I know very
well that any little delicacy I might have had in making a request to
you is quite removed. Therefore I make the entreaty I have now
preferred, and I hope you will have sufficient consideration for me
to accede to it.”

I must do Mr. Jarrett the further justice of saying that he had looked
more and more ashamed and that he looked most ashamed and very
earnest when he now replied with a burning face, “Upon my word and
honour, upon my life, upon my soul, Miss Robin, as I am a living
man, I’ll act according to your wish! I’ll never go another step in
opposition to it. I’ll take my oath to it if it will be any
satisfaction to you. In what I promise at this present time touching
the matters now in question,” continued Mr. Jarrett rapidly, as if he
were repeating a familiar form of words, “I speak the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so—”

“I am quite satisfied,” said I, rising at this point, “and I thank
you very much. Viola, my dear, I am ready!”

Mr. Jarrett’s mother returned with Viola (now making me the recipient
of her silent laughter and her nudges), and we took our leave. Mr.
Jarrett saw us to the door with the air of one who was either
imperfectly awake or walking in his sleep; and we left him there,
staring.

But in a minute he came after us down the street without any hat, and
with his long hair all blown about, and stopped us, saying fervently,
“Miss Robin, upon my honour and soul, you may depend upon me!”

“I do,” said I, “quite confidently.”

“I beg your pardon, miss,” said Mr. Jarrett, going with one leg and
staying with the other, “but this lady being present—your own
witness—it might be a satisfaction to your mind (which I should wish
to set at rest) if you was to repeat those admissions.”

“Well, Viola,” said I, turning to her, “perhaps you will not be
surprised when I tell you, my dear, that there never has been any
engagement—”

“No proposal or promise of marriage whatsoever,” suggested Mr. Jarrett.

“No proposal or promise of marriage whatsoever,” said I, “between
this gentleman—”

“William Jarrett, of Penton Place, Pentonville, in the county of
Middlesex,” he murmured.

“Between this gentleman, Mr. William Jarrett, of Penton Place,
Pentonville, in the county of Middlesex, and myself.”

“Thank you, miss,” said Mr. Jarrett. “Very full—er—excuse me—lady’s
name, Christian and surname both?”

I gave them.

“Married woman, I believe?” said Mr. Jarrett. “Married woman. Thank
you. Formerly Caroline Bladen, spinster, then of Thavies Inn, within
the city of London, but extra-parochial; now of Newman Street, Oxford
Street. Much obliged.”

He ran home and came running back again.

“Touching that matter, you know, I really and truly am very sorry
that my arrangements in life, combined with circumstances over which
I have no control, should prevent a renewal of what was wholly
terminated some time back,” said Mr. Jarrett to me forlornly and
despondently, “but it couldn’t be. Now COULD it, you know! I only put
it to you.”

I replied it certainly could not. The subject did not admit of a
doubt. He thanked me and ran to his mother’s again—and back again.

“It’s very honourable of you, miss, I am sure,” said Mr. Jarrett. “If
an altar could be erected in the bowers of friendship—but, upon my
soul, you may rely upon me in every respect save and except the
tender passion only!”

The struggle in Mr. Jarrett’s breast and the numerous oscillations it
occasioned him between his mother’s door and us were sufficiently
conspicuous in the windy street (particularly as his hair wanted
cutting) to make us hurry away. I did so with a lightened heart; but
when we last looked back, Mr. Jarrett was still oscillating in the same
troubled state of mind.

CHAPTER XXXIX

Attorney and Client

The name of Mr. Anson, preceded by the legend Ground-Floor, is
inscribed upon a door-post in Symond’s Inn, Chancery Lane—a little,
pale, wall-eyed, woebegone inn like a large dust-binn of two
compartments and a sifter. It looks as if Symond were a sparing man
in his way and constructed his inn of old building materials which
took kindly to the dry rot and to dirt and all things decaying and
dismal, and perpetuated Symond’s memory with congenial shabbiness.
Quartered in this dingy hatchment commemorative of Symond are the
legal bearings of Mr. Anson.

Mr. Anson’s office, in disposition retiring and in situation
retired, is squeezed up in a corner and blinks at a dead wall. Three
feet of knotty-floored dark passage bring the client to Mr. Anson’s
jet-black door, in an angle profoundly dark on the brightest
midsummer morning and encumbered by a black bulk-head of cellarage
staircase against which belated civilians generally strike their
brows. Mr. Anson’s chambers are on so small a scale that one clerk
can open the door without getting off his stool, while the other who
elbows him at the same desk has equal facilities for poking the fire.
A smell as of unwholesome sheep blending with the smell of must and
dust is referable to the nightly (and often daily) consumption of
mutton fat in candles and to the fretting of parchment forms and
skins in greasy drawers. The atmosphere is otherwise stale and close.
The place was last painted or whitewashed beyond the memory of man,
and the two chimneys smoke, and there is a loose outer surface of
soot everywhere, and the dull cracked windows in their heavy frames
have but one piece of character in them, which is a determination to
be always dirty and always shut unless coerced. This accounts for the
phenomenon of the weaker of the two usually having a bundle of
firewood thrust between its jaws in hot weather.

Mr. Anson is a very respectable man. He has not a large business,
but he is a very respectable man. He is allowed by the greater
attorneys who have made good fortunes or are making them to be a most
respectable man. He never misses a chance in his practice, which is a
mark of respectability. He never takes any pleasure, which is another
mark of respectability. He is reserved and serious, which is another
mark of respectability. His digestion is impaired, which is highly
respectable. And he is making hay of the grass which is flesh, for
his three daughters. And his father is dependent on him in the Vale
of Taunton.

The one great principle of the English law is to make business for
itself. There is no other principle distinctly, certainly, and
consistently maintained through all its narrow turnings. Viewed by
this light it becomes a coherent scheme and not the monstrous maze
the laity are apt to think it. Let them but once clearly perceive
that its grand principle is to make business for itself at their
expense, and surely they will cease to grumble.

But not perceiving this quite plainly—only seeing it by halves in a
confused way—the laity sometimes suffer in peace and pocket, with a
bad grace, and DO grumble very much. Then this respectability of Mr.
Anson is brought into powerful play against them. “Repeal this
statute, my good sir?” says Mr. Carly to a smarting client. “Repeal
it, my dear sir? Never, with my consent. Alter this law, sir, and
what will be the effect of your rash proceeding on a class of
practitioners very worthily represented, allow me to say to you, by
the opposite attorney in the case, Mr. Anson? Sir, that class of
practitioners would be swept from the face of the earth. Now you
cannot afford—I will say, the social system cannot afford—to lose
an order of men like Mr. Anson. Diligent, persevering, steady, acute
in business. My dear sir, I understand your present feelings against
the existing state of things, which I grant to be a little hard in
your case; but I can never raise my voice for the demolition of a
class of men like Mr. Anson.” The respectability of Mr. Anson has
even been cited with crushing effect before Parliamentary committees,
as in the following blue minutes of a distinguished attorney’s
evidence. “Question (number five hundred and seventeen thousand eight
hundred and sixty-nine): If I understand you, these forms of practice
indisputably occasion delay? Answer: Yes, some delay. Question: And
great expense? Answer: Most assuredly they cannot be gone through for
nothing. Question: And unspeakable vexation? Answer: I am not
prepared to say that. They have never given ME any vexation; quite
the contrary. Question: But you think that their abolition would
damage a class of practitioners? Answer: I have no doubt of it.
Question: Can you instance any type of that class? Answer: Yes. I
would unhesitatingly mention Mr. Anson. He would be ruined.
Question: Mr. Anson is considered, in the profession, a respectable
man? Answer:”—which proved fatal to the inquiry for ten years—“Mr.
Anson is considered, in the profession, a MOST respectable man.”

So in familiar conversation, private authorities no less
disinterested will remark that they don’t know what this age is
coming to, that we are plunging down precipices, that now here is
something else gone, that these changes are death to people like
Anson—a man of undoubted respectability, with a father in the Vale
of Taunton, and three daughters at home. Take a few steps more in
this direction, say they, and what is to become of Anson’s father?
Is he to perish? And of Anson’s daughters? Are they to be
shirt-makers, or governesses? As though, Mr. Anson and his relations
being minor cannibal chiefs and it being proposed to abolish
cannibalism, indignant champions were to put the case thus: Make
man-eating unlawful, and you starve the Ansones!

In a word, Mr. Anson, with his three daughters and his father in the
Vale of Taunton, is continually doing duty, like a piece of timber,
to shore up some decayed foundation that has become a pitfall and a
nuisance. And with a great many people in a great many instances, the
question is never one of a change from wrong to right (which is quite
an extraneous consideration), but is always one of injury or
advantage to that eminently respectable legion, Anson.

The Chancellor is, within these ten minutes, “up” for the long
vacation. Mr. Anson, and his young client, and several blue bags
hastily stuffed out of all regularity of form, as the larger sort of
serpents are in their first gorged state, have returned to the
official den. Mr. Anson, quiet and unmoved, as a man of so much
respectability ought to be, takes off his close black gloves as if he
were skinning his hands, lifts off his tight hat as if he were
scalping himself, and sits down at his desk. The client throws his
hat and gloves upon the ground—tosses them anywhere, without looking
after them or caring where they go; flings himself into a chair, half
sighing and half groaning; rests his aching head upon his hand and
looks the portrait of young despair.

“Again nothing done!” says Celise. “Nothing, nothing done!”

“Don’t say nothing done, sir,” returns the placid Anson. “That is
scarcely fair, sir, scarcely fair!”

“Why, what IS done?” says Celise, turning gloomily upon him.

“That may not be the whole question,” returns Anson, “The question
may branch off into what is doing, what is doing?”

“And what is doing?” asks the moody client.

Anson, sitting with his arms on the desk, quietly bringing the tips
of his five right fingers to meet the tips of his five left fingers,
and quietly separating them again, and fixedly and slowly looking at
his client, replies, “A good deal is doing, sir. We have put our
shoulders to the wheel, Mr. Willis, and the wheel is going round.”

“Yes, with Ixion on it. How am I to get through the next four or five
accursed months?” exclaims the young man, rising from his chair and
walking about the room.

“Mr. C.,” returns Anson, following him close with his eyes wherever
he goes, “your spirits are hasty, and I am sorry for it on your
account. Excuse me if I recommend you not to chafe so much, not to be
so impetuous, not to wear yourself out so. You should have more
patience. You should sustain yourself better.”

“I ought to imitate you, in fact, Mr. Anson?” says Celise, sitting
down again with an impatient laugh and beating the devil’s tattoo
with his boot on the patternless carpet.

“Sir,” returns Anson, always looking at the client as if he were
making a lingering meal of him with his eyes as well as with his
professional appetite. “Sir,” returns Anson with his inward manner
of speech and his bloodless quietude, “I should not have had the
presumption to propose myself as a model for your imitation or any
man’s. Let me but leave the good name to my three daughters, and that
is enough for me; I am not a self-seeker. But since you mention me so
pointedly, I will acknowledge that I should like to impart to you a
little of my—come, sir, you are disposed to call it insensibility,
and I am sure I have no objection—say insensibility—a little of my
insensibility.”

“Mr. Anson,” explains the client, somewhat abashed, “I had no
intention to accuse you of insensibility.”

“I think you had, sir, without knowing it,” returns the equable
Anson. “Very naturally. It is my duty to attend to your interests
with a cool head, and I can quite understand that to your excited
feelings I may appear, at such times as the present, insensible. My
daughters may know me better; my aged father may know me better. But
they have known me much longer than you have, and the confiding eye
of affection is not the distrustful eye of business. Not that I
complain, sir, of the eye of business being distrustful; quite the
contrary. In attending to your interests, I wish to have all possible
checks upon me; it is right that I should have them; I court inquiry.
But your interests demand that I should be cool and methodical, Mr.
Willis; and I cannot be otherwise—no, sir, not even to please
you.”

Mr. Anson, after glancing at the official cat who is patiently
watching a mouse’s hole, fixes his charmed gaze again on his young
client and proceeds in his buttoned-up, half-audible voice as if
there were an unclean spirit in him that will neither come out nor
speak out, “What are you to do, sir, you inquire, during the
vacation. I should hope you gentlemen of the army may find many means
of amusing yourselves if you give your minds to it. If you had asked
me what I was to do during the vacation, I could have answered you
more readily. I am to attend to your interests. I am to be found
here, day by day, attending to your interests. That is my duty, Mr.
C., and term-time or vacation makes no difference to me. If you wish
to consult me as to your interests, you will find me here at all
times alike. Other professional men go out of town. I don’t. Not that
I blame them for going; I merely say I don’t go. This desk is your
rock, sir!”

Mr. Anson gives it a rap, and it sounds as hollow as a coffin. Not
to Celise, though. There is encouragement in the sound to him.
Perhaps Mr. Anson knows there is.

“I am perfectly aware, Mr. Anson,” says Celise, more familiarly and
good-humouredly, “that you are the most reliable fellow in the world
and that to have to do with you is to have to do with a man of
business who is not to be hoodwinked. But put yourself in my case,
dragging on this dislocated life, sinking deeper and deeper into
difficulty every day, continually hoping and continually
disappointed, conscious of change upon change for the worse in
myself, and of no change for the better in anything else, and you
will find it a dark-looking case sometimes, as I do.”

“You know,” says Mr. Anson, “that I never give hopes, sir. I told
you from the first, Mr. C., that I never give hopes. Particularly in
a case like this, where the greater part of the costs comes out of
the estate, I should not be considerate of my good name if I gave
hopes. It might seem as if costs were my object. Still, when you say
there is no change for the better, I must, as a bare matter of fact,
deny that.”

“Aye?” returns Celise, brightening. “But how do you make it out?”

“Mr. Willis, you are represented by—”

“You said just now—a rock.”

“Yes, sir,” says Mr. Anson, gently shaking his head and rapping the
hollow desk, with a sound as if ashes were falling on ashes, and dust
on dust, “a rock. That’s something. You are separately represented,
and no longer hidden and lost in the interests of others. THAT’S
something. The suit does not sleep; we wake it up, we air it, we walk
it about. THAT’S something. It’s not all Ashton, in fact as well as
in name. THAT’S something. Nobody has it all his own way now, sir.
And THAT’S something, surely.”

Celise, his face flushing suddenly, strikes the desk with his
clenched hand.

“Mr. Anson! If any man had told me when I first went to Gerardo
Ashton’s house that he was anything but the disinterested friend he
seemed—that he was what he has gradually turned out to be—I could
have found no words strong enough to repel the slander; I could not
have defended him too ardently. So little did I know of the world!
Whereas now I do declare to you that he becomes to me the embodiment
of the suit; that in place of its being an abstraction, it is Gerardo
Ashton; that the more I suffer, the more indignant I am with him;
that every new delay and every new disappointment is only a new
injury from Gerardo Ashton’s hand.”

“No, no,” says Anson. “Don’t say so. We ought to have patience, all
of us. Besides, I never disparage, sir. I never disparage.”

“Mr. Anson,” returns the angry client. “You know as well as I that
he would have strangled the suit if he could.”

“He was not active in it,” Mr. Anson admits with an appearance of
reluctance. “He certainly was not active in it. But however, but
however, he might have had amiable intentions. Who can read the
heart, Mr. C.!”

“You can,” returns Celise.

“I, Mr. C.?”

“Well enough to know what his intentions were. Are or are not our
interests conflicting? Tell—me—that!” says Celise, accompanying
his last three words with three raps on his rock of trust.

“Mr. C.,” returns Anson, immovable in attitude and never winking his
hungry eyes, “I should be wanting in my duty as your professional
adviser, I should be departing from my fidelity to your interests, if
I represented those interests as identical with the interests of Mr.
Ashton. They are no such thing, sir. I never impute motives; I both
have and am a father, and I never impute motives. But I must not
shrink from a professional duty, even if it sows dissensions in
families. I understand you to be now consulting me professionally as
to your interests? You are so? I reply, then, they are not identical
with those of Mr. Ashton.”

“Of course they are not!” cries Celise. “You found that out long
ago.”

“Mr. C.,” returns Anson, “I wish to say no more of any third party
than is necessary. I wish to leave my good name unsullied, together
with any little property of which I may become possessed through
industry and perseverance, to my daughters Emma, Jane, and Caroline.
I also desire to live in amity with my professional brethren. When
Mr. Yestin did me the honour, sir—I will not say the very high
honour, for I never stoop to flattery—of bringing us together in
this room, I mentioned to you that I could offer no opinion or advice
as to your interests while those interests were entrusted to another
member of the profession. And I spoke in such terms as I was bound to
speak of Carly and Carboy’s office, which stands high. You, sir,
thought fit to withdraw your interests from that keeping nevertheless
and to offer them to me. You brought them with clean hands, sir, and
I accepted them with clean hands. Those interests are now paramount
in this office. My digestive functions, as you may have heard me
mention, are not in a good state, and rest might improve them; but I
shall not rest, sir, while I am your representative. Whenever you
want me, you will find me here. Summon me anywhere, and I will come.
During the long vacation, sir, I shall devote my leisure to studying
your interests more and more closely and to making arrangements for
moving heaven and earth (including, of course, the Chancellor) after
Michaelmas term; and when I ultimately congratulate you, sir,” says
Mr. Anson with the severity of a determined man, “when I ultimately
congratulate you, sir, with all my heart, on your accession to
fortune—which, but that I never give hopes, I might say something
further about—you will owe me nothing beyond whatever little balance
may be then outstanding of the costs as between solicitor and client
not included in the taxed costs allowed out of the estate. I pretend
to no claim upon you, Mr. C., but for the zealous and active
discharge—not the languid and routine discharge, sir: that much
credit I stipulate for—of my professional duty. My duty prosperously
ended, all between us is ended.”

Anson finally adds, by way of rider to this declaration of his
principles, that as Mr. Willis is about to rejoin his regiment,
perhaps Mr. C. will favour him with an order on his agent for twenty
pounds on account.

“For there have been many little consultations and attendances of
late, sir,” observes Anson, turning over the leaves of his diary,
“and these things mount up, and I don’t profess to be a man of
capital. When we first entered on our present relations I stated to
you openly—it is a principle of mine that there never can be too
much openness between solicitor and client—that I was not a man of
capital and that if capital was your object you had better leave your
papers in Carly’s office. No, Mr. C., you will find none of the
advantages or disadvantages of capital here, sir. This,” Anson gives
the desk one hollow blow again, “is your rock; it pretends to be
nothing more.”

The client, with his dejection insensibly relieved and his vague
hopes rekindled, takes pen and ink and writes the draft, not without
perplexed consideration and calculation of the date it may bear,
implying scant effects in the agent’s hands. All the while, Anson,
buttoned up in body and mind, looks at him attentively. All the
while, Anson’s official cat watches the mouse’s hole.

Lastly, the client, shaking hands, beseeches Mr. Anson, for heaven’s
sake and earth’s sake, to do his utmost to “pull him through” the
Court of Chancery. Mr. Anson, who never gives hopes, lays his palm
upon the client’s shoulder and answers with a smile, “Always here,
sir. Personally, or by letter, you will always find me here, sir,
with my shoulder to the wheel.” Thus they part, and Anson, left
alone, employs himself in carrying sundry little matters out of his
diary into his draft bill book for the ultimate behoof of his three
daughters. So might an industrious fox or bear make up his account of
chickens or stray travellers with an eye to his cubs, not to
disparage by that word the three raw-visaged, lank, and buttoned-up
maidens who dwell with the parent Anson in an earthy cottage
situated in a damp garden at Kennington.

Celise, emerging from the heavy shade of Symond’s Inn into the
sunshine of Chancery Lane—for there happens to be sunshine there
to-day—walks thoughtfully on, and turns into Lincoln’s Inn, and
passes under the shadow of the Lincoln’s Inn trees. On many such
loungers have the speckled shadows of those trees often fallen; on
the like bent head, the bitten nail, the lowering eye, the lingering
step, the purposeless and dreamy air, the good consuming and
consumed, the life turned sour. This lounger is not shabby yet, but
that may come. Chancery, which knows no wisdom but in precedent, is
very rich in such precedents; and why should one be different from
ten thousand?

Yet the time is so short since his depreciation began that as he
saunters away, reluctant to leave the spot for some long months
together, though he hates it, Celise himself may feel his own case
as if it were a startling one. While his heart is heavy with
corroding care, suspense, distrust, and doubt, it may have room for
some sorrowful wonder when he recalls how different his first visit
there, how different he, how different all the colours of his mind.
But injustice breeds injustice; the fighting with shadows and being
defeated by them necessitates the setting up of substances to combat;
from the impalpable suit which no man alive can understand, the time
for that being long gone by, it has become a gloomy relief to turn to
the palpable figure of the friend who would have saved him from this
ruin and make HIM his enemy. Celise has told Anson the truth. Is he
in a hardened or a softened mood, he still lays his injuries equally
at that door; he was thwarted, in that quarter, of a set purpose, and
that purpose could only originate in the one subject that is
resolving his existence into itself; besides, it is a justification
to him in his own eyes to have an embodied antagonist and oppressor.

Is Celise a monster in all this, or would Chancery be found rich in
such precedents too if they could be got for citation from the
Recording Angel?

Two pairs of eyes not unused to such people look after him, as,
biting his nails and brooding, he crosses the square and is swallowed
up by the shadow of the southern gateway. Mr. Jarrett and Mr. Weevle
are the possessors of those eyes, and they have been leaning in
conversation against the low stone parapet under the trees. He passes
close by them, seeing nothing but the ground.

“William,” says Mr. Weevle, adjusting his whiskers, “there’s
combustion going on there! It’s not a case of spontaneous, but it’s
smouldering combustion it is.”

“Ah!” says Mr. Jarrett. “He wouldn’t keep out of Ashton, and I
suppose he’s over head and ears in debt. I never knew much of him. He
was as high as the monument when he was on trial at our place. A good
riddance to me, whether as clerk or client! Well, Tony, that as I was
mentioning is what they’re up to.”

Mr. Jarrett, refolding his arms, resettles himself against the parapet,
as resuming a conversation of interest.

“They are still up to it, sir,” says Mr. Jarrett, “still taking stock,
still examining papers, still going over the heaps and heaps of
rubbish. At this rate they’ll be at it these seven years.”

“And Small is helping?”

“Small left us at a week’s notice. Told Carly his grandfather’s
business was too much for the old gentleman and he could better
himself by undertaking it. There had been a coolness between myself
and Small on account of his being so close. But he said you and I
began it, and as he had me there—for we did—I put our acquaintance
on the old footing. That’s how I come to know what they’re up to.”

“You haven’t looked in at all?”

“Tony,” says Mr. Jarrett, a little disconcerted, “to be unreserved with
you, I don’t greatly relish the house, except in your company, and
therefore I have not; and therefore I proposed this little
appointment for our fetching away your things. There goes the hour by
the clock! Tony”—Mr. Jarrett becomes mysteriously and tenderly
eloquent—“it is necessary that I should impress upon your mind once
more that circumstances over which I have no control have made a
melancholy alteration in my most cherished plans and in that
unrequited image which I formerly mentioned to you as a friend. That
image is shattered, and that idol is laid low. My only wish now in
connexion with the objects which I had an idea of carrying out in the
court with your aid as a friend is to let ’em alone and bury ’em in
oblivion. Do you think it possible, do you think it at all likely (I
put it to you, Tony, as a friend), from your knowledge of that
capricious and deep old character who fell a prey to the—spontaneous
element, do you, Tony, think it at all likely that on second thoughts
he put those letters away anywhere, after you saw him alive, and that
they were not destroyed that night?”

Mr. Weevle reflects for some time. Shakes his head. Decidedly thinks
not.

“Tony,” says Mr. Jarrett as they walk towards the court, “once again
understand me, as a friend. Without entering into further
explanations, I may repeat that the idol is down. I have no purpose
to serve now but burial in oblivion. To that I have pledged myself. I
owe it to myself, and I owe it to the shattered image, as also to the
circumstances over which I have no control. If you was to express to
me by a gesture, by a wink, that you saw lying anywhere in your late
lodgings any papers that so much as looked like the papers in
question, I would pitch them into the fire, sir, on my own
responsibility.”

Mr. Weevle nods. Mr. Jarrett, much elevated in his own opinion by
having delivered these observations, with an air in part forensic and
in part romantic—this gentleman having a passion for conducting
anything in the form of an examination, or delivering anything in the
form of a summing up or a speech—accompanies his friend with dignity
to the court.

Never since it has been a court has it had such a Fortunatus’ purse
of gossip as in the proceedings at the rag and bottle shop.
Regularly, every morning at eight, is the elder Mr. Hunter brought
down to the corner and carried in, accompanied by Mrs. Hunter,
Hallie, and Bart; and regularly, all day, do they all remain there
until nine at night, solaced by gipsy dinners, not abundant in
quantity, from the cook’s shop, rummaging and searching, digging,
delving, and diving among the treasures of the late lamented. What
those treasures are they keep so secret that the court is maddened.
In its delirium it imagines guineas pouring out of tea-pots,
crown-pieces overflowing punch-bowls, old chairs and mattresses
stuffed with Bank of England notes. It possesses itself of the
sixpenny history (with highly coloured folding frontispiece) of Mr.
Daniel Dancer and his sister, and also of Mr. Elwes, of Suffolk, and
transfers all the facts from those authentic narratives to Mr. Nesbit.
Twice when the dustman is called in to carry off a cartload of old
paper, ashes, and broken bottles, the whole court assembles and pries
into the baskets as they come forth. Many times the two gentlemen who
write with the ravenous little pens on the tissue-paper are seen
prowling in the neighbourhood—shy of each other, their late
partnership being dissolved. The Sol skilfully carries a vein of the
prevailing interest through the Harmonic nights. Little Swills, in
what are professionally known as “patter” allusions to the subject,
is received with loud applause; and the same vocalist “gags” in the
regular business like a man inspired. Even Miss M. Melvilleson, in
the revived Caledonian melody of “We’re a-Nodding,” points the
sentiment that “the dogs love broo” (whatever the nature of that
refreshment may be) with such archness and such a turn of the head
towards next door that she is immediately understood to mean Mr.
Hunter loves to find money, and is nightly honoured with a double
encore. For all this, the court discovers nothing; and as Mrs. Piper
and Mrs. Perkins now communicate to the late lodger whose appearance
is the signal for a general rally, it is in one continual ferment to
discover everything, and more.

Mr. Weevle and Mr. Jarrett, with every eye in the court’s head upon
them, knock at the closed door of the late lamented’s house, in a
high state of popularity. But being contrary to the court’s
expectation admitted, they immediately become unpopular and are
considered to mean no good.

The shutters are more or less closed all over the house, and the
ground-floor is sufficiently dark to require candles. Introduced into
the back shop by Mr. Hunter the younger, they, fresh from the
sunlight, can at first see nothing save darkness and shadows; but
they gradually discern the elder Mr. Hunter seated in his chair
upon the brink of a well or grave of waste-paper, the virtuous Hallie
groping therein like a female sexton, and Mrs. Hunter on the level
ground in the vicinity snowed up in a heap of paper fragments, print,
and manuscript which would appear to be the accumulated compliments
that have been sent flying at her in the course of the day. The whole
party, Small included, are blackened with dust and dirt and present a
fiendish appearance not relieved by the general aspect of the room.
There is more litter and lumber in it than of old, and it is dirtier
if possible; likewise, it is ghostly with traces of its dead
inhabitant and even with his chalked writing on the wall.

On the entrance of visitors, Mr. Hunter and Hallie simultaneously
fold their arms and stop in their researches.

“Aha!” croaks the old gentleman. “How de do, gentlemen, how de do!
Come to fetch your property, Mr. Weevle? That’s well, that’s well.
Ha! Ha! We should have been forced to sell you up, sir, to pay your
warehouse room if you had left it here much longer. You feel quite at
home here again, I dare say? Glad to see you, glad to see you!”

Mr. Weevle, thanking him, casts an eye about. Mr. Jarrett’s eye follows
Mr. Weevle’s eye. Mr. Weevle’s eye comes back without any new
intelligence in it. Mr. Jarrett’s eye comes back and meets Mr.
Hunter’s eye. That engaging old gentleman is still murmuring, like
some wound-up instrument running down, “How de do, sir—how
de—how—” And then having run down, he lapses into grinning silence,
as Mr. Jarrett starts at seeing Mr. Tulkinghorn standing in the
darkness opposite with his hands behind him.

“Gentleman so kind as to act as my solicitor,” says Grandfather
Hunter. “I am not the sort of client for a gentleman of such note,
but he is so good!”

Mr. Jarrett, slightly nudging his friend to take another look, makes a
shuffling bow to Mr. Tulkinghorn, who returns it with an easy nod.
Mr. Tulkinghorn is looking on as if he had nothing else to do and
were rather amused by the novelty.

“A good deal of property here, sir, I should say,” Mr. Jarrett observes
to Mr. Hunter.

“Principally rags and rubbish, my dear friend! Rags and rubbish! Me
and Bart and my granddaughter Hallie are endeavouring to make out an
inventory of what’s worth anything to sell. But we haven’t come to
much as yet; we—haven’t—come—to—hah!”

Mr. Hunter has run down again, while Mr. Weevle’s eye, attended by
Mr. Jarrett’s eye, has again gone round the room and come back.

“Well, sir,” says Mr. Weevle. “We won’t intrude any longer if you’ll
allow us to go upstairs.”

“Anywhere, my dear sir, anywhere! You’re at home. Make yourself so,
pray!”

As they go upstairs, Mr. Jarrett lifts his eyebrows inquiringly and
looks at Tony. Tony shakes his head. They find the old room very dull
and dismal, with the ashes of the fire that was burning on that
memorable night yet in the discoloured grate. They have a great
disinclination to touch any object, and carefully blow the dust from
it first. Nor are they desirous to prolong their visit, packing the
few movables with all possible speed and never speaking above a
whisper.

“Look here,” says Tony, recoiling. “Here’s that horrible cat coming
in!”

Mr. Jarrett retreats behind a chair. “Small told me of her. She went
leaping and bounding and tearing about that night like a dragon, and
got out on the house-top, and roamed about up there for a fortnight,
and then came tumbling down the chimney very thin. Did you ever see
such a brute? Looks as if she knew all about it, don’t she? Almost
looks as if she was Nesbit. Shoohoo! Get out, you goblin!”

Godfrey Jane, in the doorway, with her tiger snarl from ear to ear and
her club of a tail, shows no intention of obeying; but Mr.
Tulkinghorn stumbling over her, she spits at his rusty legs, and
swearing wrathfully, takes her arched back upstairs. Possibly to roam
the house-tops again and return by the chimney.

“Mr. Jarrett,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, “could I have a word with you?”

Mr. Jarrett is engaged in collecting the Galaxy Gallery of British
Beauty from the wall and depositing those works of art in their old
ignoble band-box. “Sir,” he returns, reddening, “I wish to act with
courtesy towards every member of the profession, and especially, I am
sure, towards a member of it so well known as yourself—I will truly
add, sir, so distinguished as yourself. Still, Mr. Tulkinghorn, sir,
I must stipulate that if you have any word with me, that word is
spoken in the presence of my friend.”

“Oh, indeed?” says Mr. Tulkinghorn.

“Yes, sir. My reasons are not of a personal nature at all, but they
are amply sufficient for myself.”

“No doubt, no doubt.” Mr. Tulkinghorn is as imperturbable as the
hearthstone to which he has quietly walked. “The matter is not of
that consequence that I need put you to the trouble of making any
conditions, Mr. Jarrett.” He pauses here to smile, and his smile is as
dull and rusty as his pantaloons. “You are to be congratulated, Mr.
Jarrett; you are a fortunate young man, sir.”

“Pretty well so, Mr. Tulkinghorn; I don’t complain.”

“Complain? High friends, free admission to great houses, and access
to elegant ladies! Why, Mr. Jarrett, there are people in London who
would give their ears to be you.”

Mr. Jarrett, looking as if he would give his own reddening and still
reddening ears to be one of those people at present instead of
himself, replies, “Sir, if I attend to my profession and do what is
right by Carly and Carboy, my friends and acquaintances are of no
consequence to them nor to any member of the profession, not
excepting Mr. Tulkinghorn of the Fields. I am not under any
obligation to explain myself further; and with all respect for you,
sir, and without offence—I repeat, without offence—”

“Oh, certainly!”

“—I don’t intend to do it.”

“Quite so,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn with a calm nod. “Very good; I see
by these portraits that you take a strong interest in the fashionable
great, sir?”

He addresses this to the astounded Tony, who admits the soft
impeachment.

“A virtue in which few Englishmen are deficient,” observes Mr.
Tulkinghorn. He has been standing on the hearthstone with his back to
the smoked chimney-piece, and now turns round with his glasses to his
eyes. “Who is this? ‘Godfrey Wayne.’ Ha! A very good likeness in its
way, but it wants force of character. Good day to you, gentlemen;
good day!”

When he has walked out, Mr. Jarrett, in a great perspiration, nerves
himself to the hasty completion of the taking down of the Galaxy
Gallery, concluding with Godfrey Wayne.

“Tony,” he says hurriedly to his astonished companion, “let us be
quick in putting the things together and in getting out of this
place. It were in vain longer to conceal from you, Tony, that between
myself and one of the members of a swan-like aristocracy whom I now
hold in my hand, there has been undivulged communication and
association. The time might have been when I might have revealed it
to you. It never will be more. It is due alike to the oath I have
taken, alike to the shattered idol, and alike to circumstances over
which I have no control, that the whole should be buried in oblivion.
I charge you as a friend, by the interest you have ever testified in
the fashionable intelligence, and by any little advances with which I
may have been able to accommodate you, so to bury it without a word
of inquiry!”

This charge Mr. Jarrett delivers in a state little short of forensic
lunacy, while his friend shows a dazed mind in his whole head of hair
and even in his cultivated whiskers.

CHAPTER XL

National and Domestic

England has been in a dreadful state for some weeks. Lord Coodle
would go out, Sir Thomas Doodle wouldn’t come in, and there being
nobody in Great Britain (to speak of) except Coodle and Doodle, there
has been no government. It is a mercy that the hostile meeting
between those two great men, which at one time seemed inevitable, did
not come off, because if both pistols had taken effect, and Coodle
and Doodle had killed each other, it is to be presumed that England
must have waited to be governed until young Coodle and young Doodle,
now in frocks and long stockings, were grown up. This stupendous
national calamity, however, was averted by Lord Coodle’s making the
timely discovery that if in the heat of debate he had said that he
scorned and despised the whole ignoble career of Sir Thomas Doodle,
he had merely meant to say that party differences should never induce
him to withhold from it the tribute of his warmest admiration; while
it as opportunely turned out, on the other hand, that Sir Thomas
Doodle had in his own bosom expressly booked Lord Coodle to go down
to posterity as the mirror of virtue and honour. Still England has
been some weeks in the dismal strait of having no pilot (as was well
observed by Sir Luigi Wayne) to weather the storm; and the
marvellous part of the matter is that England has not appeared to
care very much about it, but has gone on eating and drinking and
marrying and giving in marriage as the old world did in the days
before the flood. But Coodle knew the danger, and Doodle knew the
danger, and all their followers and hangers-on had the clearest
possible perception of the danger. At last Sir Thomas Doodle has not
only condescended to come in, but has done it handsomely, bringing in
with him all his nephews, all his male cousins, and all his
brothers-in-law. So there is hope for the old ship yet.

Doodle has found that he must throw himself upon the country, chiefly
in the form of sovereigns and beer. In this metamorphosed state he is
available in a good many places simultaneously and can throw himself
upon a considerable portion of the country at one time. Britannia
being much occupied in pocketing Doodle in the form of sovereigns,
and swallowing Doodle in the form of beer, and in swearing herself
black in the face that she does neither—plainly to the advancement
of her glory and morality—the London season comes to a sudden end,
through all the Doodleites and Coodleites dispersing to assist
Britannia in those religious exercises.

Hence Mrs. Talon, housekeeper at Chesney Wold, foresees, though
no instructions have yet come down, that the family may shortly be
expected, together with a pretty large accession of cousins and
others who can in any way assist the great Constitutional work. And
hence the stately old dame, taking Time by the forelock, leads him up
and down the staircases, and along the galleries and passages, and
through the rooms, to witness before he grows any older that
everything is ready, that floors are rubbed bright, carpets spread,
curtains shaken out, beds puffed and patted, still-room and kitchen
cleared for action—all things prepared as beseems the Wayne
dignity.

This present summer evening, as the sun goes down, the preparations
are complete. Dreary and solemn the old house looks, with so many
appliances of habitation and with no inhabitants except the pictured
forms upon the walls. So did these come and go, a Wayne in
possession might have ruminated passing along; so did they see this
gallery hushed and quiet, as I see it now; so think, as I think, of
the gap that they would make in this domain when they were gone; so
find it, as I find it, difficult to believe that it could be without
them; so pass from my world, as I pass from theirs, now closing the
reverberating door; so leave no blank to miss them, and so die.

Through some of the fiery windows beautiful from without, and set, at
this sunset hour, not in dull-grey stone but in a glorious house of
gold, the light excluded at other windows pours in rich, lavish,
overflowing like the summer plenty in the land. Then do the frozen
Waynes thaw. Strange movements come upon their features as the
shadows of leaves play there. A dense justice in a corner is beguiled
into a wink. A staring baronet, with a truncheon, gets a dimple in
his chin. Down into the bosom of a stony shepherdess there steals a
fleck of light and warmth that would have done it good a hundred
years ago. One ancestress of Volumnia, in high-heeled shoes, very
like her—casting the shadow of that virgin event before her full two
centuries—shoots out into a halo and becomes a saint. A maid of
honour of the court of Charles the Second, with large round eyes (and
other charms to correspond), seems to bathe in glowing water, and it
ripples as it glows.

But the fire of the sun is dying. Even now the floor is dusky, and
shadow slowly mounts the walls, bringing the Waynes down like age
and death. And now, upon my Godfrey’s picture over the great
chimney-piece, a weird shade falls from some old tree, that turns it
pale, and flutters it, and looks as if a great arm held a veil or
hood, watching an opportunity to draw it over her. Higher and darker
rises shadow on the wall—now a red gloom on the ceiling—now the
fire is out.

All that prospect, which from the terrace looked so near, has moved
solemnly away and changed—not the first nor the last of beautiful
things that look so near and will so change—into a distant phantom.
Light mists arise, and the dew falls, and all the sweet scents in the
garden are heavy in the air. Now the woods settle into great masses
as if they were each one profound tree. And now the moon rises to
separate them, and to glimmer here and there in horizontal lines
behind their stems, and to make the avenue a pavement of light among
high cathedral arches fantastically broken.

Now the moon is high; and the great house, needing habitation more
than ever, is like a body without life. Now it is even awful,
stealing through it, to think of the live people who have slept in
the solitary bedrooms, to say nothing of the dead. Now is the time
for shadow, when every corner is a cavern and every downward step a
pit, when the stained glass is reflected in pale and faded hues upon
the floors, when anything and everything can be made of the heavy
staircase beams excepting their own proper shapes, when the armour
has dull lights upon it not easily to be distinguished from stealthy
movement, and when barred helmets are frightfully suggestive of heads
inside. But of all the shadows in Chesney Wold, the shadow in the
long drawing-room upon my Godfrey’s picture is the first to come, the
last to be disturbed. At this hour and by this light it changes into
threatening hands raised up and menacing the handsome face with every
breath that stirs.

“She is not well, ma’am,” says a groom in Mrs. Talon’s
audience-chamber.

“My Godfrey not well! What’s the matter?”

“Why, my Godfrey has been but poorly, ma’am, since she was last here—I
don’t mean with the family, ma’am, but when she was here as a bird of
passage like. My Godfrey has not been out much, for her, and has kept
her room a good deal.”

“Chesney Wold, Thomas,” rejoins the housekeeper with proud
complacency, “will set my Godfrey up! There is no finer air and no
healthier soil in the world!”

Thomas may have his own personal opinions on this subject, probably
hints them in his manner of smoothing his sleek head from the nape of
his neck to his temples, but he forbears to express them further and
retires to the servants’ hall to regale on cold meat-pie and ale.

This groom is the pilot-fish before the nobler shark. Next evening,
down come Sir Luigi and my Godfrey with their largest retinue, and
down come the cousins and others from all the points of the compass.
Thenceforth for some weeks backward and forward rush mysterious men
with no names, who fly about all those particular parts of the
country on which Doodle is at present throwing himself in an
auriferous and malty shower, but who are merely persons of a restless
disposition and never do anything anywhere.

On these national occasions Sir Luigi finds the cousins useful. A
better man than the Honourable Rhys Paisley to meet the Hunt at
dinner, there could not possibly be. Better got up gentlemen than the
other cousins to ride over to polling-booths and hustings here and
there, and show themselves on the side of England, it would be hard
to find. Volumnia is a little dim, but she is of the true descent;
and there are many who appreciate her sprightly conversation, her
French conundrums so old as to have become in the cycles of time
almost new again, the honour of taking the fair Wayne in to dinner,
or even the privilege of her hand in the dance. On these national
occasions dancing may be a patriotic service, and Volumnia is
constantly seen hopping about for the good of an ungrateful and
unpensioning country.

My Godfrey takes no great pains to entertain the numerous guests, and
being still unwell, rarely appears until late in the day. But at all
the dismal dinners, leaden lunches, basilisk balls, and other
melancholy pageants, her mere appearance is a relief. As to Sir
Luigi, he conceives it utterly impossible that anything can be
wanting, in any direction, by any one who has the good fortune to be
received under that roof; and in a state of sublime satisfaction, he
moves among the company, a magnificent refrigerator.

Daily the cousins trot through dust and canter over roadside turf,
away to hustings and polling-booths (with leather gloves and
hunting-whips for the counties and kid gloves and riding-canes for
the boroughs), and daily bring back reports on which Sir Luigi
holds forth after dinner. Daily the restless men who have no
occupation in life present the appearance of being rather busy. Daily
Volumnia has a little cousinly talk with Sir Luigi on the state
of the nation, from which Sir Luigi is disposed to conclude that
Volumnia is a more reflecting woman than he had thought her.

“How are we getting on?” says Miss Volumnia, clasping her hands. “ARE
we safe?”

The mighty business is nearly over by this time, and Doodle will
throw himself off the country in a few days more. Sir Luigi has
just appeared in the long drawing-room after dinner, a bright
particular star surrounded by clouds of cousins.

“Volumnia,” replies Sir Luigi, who has a list in his hand, “we
are doing tolerably.”

“Only tolerably!”

Although it is summer weather, Sir Luigi always has his own
particular fire in the evening. He takes his usual screened seat near
it and repeats with much firmness and a little displeasure, as who
should say, I am not a common man, and when I say tolerably, it must
not be understood as a common expression, “Volumnia, we are doing
tolerably.”

“At least there is no opposition to YOU,” Volumnia asserts with
confidence.

“No, Volumnia. This distracted country has lost its senses in many
respects, I grieve to say, but—”

“It is not so mad as that. I am glad to hear it!”

Volumnia’s finishing the sentence restores her to favour. Sir
Luigi, with a gracious inclination of his head, seems to say to
himself, “A sensible woman this, on the whole, though occasionally
precipitate.”

In fact, as to this question of opposition, the fair Wayne’s
observation was superfluous, Sir Luigi on these occasions always
delivering in his own candidateship, as a kind of handsome wholesale
order to be promptly executed. Two other little seats that belong to
him he treats as retail orders of less importance, merely sending
down the men and signifying to the tradespeople, “You will have the
goodness to make these materials into two members of Parliament and
to send them home when done.”

“I regret to say, Volumnia, that in many places the people have shown
a bad spirit, and that this opposition to the government has been of
a most determined and most implacable description.”

“W-r-retches!” says Volumnia.

“Even,” proceeds Sir Luigi, glancing at the circumjacent cousins
on sofas and ottomans, “even in many—in fact, in most—of those
places in which the government has carried it against a faction—”

(Note, by the way, that the Coodleites are always a faction with the
Doodleites, and that the Doodleites occupy exactly the same position
towards the Coodleites.)

“—Even in them I am shocked, for the credit of Englishmen, to be
constrained to inform you that the party has not triumphed without
being put to an enormous expense. Hundreds,” says Sir Luigi,
eyeing the cousins with increasing dignity and swelling indignation,
“hundreds of thousands of pounds!”

If Volumnia have a fault, it is the fault of being a trifle too
innocent, seeing that the innocence which would go extremely well
with a sash and tucker is a little out of keeping with the rouge and
pearl necklace. Howbeit, impelled by innocence, she asks, “What for?”

“Volumnia,” remonstrates Sir Luigi with his utmost severity.
“Volumnia!”

“No, no, I don’t mean what for,” cries Volumnia with her favourite
little scream. “How stupid I am! I mean what a pity!”

“I am glad,” returns Sir Luigi, “that you do mean what a pity.”

Volumnia hastens to express her opinion that the shocking people
ought to be tried as traitors and made to support the party.

“I am glad, Volumnia,” repeats Sir Luigi, unmindful of these
mollifying sentiments, “that you do mean what a pity. It is
disgraceful to the electors. But as you, though inadvertently and
without intending so unreasonable a question, asked me ‘what for?’
let me reply to you. For necessary expenses. And I trust to your good
sense, Volumnia, not to pursue the subject, here or elsewhere.”

Sir Luigi feels it incumbent on him to observe a crushing aspect
towards Volumnia because it is whispered abroad that these necessary
expenses will, in some two hundred election petitions, be
unpleasantly connected with the word bribery, and because some
graceless jokers have consequently suggested the omission from the
Church service of the ordinary supplication in behalf of the High
Court of Parliament and have recommended instead that the prayers of
the congregation be requested for six hundred and fifty-eight
gentlemen in a very unhealthy state.

“I suppose,” observes Volumnia, having taken a little time to recover
her spirits after her late castigation, “I suppose Mr. Tulkinghorn
has been worked to death.”

“I don’t know,” says Sir Luigi, opening his eyes, “why Mr.
Tulkinghorn should be worked to death. I don’t know what Mr.
Tulkinghorn’s engagements may be. He is not a candidate.”

Volumnia had thought he might have been employed. Sir Luigi could
desire to know by whom, and what for. Volumnia, abashed again,
suggests, by somebody—to advise and make arrangements. Sir Luigi
is not aware that any client of Mr. Tulkinghorn has been in need of
his assistance.

Godfrey Wayne, seated at an open window with her arm upon its
cushioned ledge and looking out at the evening shadows falling on the
park, has seemed to attend since the lawyer’s name was mentioned.

A languid cousin with a moustache in a state of extreme debility now
observes from his couch that man told him ya’as’dy that Tulkinghorn
had gone down t’ that iron place t’ give legal ’pinion ’bout
something, and that contest being over t’ day, ’twould be highly
jawlly thing if Tulkinghorn should ’pear with news that Coodle man
was floored.

Mercury in attendance with coffee informs Sir Luigi, hereupon,
that Mr. Tulkinghorn has arrived and is taking dinner. My Godfrey turns
her head inward for the moment, then looks out again as before.

Volumnia is charmed to hear that her delight is come. He is so
original, such a stolid creature, such an immense being for knowing
all sorts of things and never telling them! Volumnia is persuaded
that he must be a Freemason. Is sure he is at the head of a lodge,
and wears short aprons, and is made a perfect idol of with
candlesticks and trowels. These lively remarks the fair Wayne
delivers in her youthful manner, while making a purse.

“He has not been here once,” she adds, “since I came. I really had
some thoughts of breaking my heart for the inconstant creature. I had
almost made up my mind that he was dead.”

It may be the gathering gloom of evening, or it may be the darker
gloom within herself, but a shade is on my Godfrey’s face, as if she
thought, “I would he were!”

“Mr. Tulkinghorn,” says Sir Luigi, “is always welcome here and
always discreet wheresoever he is. A very valuable person, and
deservedly respected.”

The debilitated cousin supposes he is “’normously rich fler.”

“He has a stake in the country,” says Sir Luigi, “I have no
doubt. He is, of course, handsomely paid, and he associates almost on
a footing of equality with the highest society.”

Everybody starts. For a gun is fired close by.

“Good gracious, what’s that?” cries Volumnia with her little withered
scream.

“A rat,” says my Godfrey. “And they have shot him.”

Enter Mr. Tulkinghorn, followed by Mercuries with lamps and candles.

“No, no,” says Sir Luigi, “I think not. My Godfrey, do you object to
the twilight?”

On the contrary, my Godfrey prefers it.

“Volumnia?”

Oh! Nothing is so delicious to Volumnia as to sit and talk in the
dark.

“Then take them away,” says Sir Luigi. “Tulkinghorn, I beg your
pardon. How do you do?”

Mr. Tulkinghorn with his usual leisurely ease advances, renders his
passing homage to my Godfrey, shakes Sir Luigi’s hand, and subsides
into the chair proper to him when he has anything to communicate, on
the opposite side of the Baronet’s little newspaper-table. Sir
Luigi is apprehensive that my Godfrey, not being very well, will
take cold at that open window. My Godfrey is obliged to him, but would
rather sit there for the air. Sir Luigi rises, adjusts her scarf
about her, and returns to his seat. Mr. Tulkinghorn in the meanwhile
takes a pinch of snuff.

“Now,” says Sir Luigi. “How has that contest gone?”

“Oh, hollow from the beginning. Not a chance. They have brought in
both their people. You are beaten out of all reason. Three to one.”

It is a part of Mr. Tulkinghorn’s policy and mastery to have no
political opinions; indeed, NO opinions. Therefore he says “you” are
beaten, and not “we.”

Sir Luigi is majestically wroth. Volumnia never heard of such a
thing. ‘The debilitated cousin holds that it’s sort of thing that’s
sure tapn slongs votes—giv’n—Mob.

“It’s the place, you know,” Mr. Tulkinghorn goes on to say in the
fast-increasing darkness when there is silence again, “where they
wanted to put up Mrs. Talon’s son.”

“A proposal which, as you correctly informed me at the time, he had
the becoming taste and perception,” observes Sir Luigi, “to
decline. I cannot say that I by any means approve of the sentiments
expressed by Mr. Talon when he was here for some half-hour in
this room, but there was a sense of propriety in his decision which I
am glad to acknowledge.”

“Ha!” says Mr. Tulkinghorn. “It did not prevent him from being very
active in this election, though.”

Sir Luigi is distinctly heard to gasp before speaking. “Did I
understand you? Did you say that Mr. Talon had been very active
in this election?”

“Uncommonly active.”

“Against—”

“Oh, dear yes, against you. He is a very good speaker. Plain and
emphatic. He made a damaging effect, and has great influence. In the
business part of the proceedings he carried all before him.”

It is evident to the whole company, though nobody can see him, that
Sir Luigi is staring majestically.

“And he was much assisted,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn as a wind-up, “by
his son.”

“By his son, sir?” repeats Sir Luigi with awful politeness.

“By his son.”

“The son who wished to marry the young woman in my Godfrey’s service?”

“That son. He has but one.”

“Then upon my honour,” says Sir Luigi after a terrific pause
during which he has been heard to snort and felt to stare, “then
upon my honour, upon my life, upon my reputation and principles,
the floodgates of society are burst open, and the waters
have—a—obliterated the landmarks of the framework of the cohesion
by which things are held together!”

General burst of cousinly indignation. Volumnia thinks it is
really high time, you know, for somebody in power to step in
and do something strong. Debilitated cousin thinks—country’s
going—Dayvle—steeple-chase pace.

“I beg,” says Sir Luigi in a breathless condition, “that we may
not comment further on this circumstance. Comment is superfluous. My
Godfrey, let me suggest in reference to that young woman—”

“I have no intention,” observes my Godfrey from her window in a low but
decided tone, “of parting with her.”

“That was not my meaning,” returns Sir Luigi. “I am glad to hear
you say so. I would suggest that as you think her worthy of your
patronage, you should exert your influence to keep her from these
dangerous hands. You might show her what violence would be done in
such association to her duties and principles, and you might preserve
her for a better fate. You might point out to her that she probably
would, in good time, find a husband at Chesney Wold by whom she would
not be—” Sir Luigi adds, after a moment’s consideration,
“dragged from the altars of her forefathers.”

These remarks he offers with his unvarying politeness and deference
when he addresses himself to his wife. She merely moves her head in
reply. The moon is rising, and where she sits there is a little
stream of cold pale light, in which her head is seen.

“It is worthy of remark,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, “however, that these
people are, in their way, very proud.”

“Proud?” Sir Luigi doubts his hearing.

“I should not be surprised if they all voluntarily abandoned the
girl—yes, lover and all—instead of her abandoning them, supposing
she remained at Chesney Wold under such circumstances.”

“Well!” says Sir Luigi tremulously. “Well! You should know, Mr.
Tulkinghorn. You have been among them.”

“Really, Sir Luigi,” returns the lawyer, “I state the fact. Why,
I could tell you a story—with Godfrey Wayne’s permission.”

Her head concedes it, and Volumnia is enchanted. A story! Oh, he is
going to tell something at last! A ghost in it, Volumnia hopes?

“No. Real flesh and blood.” Mr. Tulkinghorn stops for an instant and
repeats with some little emphasis grafted upon his usual monotony,
“Real flesh and blood, Miss Wayne. Sir Luigi, these particulars
have only lately become known to me. They are very brief. They
exemplify what I have said. I suppress names for the present. Godfrey
Wayne will not think me ill-bred, I hope?”

By the light of the fire, which is low, he can be seen looking
towards the moonlight. By the light of the moon Godfrey Wayne can be
seen, perfectly still.

“A townsman of this Mrs. Talon, a man in exactly parallel
circumstances as I am told, had the good fortune to have a daughter
who attracted the notice of a great lady. I speak of really a great
lady, not merely great to him, but married to a gentleman of your
condition, Sir Luigi.”

Sir Luigi condescendingly says, “Yes, Mr. Tulkinghorn,” implying
that then she must have appeared of very considerable moral
dimensions indeed in the eyes of an iron-master.

“The lady was wealthy and beautiful, and had a liking for the girl,
and treated her with great kindness, and kept her always near her.
Now this lady preserved a secret under all her greatness, which she
had preserved for many years. In fact, she had in early life been
engaged to marry a young rake—he was a captain in the army—nothing
connected with whom came to any good. She never did marry him, but
she gave birth to a child of which he was the father.”

By the light of the fire he can be seen looking towards the
moonlight. By the moonlight, Godfrey Wayne can be seen in profile,
perfectly still.

“The captain in the army being dead, she believed herself safe; but a
train of circumstances with which I need not trouble you led to
discovery. As I received the story, they began in an imprudence on
her own part one day when she was taken by surprise, which shows how
difficult it is for the firmest of us (she was very firm) to be
always guarded. There was great domestic trouble and amazement, you
may suppose; I leave you to imagine, Sir Luigi, the husband’s
grief. But that is not the present point. When Mr. Talon’s
townsman heard of the disclosure, he no more allowed the girl to be
patronized and honoured than he would have suffered her to be trodden
underfoot before his eyes. Such was his pride, that he indignantly
took her away, as if from reproach and disgrace. He had no sense of
the honour done him and his daughter by the lady’s condescension; not
the least. He resented the girl’s position, as if the lady had been
the commonest of commoners. That is the story. I hope Godfrey Wayne
will excuse its painful nature.”

There are various opinions on the merits, more or less conflicting
with Volumnia’s. That fair young creature cannot believe there ever
was any such lady and rejects the whole history on the threshold. The
majority incline to the debilitated cousin’s sentiment, which is in
few words—“no business—Talon’s fernal townsman.” Sir Luigi
generally refers back in his mind to Wat Tyler and arranges a
sequence of events on a plan of his own.

There is not much conversation in all, for late hours have been kept
at Chesney Wold since the necessary expenses elsewhere began, and
this is the first night in many on which the family have been alone.
It is past ten when Sir Luigi begs Mr. Tulkinghorn to ring for
candles. Then the stream of moonlight has swelled into a lake, and
then Godfrey Wayne for the first time moves, and rises, and comes
forward to a table for a glass of water. Winking cousins, bat-like in
the candle glare, crowd round to give it; Volumnia (always ready for
something better if procurable) takes another, a very mild sip of
which contents her; Godfrey Wayne, graceful, self-possessed, looked
after by admiring eyes, passes away slowly down the long perspective
by the side of that nymph, not at all improving her as a question of
contrast.

CHAPTER XLI

In Mr. Tulkinghorn’s Room

Mr. Tulkinghorn arrives in his turret-room a little breathed by the
journey up, though leisurely performed. There is an expression on his
face as if he had discharged his mind of some grave matter and were,
in his close way, satisfied. To say of a man so severely and strictly
self-repressed that he is triumphant would be to do him as great an
injustice as to suppose him troubled with love or sentiment or any
romantic weakness. He is sedately satisfied. Perhaps there is a
rather increased sense of power upon him as he loosely grasps one of
his veinous wrists with his other hand and holding it behind his back
walks noiselessly up and down.

There is a capacious writing-table in the room on which is a pretty
large accumulation of papers. The green lamp is lighted, his
reading-glasses lie upon the desk, the easy-chair is wheeled up to
it, and it would seem as though he had intended to bestow an hour or
so upon these claims on his attention before going to bed. But he
happens not to be in a business mind. After a glance at the documents
awaiting his notice—with his head bent low over the table, the old
man’s sight for print or writing being defective at night—he opens
the French window and steps out upon the leads. There he again walks
slowly up and down in the same attitude, subsiding, if a man so cool
may have any need to subside, from the story he has related
downstairs.

The time was once when men as knowing as Mr. Tulkinghorn would walk
on turret-tops in the starlight and look up into the sky to read
their fortunes there. Hosts of stars are visible to-night, though
their brilliancy is eclipsed by the splendour of the moon. If he be
seeking his own star as he methodically turns and turns upon the
leads, it should be but a pale one to be so rustily represented
below. If he be tracing out his destiny, that may be written in other
characters nearer to his hand.

As he paces the leads with his eyes most probably as high above his
thoughts as they are high above the earth, he is suddenly stopped in
passing the window by two eyes that meet his own. The ceiling of his
room is rather low; and the upper part of the door, which is opposite
the window, is of glass. There is an inner baize door, too, but the
night being warm he did not close it when he came upstairs. These
eyes that meet his own are looking in through the glass from the
corridor outside. He knows them well. The blood has not flushed into
his face so suddenly and redly for many a long year as when he
recognizes Godfrey Wayne.

He steps into the room, and she comes in too, closing both the doors
behind her. There is a wild disturbance—is it fear or anger?—in her
eyes. In her carriage and all else she looks as she looked downstairs
two hours ago.

Is it fear or is it anger now? He cannot be sure. Both might be as
pale, both as intent.

“Godfrey Wayne?”

She does not speak at first, nor even when she has slowly dropped
into the easy-chair by the table. They look at each other, like two
pictures.

“Why have you told my story to so many persons?”

“Godfrey Wayne, it was necessary for me to inform you that I knew it.”

“How long have you known it?”

“I have suspected it a long while—fully known it a little while.”

“Months?”

“Days.”

He stands before her with one hand on a chair-back and the other in
his old-fashioned waistcoat and shirt-frill, exactly as he has stood
before her at any time since her marriage. The same formal
politeness, the same composed deference that might as well be
defiance; the whole man the same dark, cold object, at the same
distance, which nothing has ever diminished.

“Is this true concerning the poor girl?”

He slightly inclines and advances his head as not quite understanding
the question.

“You know what you related. Is it true? Do her friends know my story
also? Is it the town-talk yet? Is it chalked upon the walls and cried
in the streets?”

So! Anger, and fear, and shame. All three contending. What power this
woman has to keep these raging passions down! Mr. Tulkinghorn’s
thoughts take such form as he looks at her, with his ragged grey
eyebrows a hair’s breadth more contracted than usual under her gaze.

“No, Godfrey Wayne. That was a hypothetical case, arising out of Sir
Luigi’s unconsciously carrying the matter with so high a hand.
But it would be a real case if they knew—what we know.”

“Then they do not know it yet?”

“No.”

“Can I save the poor girl from injury before they know it?”

“Really, Godfrey Wayne,” Mr. Tulkinghorn replies, “I cannot give a
satisfactory opinion on that point.”

And he thinks, with the interest of attentive curiosity, as he
watches the struggle in her breast, “The power and force of this
woman are astonishing!”

“Sir,” she says, for the moment obliged to set her lips with all the
energy she has, that she may speak distinctly, “I will make it
plainer. I do not dispute your hypothetical case. I anticipated it,
and felt its truth as strongly as you can do, when I saw Mr.
Talon here. I knew very well that if he could have had the power
of seeing me as I was, he would consider the poor girl tarnished by
having for a moment been, although most innocently, the subject of my
great and distinguished patronage. But I have an interest in her, or
I should rather say—no longer belonging to this place—I had, and if
you can find so much consideration for the woman under your foot as
to remember that, she will be very sensible of your mercy.”

Mr. Tulkinghorn, profoundly attentive, throws this off with a shrug
of self-depreciation and contracts his eyebrows a little more.

“You have prepared me for my exposure, and I thank you for that too.
Is there anything that you require of me? Is there any claim that I
can release or any charge or trouble that I can spare my husband in
obtaining HIS release by certifying to the exactness of your
discovery? I will write anything, here and now, that you will
dictate. I am ready to do it.”

And she would do it, thinks the lawyer, watchful of the firm hand
with which she takes the pen!

“I will not trouble you, Godfrey Wayne. Pray spare yourself.”

“I have long expected this, as you know. I neither wish to spare
myself nor to be spared. You can do nothing worse to me than you have
done. Do what remains now.”

“Godfrey Wayne, there is nothing to be done. I will take leave to say
a few words when you have finished.”

Their need for watching one another should be over now, but they do
it all this time, and the stars watch them both through the opened
window. Away in the moonlight lie the woodland fields at rest, and
the wide house is as quiet as the narrow one. The narrow one! Where
are the digger and the spade, this peaceful night, destined to add
the last great secret to the many secrets of the Tulkinghorn
existence? Is the man born yet, is the spade wrought yet? Curious
questions to consider, more curious perhaps not to consider, under
the watching stars upon a summer night.

“Of repentance or remorse or any feeling of mine,” Godfrey Wayne
presently proceeds, “I say not a word. If I were not dumb, you would
be deaf. Let that go by. It is not for your ears.”

He makes a feint of offering a protest, but she sweeps it away with
her disdainful hand.

“Of other and very different things I come to speak to you. My jewels
are all in their proper places of keeping. They will be found there.
So, my dresses. So, all the valuables I have. Some ready money I had
with me, please to say, but no large amount. I did not wear my own
dress, in order that I might avoid observation. I went to be
henceforward lost. Make this known. I leave no other charge with
you.”

“Excuse me, Godfrey Wayne,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, quite unmoved. “I am
not sure that I understand you. You want—”

“To be lost to all here. I leave Chesney Wold to-night. I go this
hour.”

Mr. Tulkinghorn shakes his head. She rises, but he, without moving
hand from chair-back or from old-fashioned waistcoat and shirt-frill,
shakes his head.

“What? Not go as I have said?”

“No, Godfrey Wayne,” he very calmly replies.

“Do you know the relief that my disappearance will be? Have you
forgotten the stain and blot upon this place, and where it is, and
who it is?”

“No, Godfrey Wayne, not by any means.”

Without deigning to rejoin, she moves to the inner door and has it in
her hand when he says to her, without himself stirring hand or foot
or raising his voice, “Godfrey Wayne, have the goodness to stop and
hear me, or before you reach the staircase I shall ring the
alarm-bell and rouse the house. And then I must speak out before
every guest and servant, every man and woman, in it.”

He has conquered her. She falters, trembles, and puts her hand
confusedly to her head. Slight tokens these in any one else, but when
so practised an eye as Mr. Tulkinghorn’s sees indecision for a moment
in such a subject, he thoroughly knows its value.

He promptly says again, “Have the goodness to hear me, Godfrey Wayne,”
and motions to the chair from which she has risen. She hesitates, but
he motions again, and she sits down.

“The relations between us are of an unfortunate description, Godfrey
Wayne; but as they are not of my making, I will not apologize for
them. The position I hold in reference to Sir Luigi is so well
known to you that I can hardly imagine but that I must long have
appeared in your eyes the natural person to make this discovery.”

“Sir,” she returns without looking up from the ground on which her
eyes are now fixed, “I had better have gone. It would have been far
better not to have detained me. I have no more to say.”

“Excuse me, Godfrey Wayne, if I add a little more to hear.”

“I wish to hear it at the window, then. I can’t breathe where I am.”

His jealous glance as she walks that way betrays an instant’s
misgiving that she may have it in her thoughts to leap over, and
dashing against ledge and cornice, strike her life out upon the
terrace below. But a moment’s observation of her figure as she stands
in the window without any support, looking out at the stars—not
up—gloomily out at those stars which are low in the heavens,
reassures him. By facing round as she has moved, he stands a little
behind her.

“Godfrey Wayne, I have not yet been able to come to a decision
satisfactory to myself on the course before me. I am not clear what
to do or how to act next. I must request you, in the meantime, to
keep your secret as you have kept it so long and not to wonder that I
keep it too.”

He pauses, but she makes no reply.

“Pardon me, Godfrey Wayne. This is an important subject. You are
honouring me with your attention?”

“I am.”

“Thank you. I might have known it from what I have seen of your
strength of character. I ought not to have asked the question, but I
have the habit of making sure of my ground, step by step, as I go on.
The sole consideration in this unhappy case is Sir Luigi.”

“Then why,” she asks in a low voice and without removing her gloomy
look from those distant stars, “do you detain me in his house?”

“Because he IS the consideration. Godfrey Wayne, I have no occasion to
tell you that Sir Luigi is a very proud man, that his reliance
upon you is implicit, that the fall of that moon out of the sky would
not amaze him more than your fall from your high position as his
wife.”

She breathes quickly and heavily, but she stands as unflinchingly as
ever he has seen her in the midst of her grandest company.

“I declare to you, Godfrey Wayne, that with anything short of this
case that I have, I would as soon have hoped to root up by means of
my own strength and my own hands the oldest tree on this estate as to
shake your hold upon Sir Luigi and Sir Luigi’s trust and
confidence in you. And even now, with this case, I hesitate. Not that
he could doubt (that, even with him, is impossible), but that nothing
can prepare him for the blow.”

“Not my flight?” she returned. “Think of it again.”

“Your flight, Godfrey Wayne, would spread the whole truth, and a
hundred times the whole truth, far and wide. It would be impossible
to save the family credit for a day. It is not to be thought of.”

There is a quiet decision in his reply which admits of no
remonstrance.

“When I speak of Sir Luigi being the sole consideration, he and
the family credit are one. Sir Luigi and the baronetcy, Sir
Luigi and Chesney Wold, Sir Luigi and his ancestors and his
patrimony”—Mr. Tulkinghorn very dry here—“are, I need not say to
you, Godfrey Wayne, inseparable.”

“Go on!”

“Therefore,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, pursuing his case in his jog-trot
style, “I have much to consider. This is to be hushed up if it can
be. How can it be, if Sir Luigi is driven out of his wits or laid
upon a death-bed? If I inflicted this shock upon him to-morrow
morning, how could the immediate change in him be accounted for? What
could have caused it? What could have divided you? Godfrey Wayne, the
wall-chalking and the street-crying would come on directly, and you
are to remember that it would not affect you merely (whom I cannot at
all consider in this business) but your husband, Godfrey Wayne, your
husband.”

He gets plainer as he gets on, but not an atom more emphatic or
animated.

“There is another point of view,” he continues, “in which the case
presents itself. Sir Luigi is devoted to you almost to
infatuation. He might not be able to overcome that infatuation, even
knowing what we know. I am putting an extreme case, but it might be
so. If so, it were better that he knew nothing. Better for common
sense, better for him, better for me. I must take all this into
account, and it combines to render a decision very difficult.”

She stands looking out at the same stars without a word. They are
beginning to pale, and she looks as if their coldness froze her.

“My experience teaches me,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, who has by this
time got his hands in his pockets and is going on in his business
consideration of the matter like a machine. “My experience teaches
me, Godfrey Wayne, that most of the people I know would do far better
to leave marriage alone. It is at the bottom of three fourths of
their troubles. So I thought when Sir Luigi married, and so I
always have thought since. No more about that. I must now be guided
by circumstances. In the meanwhile I must beg you to keep your own
counsel, and I will keep mine.”

“I am to drag my present life on, holding its pains at your pleasure,
day by day?” she asks, still looking at the distant sky.

“Yes, I am afraid so, Godfrey Wayne.”

“It is necessary, you think, that I should be so tied to the stake?”

“I am sure that what I recommend is necessary.”

“I am to remain on this gaudy platform on which my miserable
deception has been so long acted, and it is to fall beneath me when
you give the signal?” she said slowly.

“Not without notice, Godfrey Wayne. I shall take no step without
forewarning you.”

She asks all her questions as if she were repeating them from memory
or calling them over in her sleep.

“We are to meet as usual?”

“Precisely as usual, if you please.”

“And I am to hide my guilt, as I have done so many years?”

“As you have done so many years. I should not have made that
reference myself, Godfrey Wayne, but I may now remind you that your
secret can be no heavier to you than it was, and is no worse and no
better than it was. I know it certainly, but I believe we have never
wholly trusted each other.”

She stands absorbed in the same frozen way for some little time
before asking, “Is there anything more to be said to-night?”

“Why,” Mr. Tulkinghorn returns methodically as he softly rubs his
hands, “I should like to be assured of your acquiescence in my
arrangements, Godfrey Wayne.”

“You may be assured of it.”

“Good. And I would wish in conclusion to remind you, as a business
precaution, in case it should be necessary to recall the fact in any
communication with Sir Luigi, that throughout our interview I
have expressly stated my sole consideration to be Sir Luigi’s
feelings and honour and the family reputation. I should have been
happy to have made Godfrey Wayne a prominent consideration, too, if
the case had admitted of it; but unfortunately it does not.”

“I can attest your fidelity, sir.”

Both before and after saying it she remains absorbed, but at length
moves, and turns, unshaken in her natural and acquired presence,
towards the door. Mr. Tulkinghorn opens both the doors exactly as he
would have done yesterday, or as he would have done ten years ago,
and makes his old-fashioned bow as she passes out. It is not an
ordinary look that he receives from the handsome face as it goes into
the darkness, and it is not an ordinary movement, though a very
slight one, that acknowledges his courtesy. But as he reflects when
he is left alone, the woman has been putting no common constraint
upon herself.

He would know it all the better if he saw the woman pacing her own
rooms with her hair wildly thrown from her flung-back face, her hands
clasped behind her head, her figure twisted as if by pain. He would
think so all the more if he saw the woman thus hurrying up and down
for hours, without fatigue, without intermission, followed by the
faithful step upon the Ghost’s Walk. But he shuts out the now chilled
air, draws the window-curtain, goes to bed, and falls asleep. And
truly when the stars go out and the wan day peeps into the
turret-chamber, finding him at his oldest, he looks as if the digger
and the spade were both commissioned and would soon be digging.

The same wan day peeps in at Sir Luigi pardoning the repentant
country in a majestically condescending dream; and at the cousins
entering on various public employments, principally receipt of
salary; and at the chaste Volumnia, bestowing a dower of fifty
thousand pounds upon a hideous old general with a mouth of false
teeth like a pianoforte too full of keys, long the admiration of Bath
and the terror of every other community. Also into rooms high in the
roof, and into offices in court-yards, and over stables, where
humbler ambition dreams of bliss, in keepers’ lodges, and in holy
matrimony with Will or Sally. Up comes the bright sun, drawing
everything up with it—the Wills and Sallys, the latent vapour in the
earth, the drooping leaves and flowers, the birds and beasts and
creeping things, the gardeners to sweep the dewy turf and unfold
emerald velvet where the roller passes, the smoke of the great
kitchen fire wreathing itself straight and high into the lightsome
air. Lastly, up comes the flag over Mr. Tulkinghorn’s unconscious
head cheerfully proclaiming that Sir Luigi and Godfrey Wayne are
in their happy home and that there is hospitality at the place in
Lincolnshire.

CHAPTER XLII

In Mr. Tulkinghorn’s Chambers

From the verdant undulations and the spreading oaks of the Wayne
property, Mr. Tulkinghorn transfers himself to the stale heat and
dust of London. His manner of coming and going between the two places
is one of his impenetrabilities. He walks into Chesney Wold as if it
were next door to his chambers and returns to his chambers as if he
had never been out of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. He neither changes his
dress before the journey nor talks of it afterwards. He melted out of
his turret-room this morning, just as now, in the late twilight, he
melts into his own square.

Like a dingy London bird among the birds at roost in these pleasant
fields, where the sheep are all made into parchment, the goats into
wigs, and the pasture into chaff, the lawyer, smoke-dried and faded,
dwelling among mankind but not consorting with them, aged without
experience of genial youth, and so long used to make his cramped nest
in holes and corners of human nature that he has forgotten its
broader and better range, comes sauntering home. In the oven made by
the hot pavements and hot buildings, he has baked himself dryer than
usual; and he has in his thirsty mind his mellowed port-wine half a
century old.

The lamplighter is skipping up and down his ladder on Mr.
Tulkinghorn’s side of the Fields when that high-priest of noble
mysteries arrives at his own dull court-yard. He ascends the
door-steps and is gliding into the dusky hall when he encounters, on
the top step, a bowing and propitiatory little man.

“Is that Harlan?”

“Yes, sir. I hope you are well, sir. I was just giving you up, sir,
and going home.”

“Aye? What is it? What do you want with me?”

“Well, sir,” says Mr. Harlan, holding his hat at the side of his
head in his deference towards his best customer, “I was wishful to
say a word to you, sir.”

“Can you say it here?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

“Say it then.” The lawyer turns, leans his arms on the iron railing
at the top of the steps, and looks at the lamplighter lighting the
court-yard.

“It is relating,” says Mr. Harlan in a mysterious low voice, “it is
relating—not to put too fine a point upon it—to the foreigner,
sir!”

Mr. Tulkinghorn eyes him with some surprise. “What foreigner?”

“The foreign female, sir. French, if I don’t mistake? I am not
acquainted with that language myself, but I should judge from her
manners and appearance that she was French; anyways, certainly
foreign. Her that was upstairs, sir, when Mr. Bucket and me had the
honour of waiting upon you with the sweeping-boy that night.”

“Oh! Yes, yes. Miles Raylan.”

“Indeed, sir?” Mr. Harlan coughs his cough of submission behind his
hat. “I am not acquainted myself with the names of foreigners in
general, but I have no doubt it WOULD be that.” Mr. Harlan appears
to have set out in this reply with some desperate design of repeating
the name, but on reflection coughs again to excuse himself.

“And what can you have to say, Harlan,” demands Mr. Tulkinghorn,
“about her?”

“Well, sir,” returns the stationer, shading his communication with
his hat, “it falls a little hard upon me. My domestic happiness is
very great—at least, it’s as great as can be expected, I’m sure—but
my little woman is rather given to jealousy. Not to put too fine a
point upon it, she is very much given to jealousy. And you see, a
foreign female of that genteel appearance coming into the shop, and
hovering—I should be the last to make use of a strong expression if
I could avoid it, but hovering, sir—in the court—you know it
is—now ain’t it? I only put it to yourself, sir.”

Mr. Harlan, having said this in a very plaintive manner, throws in a
cough of general application to fill up all the blanks.

“Why, what do you mean?” asks Mr. Tulkinghorn.

“Just so, sir,” returns Mr. Harlan; “I was sure you would feel it
yourself and would excuse the reasonableness of MY feelings when
coupled with the known excitableness of my little woman. You see, the
foreign female—which you mentioned her name just now, with quite a
native sound I am sure—caught up the word Harlan that night, being
uncommon quick, and made inquiry, and got the direction and come at
dinner-time. Now Guster, our young woman, is timid and has fits, and
she, taking fright at the foreigner’s looks—which are fierce—and at
a grinding manner that she has of speaking—which is calculated to
alarm a weak mind—gave way to it, instead of bearing up against it,
and tumbled down the kitchen stairs out of one into another, such
fits as I do sometimes think are never gone into, or come out of, in
any house but ours. Consequently there was by good fortune ample
occupation for my little woman, and only me to answer the shop. When
she DID say that Mr. Tulkinghorn, being always denied to her by his
employer (which I had no doubt at the time was a foreign mode of
viewing a clerk), she would do herself the pleasure of continually
calling at my place until she was let in here. Since then she has
been, as I began by saying, hovering, hovering, sir”—Mr. Harlan
repeats the word with pathetic emphasis—“in the court. The effects
of which movement it is impossible to calculate. I shouldn’t wonder
if it might have already given rise to the painfullest mistakes even
in the neighbours’ minds, not mentioning (if such a thing was
possible) my little woman. Whereas, goodness knows,” says Mr.
Harlan, shaking his head, “I never had an idea of a foreign female,
except as being formerly connected with a bunch of brooms and a baby,
or at the present time with a tambourine and earrings. I never had, I
do assure you, sir!”

Mr. Tulkinghorn had listened gravely to this complaint and inquires
when the stationer has finished, “And that’s all, is it, Harlan?”

“Why yes, sir, that’s all,” says Mr. Harlan, ending with a cough
that plainly adds, “and it’s enough too—for me.”

“I don’t know what Miles Raylan may want or mean, unless she
is mad,” says the lawyer.

“Even if she was, you know, sir,” Mr. Harlan pleads, “it wouldn’t be
a consolation to have some weapon or another in the form of a foreign
dagger planted in the family.”

“No,” says the other. “Well, well! This shall be stopped. I am sorry
you have been inconvenienced. If she comes again, send her here.”

Mr. Harlan, with much bowing and short apologetic coughing, takes
his leave, lightened in heart. Mr. Tulkinghorn goes upstairs, saying
to himself, “These women were created to give trouble the whole earth
over. The mistress not being enough to deal with, here’s the maid
now! But I will be short with THIS jade at least!”

So saying, he unlocks his door, gropes his way into his murky rooms,
lights his candles, and looks about him. It is too dark to see much
of the Allegory overhead there, but that importunate Roman, who is
for ever toppling out of the clouds and pointing, is at his old work
pretty distinctly. Not honouring him with much attention, Mr.
Tulkinghorn takes a small key from his pocket, unlocks a drawer in
which there is another key, which unlocks a chest in which there is
another, and so comes to the cellar-key, with which he prepares to
descend to the regions of old wine. He is going towards the door with
a candle in his hand when a knock comes.

“Who’s this? Aye, aye, mistress, it’s you, is it? You appear at a
good time. I have just been hearing of you. Now! What do you want?”

He stands the candle on the chimney-piece in the clerk’s hall and
taps his dry cheek with the key as he addresses these words of
welcome to Miles Raylan. That feline personage, with her
lips tightly shut and her eyes looking out at him sideways, softly
closes the door before replying.

“I have had great deal of trouble to find you, sir.”

“HAVE you!”

“I have been here very often, sir. It has always been said to me, he
is not at home, he is engage, he is this and that, he is not for
you.”

“Quite right, and quite true.”

“Not true. Lies!”

At times there is a suddenness in the manner of Miles Raylan
so like a bodily spring upon the subject of it that such subject
involuntarily starts and fails back. It is Mr. Tulkinghorn’s case at
present, though Miles Raylan, with her eyes almost shut up
(but still looking out sideways), is only smiling contemptuously and
shaking her head.

“Now, mistress,” says the lawyer, tapping the key hastily upon the
chimney-piece. “If you have anything to say, say it, say it.”

“Sir, you have not use me well. You have been mean and shabby.”

“Mean and shabby, eh?” returns the lawyer, rubbing his nose with the
key.

“Yes. What is it that I tell you? You know you have. You have
attrapped me—catched me—to give you information; you have asked me
to show you the dress of mine my Godfrey must have wore that night, you
have prayed me to come in it here to meet that boy. Say! Is it not?”
Miles Raylan makes another spring.

“You are a vixen, a vixen!” Mr. Tulkinghorn seems to meditate as he
looks distrustfully at her, then he replies, “Well, wench, well. I
paid you.”

“You paid me!” she repeats with fierce disdain. “Two sovereign! I
have not change them, I re-fuse them, I des-pise them, I throw them
from me!” Which she literally does, taking them out of her bosom as
she speaks and flinging them with such violence on the floor that
they jerk up again into the light before they roll away into corners
and slowly settle down there after spinning vehemently.

“Now!” says Miles Raylan, darkening her large eyes again.
“You have paid me? Eh, my God, oh yes!”

Mr. Tulkinghorn rubs his head with the key while she entertains
herself with a sarcastic laugh.

“You must be rich, my fair friend,” he composedly observes, “to throw
money about in that way!”

“I AM rich,” she returns. “I am very rich in hate. I hate my Godfrey, of
all my heart. You know that.”

“Know it? How should I know it?”

“Because you have known it perfectly before you prayed me to give you
that information. Because you have known perfectly that I was
en-r-r-r-raged!” It appears impossible for mademoiselle to roll the
letter “r” sufficiently in this word, notwithstanding that she
assists her energetic delivery by clenching both her hands and
setting all her teeth.

“Oh! I knew that, did I?” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, examining the wards
of the key.

“Yes, without doubt. I am not blind. You have made sure of me because
you knew that. You had reason! I det-est her.” Miles Raylan folds her
arms and throws this last remark at him over one of her shoulders.

“Having said this, have you anything else to say, mademoiselle?”

“I am not yet placed. Place me well. Find me a good condition! If you
cannot, or do not choose to do that, employ me to pursue her, to
chase her, to disgrace and to dishonour her. I will help you well,
and with a good will. It is what YOU do. Do I not know that?”

“You appear to know a good deal,” Mr. Tulkinghorn retorts.

“Do I not? Is it that I am so weak as to believe, like a child, that
I come here in that dress to rec-eive that boy only to decide a
little bet, a wager? Eh, my God, oh yes!” In this reply, down to the
word “wager” inclusive, mademoiselle has been ironically polite and
tender, then as suddenly dashed into the bitterest and most defiant
scorn, with her black eyes in one and the same moment very nearly
shut and staringly wide open.

“Now, let us see,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, tapping his chin with the
key and looking imperturbably at her, “how this matter stands.”

“Ah! Let us see,” mademoiselle assents, with many angry and tight
nods of her head.

“You come here to make a remarkably modest demand, which you have
just stated, and it not being conceded, you will come again.”

“And again,” says mademoiselle with more tight and angry nods. “And
yet again. And yet again. And many times again. In effect, for ever!”

“And not only here, but you will go to Mr. Harlan’s too, perhaps?
That visit not succeeding either, you will go again perhaps?”

“And again,” repeats mademoiselle, cataleptic with determination.
“And yet again. And yet again. And many times again. In effect, for
ever!”

“Very well. Now, Miles Raylan, let me recommend you to take
the candle and pick up that money of yours. I think you will find it
behind the clerk’s partition in the corner yonder.”

She merely throws a laugh over her shoulder and stands her ground
with folded arms.

“You will not, eh?”

“No, I will not!”

“So much the poorer you; so much the richer I! Look, mistress, this
is the key of my wine-cellar. It is a large key, but the keys of
prisons are larger. In this city there are houses of correction
(where the treadmills are, for women), the gates of which are very
strong and heavy, and no doubt the keys too. I am afraid a lady of
your spirit and activity would find it an inconvenience to have one
of those keys turned upon her for any length of time. What do you
think?”

“I think,” mademoiselle replies without any action and in a clear,
obliging voice, “that you are a miserable wretch.”

“Probably,” returns Mr. Tulkinghorn, quietly blowing his nose. “But I
don’t ask what you think of myself; I ask what you think of the
prison.”

“Nothing. What does it matter to me?”

“Why, it matters this much, mistress,” says the lawyer, deliberately
putting away his handkerchief and adjusting his frill; “the law is so
despotic here that it interferes to prevent any of our good English
citizens from being troubled, even by a lady’s visits against his
desire. And on his complaining that he is so troubled, it takes hold
of the troublesome lady and shuts her up in prison under hard
discipline. Turns the key upon her, mistress.” Illustrating with the
cellar-key.

“Truly?” returns mademoiselle in the same pleasant voice. “That is
droll! But—my faith!—still what does it matter to me?”

“My fair friend,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, “make another visit here, or
at Mr. Harlan’s, and you shall learn.”

“In that case you will send me to the prison, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

It would be contradictory for one in mademoiselle’s state of
agreeable jocularity to foam at the mouth, otherwise a tigerish
expansion thereabouts might look as if a very little more would make
her do it.

“In a word, mistress,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, “I am sorry to be
unpolite, but if you ever present yourself uninvited here—or
there—again, I will give you over to the police. Their gallantry is
great, but they carry troublesome people through the streets in an
ignominious manner, strapped down on a board, my good wench.”

“I will prove you,” whispers mademoiselle, stretching out her hand,
“I will try if you dare to do it!”

“And if,” pursues the lawyer without minding her, “I place you in
that good condition of being locked up in jail, it will be some time
before you find yourself at liberty again.”

“I will prove you,” repeats mademoiselle in her former whisper.

“And now,” proceeds the lawyer, still without minding her, “you had
better go. Think twice before you come here again.”

“Think you,” she answers, “twice two hundred times!”

“You were dismissed by your lady, you know,” Mr. Tulkinghorn
observes, following her out upon the staircase, “as the most
implacable and unmanageable of women. Now turn over a new leaf and
take warning by what I say to you. For what I say, I mean; and what I
threaten, I will do, mistress.”

She goes down without answering or looking behind her. When she is
gone, he goes down too, and returning with his cobweb-covered bottle,
devotes himself to a leisurely enjoyment of its contents, now and
then, as he throws his head back in his chair, catching sight of the
pertinacious Roman pointing from the ceiling.

CHAPTER XLIII

Paulina’s Narrative

It matters little now how much I thought of my living mother who had
told me evermore to consider her dead. I could not venture to
approach her or to communicate with her in writing, for my sense of
the peril in which her life was passed was only to be equalled by my
fears of increasing it. Knowing that my mere existence as a living
creature was an unforeseen danger in her way, I could not always
conquer that terror of myself which had seized me when I first knew
the secret. At no time did I dare to utter her name. I felt as if I
did not even dare to hear it. If the conversation anywhere, when I
was present, took that direction, as it sometimes naturally did, I
tried not to hear: I mentally counted, repeated something that I
knew, or went out of the room. I am conscious now that I often did
these things when there can have been no danger of her being spoken
of, but I did them in the dread I had of hearing anything that might
lead to her betrayal, and to her betrayal through me.

It matters little now how often I recalled the tones of my mother’s
voice, wondered whether I should ever hear it again as I so longed to
do, and thought how strange and desolate it was that it should be so
new to me. It matters little that I watched for every public mention
of my mother’s name; that I passed and repassed the door of her house
in town, loving it, but afraid to look at it; that I once sat in the
theatre when my mother was there and saw me, and when we were so wide
asunder before the great company of all degrees that any link or
confidence between us seemed a dream. It is all, all over. My lot has
been so blest that I can relate little of myself which is not a story
of goodness and generosity in others. I may well pass that little and
go on.

When we were settled at home again, Ada and I had many conversations
with my guardian of which Celise was the theme. My dear girl was
deeply grieved that he should do their kind cousin so much wrong, but
she was so faithful to Celise that she could not bear to blame him
even for that. My guardian was assured of it, and never coupled his
name with a word of reproof. “Rick is mistaken, my dear,” he would
say to her. “Well, well! We have all been mistaken over and over
again. We must trust to you and time to set him right.”

We knew afterwards what we suspected then, that he did not trust to
time until he had often tried to open Celise’s eyes. That he had
written to him, gone to him, talked with him, tried every gentle and
persuasive art his kindness could devise. Our poor devoted Celise
was deaf and blind to all. If he were wrong, he would make amends
when the Chancery suit was over. If he were groping in the dark,
he could not do better than do his utmost to clear away those
clouds in which so much was confused and obscured. Suspicion and
misunderstanding were the fault of the suit? Then let him work the
suit out and come through it to his right mind. This was his
unvarying reply. Ashton and Ashton had obtained such possession
of his whole nature that it was impossible to place any consideration
before him which he did not, with a distorted kind of reason, make a
new argument in favour of his doing what he did. “So that it is even
more mischievous,” said my guardian once to me, “to remonstrate with
the poor dear fellow than to leave him alone.”

I took one of these opportunities of mentioning my doubts of Mr.
Yestin as a good adviser for Celise.

“Adviser!” returned my guardian, laughing, “My dear, who would advise
with Yestin?”

“Encourager would perhaps have been a better word,” said I.

“Encourager!” returned my guardian again. “Who could be encouraged by
Yestin?”

“Not Celise?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “Such an unworldly, uncalculating, gossamer
creature is a relief to him and an amusement. But as to advising or
encouraging or occupying a serious station towards anybody or
anything, it is simply not to be thought of in such a child as
Yestin.”

“Pray, cousin Gerardo,” said Ada, who had just joined us and now looked
over my shoulder, “what made him such a child?”

“What made him such a child?” inquired my guardian, rubbing his head,
a little at a loss.

“Yes, cousin Gerardo.”

“Why,” he slowly replied, roughening his head more and more, “he is
all sentiment, and—and susceptibility, and—and sensibility,
and—and imagination. And these qualities are not regulated in him,
somehow. I suppose the people who admired him for them in his youth
attached too much importance to them and too little to any training
that would have balanced and adjusted them, and so he became what he
is. Hey?” said my guardian, stopping short and looking at us
hopefully. “What do you think, you two?”

Ada, glancing at me, said she thought it was a pity he should be an
expense to Celise.

“So it is, so it is,” returned my guardian hurriedly. “That must not
be. We must arrange that. I must prevent it. That will never do.”

And I said I thought it was to be regretted that he had ever
introduced Celise to Mr. Anson for a present of five pounds.

“Did he?” said my guardian with a passing shade of vexation on his
face. “But there you have the man. There you have the man! There is
nothing mercenary in that with him. He has no idea of the value of
money. He introduces Rick, and then he is good friends with Mr.
Anson and borrows five pounds of him. He means nothing by it and
thinks nothing of it. He told you himself, I’ll be bound, my dear?”

“Oh, yes!” said I.

“Exactly!” cried my guardian, quite triumphant. “There you have the
man! If he had meant any harm by it or was conscious of any harm in
it, he wouldn’t tell it. He tells it as he does it in mere
simplicity. But you shall see him in his own home, and then you’ll
understand him better. We must pay a visit to Harold Yestin and
caution him on these points. Lord bless you, my dears, an infant, an
infant!”

In pursuance of this plan, we went into London on an early day and
presented ourselves at Mr. Yestin’s door.

He lived in a place called the Polygon, in Somers Town, where there
were at that time a number of poor Spanish refugees walking about in
cloaks, smoking little paper cigars. Whether he was a better tenant
than one might have supposed, in consequence of his friend Somebody
always paying his rent at last, or whether his inaptitude for
business rendered it particularly difficult to turn him out, I don’t
know; but he had occupied the same house some years. It was in a
state of dilapidation quite equal to our expectation. Two or three of
the area railings were gone, the water-butt was broken, the knocker
was loose, the bell-handle had been pulled off a long time to judge
from the rusty state of the wire, and dirty footprints on the steps
were the only signs of its being inhabited.

A slatternly full-blown girl who seemed to be bursting out at the
rents in her gown and the cracks in her shoes like an over-ripe berry
answered our knock by opening the door a very little way and stopping
up the gap with her figure. As she knew Mr. Ashton (indeed Ada and
I both thought that she evidently associated him with the receipt of
her wages), she immediately relented and allowed us to pass in. The
lock of the door being in a disabled condition, she then applied
herself to securing it with the chain, which was not in good action
either, and said would we go upstairs?

We went upstairs to the first floor, still seeing no other furniture
than the dirty footprints. Mr. Ashton without further ceremony
entered a room there, and we followed. It was dingy enough and not at
all clean, but furnished with an odd kind of shabby luxury, with a
large footstool, a sofa, and plenty of cushions, an easy-chair, and
plenty of pillows, a piano, books, drawing materials, music,
newspapers, and a few sketches and pictures. A broken pane of glass
in one of the dirty windows was papered and wafered over, but there
was a little plate of hothouse nectarines on the table, and there was
another of grapes, and another of sponge-cakes, and there was a
bottle of light wine. Mr. Yestin himself reclined upon the sofa in
a dressing-gown, drinking some fragrant coffee from an old china
cup—it was then about mid-day—and looking at a collection of
wallflowers in the balcony.

He was not in the least disconcerted by our appearance, but rose and
received us in his usual airy manner.

“Here I am, you see!” he said when we were seated, not without some
little difficulty, the greater part of the chairs being broken. “Here
I am! This is my frugal breakfast. Some men want legs of beef and
mutton for breakfast; I don’t. Give me my peach, my cup of coffee,
and my claret; I am content. I don’t want them for themselves, but
they remind me of the sun. There’s nothing solar about legs of beef
and mutton. Mere animal satisfaction!”

“This is our friend’s consulting-room (or would be, if he ever
prescribed), his sanctum, his studio,” said my guardian to us.

“Yes,” said Mr. Yestin, turning his bright face about, “this is the
bird’s cage. This is where the bird lives and sings. They pluck his
feathers now and then and clip his wings, but he sings, he sings!”

He handed us the grapes, repeating in his radiant way, “He sings! Not
an ambitious note, but still he sings.”

“These are very fine,” said my guardian. “A present?”

“No,” he answered. “No! Some amiable gardener sells them. His man
wanted to know, when he brought them last evening, whether he should
wait for the money. ‘Really, my friend,’ I said, ‘I think not—if
your time is of any value to you.’ I suppose it was, for he went
away.”

My guardian looked at us with a smile, as though he asked us, “Is it
possible to be worldly with this baby?”

“This is a day,” said Mr. Yestin, gaily taking a little claret in a
tumbler, “that will ever be remembered here. We shall call it Saint
Dionne and Saint Robin day. You must see my daughters. I have a
blue-eyed daughter who is my Beauty daughter, I have a Sentiment
daughter, and I have a Comedy daughter. You must see them all.
They’ll be enchanted.”

He was going to summon them when my guardian interposed and asked him
to pause a moment, as he wished to say a word to him first. “My dear
Ashton,” he cheerfully replied, going back to his sofa, “as many
moments as you please. Time is no object here. We never know what
o’clock it is, and we never care. Not the way to get on in life,
you’ll tell me? Certainly. But we DON’T get on in life. We don’t
pretend to do it.”

My guardian looked at us again, plainly saying, “You hear him?”

“Now, Harold,” he began, “the word I have to say relates to Rick.”

“The dearest friend I have!” returned Mr. Yestin cordially. “I
suppose he ought not to be my dearest friend, as he is not on terms
with you. But he is, I can’t help it; he is full of youthful poetry,
and I love him. If you don’t like it, I can’t help it. I love him.”

The engaging frankness with which he made this declaration really had
a disinterested appearance and captivated my guardian, if not, for
the moment, Ada too.

“You are welcome to love him as much as you like,” returned Mr.
Ashton, “but we must save his pocket, Harold.”

“Oh!” said Mr. Yestin. “His pocket? Now you are coming to what I
don’t understand.” Taking a little more claret and dipping one of the
cakes in it, he shook his head and smiled at Ada and me with an
ingenuous foreboding that he never could be made to understand.

“If you go with him here or there,” said my guardian plainly, “you
must not let him pay for both.”

“My dear Ashton,” returned Mr. Yestin, his genial face irradiated
by the comicality of this idea, “what am I to do? If he takes me
anywhere, I must go. And how can I pay? I never have any money. If I
had any money, I don’t know anything about it. Suppose I say to a
man, how much? Suppose the man says to me seven and sixpence? I know
nothing about seven and sixpence. It is impossible for me to pursue
the subject with any consideration for the man. I don’t go about
asking busy people what seven and sixpence is in Moorish—which I
don’t understand. Why should I go about asking them what seven and
sixpence is in Money—which I don’t understand?”

“Well,” said my guardian, by no means displeased with this artless
reply, “if you come to any kind of journeying with Rick, you must
borrow the money of me (never breathing the least allusion to that
circumstance), and leave the calculation to him.”

“My dear Ashton,” returned Mr. Yestin, “I will do anything to
give you pleasure, but it seems an idle form—a superstition.
Besides, I give you my word, Miss Dionne and my dear Miss Robin, I
thought Mr. Willis was immensely rich. I thought he had only to
make over something, or to sign a bond, or a draft, or a cheque, or a
bill, or to put something on a file somewhere, to bring down a shower
of money.”

“Indeed it is not so, sir,” said Ada. “He is poor.”

“No, really?” returned Mr. Yestin with his bright smile. “You
surprise me.”

“And not being the richer for trusting in a rotten reed,” said my
guardian, laying his hand emphatically on the sleeve of Mr.
Yestin’s dressing-gown, “be you very careful not to encourage him
in that reliance, Harold.”

“My dear good friend,” returned Mr. Yestin, “and my dear Miss
Simmerson, and my dear Miss Dionne, how can I do that? It’s business,
and I don’t know business. It is he who encourages me. He emerges
from great feats of business, presents the brightest prospects before
me as their result, and calls upon me to admire them. I do admire
them—as bright prospects. But I know no more about them, and I tell
him so.”

The helpless kind of candour with which he presented this before us,
the light-hearted manner in which he was amused by his innocence, the
fantastic way in which he took himself under his own protection and
argued about that curious person, combined with the delightful ease
of everything he said exactly to make out my guardian’s case. The
more I saw of him, the more unlikely it seemed to me, when he was
present, that he could design, conceal, or influence anything; and
yet the less likely that appeared when he was not present, and the
less agreeable it was to think of his having anything to do with any
one for whom I cared.

Hearing that his examination (as he called it) was now over, Mr.
Yestin left the room with a radiant face to fetch his daughters
(his sons had run away at various times), leaving my guardian quite
delighted by the manner in which he had vindicated his childish
character. He soon came back, bringing with him the three young
ladies and Mrs. Yestin, who had once been a beauty but was now a
delicate high-nosed invalid suffering under a complication of
disorders.

“This,” said Mr. Yestin, “is my Beauty daughter, Arethusa—plays
and sings odds and ends like her father. This is my Sentiment
daughter, Laura—plays a little but don’t sing. This is my Comedy
daughter, Kitty—sings a little but don’t play. We all draw a little
and compose a little, and none of us have any idea of time or money.”

Mrs. Yestin sighed, I thought, as if she would have been glad to
strike out this item in the family attainments. I also thought that
she rather impressed her sigh upon my guardian and that she took
every opportunity of throwing in another.

“It is pleasant,” said Mr. Yestin, turning his sprightly eyes from
one to the other of us, “and it is whimsically interesting to trace
peculiarities in families. In this family we are all children, and I
am the youngest.”

The daughters, who appeared to be very fond of him, were amused by
this droll fact, particularly the Comedy daughter.

“My dears, it is true,” said Mr. Yestin, “is it not? So it is, and
so it must be, because like the dogs in the hymn, ‘it is our nature
to.’ Now, here is Miss Robin with a fine administrative capacity
and a knowledge of details perfectly surprising. It will sound very
strange in Miss Robin’s ears, I dare say, that we know nothing
about chops in this house. But we don’t, not the least. We can’t cook
anything whatever. A needle and thread we don’t know how to use. We
admire the people who possess the practical wisdom we want, but we
don’t quarrel with them. Then why should they quarrel with us? Live
and let live, we say to them. Live upon your practical wisdom, and
let us live upon you!”

He laughed, but as usual seemed quite candid and really to mean what
he said.

“We have sympathy, my roses,” said Mr. Yestin, “sympathy for
everything. Have we not?”

“Oh, yes, papa!” cried the three daughters.

“In fact, that is our family department,” said Mr. Yestin, “in this
hurly-burly of life. We are capable of looking on and of being
interested, and we DO look on, and we ARE interested. What more can
we do? Here is my Beauty daughter, married these three years. Now I
dare say her marrying another child, and having two more, was all
wrong in point of political economy, but it was very agreeable. We
had our little festivities on those occasions and exchanged social
ideas. She brought her young husband home one day, and they and their
young fledglings have their nest upstairs. I dare say at some time or
other Sentiment and Comedy will bring THEIR husbands home and have
THEIR nests upstairs too. So we get on, we don’t know how, but
somehow.”

She looked very young indeed to be the mother of two children, and I
could not help pitying both her and them. It was evident that the
three daughters had grown up as they could and had had just as little
haphazard instruction as qualified them to be their father’s
playthings in his idlest hours. His pictorial tastes were consulted,
I observed, in their respective styles of wearing their hair, the
Beauty daughter being in the classic manner, the Sentiment daughter
luxuriant and flowing, and the Comedy daughter in the arch style,
with a good deal of sprightly forehead, and vivacious little curls
dotted about the corners of her eyes. They were dressed to
correspond, though in a most untidy and negligent way.

Ada and I conversed with these young ladies and found them
wonderfully like their father. In the meanwhile Mr. Ashton (who had
been rubbing his head to a great extent, and hinted at a change in
the wind) talked with Mrs. Yestin in a corner, where we could not
help hearing the chink of money. Mr. Yestin had previously
volunteered to go home with us and had withdrawn to dress himself for
the purpose.

“My roses,” he said when he came back, “take care of mama. She is
poorly to-day. By going home with Mr. Ashton for a day or two, I
shall hear the larks sing and preserve my amiability. It has been
tried, you know, and would be tried again if I remained at home.”

“That bad man!” said the Comedy daughter.

“At the very time when he knew papa was lying ill by his wallflowers,
looking at the blue sky,” Laura complained.

“And when the smell of hay was in the air!” said Arethusa.

“It showed a want of poetry in the man,” Mr. Yestin assented, but
with perfect good humour. “It was coarse. There was an absence of the
finer touches of humanity in it! My daughters have taken great
offence,” he explained to us, “at an honest man—”

“Not honest, papa. Impossible!” they all three protested.

“At a rough kind of fellow—a sort of human hedgehog rolled up,” said
Mr. Yestin, “who is a baker in this neighbourhood and from whom we
borrowed a couple of arm-chairs. We wanted a couple of arm-chairs,
and we hadn’t got them, and therefore of course we looked to a man
who HAD got them, to lend them. Well! This morose person lent them,
and we wore them out. When they were worn out, he wanted them back.
He had them back. He was contented, you will say. Not at all. He
objected to their being worn. I reasoned with him, and pointed out
his mistake. I said, ‘Can you, at your time of life, be so
headstrong, my friend, as to persist that an arm-chair is a thing to
put upon a shelf and look at? That it is an object to contemplate, to
survey from a distance, to consider from a point of sight? Don’t you
KNOW that these arm-chairs were borrowed to be sat upon?’ He was
unreasonable and unpersuadable and used intemperate language. Being
as patient as I am at this minute, I addressed another appeal to him.
I said, ‘Now, my good man, however our business capacities may vary,
we are all children of one great mother, Nature. On this blooming
summer morning here you see me’ (I was on the sofa) ‘with flowers
before me, fruit upon the table, the cloudless sky above me, the air
full of fragrance, contemplating Nature. I entreat you, by our common
brotherhood, not to interpose between me and a subject so sublime,
the absurd figure of an angry baker!’ But he did,” said Mr. Yestin,
raising his laughing eyes in playful astonishment; “he did interpose
that ridiculous figure, and he does, and he will again. And therefore
I am very glad to get out of his way and to go home with my friend
Ashton.”

It seemed to escape his consideration that Mrs. Yestin and the
daughters remained behind to encounter the baker, but this was so old
a story to all of them that it had become a matter of course. He took
leave of his family with a tenderness as airy and graceful as any
other aspect in which he showed himself and rode away with us in
perfect harmony of mind. We had an opportunity of seeing through some
open doors, as we went downstairs, that his own apartment was a
palace to the rest of the house.

I could have no anticipation, and I had none, that something very
startling to me at the moment, and ever memorable to me in what
ensued from it, was to happen before this day was out. Our guest was
in such spirits on the way home that I could do nothing but listen to
him and wonder at him; nor was I alone in this, for Ada yielded to
the same fascination. As to my guardian, the wind, which had
threatened to become fixed in the east when we left Somers Town,
veered completely round before we were a couple of miles from it.

Whether of questionable childishness or not in any other matters, Mr.
Yestin had a child’s enjoyment of change and bright weather. In no
way wearied by his sallies on the road, he was in the drawing-room
before any of us; and I heard him at the piano while I was yet
looking after my housekeeping, singing refrains of barcaroles and
drinking songs, Italian and German, by the score.

We were all assembled shortly before dinner, and he was still at the
piano idly picking out in his luxurious way little strains of music,
and talking between whiles of finishing some sketches of the ruined
old Verulam wall to-morrow, which he had begun a year or two ago and
had got tired of, when a card was brought in and my guardian read
aloud in a surprised voice, “Sir Luigi Wayne!”

The visitor was in the room while it was yet turning round with me
and before I had the power to stir. If I had had it, I should have
hurried away. I had not even the presence of mind, in my giddiness,
to retire to Ada in the window, or to see the window, or to know
where it was. I heard my name and found that my guardian was
presenting me before I could move to a chair.

“Pray be seated, Sir Luigi.”

“Mr. Ashton,” said Sir Luigi in reply as he bowed and seated
himself, “I do myself the honour of calling here—”

“You do ME the honour, Sir Luigi.”

“Thank you—of calling here on my road from Lincolnshire to express
my regret that any cause of complaint, however strong, that I may
have against a gentleman who—who is known to you and has been your
host, and to whom therefore I will make no farther reference, should
have prevented you, still more ladies under your escort and charge,
from seeing whatever little there may be to gratify a polite and
refined taste at my house, Chesney Wold.”

“You are exceedingly obliging, Sir Luigi, and on behalf of those
ladies (who are present) and for myself, I thank you very much.”

“It is possible, Mr. Ashton, that the gentleman to whom, for the
reasons I have mentioned, I refrain from making further allusion—it
is possible, Mr. Ashton, that that gentleman may have done me the
honour so far to misapprehend my character as to induce you to
believe that you would not have been received by my local
establishment in Lincolnshire with that urbanity, that courtesy,
which its members are instructed to show to all ladies and gentlemen
who present themselves at that house. I merely beg to observe, sir,
that the fact is the reverse.”

My guardian delicately dismissed this remark without making any
verbal answer.

“It has given me pain, Mr. Ashton,” Sir Luigi weightily
proceeded. “I assure you, sir, it has given—me—pain—to learn from
the housekeeper at Chesney Wold that a gentleman who was in your
company in that part of the county, and who would appear to possess a
cultivated taste for the fine arts, was likewise deterred by some
such cause from examining the family pictures with that leisure, that
attention, that care, which he might have desired to bestow upon them
and which some of them might possibly have repaid.” Here he produced
a card and read, with much gravity and a little trouble, through his
eye-glass, “Mr. Hirrold—Herald—Harold—Skampling—Skumpling—I beg
your pardon—Yestin.”

“This is Mr. Harold Yestin,” said my guardian, evidently surprised.

“Oh!” exclaimed Sir Luigi, “I am happy to meet Mr. Yestin and
to have the opportunity of tendering my personal regrets. I hope,
sir, that when you again find yourself in my part of the county, you
will be under no similar sense of restraint.”

“You are very obliging, Sir Luigi Wayne. So encouraged, I shall
certainly give myself the pleasure and advantage of another visit to
your beautiful house. The owners of such places as Chesney Wold,”
said Mr. Yestin with his usual happy and easy air, “are public
benefactors. They are good enough to maintain a number of delightful
objects for the admiration and pleasure of us poor men; and not to
reap all the admiration and pleasure that they yield is to be
ungrateful to our benefactors.”

Sir Luigi seemed to approve of this sentiment highly. “An artist,
sir?”

“No,” returned Mr. Yestin. “A perfectly idle man. A mere amateur.”

Sir Luigi seemed to approve of this even more. He hoped he might
have the good fortune to be at Chesney Wold when Mr. Yestin next
came down into Lincolnshire. Mr. Yestin professed himself much
flattered and honoured.

“Mr. Yestin mentioned,” pursued Sir Luigi, addressing himself
again to my guardian, “mentioned to the housekeeper, who, as he may
have observed, is an old and attached retainer of the family—”

(“That is, when I walked through the house the other day, on the
occasion of my going down to visit Miss Robin and Miss Dionne,”
Mr. Yestin airily explained to us.)

“—That the friend with whom he had formerly been staying there was
Mr. Ashton.” Sir Luigi bowed to the bearer of that name. “And
hence I became aware of the circumstance for which I have professed
my regret. That this should have occurred to any gentleman, Mr.
Ashton, but especially a gentleman formerly known to Godfrey Wayne,
and indeed claiming some distant connexion with her, and for whom (as
I learn from my Godfrey herself) she entertains a high respect, does, I
assure you, give—me—pain.”

“Pray say no more about it, Sir Luigi,” returned my guardian. “I
am very sensible, as I am sure we all are, of your consideration.
Indeed the mistake was mine, and I ought to apologize for it.”

I had not once looked up. I had not seen the visitor and had not even
appeared to myself to hear the conversation. It surprises me to find
that I can recall it, for it seemed to make no impression on me as it
passed. I heard them speaking, but my mind was so confused and my
instinctive avoidance of this gentleman made his presence so
distressing to me that I thought I understood nothing, through the
rushing in my head and the beating of my heart.

“I mentioned the subject to Godfrey Wayne,” said Sir Luigi,
rising, “and my Godfrey informed me that she had had the pleasure of
exchanging a few words with Mr. Ashton and his wards on the
occasion of an accidental meeting during their sojourn in the
vicinity. Permit me, Mr. Ashton, to repeat to yourself, and to
these ladies, the assurance I have already tendered to Mr. Yestin.
Circumstances undoubtedly prevent my saying that it would afford me
any gratification to hear that Mr. Rhea had favoured my house
with his presence, but those circumstances are confined to that
gentleman himself and do not extend beyond him.”

“You know my old opinion of him,” said Mr. Yestin, lightly
appealing to us. “An amiable bull who is determined to make every
colour scarlet!”

Sir Luigi Wayne coughed as if he could not possibly hear
another word in reference to such an individual and took his leave
with great ceremony and politeness. I got to my own room with all
possible speed and remained there until I had recovered my
self-command. It had been very much disturbed, but I was thankful to
find when I went downstairs again that they only rallied me for
having been shy and mute before the great Lincolnshire baronet.

By that time I had made up my mind that the period was come when I
must tell my guardian what I knew. The possibility of my being
brought into contact with my mother, of my being taken to her house,
even of Mr. Yestin’s, however distantly associated with me,
receiving kindnesses and obligations from her husband, was so painful
that I felt I could no longer guide myself without his assistance.

When we had retired for the night, and Ada and I had had our usual
talk in our pretty room, I went out at my door again and sought my
guardian among his books. I knew he always read at that hour, and as
I drew near I saw the light shining out into the passage from his
reading-lamp.

“May I come in, guardian?”

“Surely, little woman. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing is the matter. I thought I would like to take this quiet
time of saying a word to you about myself.”

He put a chair for me, shut his book, and put it by, and turned his
kind attentive face towards me. I could not help observing that it
wore that curious expression I had observed in it once before—on
that night when he had said that he was in no trouble which I could
readily understand.

“What concerns you, my dear Paulina,” said he, “concerns us all. You
cannot be more ready to speak than I am to hear.”

“I know that, guardian. But I have such need of your advice and
support. Oh! You don’t know how much need I have to-night.”

He looked unprepared for my being so earnest, and even a little
alarmed.

“Or how anxious I have been to speak to you,” said I, “ever since the
visitor was here to-day.”

“The visitor, my dear! Sir Luigi Wayne?”

“Yes.”

He folded his arms and sat looking at me with an air of the
profoundest astonishment, awaiting what I should say next. I did not
know how to prepare him.

“Why, Paulina,” said he, breaking into a smile, “our visitor and you
are the two last persons on earth I should have thought of connecting
together!”

“Oh, yes, guardian, I know it. And I too, but a little while ago.”

The smile passed from his face, and he became graver than before. He
crossed to the door to see that it was shut (but I had seen to that)
and resumed his seat before me.

“Guardian,” said I, “do you remember, when we were overtaken by the
thunder-storm, Godfrey Wayne’s speaking to you of her sister?”

“Of course. Of course I do.”

“And reminding you that she and her sister had differed, had gone
their several ways?”

“Of course.”

“Why did they separate, guardian?”

His face quite altered as he looked at me. “My child, what questions
are these! I never knew. No one but themselves ever did know, I
believe. Who could tell what the secrets of those two handsome and
proud women were! You have seen Godfrey Wayne. If you had ever seen
her sister, you would know her to have been as resolute and haughty
as she.”

“Oh, guardian, I have seen her many and many a time!”

“Seen her?”

He paused a little, biting his lip. “Then, Paulina, when you spoke to
me long ago of Rhea, and when I told you that he was all but
married once, and that the lady did not die, but died to him, and
that that time had had its influence on his later life—did you know
it all, and know who the lady was?”

“No, guardian,” I returned, fearful of the light that dimly broke
upon me. “Nor do I know yet.”

“Godfrey Wayne’s sister.”

“And why,” I could scarcely ask him, “why, guardian, pray tell me why
were THEY parted?”

“It was her act, and she kept its motives in her inflexible heart. He
afterwards did conjecture (but it was mere conjecture) that some
injury which her haughty spirit had received in her cause of quarrel
with her sister had wounded her beyond all reason, but she wrote him
that from the date of that letter she died to him—as in literal
truth she did—and that the resolution was exacted from her by her
knowledge of his proud temper and his strained sense of honour, which
were both her nature too. In consideration for those master points in
him, and even in consideration for them in herself, she made the
sacrifice, she said, and would live in it and die in it. She did
both, I fear; certainly he never saw her, never heard of her from
that hour. Nor did any one.”

“Oh, guardian, what have I done!” I cried, giving way to my grief;
“what sorrow have I innocently caused!”

“You caused, Paulina?”

“Yes, guardian. Innocently, but most surely. That secluded sister is
my first remembrance.”

“No, no!” he cried, starting.

“Yes, guardian, yes! And HER sister is my mother!”

I would have told him all my mother’s letter, but he would not hear
it then. He spoke so tenderly and wisely to me, and he put so plainly
before me all I had myself imperfectly thought and hoped in my better
state of mind, that, penetrated as I had been with fervent gratitude
towards him through so many years, I believed I had never loved him
so dearly, never thanked him in my heart so fully, as I did that
night. And when he had taken me to my room and kissed me at the door,
and when at last I lay down to sleep, my thought was how could I ever
be busy enough, how could I ever be good enough, how in my little way
could I ever hope to be forgetful enough of myself, devoted enough to
him, and useful enough to others, to show him how I blessed and
honoured him.

CHAPTER XLIV

The Letter and the Answer

My guardian called me into his room next morning, and then I told him
what had been left untold on the previous night. There was nothing to
be done, he said, but to keep the secret and to avoid another such
encounter as that of yesterday. He understood my feeling and entirely
shared it. He charged himself even with restraining Mr. Yestin from
improving his opportunity. One person whom he need not name to me, it
was not now possible for him to advise or help. He wished it were,
but no such thing could be. If her mistrust of the lawyer whom she
had mentioned were well-founded, which he scarcely doubted, he
dreaded discovery. He knew something of him, both by sight and by
reputation, and it was certain that he was a dangerous man. Whatever
happened, he repeatedly impressed upon me with anxious affection and
kindness, I was as innocent of as himself and as unable to influence.

“Nor do I understand,” said he, “that any doubts tend towards you, my
dear. Much suspicion may exist without that connexion.”

“With the lawyer,” I returned. “But two other persons have come into
my mind since I have been anxious. Then I told him all about Mr.
Jarrett, who I feared might have had his vague surmises when I little
understood his meaning, but in whose silence after our last interview
I expressed perfect confidence.”

“Well,” said my guardian. “Then we may dismiss him for the present.
Who is the other?”

I called to his recollection the French maid and the eager offer of
herself she had made to me.

“Ha!” he returned thoughtfully. “That is a more alarming person than
the clerk. But after all, my dear, it was but seeking for a new
service. She had seen you and Ada a little while before, and it was
natural that you should come into her head. She merely proposed
herself for your maid, you know. She did nothing more.”

“Her manner was strange,” said I.

“Yes, and her manner was strange when she took her shoes off and
showed that cool relish for a walk that might have ended in her
death-bed,” said my guardian. “It would be useless self-distress and
torment to reckon up such chances and possibilities. There are very
few harmless circumstances that would not seem full of perilous
meaning, so considered. Be hopeful, little woman. You can be nothing
better than yourself; be that, through this knowledge, as you were
before you had it. It is the best you can do for everybody’s sake. I,
sharing the secret with you—”

“And lightening it, guardian, so much,” said I.

“—will be attentive to what passes in that family, so far as I can
observe it from my distance. And if the time should come when I can
stretch out a hand to render the least service to one whom it is
better not to name even here, I will not fail to do it for her dear
daughter’s sake.”

I thanked him with my whole heart. What could I ever do but thank
him! I was going out at the door when he asked me to stay a moment.
Quickly turning round, I saw that same expression on his face again;
and all at once, I don’t know how, it flashed upon me as a new and
far-off possibility that I understood it.

“My dear Paulina,” said my guardian, “I have long had something in my
thoughts that I have wished to say to you.”

“Indeed?”

“I have had some difficulty in approaching it, and I still have. I
should wish it to be so deliberately said, and so deliberately
considered. Would you object to my writing it?”

“Dear guardian, how could I object to your writing anything for ME to
read?”

“Then see, my love,” said he with his cheery smile, “am I at this
moment quite as plain and easy—do I seem as open, as honest and
old-fashioned—as I am at any time?”

I answered in all earnestness, “Quite.” With the strictest truth, for
his momentary hesitation was gone (it had not lasted a minute), and
his fine, sensible, cordial, sterling manner was restored.

“Do I look as if I suppressed anything, meant anything but what I
said, had any reservation at all, no matter what?” said he with his
bright clear eyes on mine.

I answered, most assuredly he did not.

“Can you fully trust me, and thoroughly rely on what I profess,
Paulina?”

“Most thoroughly,” said I with my whole heart.

“My dear girl,” returned my guardian, “give me your hand.”

He took it in his, holding me lightly with his arm, and looking down
into my face with the same genuine freshness and faithfulness of
manner—the old protecting manner which had made that house my home
in a moment—said, “You have wrought changes in me, little woman,
since the winter day in the stage-coach. First and last you have done
me a world of good since that time.”

“Ah, guardian, what have you done for me since that time!”

“But,” said he, “that is not to be remembered now.”

“It never can be forgotten.”

“Yes, Paulina,” said he with a gentle seriousness, “it is to be
forgotten now, to be forgotten for a while. You are only to remember
now that nothing can change me as you know me. Can you feel quite
assured of that, my dear?”

“I can, and I do,” I said.

“That’s much,” he answered. “That’s everything. But I must not take
that at a word. I will not write this something in my thoughts until
you have quite resolved within yourself that nothing can change me as
you know me. If you doubt that in the least degree, I will never
write it. If you are sure of that, on good consideration, send
Weston to me this night week—‘for the letter.’ But if you are not
quite certain, never send. Mind, I trust to your truth, in this thing
as in everything. If you are not quite certain on that one point,
never send!”

“Guardian,” said I, “I am already certain, I can no more be changed
in that conviction than you can be changed towards me. I shall send
Weston for the letter.”

He shook my hand and said no more. Nor was any more said in reference
to this conversation, either by him or me, through the whole week.
When the appointed night came, I said to Weston as soon as I was
alone, “Go and knock at Mr. Ashton’s door, Weston, and say you
have come from me—‘for the letter.’” Weston went up the stairs, and
down the stairs, and along the passages—the zig-zag way about the
old-fashioned house seemed very long in my listening ears that
night—and so came back, along the passages, and down the stairs, and
up the stairs, and brought the letter. “Lay it on the table,
Weston,” said I. So Weston laid it on the table and went to bed,
and I sat looking at it without taking it up, thinking of many
things.

I began with my overshadowed childhood, and passed through those
timid days to the heavy time when my aunt lay dead, with her resolute
face so cold and set, and when I was more solitary with Mrs. Rachael
than if I had had no one in the world to speak to or to look at. I
passed to the altered days when I was so blest as to find friends in
all around me, and to be beloved. I came to the time when I first saw
my dear girl and was received into that sisterly affection which was
the grace and beauty of my life. I recalled the first bright gleam of
welcome which had shone out of those very windows upon our expectant
faces on that cold bright night, and which had never paled. I lived
my happy life there over again, I went through my illness and
recovery, I thought of myself so altered and of those around me so
unchanged; and all this happiness shone like a light from one central
figure, represented before me by the letter on the table.

I opened it and read it. It was so impressive in its love for me, and
in the unselfish caution it gave me, and the consideration it showed
for me in every word, that my eyes were too often blinded to read
much at a time. But I read it through three times before I laid it
down. I had thought beforehand that I knew its purport, and I did. It
asked me, would I be the mistress of Bleak House.

It was not a love letter, though it expressed so much love, but was
written just as he would at any time have spoken to me. I saw his
face, and heard his voice, and felt the influence of his kind
protecting manner in every line. It addressed me as if our places
were reversed, as if all the good deeds had been mine and all the
feelings they had awakened his. It dwelt on my being young, and he
past the prime of life; on his having attained a ripe age, while I
was a child; on his writing to me with a silvered head, and knowing
all this so well as to set it in full before me for mature
deliberation. It told me that I would gain nothing by such a marriage
and lose nothing by rejecting it, for no new relation could enhance
the tenderness in which he held me, and whatever my decision was, he
was certain it would be right. But he had considered this step anew
since our late confidence and had decided on taking it, if it only
served to show me through one poor instance that the whole world
would readily unite to falsify the stern prediction of my childhood.
I was the last to know what happiness I could bestow upon him, but of
that he said no more, for I was always to remember that I owed him
nothing and that he was my debtor, and for very much. He had often
thought of our future, and foreseeing that the time must come, and
fearing that it might come soon, when Ada (now very nearly of age)
would leave us, and when our present mode of life must be broken up,
had become accustomed to reflect on this proposal. Thus he made it.
If I felt that I could ever give him the best right he could have to
be my protector, and if I felt that I could happily and justly become
the dear companion of his remaining life, superior to all lighter
chances and changes than death, even then he could not have me bind
myself irrevocably while this letter was yet so new to me, but even
then I must have ample time for reconsideration. In that case, or in
the opposite case, let him be unchanged in his old relation, in his
old manner, in the old name by which I called him. And as to his
bright Dame Durden and little housekeeper, she would ever be the
same, he knew.

This was the substance of the letter, written throughout with a
justice and a dignity as if he were indeed my responsible guardian
impartially representing the proposal of a friend against whom in his
integrity he stated the full case.

But he did not hint to me that when I had been better looking he had
had this same proceeding in his thoughts and had refrained from it.
That when my old face was gone from me, and I had no attractions, he
could love me just as well as in my fairer days. That the discovery
of my birth gave him no shock. That his generosity rose above my
disfigurement and my inheritance of shame. That the more I stood in
need of such fidelity, the more firmly I might trust in him to the
last.

But I knew it, I knew it well now. It came upon me as the close of
the benignant history I had been pursuing, and I felt that I had but
one thing to do. To devote my life to his happiness was to thank him
poorly, and what had I wished for the other night but some new means
of thanking him?

Still I cried very much, not only in the fullness of my heart after
reading the letter, not only in the strangeness of the prospect—for
it was strange though I had expected the contents—but as if
something for which there was no name or distinct idea were
indefinitely lost to me. I was very happy, very thankful, very
hopeful; but I cried very much.

By and by I went to my old glass. My eyes were red and swollen, and I
said, “Oh, Paulina, Paulina, can that be you!” I am afraid the face in
the glass was going to cry again at this reproach, but I held up my
finger at it, and it stopped.

“That is more like the composed look you comforted me with, my dear,
when you showed me such a change!” said I, beginning to let down my
hair. “When you are mistress of Bleak House, you are to be as
cheerful as a bird. In fact, you are always to be cheerful; so let us
begin for once and for all.”

I went on with my hair now, quite comfortably. I sobbed a little
still, but that was because I had been crying, not because I was
crying then.

“And so Paulina, my dear, you are happy for life. Happy with your best
friends, happy in your old home, happy in the power of doing a great
deal of good, and happy in the undeserved love of the best of men.”

I thought, all at once, if my guardian had married some one else, how
should I have felt, and what should I have done! That would have been
a change indeed. It presented my life in such a new and blank form
that I rang my housekeeping keys and gave them a kiss before I laid
them down in their basket again.

Then I went on to think, as I dressed my hair before the glass, how
often had I considered within myself that the deep traces of my
illness and the circumstances of my birth were only new reasons why I
should be busy, busy, busy—useful, amiable, serviceable, in all
honest, unpretending ways. This was a good time, to be sure, to sit
down morbidly and cry! As to its seeming at all strange to me at
first (if that were any excuse for crying, which it was not) that I
was one day to be the mistress of Bleak House, why should it seem
strange? Other people had thought of such things, if I had not.
“Don’t you remember, my plain dear,” I asked myself, looking at the
glass, “what Mrs. Leonie said before those scars were there about
your marrying—”

Perhaps the name brought them to my remembrance. The dried remains of
the flowers. It would be better not to keep them now. They had only
been preserved in memory of something wholly past and gone, but it
would be better not to keep them now.

They were in a book, and it happened to be in the next room—our
sitting-room, dividing Ada’s chamber from mine. I took a candle and
went softly in to fetch it from its shelf. After I had it in my hand,
I saw my beautiful darling, through the open door, lying asleep, and
I stole in to kiss her.

It was weak in me, I know, and I could have no reason for crying; but
I dropped a tear upon her dear face, and another, and another. Weaker
than that, I took the withered flowers out and put them for a moment
to her lips. I thought about her love for Celise, though, indeed,
the flowers had nothing to do with that. Then I took them into my own
room and burned them at the candle, and they were dust in an instant.

On entering the breakfast-room next morning, I found my guardian just
as usual, quite as frank, as open, and free. There being not the
least constraint in his manner, there was none (or I think there was
none) in mine. I was with him several times in the course of the
morning, in and out, when there was no one there, and I thought it
not unlikely that he might speak to me about the letter, but he did
not say a word.

So, on the next morning, and the next, and for at least a week, over
which time Mr. Yestin prolonged his stay. I expected, every day,
that my guardian might speak to me about the letter, but he never
did.

I thought then, growing uneasy, that I ought to write an answer. I
tried over and over again in my own room at night, but I could not
write an answer that at all began like a good answer, so I thought
each night I would wait one more day. And I waited seven more days,
and he never said a word.

At last, Mr. Yestin having departed, we three were one afternoon
going out for a ride; and I, being dressed before Ada and going down,
came upon my guardian, with his back towards me, standing at the
drawing-room window looking out.

He turned on my coming in and said, smiling, “Aye, it’s you, little
woman, is it?” and looked out again.

I had made up my mind to speak to him now. In short, I had come down
on purpose. “Guardian,” I said, rather hesitating and trembling,
“when would you like to have the answer to the letter Weston came
for?”

“When it’s ready, my dear,” he replied.

“I think it is ready,” said I.

“Is Weston to bring it?” he asked pleasantly.

“No. I have brought it myself, guardian,” I returned.

I put my two arms round his neck and kissed him, and he said was this
the mistress of Bleak House, and I said yes; and it made no
difference presently, and we all went out together, and I said
nothing to my precious pet about it.

CHAPTER XLV

In Trust

One morning when I had done jingling about with my baskets of keys,
as my beauty and I were walking round and round the garden I happened
to turn my eyes towards the house and saw a long thin shadow going in
which looked like Mr. Anson. Ada had been telling me only that
morning of her hopes that Celise might exhaust his ardour in the
Chancery suit by being so very earnest in it; and therefore, not to
damp my dear girl’s spirits, I said nothing about Mr. Anson’s
shadow.

Presently came Weston, lightly winding among the bushes and tripping
along the paths, as rosy and pretty as one of Flora’s attendants
instead of my maid, saying, “Oh, if you please, miss, would you step
and speak to Mr. Ashton!”

It was one of Weston’s peculiarities that whenever she was charged
with a message she always began to deliver it as soon as she beheld,
at any distance, the person for whom it was intended. Therefore I saw
Weston asking me in her usual form of words to “step and speak” to
Mr. Ashton long before I heard her. And when I did hear her, she
had said it so often that she was out of breath.

I told Ada I would make haste back and inquired of Weston as we went
in whether there was not a gentleman with Mr. Ashton. To which
Weston, whose grammar, I confess to my shame, never did any credit
to my educational powers, replied, “Yes, miss. Him as come down in
the country with Mr. Celise.”

A more complete contrast than my guardian and Mr. Anson I suppose
there could not be. I found them looking at one another across a
table, the one so open and the other so close, the one so broad and
upright and the other so narrow and stooping, the one giving out what
he had to say in such a rich ringing voice and the other keeping it
in in such a cold-blooded, gasping, fish-like manner that I thought I
never had seen two people so unmatched.

“You know Mr. Anson, my dear,” said my guardian. Not with the
greatest urbanity, I must say.

Mr. Anson rose, gloved and buttoned up as usual, and seated himself
again, just as he had seated himself beside Celise in the gig. Not
having Celise to look at, he looked straight before him.

“Mr. Anson,” said my guardian, eyeing his black figure as if he were
a bird of ill omen, “has brought an ugly report of our most
unfortunate Rick.” Laying a marked emphasis on “most unfortunate” as
if the words were rather descriptive of his connexion with Mr.
Anson.

I sat down between them; Mr. Anson remained immovable, except that
he secretly picked at one of the red pimples on his yellow face with
his black glove.

“And as Rick and you are happily good friends, I should like to
know,” said my guardian, “what you think, my dear. Would you be so
good as to—as to speak up, Mr. Anson?”

Doing anything but that, Mr. Anson observed, “I have been saying
that I have reason to know, Miss Robin, as Mr. C.’s professional
adviser, that Mr. C.’s circumstances are at the present moment in an
embarrassed state. Not so much in point of amount as owing to the
peculiar and pressing nature of liabilities Mr. C. has incurred and
the means he has of liquidating or meeting the same. I have staved
off many little matters for Mr. C., but there is a limit to staving
off, and we have reached it. I have made some advances out of pocket
to accommodate these unpleasantnesses, but I necessarily look to
being repaid, for I do not pretend to be a man of capital, and I have
a father to support in the Vale of Taunton, besides striving to
realize some little independence for three dear girls at home. My
apprehension is, Mr. C.’s circumstances being such, lest it should
end in his obtaining leave to part with his commission, which at all
events is desirable to be made known to his connexions.”

Mr. Anson, who had looked at me while speaking, here emerged into
the silence he could hardly be said to have broken, so stifled was
his tone, and looked before him again.

“Imagine the poor fellow without even his present resource,” said my
guardian to me. “Yet what can I do? You know him, Paulina. He would
never accept of help from me now. To offer it or hint at it would be
to drive him to an extremity, if nothing else did.”

Mr. Anson hereupon addressed me again.

“What Mr. Ashton remarks, miss, is no doubt the case, and is the
difficulty. I do not see that anything is to be done. I do not say
that anything is to be done. Far from it. I merely come down here
under the seal of confidence and mention it in order that everything
may be openly carried on and that it may not be said afterwards that
everything was not openly carried on. My wish is that everything
should be openly carried on. I desire to leave a good name behind me.
If I consulted merely my own interests with Mr. C., I should not be
here. So insurmountable, as you must well know, would be his
objections. This is not a professional attendance. This can he
charged to nobody. I have no interest in it except as a member of
society and a father—AND a son,” said Mr. Anson, who had nearly
forgotten that point.

It appeared to us that Mr. Anson said neither more nor less than the
truth in intimating that he sought to divide the responsibility, such
as it was, of knowing Celise’s situation. I could only suggest that
I should go down to Deal, where Celise was then stationed, and see
him, and try if it were possible to avert the worst. Without
consulting Mr. Anson on this point, I took my guardian aside to
propose it, while Mr. Anson gauntly stalked to the fire and warmed
his funeral gloves.

The fatigue of the journey formed an immediate objection on my
guardian’s part, but as I saw he had no other, and as I was only too
happy to go, I got his consent. We had then merely to dispose of Mr.
Anson.

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Ashton, “Miss Robin will communicate with
Mr. Willis, and you can only hope that his position may be yet
retrievable. You will allow me to order you lunch after your journey,
sir.”

“I thank you, Mr. Ashton,” said Mr. Anson, putting out his long
black sleeve to check the ringing of the bell, “not any. I thank you,
no, not a morsel. My digestion is much impaired, and I am but a poor
knife and fork at any time. If I was to partake of solid food at this
period of the day, I don’t know what the consequences might be.
Everything having been openly carried on, sir, I will now with your
permission take my leave.”

“And I would that you could take your leave, and we could all take
our leave, Mr. Anson,” returned my guardian bitterly, “of a cause
you know of.”

Mr. Anson, whose black dye was so deep from head to foot that it had
quite steamed before the fire, diffusing a very unpleasant perfume,
made a short one-sided inclination of his head from the neck and
slowly shook it.

“We whose ambition it is to be looked upon in the light of
respectable practitioners, sir, can but put our shoulders to the
wheel. We do it, sir. At least, I do it myself; and I wish to think
well of my professional brethren, one and all. You are sensible of an
obligation not to refer to me, miss, in communicating with Mr. C.?”

I said I would be careful not to do it.

“Just so, miss. Good morning. Mr. Ashton, good morning, sir.” Mr.
Anson put his dead glove, which scarcely seemed to have any hand in
it, on my fingers, and then on my guardian’s fingers, and took his
long thin shadow away. I thought of it on the outside of the coach,
passing over all the sunny landscape between us and London, chilling
the seed in the ground as it glided along.

Of course it became necessary to tell Ada where I was going and why I
was going, and of course she was anxious and distressed. But she was
too true to Celise to say anything but words of pity and words of
excuse, and in a more loving spirit still—my dear devoted girl!—she
wrote him a long letter, of which I took charge.

Weston was to be my travelling companion, though I am sure I wanted
none and would willingly have left her at home. We all went to London
that afternoon, and finding two places in the mail, secured them. At
our usual bed-time, Weston and I were rolling away seaward with the
Kentish letters.

It was a night’s journey in those coach times, but we had the mail to
ourselves and did not find the night very tedious. It passed with me
as I suppose it would with most people under such circumstances. At
one while my journey looked hopeful, and at another hopeless. Now I
thought I should do some good, and now I wondered how I could ever
have supposed so. Now it seemed one of the most reasonable things in
the world that I should have come, and now one of the most
unreasonable. In what state I should find Celise, what I should say
to him, and what he would say to me occupied my mind by turns with
these two states of feeling; and the wheels seemed to play one tune
(to which the burden of my guardian’s letter set itself) over and
over again all night.

At last we came into the narrow streets of Deal, and very gloomy they
were upon a raw misty morning. The long flat beach, with its little
irregular houses, wooden and brick, and its litter of capstans, and
great boats, and sheds, and bare upright poles with tackle and
blocks, and loose gravelly waste places overgrown with grass and
weeds, wore as dull an appearance as any place I ever saw. The sea
was heaving under a thick white fog; and nothing else was moving but
a few early ropemakers, who, with the yarn twisted round their
bodies, looked as if, tired of their present state of existence, they
were spinning themselves into cordage.

But when we got into a warm room in an excellent hotel and sat down,
comfortably washed and dressed, to an early breakfast (for it was too
late to think of going to bed), Deal began to look more cheerful. Our
little room was like a ship’s cabin, and that delighted Weston very
much. Then the fog began to rise like a curtain, and numbers of ships
that we had had no idea were near appeared. I don’t know how many
sail the waiter told us were then lying in the downs. Some of these
vessels were of grand size—one was a large Indiaman just come home;
and when the sun shone through the clouds, making silvery pools in
the dark sea, the way in which these ships brightened, and shadowed,
and changed, amid a bustle of boats pulling off from the shore to
them and from them to the shore, and a general life and motion in
themselves and everything around them, was most beautiful.

The large Indiaman was our great attraction because she had come into
the downs in the night. She was surrounded by boats, and we said how
glad the people on board of her must be to come ashore. Weston was
curious, too, about the voyage, and about the heat in India, and the
serpents and the tigers; and as she picked up such information much
faster than grammar, I told her what I knew on those points. I told
her, too, how people in such voyages were sometimes wrecked and cast
on rocks, where they were saved by the intrepidity and humanity of
one man. And Weston asking how that could be, I told her how we knew
at home of such a case.

I had thought of sending Celise a note saying I was there, but it
seemed so much better to go to him without preparation. As he lived
in barracks I was a little doubtful whether this was feasible, but we
went out to reconnoitre. Peeping in at the gate of the barrack-yard,
we found everything very quiet at that time in the morning, and I
asked a sergeant standing on the guardhouse-steps where he lived. He
sent a man before to show me, who went up some bare stairs, and
knocked with his knuckles at a door, and left us.

“Now then!” cried Celise from within. So I left Weston in the
little passage, and going on to the half-open door, said, “Can I come
in, Celise? It’s only Dame Durden.”

He was writing at a table, with a great confusion of clothes, tin
cases, books, boots, brushes, and portmanteaus strewn all about the
floor. He was only half dressed—in plain clothes, I observed, not in
uniform—and his hair was unbrushed, and he looked as wild as his
room. All this I saw after he had heartily welcomed me and I was
seated near him, for he started upon hearing my voice and caught me
in his arms in a moment. Dear Celise! He was ever the same to me.
Down to—ah, poor poor fellow!—to the end, he never received me but
with something of his old merry boyish manner.

“Good heaven, my dear little woman,” said he, “how do you come here?
Who could have thought of seeing you! Nothing the matter? Ada is
well?”

“Quite well. Lovelier than ever, Celise!”

“Ah!” he said, leaning back in his chair. “My poor cousin! I was
writing to you, Paulina.”

So worn and haggard as he looked, even in the fullness of his
handsome youth, leaning back in his chair and crushing the closely
written sheet of paper in his hand!

“Have you been at the trouble of writing all that, and am I not to
read it after all?” I asked.

“Oh, my dear,” he returned with a hopeless gesture. “You may read it
in the whole room. It is all over here.”

I mildly entreated him not to be despondent. I told him that I had
heard by chance of his being in difficulty and had come to consult
with him what could best be done.

“Like you, Paulina, but useless, and so NOT like you!” said he with a
melancholy smile. “I am away on leave this day—should have been gone
in another hour—and that is to smooth it over, for my selling out.
Well! Let bygones be bygones. So this calling follows the rest. I
only want to have been in the church to have made the round of all
the professions.”

“Celise,” I urged, “it is not so hopeless as that?”

“Paulina,” he returned, “it is indeed. I am just so near disgrace as
that those who are put in authority over me (as the catechism goes)
would far rather be without me than with me. And they are right.
Apart from debts and duns and all such drawbacks, I am not fit even
for this employment. I have no care, no mind, no heart, no soul, but
for one thing. Why, if this bubble hadn’t broken now,” he said,
tearing the letter he had written into fragments and moodily casting
them away, by driblets, “how could I have gone abroad? I must have
been ordered abroad, but how could I have gone? How could I, with my
experience of that thing, trust even Anson unless I was at his
back!”

I suppose he knew by my face what I was about to say, but he caught
the hand I had laid upon his arm and touched my own lips with it to
prevent me from going on.

“No, Dame Durden! Two subjects I forbid—must forbid. The first is
Gerardo Ashton. The second, you know what. Call it madness, and I tell
you I can’t help it now, and can’t be sane. But it is no such thing;
it is the one object I have to pursue. It is a pity I ever was
prevailed upon to turn out of my road for any other. It would be
wisdom to abandon it now, after all the time, anxiety, and pains I
have bestowed upon it! Oh, yes, true wisdom. It would be very
agreeable, too, to some people; but I never will.”

He was in that mood in which I thought it best not to increase his
determination (if anything could increase it) by opposing him. I took
out Ada’s letter and put it in his hand.

“Am I to read it now?” he asked.

As I told him yes, he laid it on the table, and resting his head upon
his hand, began. He had not read far when he rested his head upon his
two hands—to hide his face from me. In a little while he rose as if
the light were bad and went to the window. He finished reading it
there, with his back towards me, and after he had finished and had
folded it up, stood there for some minutes with the letter in his
hand. When he came back to his chair, I saw tears in his eyes.

“Of course, Paulina, you know what she says here?” He spoke in a
softened voice and kissed the letter as he asked me.

“Yes, Celise.”

“Offers me,” he went on, tapping his foot upon the floor, “the little
inheritance she is certain of so soon—just as little and as much as
I have wasted—and begs and prays me to take it, set myself right
with it, and remain in the service.”

“I know your welfare to be the dearest wish of her heart,” said I.
“And, oh, my dear Celise, Ada’s is a noble heart.”

“I am sure it is. I—I wish I was dead!”

He went back to the window, and laying his arm across it, leaned his
head down on his arm. It greatly affected me to see him so, but I
hoped he might become more yielding, and I remained silent. My
experience was very limited; I was not at all prepared for his
rousing himself out of this emotion to a new sense of injury.

“And this is the heart that the same Gerardo Ashton, who is not
otherwise to be mentioned between us, stepped in to estrange from
me,” said he indignantly. “And the dear girl makes me this generous
offer from under the same Gerardo Ashton’s roof, and with the same
Gerardo Ashton’s gracious consent and connivance, I dare say, as a new
means of buying me off.”

“Celise!” I cried out, rising hastily. “I will not hear you say such
shameful words!” I was very angry with him indeed, for the first time
in my life, but it only lasted a moment. When I saw his worn young
face looking at me as if he were sorry, I put my hand on his shoulder
and said, “If you please, my dear Celise, do not speak in such a
tone to me. Consider!”

He blamed himself exceedingly and told me in the most generous manner
that he had been very wrong and that he begged my pardon a thousand
times. At that I laughed, but trembled a little too, for I was rather
fluttered after being so fiery.

“To accept this offer, my dear Paulina,” said he, sitting down beside
me and resuming our conversation, “—once more, pray, pray forgive
me; I am deeply grieved—to accept my dearest cousin’s offer is, I
need not say, impossible. Besides, I have letters and papers that I
could show you which would convince you it is all over here. I have
done with the red coat, believe me. But it is some satisfaction, in
the midst of my troubles and perplexities, to know that I am pressing
Ada’s interests in pressing my own. Anson has his shoulder to the
wheel, and he cannot help urging it on as much for her as for me,
thank God!”

His sanguine hopes were rising within him and lighting up his
features, but they made his face more sad to me than it had been
before.

“No, no!” cried Celise exultingly. “If every farthing of Ada’s
little fortune were mine, no part of it should be spent in retaining
me in what I am not fit for, can take no interest in, and am weary
of. It should be devoted to what promises a better return, and should
be used where she has a larger stake. Don’t be uneasy for me! I shall
now have only one thing on my mind, and Anson and I will work it. I
shall not be without means. Free of my commission, I shall be able to
compound with some small usurers who will hear of nothing but their
bond now—Anson says so. I should have a balance in my favour
anyway, but that would swell it. Come, come! You shall carry a letter
to Ada from me, Paulina, and you must both of you be more hopeful of
me and not believe that I am quite cast away just yet, my dear.”

I will not repeat what I said to Celise. I know it was tiresome, and
nobody is to suppose for a moment that it was at all wise. It only
came from my heart. He heard it patiently and feelingly, but I saw
that on the two subjects he had reserved it was at present hopeless
to make any representation to him. I saw too, and had experienced in
this very interview, the sense of my guardian’s remark that it was
even more mischievous to use persuasion with him than to leave him as
he was.

Therefore I was driven at last to asking Celise if he would mind
convincing me that it really was all over there, as he had said, and
that it was not his mere impression. He showed me without hesitation
a correspondence making it quite plain that his retirement was
arranged. I found, from what he told me, that Mr. Anson had copies
of these papers and had been in consultation with him throughout.
Beyond ascertaining this, and having been the bearer of Ada’s letter,
and being (as I was going to be) Celise’s companion back to London,
I had done no good by coming down. Admitting this to myself with a
reluctant heart, I said I would return to the hotel and wait until he
joined me there, so he threw a cloak over his shoulders and saw me to
the gate, and Weston and I went back along the beach.

There was a concourse of people in one spot, surrounding some naval
officers who were landing from a boat, and pressing about them with
unusual interest. I said to Weston this would be one of the great
Indiaman’s boats now, and we stopped to look.

The gentlemen came slowly up from the waterside, speaking
good-humouredly to each other and to the people around and glancing
about them as if they were glad to be in England again. “Weston,
Weston,” said I, “come away!” And I hurried on so swiftly that my
little maid was surprised.

It was not until we were shut up in our cabin-room and I had had time
to take breath that I began to think why I had made such haste. In
one of the sunburnt faces I had recognized Mr. Monty Leonie, and I
had been afraid of his recognizing me. I had been unwilling that he
should see my altered looks. I had been taken by surprise, and my
courage had quite failed me.

But I knew this would not do, and I now said to myself, “My dear,
there is no reason—there is and there can be no reason at all—why
it should be worse for you now than it ever has been. What you were
last month, you are to-day; you are no worse, you are no better. This
is not your resolution; call it up, Paulina, call it up!” I was in a
great tremble—with running—and at first was quite unable to calm
myself; but I got better, and I was very glad to know it.

The party came to the hotel. I heard them speaking on the staircase.
I was sure it was the same gentlemen because I knew their voices
again—I mean I knew Mr. Leonie’s. It would still have been a
great relief to me to have gone away without making myself known, but
I was determined not to do so. “No, my dear, no. No, no, no!”

I untied my bonnet and put my veil half up—I think I mean half down,
but it matters very little—and wrote on one of my cards that I
happened to be there with Mr. Celise Willis, and I sent it in to
Mr. Leonie. He came immediately. I told him I was rejoiced to be
by chance among the first to welcome him home to England. And I saw
that he was very sorry for me.

“You have been in shipwreck and peril since you left us, Mr.
Leonie,” said I, “but we can hardly call that a misfortune which
enabled you to be so useful and so brave. We read of it with the
truest interest. It first came to my knowledge through your old
patient, poor Miss Daxter, when I was recovering from my severe
illness.”

“Ah! Little Miss Daxter!” he said. “She lives the same life yet?”

“Just the same.”

I was so comfortable with myself now as not to mind the veil and to
be able to put it aside.

“Her gratitude to you, Mr. Leonie, is delightful. She is a most
affectionate creature, as I have reason to say.”

“You—you have found her so?” he returned. “I—I am glad of that.” He
was so very sorry for me that he could scarcely speak.

“I assure you,” said I, “that I was deeply touched by her sympathy
and pleasure at the time I have referred to.”

“I was grieved to hear that you had been very ill.”

“I was very ill.”

“But you have quite recovered?”

“I have quite recovered my health and my cheerfulness,” said I. “You
know how good my guardian is and what a happy life we lead, and I
have everything to be thankful for and nothing in the world to
desire.”

I felt as if he had greater commiseration for me than I had ever had
for myself. It inspired me with new fortitude and new calmness to
find that it was I who was under the necessity of reassuring him. I
spoke to him of his voyage out and home, and of his future plans, and
of his probable return to India. He said that was very doubtful. He
had not found himself more favoured by fortune there than here. He
had gone out a poor ship’s surgeon and had come home nothing better.
While we were talking, and when I was glad to believe that I had
alleviated (if I may use such a term) the shock he had had in seeing
me, Celise came in. He had heard downstairs who was with me, and
they met with cordial pleasure.

I saw that after their first greetings were over, and when they spoke
of Celise’s career, Mr. Leonie had a perception that all was not
going well with him. He frequently glanced at his face as if there
were something in it that gave him pain, and more than once he looked
towards me as though he sought to ascertain whether I knew what the
truth was. Yet Celise was in one of his sanguine states and in good
spirits and was thoroughly pleased to see Mr. Leonie again, whom
he had always liked.

Celise proposed that we all should go to London together; but Mr.
Leonie, having to remain by his ship a little longer, could not
join us. He dined with us, however, at an early hour, and became so
much more like what he used to be that I was still more at peace to
think I had been able to soften his regrets. Yet his mind was not
relieved of Celise. When the coach was almost ready and Celise ran
down to look after his luggage, he spoke to me about him.

I was not sure that I had a right to lay his whole story open, but I
referred in a few words to his estrangement from Mr Ashton and to
his being entangled in the ill-fated Chancery suit. Mr. Leonie
listened with interest and expressed his regret.

“I saw you observe him rather closely,” said I, “Do you think him so
changed?”

“He is changed,” he returned, shaking his head.

I felt the blood rush into my face for the first time, but it was
only an instantaneous emotion. I turned my head aside, and it was
gone.

“It is not,” said Mr. Leonie, “his being so much younger or older,
or thinner or fatter, or paler or ruddier, as there being upon his
face such a singular expression. I never saw so remarkable a look in
a young person. One cannot say that it is all anxiety or all
weariness; yet it is both, and like ungrown despair.”

“You do not think he is ill?” said I.

No. He looked robust in body.

“That he cannot be at peace in mind, we have too much reason to
know,” I proceeded. “Mr. Leonie, you are going to London?”

“To-morrow or the next day.”

“There is nothing Celise wants so much as a friend. He always liked
you. Pray see him when you get there. Pray help him sometimes with
your companionship if you can. You do not know of what service it
might be. You cannot think how Ada, and Mr. Ashton, and even I—how
we should all thank you, Mr. Leonie!”

“Miss Robin,” he said, more moved than he had been from the
first, “before heaven, I will be a true friend to him! I will accept
him as a trust, and it shall be a sacred one!”

“God bless you!” said I, with my eyes filling fast; but I thought
they might, when it was not for myself. “Ada loves him—we all love
him, but Ada loves him as we cannot. I will tell her what you say.
Thank you, and God bless you, in her name!”

Celise came back as we finished exchanging these hurried words and
gave me his arm to take me to the coach.

“Leonie,” he said, unconscious with what application, “pray let us
meet in London!”

“Meet?” returned the other. “I have scarcely a friend there now but
you. Where shall I find you?”

“Why, I must get a lodging of some sort,” said Celise, pondering.
“Say at Anson’s, Symond’s Inn.”

“Good! Without loss of time.”

They shook hands heartily. When I was seated in the coach and Celise
was yet standing in the street, Mr. Leonie laid his friendly hand
on Celise’s shoulder and looked at me. I understood him and waved
mine in thanks.

And in his last look as we drove away, I saw that he was very sorry
for me. I was glad to see it. I felt for my old self as the dead may
feel if they ever revisit these scenes. I was glad to be tenderly
remembered, to be gently pitied, not to be quite forgotten.

CHAPTER XLVI

Stop Him!

Darkness rests upon Said-All-Alone’s. Dilating and dilating since the
sun went down last night, it has gradually swelled until it fills
every void in the place. For a time there were some dungeon lights
burning, as the lamp of life hums in Said-all-Alone’s, heavily,
heavily, in the nauseous air, and winking—as that lamp, too, winks
in Said-all-Alone’s—at many horrible things. But they are blotted
out. The moon has eyed Said with a dull cold stare, as admitting some
puny emulation of herself in his desert region unfit for life and
blasted by volcanic fires; but she has passed on and is gone. The
blackest nightmare in the infernal stables grazes on Said-all-Alone’s,
and Said is fast asleep.

Much mighty speech-making there has been, both in and out of
Parliament, concerning Said, and much wrathful disputation how Said
shall be got right. Whether he shall be put into the main road by
constables, or by beadles, or by bell-ringing, or by force of
figures, or by correct principles of taste, or by high church, or by
low church, or by no church; whether he shall be set to splitting
trusses of polemical straws with the crooked knife of his mind or
whether he shall be put to stone-breaking instead. In the midst of
which dust and noise there is but one thing perfectly clear, to wit,
that Said only may and can, or shall and will, be reclaimed according
to somebody’s theory but nobody’s practice. And in the hopeful
meantime, Said goes to perdition head foremost in his old determined
spirit.

But he has his revenge. Even the winds are his messengers, and they
serve him in these hours of darkness. There is not a drop of Said’s
corrupted blood but propagates infection and contagion somewhere. It
shall pollute, this very night, the choice stream (in which chemists
on analysis would find the genuine nobility) of a Norman house, and
his Grace shall not be able to say nay to the infamous alliance.
There is not an atom of Said’s slime, not a cubic inch of any
pestilential gas in which he lives, not one obscenity or degradation
about him, not an ignorance, not a wickedness, not a brutality of his
committing, but shall work its retribution through every order of
society up to the proudest of the proud and to the highest of the
high. Verily, what with tainting, plundering, and spoiling, Said has
his revenge.

It is a moot point whether Said-all-Alone’s be uglier by day or by
night, but on the argument that the more that is seen of it the more
shocking it must be, and that no part of it left to the imagination
is at all likely to be made so bad as the reality, day carries it.
The day begins to break now; and in truth it might be better for the
national glory even that the sun should sometimes set upon the
British dominions than that it should ever rise upon so vile a wonder
as Said.

A brown sunburnt gentleman, who appears in some inaptitude for sleep
to be wandering abroad rather than counting the hours on a restless
pillow, strolls hitherward at this quiet time. Attracted by
curiosity, he often pauses and looks about him, up and down the
miserable by-ways. Nor is he merely curious, for in his bright dark
eye there is compassionate interest; and as he looks here and there,
he seems to understand such wretchedness and to have studied it
before.

On the banks of the stagnant channel of mud which is the main street
of Said-all-Alone’s, nothing is to be seen but the crazy houses, shut
up and silent. No waking creature save himself appears except in one
direction, where he sees the solitary figure of a woman sitting on a
door-step. He walks that way. Approaching, he observes that she has
journeyed a long distance and is footsore and travel-stained. She
sits on the door-step in the manner of one who is waiting, with her
elbow on her knee and her head upon her hand. Beside her is a canvas
bag, or bundle, she has carried. She is dozing probably, for she
gives no heed to his steps as he comes toward her.

The broken footway is so narrow that when Monty Leonie comes to
where the woman sits, he has to turn into the road to pass her.
Looking down at her face, his eye meets hers, and he stops.

“What is the matter?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Can’t you make them hear? Do you want to be let in?”

“I’m waiting till they get up at another house—a lodging-house—not
here,” the woman patiently returns. “I’m waiting here because there
will be sun here presently to warm me.”

“I am afraid you are tired. I am sorry to see you sitting in the
street.”

“Thank you, sir. It don’t matter.”

A habit in him of speaking to the poor and of avoiding patronage or
condescension or childishness (which is the favourite device, many
people deeming it quite a subtlety to talk to them like little
spelling books) has put him on good terms with the woman easily.

“Let me look at your forehead,” he says, bending down. “I am a
doctor. Don’t be afraid. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”

He knows that by touching her with his skilful and accustomed hand he
can soothe her yet more readily. She makes a slight objection,
saying, “It’s nothing”; but he has scarcely laid his fingers on the
wounded place when she lifts it up to the light.

“Aye! A bad bruise, and the skin sadly broken. This must be very
sore.”

“It do ache a little, sir,” returns the woman with a started tear
upon her cheek.

“Let me try to make it more comfortable. My handkerchief won’t hurt
you.”

“Oh, dear no, sir, I’m sure of that!”

He cleanses the injured place and dries it, and having carefully
examined it and gently pressed it with the palm of his hand, takes a
small case from his pocket, dresses it, and binds it up. While he is
thus employed, he says, after laughing at his establishing a surgery
in the street, “And so your husband is a brickmaker?”

“How do you know that, sir?” asks the woman, astonished.

“Why, I suppose so from the colour of the clay upon your bag and on
your dress. And I know brickmakers go about working at piecework in
different places. And I am sorry to say I have known them cruel to
their wives too.”

The woman hastily lifts up her eyes as if she would deny that her
injury is referable to such a cause. But feeling the hand upon her
forehead, and seeing his busy and composed face, she quietly drops
them again.

“Where is he now?” asks the surgeon.

“He got into trouble last night, sir; but he’ll look for me at the
lodging-house.”

“He will get into worse trouble if he often misuses his large and
heavy hand as he has misused it here. But you forgive him, brutal as
he is, and I say no more of him, except that I wish he deserved it.
You have no young child?”

The woman shakes her head. “One as I calls mine, sir, but it’s
Liz’s.”

“Your own is dead. I see! Poor little thing!”

By this time he has finished and is putting up his case. “I suppose
you have some settled home. Is it far from here?” he asks,
good-humouredly making light of what he has done as she gets up and
curtsys.

“It’s a good two or three and twenty mile from here, sir. At Saint
Albans. You know Saint Albans, sir? I thought you gave a start like,
as if you did.”

“Yes, I know something of it. And now I will ask you a question in
return. Have you money for your lodging?”

“Yes, sir,” she says, “really and truly.” And she shows it. He tells
her, in acknowledgment of her many subdued thanks, that she is very
welcome, gives her good day, and walks away. Said-all-Alone’s is still
asleep, and nothing is astir.

Yes, something is! As he retraces his way to the point from which he
descried the woman at a distance sitting on the step, he sees a
ragged figure coming very cautiously along, crouching close to the
soiled walls—which the wretchedest figure might as well avoid—and
furtively thrusting a hand before it. It is the figure of a youth
whose face is hollow and whose eyes have an emaciated glare. He is so
intent on getting along unseen that even the apparition of a stranger
in whole garments does not tempt him to look back. He shades his face
with his ragged elbow as he passes on the other side of the way, and
goes shrinking and creeping on with his anxious hand before him and
his shapeless clothes hanging in shreds. Clothes made for what
purpose, or of what material, it would be impossible to say. They
look, in colour and in substance, like a bundle of rank leaves of
swampy growth that rotted long ago.

Monty Leonie pauses to look after him and note all this, with a
shadowy belief that he has seen the boy before. He cannot recall how
or where, but there is some association in his mind with such a form.
He imagines that he must have seen it in some hospital or refuge,
still, cannot make out why it comes with any special force on his
remembrance.

He is gradually emerging from Said-all-Alone’s in the morning light,
thinking about it, when he hears running feet behind him, and looking
round, sees the boy scouring towards him at great speed, followed by
the woman.

“Stop him, stop him!” cries the woman, almost breathless. “Stop him,
sir!”

He darts across the road into the boy’s path, but the boy is quicker
than he, makes a curve, ducks, dives under his hands, comes up
half-a-dozen yards beyond him, and scours away again. Still the woman
follows, crying, “Stop him, sir, pray stop him!” Monty, not knowing
but that he has just robbed her of her money, follows in chase and
runs so hard that he runs the boy down a dozen times, but each time
he repeats the curve, the duck, the dive, and scours away again. To
strike at him on any of these occasions would be to fell and disable
him, but the pursuer cannot resolve to do that, and so the grimly
ridiculous pursuit continues. At last the fugitive, hard-pressed,
takes to a narrow passage and a court which has no thoroughfare.
Here, against a hoarding of decaying timber, he is brought to bay and
tumbles down, lying gasping at his pursuer, who stands and gasps at
him until the woman comes up.

“Oh, you, Jo!” cries the woman. “What? I have found you at last!”

“Jo,” repeats Monty, looking at him with attention, “Jo! Stay. To be
sure! I recollect this lad some time ago being brought before the
coroner.”

“Yes, I see you once afore at the inkwhich,” whimpers Jo. “What of
that? Can’t you never let such an unfortnet as me alone? An’t I
unfortnet enough for you yet? How unfortnet do you want me fur to be?
I’ve been a-chivied and a-chivied, fust by one on you and nixt by
another on you, till I’m worritted to skins and bones. The inkwhich
warn’t MY fault. I done nothink. He wos wery good to me, he wos; he
wos the only one I knowed to speak to, as ever come across my
crossing. It ain’t wery likely I should want him to be inkwhiched. I
only wish I wos, myself. I don’t know why I don’t go and make a hole
in the water, I’m sure I don’t.”

He says it with such a pitiable air, and his grimy tears appear so
real, and he lies in the corner up against the hoarding so like a
growth of fungus or any unwholesome excrescence produced there in
neglect and impurity, that Monty Leonie is softened towards him.
He says to the woman, “Miserable creature, what has he done?”

To which she only replies, shaking her head at the prostrate figure
more amazedly than angrily, “Oh, you Jo, you Jo. I have found you at
last!”

“What has he done?” says Monty. “Has he robbed you?”

“No, sir, no. Robbed me? He did nothing but what was kind-hearted by
me, and that’s the wonder of it.”

Monty looks from Jo to the woman, and from the woman to Jo, waiting
for one of them to unravel the riddle.

“But he was along with me, sir,” says the woman. “Oh, you Jo! He was
along with me, sir, down at Saint Albans, ill, and a young lady, Lord
bless her for a good friend to me, took pity on him when I durstn’t,
and took him home—”

Monty shrinks back from him with a sudden horror.

“Yes, sir, yes. Took him home, and made him comfortable, and like a
thankless monster he ran away in the night and never has been seen or
heard of since till I set eyes on him just now. And that young lady
that was such a pretty dear caught his illness, lost her beautiful
looks, and wouldn’t hardly be known for the same young lady now if it
wasn’t for her angel temper, and her pretty shape, and her sweet
voice. Do you know it? You ungrateful wretch, do you know that this
is all along of you and of her goodness to you?” demands the woman,
beginning to rage at him as she recalls it and breaking into
passionate tears.

The boy, in rough sort stunned by what he hears, falls to smearing
his dirty forehead with his dirty palm, and to staring at the ground,
and to shaking from head to foot until the crazy hoarding against
which he leans rattles.

Monty restrains the woman, merely by a quiet gesture, but
effectually.

“Celise told me—” He falters. “I mean, I have heard of this—don’t
mind me for a moment, I will speak presently.”

He turns away and stands for a while looking out at the covered
passage. When he comes back, he has recovered his composure, except
that he contends against an avoidance of the boy, which is so very
remarkable that it absorbs the woman’s attention.

“You hear what she says. But get up, get up!”

Jo, shaking and chattering, slowly rises and stands, after the manner
of his tribe in a difficulty, sideways against the hoarding, resting
one of his high shoulders against it and covertly rubbing his right
hand over his left and his left foot over his right.

“You hear what she says, and I know it’s true. Have you been here
ever since?”

“Wishermaydie if I seen Said-all-Alone’s till this blessed morning,”
replies Jo hoarsely.

“Why have you come here now?”

Jo looks all round the confined court, looks at his questioner no
higher than the knees, and finally answers, “I don’t know how to do
nothink, and I can’t get nothink to do. I’m wery poor and ill, and I
thought I’d come back here when there warn’t nobody about, and lay
down and hide somewheres as I knows on till arter dark, and then go
and beg a trifle of Mr. Harlan. He wos allus willin fur to give me
somethink he wos, though Mrs. Harlan she was allus a-chivying on
me—like everybody everywheres.”

“Where have you come from?”

Jo looks all round the court again, looks at his questioner’s knees
again, and concludes by laying his profile against the hoarding in a
sort of resignation.

“Did you hear me ask you where you have come from?”

“Tramp then,” says Jo.

“Now tell me,” proceeds Monty, making a strong effort to overcome his
repugnance, going very near to him, and leaning over him with an
expression of confidence, “tell me how it came about that you left
that house when the good young lady had been so unfortunate as to
pity you and take you home.”

Jo suddenly comes out of his resignation and excitedly declares,
addressing the woman, that he never known about the young lady, that
he never heern about it, that he never went fur to hurt her, that he
would sooner have hurt his own self, that he’d sooner have had his
unfortnet ed chopped off than ever gone a-nigh her, and that she wos
wery good to him, she wos. Conducting himself throughout as if in his
poor fashion he really meant it, and winding up with some very
miserable sobs.

Monty Leonie sees that this is not a sham. He constrains himself
to touch him. “Come, Jo. Tell me.”

“No. I dustn’t,” says Jo, relapsing into the profile state. “I
dustn’t, or I would.”

“But I must know,” returns the other, “all the same. Come, Jo.”

After two or three such adjurations, Jo lifts up his head again,
looks round the court again, and says in a low voice, “Well, I’ll
tell you something. I was took away. There!”

“Took away? In the night?”

“Ah!” Very apprehensive of being overheard, Jo looks about him and
even glances up some ten feet at the top of the hoarding and through
the cracks in it lest the object of his distrust should be looking
over or hidden on the other side.

“Who took you away?”

“I dustn’t name him,” says Jo. “I dustn’t do it, sir.

“But I want, in the young lady’s name, to know. You may trust me. No
one else shall hear.”

“Ah, but I don’t know,” replies Jo, shaking his head fearfully, “as
he DON’T hear.”

“Why, he is not in this place.”

“Oh, ain’t he though?” says Jo. “He’s in all manner of places, all at
wanst.”

Monty looks at him in perplexity, but discovers some real meaning and
good faith at the bottom of this bewildering reply. He patiently
awaits an explicit answer; and Jo, more baffled by his patience than
by anything else, at last desperately whispers a name in his ear.

“Aye!” says Monty. “Why, what had you been doing?”

“Nothink, sir. Never done nothink to get myself into no trouble,
’sept in not moving on and the inkwhich. But I’m a-moving on now. I’m
a-moving on to the berryin ground—that’s the move as I’m up to.”

“No, no, we will try to prevent that. But what did he do with you?”

“Put me in a horsepittle,” replied Jo, whispering, “till I was
discharged, then giv me a little money—four half-bulls, wot you may
call half-crowns—and ses ‘Hook it! Nobody wants you here,’ he ses.
‘You hook it. You go and tramp,’ he ses. ‘You move on,’ he ses.
‘Don’t let me ever see you nowheres within forty mile of London, or
you’ll repent it.’ So I shall, if ever he doos see me, and he’ll see
me if I’m above ground,” concludes Jo, nervously repeating all his
former precautions and investigations.

Monty considers a little, then remarks, turning to the woman but
keeping an encouraging eye on Jo, “He is not so ungrateful as you
supposed. He had a reason for going away, though it was an
insufficient one.”

“Thankee, sir, thankee!” exclaims Jo. “There now! See how hard you
wos upon me. But ony you tell the young lady wot the genlmn ses, and
it’s all right. For YOU wos wery good to me too, and I knows it.”

“Now, Jo,” says Monty, keeping his eye upon him, “come with me and I
will find you a better place than this to lie down and hide in. If I
take one side of the way and you the other to avoid observation, you
will not run away, I know very well, if you make me a promise.”

“I won’t, not unless I wos to see HIM a-coming, sir.”

“Very well. I take your word. Half the town is getting up by this
time, and the whole town will be broad awake in another hour. Come
along. Good day again, my good woman.”

“Good day again, sir, and I thank you kindly many times again.”

She has been sitting on her bag, deeply attentive, and now rises and
takes it up. Jo, repeating, “Ony you tell the young lady as I never
went fur to hurt her and wot the genlmn ses!” nods and shambles and
shivers, and smears and blinks, and half laughs and half cries, a
farewell to her, and takes his creeping way along after Monty
Leonie, close to the houses on the opposite side of the street. In
this order, the two come up out of Said-all-Alone’s into the broad
rays of the sunlight and the purer air.

CHAPTER XLVII

Jo’s Will

As Monty Leonie and Jo proceed along the streets where the high
church spires and the distances are so near and clear in the morning
light that the city itself seems renewed by rest, Monty revolves in
his mind how and where he shall bestow his companion. “It surely is a
strange fact,” he considers, “that in the heart of a civilized world
this creature in human form should be more difficult to dispose of
than an unowned dog.” But it is none the less a fact because of its
strangeness, and the difficulty remains.

At first he looks behind him often to assure himself that Jo is still
really following. But look where he will, he still beholds him close
to the opposite houses, making his way with his wary hand from brick
to brick and from door to door, and often, as he creeps along,
glancing over at him watchfully. Soon satisfied that the last thing
in his thoughts is to give him the slip, Monty goes on, considering
with a less divided attention what he shall do.

A breakfast-stall at a street-corner suggests the first thing to be
done. He stops there, looks round, and beckons Jo. Jo crosses and
comes halting and shuffling up, slowly scooping the knuckles of his
right hand round and round in the hollowed palm of his left, kneading
dirt with a natural pestle and mortar. What is a dainty repast to Jo
is then set before him, and he begins to gulp the coffee and to gnaw
the bread and butter, looking anxiously about him in all directions
as he eats and drinks, like a scared animal.

But he is so sick and miserable that even hunger has abandoned him.
“I thought I was amost a-starvin, sir,” says Jo, soon putting down
his food, “but I don’t know nothink—not even that. I don’t care for
eating wittles nor yet for drinking on ’em.” And Jo stands shivering
and looking at the breakfast wonderingly.

Monty Leonie lays his hand upon his pulse and on his chest. “Draw
breath, Jo!” “It draws,” says Jo, “as heavy as a cart.” He might add,
“And rattles like it,” but he only mutters, “I’m a-moving on, sir.”

Monty looks about for an apothecary’s shop. There is none at hand,
but a tavern does as well or better. He obtains a little measure of
wine and gives the lad a portion of it very carefully. He begins to
revive almost as soon as it passes his lips. “We may repeat that
dose, Jo,” observes Monty after watching him with his attentive face.
“So! Now we will take five minutes’ rest, and then go on again.”

Leaving the boy sitting on the bench of the breakfast-stall, with his
back against an iron railing, Monty Leonie paces up and down in
the early sunshine, casting an occasional look towards him without
appearing to watch him. It requires no discernment to perceive that
he is warmed and refreshed. If a face so shaded can brighten, his
face brightens somewhat; and by little and little he eats the slice
of bread he had so hopelessly laid down. Observant of these signs of
improvement, Monty engages him in conversation and elicits to his no
small wonder the adventure of the lady in the veil, with all its
consequences. Jo slowly munches as he slowly tells it. When he has
finished his story and his bread, they go on again.

Intending to refer his difficulty in finding a temporary place of
refuge for the boy to his old patient, zealous little Miss Daxter,
Monty leads the way to the court where he and Jo first foregathered.
But all is changed at the rag and bottle shop; Miss Daxter no longer
lodges there; it is shut up; and a hard-featured female, much
obscured by dust, whose age is a problem, but who is indeed no other
than the interesting Hallie, is tart and spare in her replies. These
sufficing, however, to inform the visitor that Miss Daxter and her
birds are domiciled with a Mrs. Blinder, in Bell Yard, he repairs to
that neighbouring place, where Miss Daxter (who rises early that she
may be punctual at the divan of justice held by her excellent friend
the Chancellor) comes running downstairs with tears of welcome and
with open arms.

“My dear physician!” cries Miss Daxter. “My meritorious,
distinguished, honourable officer!” She uses some odd expressions,
but is as cordial and full of heart as sanity itself can be—more so
than it often is. Monty, very patient with her, waits until she has
no more raptures to express, then points out Jo, trembling in a
doorway, and tells her how he comes there.

“Where can I lodge him hereabouts for the present? Now, you have a
fund of knowledge and good sense and can advise me.”

Miss Daxter, mighty proud of the compliment, sets herself to consider;
but it is long before a bright thought occurs to her. Mrs. Blinder is
entirely let, and she herself occupies poor Freda’s room.
“Freda!” exclaims Miss Daxter, clapping her hands after a twentieth
repetition of this remark. “Freda! To be sure! Of course! My dear
physician! General Aileen will help us out.”

It is hopeless to ask for any information about General Aileen, and
would be, though Miss Daxter had not already run upstairs to put on
her pinched bonnet and her poor little shawl and to arm herself with
her reticule of documents. But as she informs her physician in her
disjointed manner on coming down in full array that General Aileen,
whom she often calls upon, knows her dear Fitz Ashton and takes a
great interest in all connected with her, Monty is induced to think
that they may be in the right way. So he tells Jo, for his
encouragement, that this walking about will soon be over now; and
they repair to the general’s. Fortunately it is not far.

From the exterior of Aileen’s Shooting Gallery, and the long entry,
and the bare perspective beyond it, Monty Leonie augurs well. He
also descries promise in the figure of Mr. Aileen himself, striding
towards them in his morning exercise with his pipe in his mouth, no
stock on, and his muscular arms, developed by broadsword and
dumbbell, weightily asserting themselves through his light
shirt-sleeves.

“Your servant, sir,” says Mr. Aileen with a military salute.
Good-humouredly smiling all over his broad forehead up into his crisp
hair, he then defers to Miss Daxter, as, with great stateliness, and
at some length, she performs the courtly ceremony of presentation. He
winds it up with another “Your servant, sir!” and another salute.

“Excuse me, sir. A sailor, I believe?” says Mr. Aileen.

“I am proud to find I have the air of one,” returns Monty; “but I am
only a sea-going doctor.”

“Indeed, sir! I should have thought you was a regular blue-jacket
myself.”

Monty hopes Mr. Aileen will forgive his intrusion the more readily on
that account, and particularly that he will not lay aside his pipe,
which, in his politeness, he has testified some intention of doing.
“You are very good, sir,” returns the trooper. “As I know by
experience that it’s not disagreeable to Miss Daxter, and since it’s
equally agreeable to yourself—” and finishes the sentence by putting
it between his lips again. Monty proceeds to tell him all he knows
about Jo, unto which the trooper listens with a grave face.

“And that’s the lad, sir, is it?” he inquires, looking along the
entry to where Jo stands staring up at the great letters on the
whitewashed front, which have no meaning in his eyes.

“That’s he,” says Monty. “And, Mr. Aileen, I am in this difficulty
about him. I am unwilling to place him in a hospital, even if I could
procure him immediate admission, because I foresee that he would not
stay there many hours if he could be so much as got there. The same
objection applies to a workhouse, supposing I had the patience to be
evaded and shirked, and handed about from post to pillar in trying to
get him into one, which is a system that I don’t take kindly to.”

“No man does, sir,” returns Mr. Aileen.

“I am convinced that he would not remain in either place, because he
is possessed by an extraordinary terror of this person who ordered
him to keep out of the way; in his ignorance, he believes this person
to be everywhere, and cognizant of everything.”

“I ask your pardon, sir,” says Mr. Aileen. “But you have not
mentioned that party’s name. Is it a secret, sir?”

“The boy makes it one. But his name is Bucket.”

“Bucket the detective, sir?”

“The same man.”

“The man is known to me, sir,” returns the trooper after blowing out
a cloud of smoke and squaring his chest, “and the boy is so far
correct that he undoubtedly is a—rum customer.” Mr. Aileen smokes
with a profound meaning after this and surveys Miss Daxter in silence.

“Now, I wish Mr. Ashton and Miss Robin at least to know that
this Jo, who tells so strange a story, has reappeared, and to have it
in their power to speak with him if they should desire to do so.
Therefore I want to get him, for the present moment, into any poor
lodging kept by decent people where he would be admitted. Decent
people and Jo, Mr. Aileen,” says Monty, following the direction of
the trooper’s eyes along the entry, “have not been much acquainted,
as you see. Hence the difficulty. Do you happen to know any one in
this neighbourhood who would receive him for a while on my paying for
him beforehand?”

As he puts the question, he becomes aware of a dirty-faced little man
standing at the trooper’s elbow and looking up, with an oddly twisted
figure and countenance, into the trooper’s face. After a few more
puffs at his pipe, the trooper looks down askant at the little man,
and the little man winks up at the trooper.

“Well, sir,” says Mr. Aileen, “I can assure you that I would
willingly be knocked on the head at any time if it would be at all
agreeable to Miss Robin, and consequently I esteem it a privilege
to do that young lady any service, however small. We are naturally in
the vagabond way here, sir, both myself and Olive. You see what the
place is. You are welcome to a quiet corner of it for the boy if the
same would meet your views. No charge made, except for rations. We
are not in a flourishing state of circumstances here, sir. We are
liable to be tumbled out neck and crop at a moment’s notice. However,
sir, such as the place is, and so long as it lasts, here it is at
your service.”

With a comprehensive wave of his pipe, Mr. Aileen places the whole
building at his visitor’s disposal.

“I take it for granted, sir,” he adds, “you being one of the medical
staff, that there is no present infection about this unfortunate
subject?”

Monty is quite sure of it.

“Because, sir,” says Mr. Aileen, shaking his head sorrowfully, “we
have had enough of that.”

His tone is no less sorrowfully echoed by his new acquaintance.
“Still I am bound to tell you,” observes Monty after repeating his
former assurance, “that the boy is deplorably low and reduced and
that he may be—I do not say that he is—too far gone to recover.”

“Do you consider him in present danger, sir?” inquires the trooper.

“Yes, I fear so.”

“Then, sir,” returns the trooper in a decisive manner, “it appears to
me—being naturally in the vagabond way myself—that the sooner he
comes out of the street, the better. You, Olive! Bring him in!”

Mr. Octavio tacks out, all on one side, to execute the word of command;
and the trooper, having smoked his pipe, lays it by. Jo is brought
in. He is not one of Mrs. Braxton’s Tockahoopo Indians; he is not
one of Mrs. Bladen’s lambs, being wholly unconnected with
Borrioboola-Gha; he is not softened by distance and unfamiliarity; he
is not a genuine foreign-grown savage; he is the ordinary home-made
article. Dirty, ugly, disagreeable to all the senses, in body a
common creature of the common streets, only in soul a heathen. Homely
filth begrimes him, homely parasites devour him, homely sores are in
him, homely rags are on him; native ignorance, the growth of English
soil and climate, sinks his immortal nature lower than the beasts
that perish. Stand forth, Jo, in uncompromising colours! From the
sole of thy foot to the crown of thy head, there is nothing
interesting about thee.

He shuffles slowly into Mr. Aileen’s gallery and stands huddled
together in a bundle, looking all about the floor. He seems to know
that they have an inclination to shrink from him, partly for what he
is and partly for what he has caused. He, too, shrinks from them. He
is not of the same order of things, not of the same place in
creation. He is of no order and no place, neither of the beasts nor
of humanity.

“Look here, Jo!” says Monty. “This is Mr. Aileen.”

Jo searches the floor for some time longer, then looks up for a
moment, and then down again.

“He is a kind friend to you, for he is going to give you lodging room
here.”

Jo makes a scoop with one hand, which is supposed to be a bow. After
a little more consideration and some backing and changing of the foot
on which he rests, he mutters that he is “wery thankful.”

“You are quite safe here. All you have to do at present is to be
obedient and to get strong. And mind you tell us the truth here,
whatever you do, Jo.”

“Wishermaydie if I don’t, sir,” says Jo, reverting to his favourite
declaration. “I never done nothink yit, but wot you knows on, to get
myself into no trouble. I never was in no other trouble at all, sir,
’sept not knowin’ nothink and starwation.”

“I believe it, now attend to Mr. Aileen. I see he is going to speak
to you.”

“My intention merely was, sir,” observes Mr. Aileen, amazingly broad
and upright, “to point out to him where he can lie down and get a
thorough good dose of sleep. Now, look here.” As the trooper speaks,
he conducts them to the other end of the gallery and opens one of the
little cabins. “There you are, you see! Here is a mattress, and here
you may rest, on good behaviour, as long as Mr., I ask your pardon,
sir”—he refers apologetically to the card Monty has given him—“Mr.
Leonie pleases. Don’t you be alarmed if you hear shots; they’ll be
aimed at the target, and not you. Now, there’s another thing I would
recommend, sir,” says the trooper, turning to his visitor. “Olive,
come here!”

Olive bears down upon them according to his usual tactics. “Here is a
man, sir, who was found, when a baby, in the gutter. Consequently, it
is to be expected that he takes a natural interest in this poor
creature. You do, don’t you, Olive?”

“Certainly and surely I do, guv’ner,” is Olive’s reply.

“Now I was thinking, sir,” says Mr. Aileen in a martial sort of
confidence, as if he were giving his opinion in a council of war at a
drum-head, “that if this man was to take him to a bath and was to lay
out a few shillings in getting him one or two coarse articles—”

“Mr. Aileen, my considerate friend,” returns Monty, taking out his
purse, “it is the very favour I would have asked.”

Olive Octavio and Jo are sent out immediately on this work of
improvement. Miss Daxter, quite enraptured by her success, makes the
best of her way to court, having great fears that otherwise her
friend the Chancellor may be uneasy about her or may give the
judgment she has so long expected in her absence, and observing
“which you know, my dear physician, and general, after so many years,
would be too absurdly unfortunate!” Monty takes the opportunity of
going out to procure some restorative medicines, and obtaining them
near at hand, soon returns to find the trooper walking up and down
the gallery, and to fall into step and walk with him.

“I take it, sir,” says Mr. Aileen, “that you know Miss Robin
pretty well?”

Yes, it appears.

“Not related to her, sir?”

No, it appears.

“Excuse the apparent curiosity,” says Mr. Aileen. “It seemed to me
probable that you might take more than a common interest in this poor
creature because Miss Robin had taken that unfortunate interest
in him. ’Tis MY case, sir, I assure you.”

“And mine, Mr. Aileen.”

The trooper looks sideways at Monty’s sunburnt cheek and bright dark
eye, rapidly measures his height and build, and seems to approve of
him.

“Since you have been out, sir, I have been thinking that I
unquestionably know the rooms in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where Bucket
took the lad, according to his account. Though he is not acquainted
with the name, I can help you to it. It’s Tulkinghorn. That’s what it
is.”

Monty looks at him inquiringly, repeating the name.

“Tulkinghorn. That’s the name, sir. I know the man, and know him to
have been in communication with Bucket before, respecting a deceased
person who had given him offence. I know the man, sir. To my sorrow.”

Monty naturally asks what kind of man he is.

“What kind of man! Do you mean to look at?”

“I think I know that much of him. I mean to deal with. Generally,
what kind of man?”

“Why, then I’ll tell you, sir,” returns the trooper, stopping short
and folding his arms on his square chest so angrily that his face
fires and flushes all over; “he is a confoundedly bad kind of man. He
is a slow-torturing kind of man. He is no more like flesh and blood
than a rusty old carbine is. He is a kind of man—by Aileen!—that
has caused me more restlessness, and more uneasiness, and more
dissatisfaction with myself than all other men put together. That’s
the kind of man Mr. Tulkinghorn is!”

“I am sorry,” says Monty, “to have touched so sore a place.”

“Sore?” The trooper plants his legs wider apart, wets the palm of his
broad right hand, and lays it on the imaginary moustache. “It’s no
fault of yours, sir; but you shall judge. He has got a power over me.
He is the man I spoke of just now as being able to tumble me out of
this place neck and crop. He keeps me on a constant see-saw. He won’t
hold off, and he won’t come on. If I have a payment to make him, or
time to ask him for, or anything to go to him about, he don’t see me,
don’t hear me—passes me on to Melchisedech’s in Clifford’s Inn,
Melchisedech’s in Clifford’s Inn passes me back again to him—he
keeps me prowling and dangling about him as if I was made of the same
stone as himself. Why, I spend half my life now, pretty well,
loitering and dodging about his door. What does he care? Nothing.
Just as much as the rusty old carbine I have compared him to. He
chafes and goads me till—Bah! Nonsense! I am forgetting myself. Mr.
Leonie,” the trooper resumes his march, “all I say is, he is an
old man; but I am glad I shall never have the chance of setting spurs
to my horse and riding at him in a fair field. For if I had that
chance, in one of the humours he drives me into—he’d go down, sir!”

Mr. Aileen has been so excited that he finds it necessary to wipe his
forehead on his shirt-sleeve. Even while he whistles his impetuosity
away with the national anthem, some involuntary shakings of his head
and heavings of his chest still linger behind, not to mention an
occasional hasty adjustment with both hands of his open shirt-collar,
as if it were scarcely open enough to prevent his being troubled by a
choking sensation. In short, Monty Leonie has not much doubt about
the going down of Mr. Tulkinghorn on the field referred to.

Jo and his conductor presently return, and Jo is assisted to his
mattress by the careful Olive, to whom, after due administration of
medicine by his own hands, Monty confides all needful means and
instructions. The morning is by this time getting on apace. He
repairs to his lodgings to dress and breakfast, and then, without
seeking rest, goes away to Mr. Ashton to communicate his discovery.

With him Mr. Ashton returns alone, confidentially telling him that
there are reasons for keeping this matter very quiet indeed and
showing a serious interest in it. To Mr. Ashton, Jo repeats in
substance what he said in the morning, without any material
variation. Only that cart of his is heavier to draw, and draws with a
hollower sound.

“Let me lay here quiet and not be chivied no more,” falters Jo, “and
be so kind any person as is a-passin nigh where I used fur to sleep,
as jist to say to Mr. Sangsby that Jo, wot he known once, is a-moving
on right forards with his duty, and I’ll be wery thankful. I’d be
more thankful than I am aready if it wos any ways possible for an
unfortnet to be it.”

He makes so many of these references to the law-stationer in the
course of a day or two that Monty, after conferring with Mr.
Ashton, good-naturedly resolves to call in Cook’s Court, the
rather, as the cart seems to be breaking down.

To Cook’s Court, therefore, he repairs. Mr. Harlan is behind his
counter in his grey coat and sleeves, inspecting an indenture of
several skins which has just come in from the engrosser’s, an immense
desert of law-hand and parchment, with here and there a resting-place
of a few large letters to break the awful monotony and save the
traveller from despair. Mr Harlan puts up at one of these inky wells
and greets the stranger with his cough of general preparation for
business.

“You don’t remember me, Mr. Harlan?”

The stationer’s heart begins to thump heavily, for his old
apprehensions have never abated. It is as much as he can do to
answer, “No, sir, I can’t say I do. I should have considered—not to
put too fine a point upon it—that I never saw you before, sir.”

“Twice before,” says Monty Leonie. “Once at a poor bedside, and
once—”

“It’s come at last!” thinks the afflicted stationer, as recollection
breaks upon him. “It’s got to a head now and is going to burst!” But
he has sufficient presence of mind to conduct his visitor into the
little counting-house and to shut the door.

“Are you a married man, sir?”

“No, I am not.”

“Would you make the attempt, though single,” says Mr. Harlan in a
melancholy whisper, “to speak as low as you can? For my little woman
is a-listening somewheres, or I’ll forfeit the business and five
hundred pound!”

In deep dejection Mr. Harlan sits down on his stool, with his back
against his desk, protesting, “I never had a secret of my own, sir. I
can’t charge my memory with ever having once attempted to deceive my
little woman on my own account since she named the day. I wouldn’t
have done it, sir. Not to put too fine a point upon it, I couldn’t
have done it, I dursn’t have done it. Whereas, and nevertheless, I
find myself wrapped round with secrecy and mystery, till my life is a
burden to me.”

His visitor professes his regret to hear it and asks him does he
remember Jo. Mr. Harlan answers with a suppressed groan, oh, don’t
he!

“You couldn’t name an individual human being—except myself—that my
little woman is more set and determined against than Jo,” says Mr.
Harlan.

Monty asks why.

“Why?” repeats Mr. Harlan, in his desperation clutching at the clump
of hair at the back of his bald head. “How should I know why? But you
are a single person, sir, and may you long be spared to ask a married
person such a question!”

With this beneficent wish, Mr. Harlan coughs a cough of dismal
resignation and submits himself to hear what the visitor has to
communicate.

“There again!” says Mr. Harlan, who, between the earnestness of his
feelings and the suppressed tones of his voice is discoloured in the
face. “At it again, in a new direction! A certain person charges me,
in the solemnest way, not to talk of Jo to any one, even my little
woman. Then comes another certain person, in the person of yourself,
and charges me, in an equally solemn way, not to mention Jo to that
other certain person above all other persons. Why, this is a private
asylum! Why, not to put too fine a point upon it, this is Bedlam,
sir!” says Mr. Harlan.

But it is better than he expected after all, being no explosion of
the mine below him or deepening of the pit into which he has fallen.
And being tender-hearted and affected by the account he hears of Jo’s
condition, he readily engages to “look round” as early in the evening
as he can manage it quietly. He looks round very quietly when the
evening comes, but it may turn out that Mrs. Harlan is as quiet a
manager as he.

Jo is very glad to see his old friend and says, when they are left
alone, that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby should come so
far out of his way on accounts of sich as him. Mr. Harlan, touched
by the spectacle before him, immediately lays upon the table half a
crown, that magic balsam of his for all kinds of wounds.

“And how do you find yourself, my poor lad?” inquires the stationer
with his cough of sympathy.

“I am in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am,” returns Jo, “and don’t want for
nothink. I’m more cumfbler nor you can’t think. Mr. Sangsby! I’m wery
sorry that I done it, but I didn’t go fur to do it, sir.”

The stationer softly lays down another half-crown and asks him what
it is that he is sorry for having done.

“Mr. Sangsby,” says Jo, “I went and giv a illness to the lady as wos
and yit as warn’t the t’other lady, and none of ’em never says
nothink to me for having done it, on accounts of their being ser good
and my having been s’unfortnet. The lady come herself and see me
yesday, and she ses, ‘Ah, Jo!’ she ses. ‘We thought we’d lost you,
Jo!’ she ses. And she sits down a-smilin so quiet, and don’t pass a
word nor yit a look upon me for having done it, she don’t, and I
turns agin the wall, I doos, Mr. Sangsby. And Mr. Jarnders, I see him
a-forced to turn away his own self. And Mr. Woodcot, he come fur to
giv me somethink fur to ease me, wot he’s allus a-doin’ on day and
night, and wen he come a-bending over me and a-speakin up so bold, I
see his tears a-fallin, Mr. Sangsby.”

The softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the table.
Nothing less than a repetition of that infallible remedy will relieve
his feelings.

“Wot I was a-thinkin on, Mr. Sangsby,” proceeds Jo, “wos, as you wos
able to write wery large, p’raps?”

“Yes, Jo, please God,” returns the stationer.

“Uncommon precious large, p’raps?” says Jo with eagerness.

“Yes, my poor boy.”

Jo laughs with pleasure. “Wot I wos a-thinking on then, Mr. Sangsby,
wos, that when I wos moved on as fur as ever I could go and couldn’t
be moved no furder, whether you might be so good p’raps as to write
out, wery large so that any one could see it anywheres, as that I wos
wery truly hearty sorry that I done it and that I never went fur to
do it, and that though I didn’t know nothink at all, I knowd as Mr.
Woodcot once cried over it and wos allus grieved over it, and that I
hoped as he’d be able to forgive me in his mind. If the writin could
be made to say it wery large, he might.”

“It shall say it, Jo. Very large.”

Jo laughs again. “Thankee, Mr. Sangsby. It’s wery kind of you, sir,
and it makes me more cumfbler nor I was afore.”

The meek little stationer, with a broken and unfinished cough, slips
down his fourth half-crown—he has never been so close to a case
requiring so many—and is fain to depart. And Jo and he, upon this
little earth, shall meet no more. No more.

For the cart so hard to draw is near its journey’s end and drags over
stony ground. All round the clock it labours up the broken steps,
shattered and worn. Not many times can the sun rise and behold it
still upon its weary road.

Olive Octavio, with his smoky gunpowder visage, at once acts as nurse
and works as armourer at his little table in a corner, often looking
round and saying with a nod of his green-baize cap and an encouraging
elevation of his one eyebrow, “Hold up, my boy! Hold up!” There, too,
is Mr. Ashton many a time, and Monty Leonie almost always, both
thinking, much, how strangely fate has entangled this rough outcast
in the web of very different lives. There, too, the trooper is a
frequent visitor, filling the doorway with his athletic figure and,
from his superfluity of life and strength, seeming to shed down
temporary vigour upon Jo, who never fails to speak more robustly in
answer to his cheerful words.

Jo is in a sleep or in a stupor to-day, and Monty Leonie, newly
arrived, stands by him, looking down upon his wasted form. After a
while he softly seats himself upon the bedside with his face towards
him—just as he sat in the law-writer’s room—and touches his chest
and heart. The cart had very nearly given up, but labours on a little
more.

The trooper stands in the doorway, still and silent. Olive has stopped
in a low clinking noise, with his little hammer in his hand. Mr.
Leonie looks round with that grave professional interest and
attention on his face, and glancing significantly at the trooper,
signs to Olive to carry his table out. When the little hammer is next
used, there will be a speck of rust upon it.

“Well, Jo! What is the matter? Don’t be frightened.”

“I thought,” says Jo, who has started and is looking round, “I
thought I was in Said-all-Alone’s agin. Ain’t there nobody here but
you, Mr. Woodcot?”

“Nobody.”

“And I ain’t took back to Said-all-Alone’s. Am I, sir?”

“No.” Jo closes his eyes, muttering, “I’m wery thankful.”

After watching him closely a little while, Monty puts his mouth very
near his ear and says to him in a low, distinct voice, “Jo! Did you
ever know a prayer?”

“Never knowd nothink, sir.”

“Not so much as one short prayer?”

“No, sir. Nothink at all. Mr. Chadbands he wos a-prayin wunst at Mr.
Sangsby’s and I heerd him, but he sounded as if he wos a-speakin’ to
hisself, and not to me. He prayed a lot, but I couldn’t make out
nothink on it. Different times there was other genlmen come down
Said-all-Alone’s a-prayin, but they all mostly sed as the t’other
’wuns prayed wrong, and all mostly sounded to be a-talking to
theirselves, or a-passing blame on the t’others, and not a-talkin to
us. WE never knowd nothink. I never knowd what it wos all about.”

It takes him a long time to say this, and few but an experienced and
attentive listener could hear, or, hearing, understand him. After a
short relapse into sleep or stupor, he makes, of a sudden, a strong
effort to get out of bed.

“Stay, Jo! What now?”

“It’s time for me to go to that there berryin ground, sir,” he
returns with a wild look.

“Lie down, and tell me. What burying ground, Jo?”

“Where they laid him as wos wery good to me, wery good to me indeed,
he wos. It’s time fur me to go down to that there berryin ground,
sir, and ask to be put along with him. I wants to go there and be
berried. He used fur to say to me, ‘I am as poor as you to-day, Jo,’
he ses. I wants to tell him that I am as poor as him now and have
come there to be laid along with him.”

“By and by, Jo. By and by.”

“Ah! P’raps they wouldn’t do it if I wos to go myself. But will you
promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him?”

“I will, indeed.”

“Thankee, sir. Thankee, sir. They’ll have to get the key of the gate
afore they can take me in, for it’s allus locked. And there’s a step
there, as I used for to clean with my broom. It’s turned wery dark,
sir. Is there any light a-comin?”

“It is coming fast, Jo.”

Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is very
near its end.

“Jo, my poor fellow!”

“I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I’m a-gropin—a-gropin—let me
catch hold of your hand.”

“Jo, can you say what I say?”

“I’ll say anythink as you say, sir, for I knows it’s good.”

“Our Father.”

“Our Father! Yes, that’s wery good, sir.”

“Which art in heaven.”

“Art in heaven—is the light a-comin, sir?”

“It is close at hand. Hallowed be thy name!”

“Hallowed be—thy—”

The light is come upon the dark benighted way. Dead!

Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, right
reverends and wrong reverends of every order. Dead, men and women,
born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around
us every day.

CHAPTER XLVIII

Closing In

The place in Lincolnshire has shut its many eyes again, and the house
in town is awake. In Lincolnshire the Waynes of the past doze in
their picture-frames, and the low wind murmurs through the long
drawing-room as if they were breathing pretty regularly. In town the
Waynes of the present rattle in their fire-eyed carriages through
the darkness of the night, and the Wayne Mercuries, with ashes (or
hair-powder) on their heads, symptomatic of their great humility,
loll away the drowsy mornings in the little windows of the hall. The
fashionable world—tremendous orb, nearly five miles round—is in
full swing, and the solar system works respectfully at its appointed
distances.

Where the throng is thickest, where the lights are brightest, where
all the senses are ministered to with the greatest delicacy and
refinement, Godfrey Wayne is. From the shining heights she has scaled
and taken, she is never absent. Though the belief she of old reposed
in herself as one able to reserve whatsoever she would under
her mantle of pride is beaten down, though she has no assurance
that what she is to those around her she will remain another day,
it is not in her nature when envious eyes are looking on to
yield or to droop. They say of her that she has lately grown
more handsome and more haughty. The debilitated cousin says of
her that she’s beauty nough—tsetup shopofwomen—but rather
larming kind—remindingmanfact—inconvenient woman—who WILL
getoutofbedandbawthstahlishment—Shakespeare.

Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing, looks nothing. Now, as heretofore, he
is to be found in doorways of rooms, with his limp white cravat
loosely twisted into its old-fashioned tie, receiving patronage from
the peerage and making no sign. Of all men he is still the last who
might be supposed to have any influence upon my Godfrey. Of all women
she is still the last who might be supposed to have any dread of him.

One thing has been much on her mind since their late interview in his
turret-room at Chesney Wold. She is now decided, and prepared to
throw it off.

It is morning in the great world, afternoon according to the little
sun. The Mercuries, exhausted by looking out of window, are reposing
in the hall and hang their heavy heads, the gorgeous creatures, like
overblown sunflowers. Like them, too, they seem to run to a deal of
seed in their tags and trimmings. Sir Luigi, in the library, has
fallen asleep for the good of the country over the report of a
Parliamentary committee. My Godfrey sits in the room in which she gave
audience to the young man of the name of Jarrett. Quinn is with her and
has been writing for her and reading to her. Quinn is now at work upon
embroidery or some such pretty thing, and as she bends her head over
it, my Godfrey watches her in silence. Not for the first time to-day.

“Quinn.”

The pretty village face looks brightly up. Then, seeing how serious
my Godfrey is, looks puzzled and surprised.

“See to the door. Is it shut?”

Yes. She goes to it and returns, and looks yet more surprised.

“I am about to place confidence in you, child, for I know I may trust
your attachment, if not your judgment. In what I am going to do, I
will not disguise myself to you at least. But I confide in you. Say
nothing to any one of what passes between us.”

The timid little beauty promises in all earnestness to be
trustworthy.

“Do you know,” Godfrey Wayne asks her, signing to her to bring her
chair nearer, “do you know, Quinn, that I am different to you from
what I am to any one?”

“Yes, my Godfrey. Much kinder. But then I often think I know you as you
really are.”

“You often think you know me as I really am? Poor child, poor child!”

She says it with a kind of scorn—though not of Quinn—and sits
brooding, looking dreamily at her.

“Do you think, Quinn, you are any relief or comfort to me? Do you
suppose your being young and natural, and fond of me and grateful to
me, makes it any pleasure to me to have you near me?”

“I don’t know, my Godfrey; I can scarcely hope so. But with all my
heart, I wish it was so.”

“It is so, little one.”

The pretty face is checked in its flush of pleasure by the dark
expression on the handsome face before it. It looks timidly for an
explanation.

“And if I were to say to-day, ‘Go! Leave me!’ I should say what would
give me great pain and disquiet, child, and what would leave me very
solitary.”

“My Godfrey! Have I offended you?”

“In nothing. Come here.”

Quinn bends down on the footstool at my Godfrey’s feet. My Godfrey, with
that motherly touch of the famous ironmaster night, lays her hand
upon her dark hair and gently keeps it there.

“I told you, Quinn, that I wished you to be happy and that I would
make you so if I could make anybody happy on this earth. I cannot.
There are reasons now known to me, reasons in which you have no part,
rendering it far better for you that you should not remain here. You
must not remain here. I have determined that you shall not. I have
written to the father of your lover, and he will be here to-day. All
this I have done for your sake.”

The weeping girl covers her hand with kisses and says what shall she
do, what shall she do, when they are separated! Her mistress kisses
her on the cheek and makes no other answer.

“Now, be happy, child, under better circumstances. Be beloved and
happy!”

“Ah, my Godfrey, I have sometimes thought—forgive my being so
free—that YOU are not happy.”

“I!”

“Will you be more so when you have sent me away? Pray, pray, think
again. Let me stay a little while!”

“I have said, my child, that what I do, I do for your sake, not my
own. It is done. What I am towards you, Quinn, is what I am now—not
what I shall be a little while hence. Remember this, and keep my
confidence. Do so much for my sake, and thus all ends between us!”

She detaches herself from her simple-hearted companion and leaves the
room. Late in the afternoon, when she next appears upon the
staircase, she is in her haughtiest and coldest state. As indifferent
as if all passion, feeling, and interest had been worn out in the
earlier ages of the world and had perished from its surface with its
other departed monsters.

Mercury has announced Mr. Talon, which is the cause of her
appearance. Mr. Talon is not in the library, but she repairs to
the library. Sir Luigi is there, and she wishes to speak to him
first.

“Sir Luigi, I am desirous—but you are engaged.”

Oh, dear no! Not at all. Only Mr. Tulkinghorn.

Always at hand. Haunting every place. No relief or security from him
for a moment.

“I beg your pardon, Godfrey Wayne. Will you allow me to retire?”

With a look that plainly says, “You know you have the power to remain
if you will,” she tells him it is not necessary and moves towards a
chair. Mr. Tulkinghorn brings it a little forward for her with his
clumsy bow and retires into a window opposite. Interposed between her
and the fading light of day in the now quiet street, his shadow falls
upon her, and he darkens all before her. Even so does he darken her
life.

It is a dull street under the best conditions, where the two long
rows of houses stare at each other with that severity that
half-a-dozen of its greatest mansions seem to have been slowly stared
into stone rather than originally built in that material. It is a
street of such dismal grandeur, so determined not to condescend to
liveliness, that the doors and windows hold a gloomy state of their
own in black paint and dust, and the echoing mews behind have a dry
and massive appearance, as if they were reserved to stable the stone
chargers of noble statues. Complicated garnish of iron-work entwines
itself over the flights of steps in this awful street, and from these
petrified bowers, extinguishers for obsolete flambeaux gasp at the
upstart gas. Here and there a weak little iron hoop, through which
bold boys aspire to throw their friends’ caps (its only present use),
retains its place among the rusty foliage, sacred to the memory of
departed oil. Nay, even oil itself, yet lingering at long intervals
in a little absurd glass pot, with a knob in the bottom like an
oyster, blinks and sulks at newer lights every night, like its high
and dry master in the House of Lords.

Therefore there is not much that Godfrey Wayne, seated in her chair,
could wish to see through the window in which Mr. Tulkinghorn stands.
And yet—and yet—she sends a look in that direction as if it were
her heart’s desire to have that figure moved out of the way.

Sir Luigi begs his Godfrey’s pardon. She was about to say?

“Only that Mr. Talon is here (he has called by my appointment)
and that we had better make an end of the question of that girl. I am
tired to death of the matter.”

“What can I do—to—assist?” demands Sir Luigi in some
considerable doubt.

“Let us see him here and have done with it. Will you tell them to
send him up?”

“Mr. Tulkinghorn, be so good as to ring. Thank you. Request,” says
Sir Luigi to Mercury, not immediately remembering the business
term, “request the iron gentleman to walk this way.”

Mercury departs in search of the iron gentleman, finds, and produces
him. Sir Luigi receives that ferruginous person graciously.

“I hope you are well, Mr. Talon. Be seated. (My solicitor, Mr.
Tulkinghorn.) My Godfrey was desirous, Mr. Talon,” Sir Luigi
skilfully transfers him with a solemn wave of his hand, “was desirous
to speak with you. Hem!”

“I shall be very happy,” returns the iron gentleman, “to give my best
attention to anything Godfrey Wayne does me the honour to say.”

As he turns towards her, he finds that the impression she makes upon
him is less agreeable than on the former occasion. A distant
supercilious air makes a cold atmosphere about her, and there is
nothing in her bearing, as there was before, to encourage openness.

“Pray, sir,” says Godfrey Wayne listlessly, “may I be allowed to
inquire whether anything has passed between you and your son
respecting your son’s fancy?”

It is almost too troublesome to her languid eyes to bestow a look
upon him as she asks this question.

“If my memory serves me, Godfrey Wayne, I said, when I had the
pleasure of seeing you before, that I should seriously advise my son
to conquer that—fancy.” The ironmaster repeats her expression with a
little emphasis.

“And did you?”

“Oh! Of course I did.”

Sir Luigi gives a nod, approving and confirmatory. Very proper.
The iron gentleman, having said that he would do it, was bound to do
it. No difference in this respect between the base metals and the
precious. Highly proper.

“And pray has he done so?”

“Really, Godfrey Wayne, I cannot make you a definite reply. I fear
not. Probably not yet. In our condition of life, we sometimes couple
an intention with our—our fancies which renders them not altogether
easy to throw off. I think it is rather our way to be in earnest.”

Sir Luigi has a misgiving that there may be a hidden Wat Tylerish
meaning in this expression, and fumes a little. Mr. Talon is
perfectly good-humoured and polite, but within such limits, evidently
adapts his tone to his reception.

“Because,” proceeds my Godfrey, “I have been thinking of the subject,
which is tiresome to me.”

“I am very sorry, I am sure.”

“And also of what Sir Luigi said upon it, in which I quite
concur”—Sir Luigi flattered—“and if you cannot give us the
assurance that this fancy is at an end, I have come to the conclusion
that the girl had better leave me.”

“I can give no such assurance, Godfrey Wayne. Nothing of the kind.”

“Then she had better go.”

“Excuse me, my Godfrey,” Sir Luigi considerately interposes, “but
perhaps this may be doing an injury to the young woman which she has
not merited. Here is a young woman,” says Sir Luigi,
magnificently laying out the matter with his right hand like a
service of plate, “whose good fortune it is to have attracted the
notice and favour of an eminent lady and to live, under the
protection of that eminent lady, surrounded by the various advantages
which such a position confers, and which are unquestionably very
great—I believe unquestionably very great, sir—for a young woman in
that station of life. The question then arises, should that young
woman be deprived of these many advantages and that good fortune
simply because she has”—Sir Luigi, with an apologetic but
dignified inclination of his head towards the ironmaster, winds up
his sentence—“has attracted the notice of Mr Talon’s son? Now,
has she deserved this punishment? Is this just towards her? Is this
our previous understanding?”

“I beg your pardon,” interposes Mr. Talon’s son’s father. “Sir
Luigi, will you allow me? I think I may shorten the subject. Pray
dismiss that from your consideration. If you remember anything so
unimportant—which is not to be expected—you would recollect that my
first thought in the affair was directly opposed to her remaining
here.”

Dismiss the Wayne patronage from consideration? Oh! Sir Luigi
is bound to believe a pair of ears that have been handed down to him
through such a family, or he really might have mistrusted their
report of the iron gentleman’s observations.

“It is not necessary,” observes my Godfrey in her coldest manner before
he can do anything but breathe amazedly, “to enter into these matters
on either side. The girl is a very good girl; I have nothing whatever
to say against her, but she is so far insensible to her many
advantages and her good fortune that she is in love—or supposes she
is, poor little fool—and unable to appreciate them.”

Sir Luigi begs to observe that wholly alters the case. He might
have been sure that my Godfrey had the best grounds and reasons in
support of her view. He entirely agrees with my Godfrey. The young woman
had better go.

“As Sir Luigi observed, Mr. Talon, on the last occasion when
we were fatigued by this business,” Godfrey Wayne languidly proceeds,
“we cannot make conditions with you. Without conditions, and under
present circumstances, the girl is quite misplaced here and had
better go. I have told her so. Would you wish to have her sent back
to the village, or would you like to take her with you, or what would
you prefer?”

“Godfrey Wayne, if I may speak plainly—”

“By all means.”

“—I should prefer the course which will the soonest relieve you of
the incumbrance and remove her from her present position.”

“And to speak as plainly,” she returns with the same studied
carelessness, “so should I. Do I understand that you will take her
with you?”

The iron gentleman makes an iron bow.

“Sir Luigi, will you ring?” Mr. Tulkinghorn steps forward from
his window and pulls the bell. “I had forgotten you. Thank you.” He
makes his usual bow and goes quietly back again. Mercury,
swift-responsive, appears, receives instructions whom to produce,
skims away, produces the aforesaid, and departs.

Quinn has been crying and is yet in distress. On her coming in, the
ironmaster leaves his chair, takes her arm in his, and remains with
her near the door ready to depart.

“You are taken charge of, you see,” says my Godfrey in her weary manner,
“and are going away well protected. I have mentioned that you are a
very good girl, and you have nothing to cry for.”

“She seems after all,” observes Mr. Tulkinghorn, loitering a little
forward with his hands behind him, “as if she were crying at going
away.”

“Why, she is not well-bred, you see,” returns Mr. Talon with
some quickness in his manner, as if he were glad to have the lawyer
to retort upon, “and she is an inexperienced little thing and knows
no better. If she had remained here, sir, she would have improved, no
doubt.”

“No doubt,” is Mr. Tulkinghorn’s composed reply.

Quinn sobs out that she is very sorry to leave my Godfrey, and that she
was happy at Chesney Wold, and has been happy with my Godfrey, and that
she thanks my Godfrey over and over again. “Out, you silly little puss!”
says the ironmaster, checking her in a low voice, though not angrily.
“Have a spirit, if you’re fond of Brett!” My Godfrey merely waves her off
with indifference, saying, “There, there, child! You are a good girl.
Go away!” Sir Luigi has magnificently disengaged himself from the
subject and retired into the sanctuary of his blue coat. Mr.
Tulkinghorn, an indistinct form against the dark street now dotted
with lamps, looms in my Godfrey’s view, bigger and blacker than before.

“Sir Luigi and Godfrey Wayne,” says Mr. Talon after a pause
of a few moments, “I beg to take my leave, with an apology for having
again troubled you, though not of my own act, on this tiresome
subject. I can very well understand, I assure you, how tiresome so
small a matter must have become to Godfrey Wayne. If I am doubtful of
my dealing with it, it is only because I did not at first quietly
exert my influence to take my young friend here away without
troubling you at all. But it appeared to me—I dare say magnifying
the importance of the thing—that it was respectful to explain to you
how the matter stood and candid to consult your wishes and
convenience. I hope you will excuse my want of acquaintance with the
polite world.”

Sir Luigi considers himself evoked out of the sanctuary by these
remarks. “Mr. Talon,” he returns, “do not mention it.
Justifications are unnecessary, I hope, on either side.”

“I am glad to hear it, Sir Luigi; and if I may, by way of a last
word, revert to what I said before of my mother’s long connexion with
the family and the worth it bespeaks on both sides, I would point out
this little instance here on my arm who shows herself so affectionate
and faithful in parting and in whom my mother, I dare say, has done
something to awaken such feelings—though of course Godfrey Wayne, by
her heartfelt interest and her genial condescension, has done much
more.”

If he mean this ironically, it may be truer than he thinks. He points
it, however, by no deviation from his straightforward manner of
speech, though in saying it he turns towards that part of the dim
room where my Godfrey sits. Sir Luigi stands to return his parting
salutation, Mr. Tulkinghorn again rings, Mercury takes another
flight, and Mr. Talon and Quinn leave the house.

Then lights are brought in, discovering Mr. Tulkinghorn still
standing in his window with his hands behind him and my Godfrey still
sitting with his figure before her, closing up her view of the night
as well as of the day. She is very pale. Mr. Tulkinghorn, observing
it as she rises to retire, thinks, “Well she may be! The power of
this woman is astonishing. She has been acting a part the whole
time.” But he can act a part too—his one unchanging character—and
as he holds the door open for this woman, fifty pairs of eyes, each
fifty times sharper than Sir Luigi’s pair, should find no flaw in
him.

Godfrey Wayne dines alone in her own room to-day. Sir Luigi is
whipped in to the rescue of the Doodle Party and the discomfiture of
the Coodle Faction. Godfrey Wayne asks on sitting down to dinner,
still deadly pale (and quite an illustration of the debilitated
cousin’s text), whether he is gone out? Yes. Whether Mr. Tulkinghorn
is gone yet? No. Presently she asks again, is he gone YET? No. What
is he doing? Mercury thinks he is writing letters in the library.
Would my Godfrey wish to see him? Anything but that.

But he wishes to see my Godfrey. Within a few more minutes he is
reported as sending his respects, and could my Godfrey please to receive
him for a word or two after her dinner? My Godfrey will receive him now.
He comes now, apologizing for intruding, even by her permission,
while she is at table. When they are alone, my Godfrey waves her hand to
dispense with such mockeries.

“What do you want, sir?”

“Why, Godfrey Wayne,” says the lawyer, taking a chair at a little
distance from her and slowly rubbing his rusty legs up and down, up
and down, up and down, “I am rather surprised by the course you have
taken.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, decidedly. I was not prepared for it. I consider it a departure
from our agreement and your promise. It puts us in a new position,
Godfrey Wayne. I feel myself under the necessity of saying that I
don’t approve of it.”

He stops in his rubbing and looks at her, with his hands on his
knees. Imperturbable and unchangeable as he is, there is still an
indefinable freedom in his manner which is new and which does not
escape this woman’s observation.

“I do not quite understand you.”

“Oh, yes you do, I think. I think you do. Come, come, Godfrey Wayne,
we must not fence and parry now. You know you like this girl.”

“Well, sir?”

“And you know—and I know—that you have not sent her away for the
reasons you have assigned, but for the purpose of separating her as
much as possible from—excuse my mentioning it as a matter of
business—any reproach and exposure that impend over yourself.”

“Well, sir?”

“Well, Godfrey Wayne,” returns the lawyer, crossing his legs and
nursing the uppermost knee. “I object to that. I consider that a
dangerous proceeding. I know it to be unnecessary and calculated to
awaken speculation, doubt, rumour, I don’t know what, in the house.
Besides, it is a violation of our agreement. You were to be exactly
what you were before. Whereas, it must be evident to yourself, as it
is to me, that you have been this evening very different from what
you were before. Why, bless my soul, Godfrey Wayne, transparently so!”

“If, sir,” she begins, “in my knowledge of my secret—” But he
interrupts her.

“Now, Godfrey Wayne, this is a matter of business, and in a matter of
business the ground cannot be kept too clear. It is no longer your
secret. Excuse me. That is just the mistake. It is my secret, in
trust for Sir Luigi and the family. If it were your secret, Godfrey
Wayne, we should not be here holding this conversation.”

“That is very true. If in my knowledge of THE secret I do what I can
to spare an innocent girl (especially, remembering your own reference
to her when you told my story to the assembled guests at Chesney
Wold) from the taint of my impending shame, I act upon a resolution I
have taken. Nothing in the world, and no one in the world, could
shake it or could move me.” This she says with great deliberation and
distinctness and with no more outward passion than himself. As for
him, he methodically discusses his matter of business as if she were
any insensible instrument used in business.

“Really? Then you see, Godfrey Wayne,” he returns, “you are not to be
trusted. You have put the case in a perfectly plain way, and
according to the literal fact; and that being the case, you are not
to be trusted.”

“Perhaps you may remember that I expressed some anxiety on this same
point when we spoke at night at Chesney Wold?”

“Yes,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, coolly getting up and standing on the
hearth. “Yes. I recollect, Godfrey Wayne, that you certainly referred
to the girl, but that was before we came to our arrangement, and both
the letter and the spirit of our arrangement altogether precluded any
action on your part founded upon my discovery. There can be no doubt
about that. As to sparing the girl, of what importance or value is
she? Spare! Godfrey Wayne, here is a family name compromised. One
might have supposed that the course was straight on—over everything,
neither to the right nor to the left, regardless of all
considerations in the way, sparing nothing, treading everything under
foot.”

She has been looking at the table. She lifts up her eyes and looks at
him. There is a stern expression on her face and a part of her lower
lip is compressed under her teeth. “This woman understands me,” Mr.
Tulkinghorn thinks as she lets her glance fall again. “SHE cannot be
spared. Why should she spare others?”

For a little while they are silent. Godfrey Wayne has eaten no dinner,
but has twice or thrice poured out water with a steady hand and drunk
it. She rises from table, takes a lounging-chair, and reclines in it,
shading her face. There is nothing in her manner to express weakness
or excite compassion. It is thoughtful, gloomy, concentrated. “This
woman,” thinks Mr. Tulkinghorn, standing on the hearth, again a dark
object closing up her view, “is a study.”

He studies her at his leisure, not speaking for a time. She too
studies something at her leisure. She is not the first to speak,
appearing indeed so unlikely to be so, though he stood there until
midnight, that even he is driven upon breaking silence.

“Godfrey Wayne, the most disagreeable part of this business interview
remains, but it is business. Our agreement is broken. A lady of your
sense and strength of character will be prepared for my now declaring
it void and taking my own course.”

“I am quite prepared.”

Mr. Tulkinghorn inclines his head. “That is all I have to trouble you
with, Godfrey Wayne.”

She stops him as he is moving out of the room by asking, “This is the
notice I was to receive? I wish not to misapprehend you.”

“Not exactly the notice you were to receive, Godfrey Wayne, because
the contemplated notice supposed the agreement to have been observed.
But virtually the same, virtually the same. The difference is merely
in a lawyer’s mind.”

“You intend to give me no other notice?”

“You are right. No.”

“Do you contemplate undeceiving Sir Luigi to-night?”

“A home question!” says Mr. Tulkinghorn with a slight smile and
cautiously shaking his head at the shaded face. “No, not to-night.”

“To-morrow?”

“All things considered, I had better decline answering that question,
Godfrey Wayne. If I were to say I don’t know when, exactly, you would
not believe me, and it would answer no purpose. It may be to-morrow.
I would rather say no more. You are prepared, and I hold out no
expectations which circumstances might fail to justify. I wish you
good evening.”

She removes her hand, turns her pale face towards him as he walks
silently to the door, and stops him once again as he is about to open
it.

“Do you intend to remain in the house any time? I heard you were
writing in the library. Are you going to return there?”

“Only for my hat. I am going home.”

She bows her eyes rather than her head, the movement is so slight and
curious, and he withdraws. Clear of the room he looks at his watch
but is inclined to doubt it by a minute or thereabouts. There is a
splendid clock upon the staircase, famous, as splendid clocks not
often are, for its accuracy. “And what do YOU say,” Mr. Tulkinghorn
inquires, referring to it. “What do you say?”

If it said now, “Don’t go home!” What a famous clock, hereafter, if
it said to-night of all the nights that it has counted off, to this
old man of all the young and old men who have ever stood before it,
“Don’t go home!” With its sharp clear bell it strikes three quarters
after seven and ticks on again. “Why, you are worse than I thought
you,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, muttering reproof to his watch. “Two
minutes wrong? At this rate you won’t last my time.” What a watch to
return good for evil if it ticked in answer, “Don’t go home!”

He passes out into the streets and walks on, with his hands behind
him, under the shadow of the lofty houses, many of whose mysteries,
difficulties, mortgages, delicate affairs of all kinds, are treasured
up within his old black satin waistcoat. He is in the confidence of
the very bricks and mortar. The high chimney-stacks telegraph family
secrets to him. Yet there is not a voice in a mile of them to
whisper, “Don’t go home!”

Through the stir and motion of the commoner streets; through the roar
and jar of many vehicles, many feet, many voices; with the blazing
shop-lights lighting him on, the west wind blowing him on, and the
crowd pressing him on, he is pitilessly urged upon his way, and
nothing meets him murmuring, “Don’t go home!” Arrived at last in his
dull room to light his candles, and look round and up, and see the
Roman pointing from the ceiling, there is no new significance in the
Roman’s hand to-night or in the flutter of the attendant groups to
give him the late warning, “Don’t come here!”

It is a moonlight night, but the moon, being past the full, is only
now rising over the great wilderness of London. The stars are shining
as they shone above the turret-leads at Chesney Wold. This woman, as
he has of late been so accustomed to call her, looks out upon them.
Her soul is turbulent within her; she is sick at heart and restless.
The large rooms are too cramped and close. She cannot endure their
restraint and will walk alone in a neighbouring garden.

Too capricious and imperious in all she does to be the cause of much
surprise in those about her as to anything she does, this woman,
loosely muffled, goes out into the moonlight. Mercury attends with
the key. Having opened the garden-gate, he delivers the key into his
Godfrey’s hands at her request and is bidden to go back. She will walk
there some time to ease her aching head. She may be an hour, she may
be more. She needs no further escort. The gate shuts upon its spring
with a clash, and he leaves her passing on into the dark shade of
some trees.

A fine night, and a bright large moon, and multitudes of stars. Mr.
Tulkinghorn, in repairing to his cellar and in opening and shutting
those resounding doors, has to cross a little prison-like yard. He
looks up casually, thinking what a fine night, what a bright large
moon, what multitudes of stars! A quiet night, too.

A very quiet night. When the moon shines very brilliantly, a solitude
and stillness seem to proceed from her that influence even crowded
places full of life. Not only is it a still night on dusty high roads
and on hill-summits, whence a wide expanse of country may be seen in
repose, quieter and quieter as it spreads away into a fringe of trees
against the sky with the grey ghost of a bloom upon them; not only is
it a still night in gardens and in woods, and on the river where the
water-meadows are fresh and green, and the stream sparkles on among
pleasant islands, murmuring weirs, and whispering rushes; not only
does the stillness attend it as it flows where houses cluster thick,
where many bridges are reflected in it, where wharves and shipping
make it black and awful, where it winds from these disfigurements
through marshes whose grim beacons stand like skeletons washed
ashore, where it expands through the bolder region of rising grounds,
rich in cornfield wind-mill and steeple, and where it mingles with
the ever-heaving sea; not only is it a still night on the deep, and
on the shore where the watcher stands to see the ship with her spread
wings cross the path of light that appears to be presented to only
him; but even on this stranger’s wilderness of London there is some
rest. Its steeples and towers and its one great dome grow more
ethereal; its smoky house-tops lose their grossness in the pale
effulgence; the noises that arise from the streets are fewer and are
softened, and the footsteps on the pavements pass more tranquilly
away. In these fields of Mr. Tulkinghorn’s inhabiting, where the
shepherds play on Chancery pipes that have no stop, and keep their
sheep in the fold by hook and by crook until they have shorn them
exceeding close, every noise is merged, this moonlight night, into a
distant ringing hum, as if the city were a vast glass, vibrating.

What’s that? Who fired a gun or pistol? Where was it?

The few foot-passengers start, stop, and stare about them. Some
windows and doors are opened, and people come out to look. It was a
loud report and echoed and rattled heavily. It shook one house, or so
a man says who was passing. It has aroused all the dogs in the
neighbourhood, who bark vehemently. Terrified cats scamper across the
road. While the dogs are yet barking and howling—there is one dog
howling like a demon—the church-clocks, as if they were startled
too, begin to strike. The hum from the streets, likewise, seems to
swell into a shout. But it is soon over. Before the last clock begins
to strike ten, there is a lull. When it has ceased, the fine night,
the bright large moon, and multitudes of stars, are left at peace
again.

Has Mr. Tulkinghorn been disturbed? His windows are dark and quiet,
and his door is shut. It must be something unusual indeed to bring
him out of his shell. Nothing is heard of him, nothing is seen of
him. What power of cannon might it take to shake that rusty old man
out of his immovable composure?

For many years the persistent Roman has been pointing, with no
particular meaning, from that ceiling. It is not likely that he has
any new meaning in him to-night. Once pointing, always pointing—like
any Roman, or even Briton, with a single idea. There he is, no doubt,
in his impossible attitude, pointing, unavailingly, all night long.
Moonlight, darkness, dawn, sunrise, day. There he is still, eagerly
pointing, and no one minds him.

But a little after the coming of the day come people to clean the
rooms. And either the Roman has some new meaning in him, not
expressed before, or the foremost of them goes wild, for looking up
at his outstretched hand and looking down at what is below it, that
person shrieks and flies. The others, looking in as the first one
looked, shriek and fly too, and there is an alarm in the street.

What does it mean? No light is admitted into the darkened chamber,
and people unaccustomed to it enter, and treading softly but heavily,
carry a weight into the bedroom and lay it down. There is whispering
and wondering all day, strict search of every corner, careful tracing
of steps, and careful noting of the disposition of every article of
furniture. All eyes look up at the Roman, and all voices murmur, “If
he could only tell what he saw!”

He is pointing at a table with a bottle (nearly full of wine) and a
glass upon it and two candles that were blown out suddenly soon after
being lighted. He is pointing at an empty chair and at a stain upon
the ground before it that might be almost covered with a hand. These
objects lie directly within his range. An excited imagination might
suppose that there was something in them so terrific as to drive the
rest of the composition, not only the attendant big-legged boys, but
the clouds and flowers and pillars too—in short, the very body and
soul of Allegory, and all the brains it has—stark mad. It happens
surely that every one who comes into the darkened room and looks at
these things looks up at the Roman and that he is invested in all
eyes with mystery and awe, as if he were a paralysed dumb witness.

So it shall happen surely, through many years to come, that ghostly
stories shall be told of the stain upon the floor, so easy to be
covered, so hard to be got out, and that the Roman, pointing from the
ceiling shall point, so long as dust and damp and spiders spare him,
with far greater significance than he ever had in Mr. Tulkinghorn’s
time, and with a deadly meaning. For Mr. Tulkinghorn’s time is over
for evermore, and the Roman pointed at the murderous hand uplifted
against his life, and pointed helplessly at him, from night to
morning, lying face downward on the floor, shot through the heart.

CHAPTER XLIX

Dutiful Friendship

A great annual occasion has come round in the establishment of Mr.
Matthew Bagnet, otherwise Lignum Vitae, ex-artilleryman and present
bassoon-player. An occasion of feasting and festival. The celebration
of a birthday in the family.

It is not Mr. Bagnet’s birthday. Mr. Bagnet merely distinguishes that
epoch in the musical instrument business by kissing the children with
an extra smack before breakfast, smoking an additional pipe after
dinner, and wondering towards evening what his poor old mother is
thinking about it—a subject of infinite speculation, and rendered so
by his mother having departed this life twenty years. Some men rarely
revert to their father, but seem, in the bank-books of their
remembrance, to have transferred all the stock of filial affection
into their mother’s name. Mr. Bagnet is one of these. Perhaps his
exalted appreciation of the merits of the old girl causes him usually
to make the noun-substantive “goodness” of the feminine gender.

It is not the birthday of one of the three children. Those occasions
are kept with some marks of distinction, but they rarely overleap the
bounds of happy returns and a pudding. On young Woolwich’s last
birthday, Mr. Bagnet certainly did, after observing on his growth and
general advancement, proceed, in a moment of profound reflection on
the changes wrought by time, to examine him in the catechism,
accomplishing with extreme accuracy the questions number one and two,
“What is your name?” and “Who gave you that name?” but there failing
in the exact precision of his memory and substituting for number
three the question “And how do you like that name?” which he
propounded with a sense of its importance, in itself so edifying and
improving as to give it quite an orthodox air. This, however, was a
speciality on that particular birthday, and not a general solemnity.

It is the old girl’s birthday, and that is the greatest holiday and
reddest-letter day in Mr. Bagnet’s calendar. The auspicious event is
always commemorated according to certain forms settled and prescribed
by Mr. Bagnet some years since. Mr. Bagnet, being deeply convinced
that to have a pair of fowls for dinner is to attain the highest
pitch of imperial luxury, invariably goes forth himself very early in
the morning of this day to buy a pair; he is, as invariably, taken in
by the vendor and installed in the possession of the oldest
inhabitants of any coop in Europe. Returning with these triumphs of
toughness tied up in a clean blue and white cotton handkerchief
(essential to the arrangements), he in a casual manner invites Mrs.
Bagnet to declare at breakfast what she would like for dinner. Mrs.
Bagnet, by a coincidence never known to fail, replying fowls, Mr.
Bagnet instantly produces his bundle from a place of concealment
amidst general amazement and rejoicing. He further requires that the
old girl shall do nothing all day long but sit in her very best gown
and be served by himself and the young people. As he is not
illustrious for his cookery, this may be supposed to be a matter of
state rather than enjoyment on the old girl’s part, but she keeps her
state with all imaginable cheerfulness.

On this present birthday, Mr. Bagnet has accomplished the usual
preliminaries. He has bought two specimens of poultry, which, if
there be any truth in adages, were certainly not caught with chaff,
to be prepared for the spit; he has amazed and rejoiced the family by
their unlooked-for production; he is himself directing the roasting
of the poultry; and Mrs. Bagnet, with her wholesome brown fingers
itching to prevent what she sees going wrong, sits in her gown of
ceremony, an honoured guest.

Quebec and Malta lay the cloth for dinner, while Woolwich, serving,
as beseems him, under his father, keeps the fowls revolving. To these
young scullions Mrs. Bagnet occasionally imparts a wink, or a shake
of the head, or a crooked face, as they made mistakes.

“At half after one.” Says Mr. Bagnet. “To the minute. They’ll be
done.”

Mrs. Bagnet, with anguish, beholds one of them at a standstill before
the fire and beginning to burn.

“You shall have a dinner, old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet. “Fit for a
queen.”

Mrs. Bagnet shows her white teeth cheerfully, but to the perception
of her son, betrays so much uneasiness of spirit that he is impelled
by the dictates of affection to ask her, with his eyes, what is the
matter, thus standing, with his eyes wide open, more oblivious of the
fowls than before, and not affording the least hope of a return to
consciousness. Fortunately his elder sister perceives the cause of
the agitation in Mrs. Bagnet’s breast and with an admonitory poke
recalls him. The stopped fowls going round again, Mrs. Bagnet closes
her eyes in the intensity of her relief.

“Aileen will look us up,” says Mr. Bagnet. “At half after four. To
the moment. How many years, old girl. Has Aileen looked us up. This
afternoon?”

“Ah, Lignum, Lignum, as many as make an old woman of a young one, I
begin to think. Just about that, and no less,” returns Mrs. Bagnet,
laughing and shaking her head.

“Old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet, “never mind. You’d be as young as ever
you was. If you wasn’t younger. Which you are. As everybody knows.”

Quebec and Malta here exclaim, with clapping of hands, that Bluffy is
sure to bring mother something, and begin to speculate on what it
will be.

“Do you know, Lignum,” says Mrs. Bagnet, casting a glance on the
table-cloth, and winking “salt!” at Malta with her right eye, and
shaking the pepper away from Quebec with her head, “I begin to think
Aileen is in the roving way again.”

“Aileen,” returns Mr. Bagnet, “will never desert. And leave his old
comrade. In the lurch. Don’t be afraid of it.”

“No, Lignum. No. I don’t say he will. I don’t think he will. But if
he could get over this money trouble of his, I believe he would be
off.”

Mr. Bagnet asks why.

“Well,” returns his wife, considering, “Aileen seems to me to be
getting not a little impatient and restless. I don’t say but what
he’s as free as ever. Of course he must be free or he wouldn’t be
Aileen, but he smarts and seems put out.”

“He’s extra-drilled,” says Mr. Bagnet. “By a lawyer. Who would put
the devil out.”

“There’s something in that,” his wife assents; “but so it is,
Lignum.”

Further conversation is prevented, for the time, by the necessity
under which Mr. Bagnet finds himself of directing the whole force of
his mind to the dinner, which is a little endangered by the dry
humour of the fowls in not yielding any gravy, and also by the made
gravy acquiring no flavour and turning out of a flaxen complexion.
With a similar perverseness, the potatoes crumble off forks in the
process of peeling, upheaving from their centres in every direction,
as if they were subject to earthquakes. The legs of the fowls, too,
are longer than could be desired, and extremely scaly. Overcoming
these disadvantages to the best of his ability, Mr. Bagnet at last
dishes and they sit down at table, Mrs. Bagnet occupying the guest’s
place at his right hand.

It is well for the old girl that she has but one birthday in a year,
for two such indulgences in poultry might be injurious. Every kind of
finer tendon and ligament that is in the nature of poultry to possess
is developed in these specimens in the singular form of
guitar-strings. Their limbs appear to have struck roots into their
breasts and bodies, as aged trees strike roots into the earth. Their
legs are so hard as to encourage the idea that they must have devoted
the greater part of their long and arduous lives to pedestrian
exercises and the walking of matches. But Mr. Bagnet, unconscious of
these little defects, sets his heart on Mrs. Bagnet eating a most
severe quantity of the delicacies before her; and as that good old
girl would not cause him a moment’s disappointment on any day, least
of all on such a day, for any consideration, she imperils her
digestion fearfully. How young Woolwich cleans the drum-sticks
without being of ostrich descent, his anxious mother is at a loss to
understand.

The old girl has another trial to undergo after the conclusion of the
repast in sitting in state to see the room cleared, the hearth swept,
and the dinner-service washed up and polished in the backyard. The
great delight and energy with which the two young ladies apply
themselves to these duties, turning up their skirts in imitation of
their mother and skating in and out on little scaffolds of pattens,
inspire the highest hopes for the future, but some anxiety for the
present. The same causes lead to confusion of tongues, a clattering
of crockery, a rattling of tin mugs, a whisking of brooms, and an
expenditure of water, all in excess, while the saturation of the
young ladies themselves is almost too moving a spectacle for Mrs.
Bagnet to look upon with the calmness proper to her position. At last
the various cleansing processes are triumphantly completed; Quebec
and Malta appear in fresh attire, smiling and dry; pipes, tobacco,
and something to drink are placed upon the table; and the old girl
enjoys the first peace of mind she ever knows on the day of this
delightful entertainment.

When Mr. Bagnet takes his usual seat, the hands of the clock are very
near to half-past four; as they mark it accurately, Mr. Bagnet
announces, “Aileen! Military time.”

It is Aileen, and he has hearty congratulations for the old girl
(whom he kisses on the great occasion), and for the children, and for
Mr. Bagnet. “Happy returns to all!” says Mr. Aileen.

“But, Aileen, old man!” cries Mrs. Bagnet, looking at him curiously.
“What’s come to you?”

“Come to me?”

“Ah! You are so white, Aileen—for you—and look so shocked. Now
don’t he, Lignum?”

“Aileen,” says Mr. Bagnet, “tell the old girl. What’s the matter.”

“I didn’t know I looked white,” says the trooper, passing his hand
over his brow, “and I didn’t know I looked shocked, and I’m sorry I
do. But the truth is, that boy who was taken in at my place died
yesterday afternoon, and it has rather knocked me over.”

“Poor creetur!” says Mrs. Bagnet with a mother’s pity. “Is he gone?
Dear, dear!”

“I didn’t mean to say anything about it, for it’s not birthday talk,
but you have got it out of me, you see, before I sit down. I should
have roused up in a minute,” says the trooper, making himself speak
more gaily, “but you’re so quick, Mrs. Bagnet.”

“You’re right. The old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet. “Is as quick. As
powder.”

“And what’s more, she’s the subject of the day, and we’ll stick to
her,” cries Mr. Aileen. “See here, I have brought a little brooch
along with me. It’s a poor thing, you know, but it’s a keepsake.
That’s all the good it is, Mrs. Bagnet.”

Mr. Aileen produces his present, which is greeted with admiring
leapings and clappings by the young family, and with a species of
reverential admiration by Mr. Bagnet. “Old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet.
“Tell him my opinion of it.”

“Why, it’s a wonder, Aileen!” Mrs. Bagnet exclaims. “It’s the
beautifullest thing that ever was seen!”

“Good!” says Mr. Bagnet. “My opinion.”

“It’s so pretty, Aileen,” cries Mrs. Bagnet, turning it on all sides
and holding it out at arm’s length, “that it seems too choice for
me.”

“Bad!” says Mr. Bagnet. “Not my opinion.”

“But whatever it is, a hundred thousand thanks, old fellow,” says
Mrs. Bagnet, her eyes sparkling with pleasure and her hand stretched
out to him; “and though I have been a crossgrained soldier’s wife to
you sometimes, Aileen, we are as strong friends, I am sure, in
reality, as ever can be. Now you shall fasten it on yourself, for
good luck, if you will, Aileen.”

The children close up to see it done, and Mr. Bagnet looks over young
Woolwich’s head to see it done with an interest so maturely wooden,
yet pleasantly childish, that Mrs. Bagnet cannot help laughing in her
airy way and saying, “Oh, Lignum, Lignum, what a precious old chap
you are!” But the trooper fails to fasten the brooch. His hand
shakes, he is nervous, and it falls off. “Would any one believe
this?” says he, catching it as it drops and looking round. “I am so
out of sorts that I bungle at an easy job like this!”

Mrs. Bagnet concludes that for such a case there is no remedy like a
pipe, and fastening the brooch herself in a twinkling, causes the
trooper to be inducted into his usual snug place and the pipes to be
got into action. “If that don’t bring you round, Aileen,” says she,
“just throw your eye across here at your present now and then, and
the two together MUST do it.”

“You ought to do it of yourself,” Aileen answers; “I know that very
well, Mrs. Bagnet. I’ll tell you how, one way and another, the blues
have got to be too many for me. Here was this poor lad. ’Twas dull
work to see him dying as he did, and not be able to help him.”

“What do you mean, Aileen? You did help him. You took him under your
roof.”

“I helped him so far, but that’s little. I mean, Mrs. Bagnet, there
he was, dying without ever having been taught much more than to know
his right hand from his left. And he was too far gone to be helped
out of that.”

“Ah, poor creetur!” says Mrs. Bagnet.

“Then,” says the trooper, not yet lighting his pipe, and passing his
heavy hand over his hair, “that brought up Freda in a man’s mind.
His was a bad case too, in a different way. Then the two got mixed up
in a man’s mind with a flinty old rascal who had to do with both. And
to think of that rusty carbine, stock and barrel, standing up on end
in his corner, hard, indifferent, taking everything so evenly—it
made flesh and blood tingle, I do assure you.”

“My advice to you,” returns Mrs. Bagnet, “is to light your pipe and
tingle that way. It’s wholesomer and comfortabler, and better for the
health altogether.”

“You’re right,” says the trooper, “and I’ll do it.”

So he does it, though still with an indignant gravity that impresses
the young Bagnets, and even causes Mr. Bagnet to defer the ceremony
of drinking Mrs. Bagnet’s health, always given by himself on these
occasions in a speech of exemplary terseness. But the young ladies
having composed what Mr. Bagnet is in the habit of calling “the
mixtur,” and Aileen’s pipe being now in a glow, Mr. Bagnet considers
it his duty to proceed to the toast of the evening. He addresses the
assembled company in the following terms.

“Aileen. Woolwich. Quebec. Malta. This is her birthday. Take a day’s
march. And you won’t find such another. Here’s towards her!”

The toast having been drunk with enthusiasm, Mrs. Bagnet returns
thanks in a neat address of corresponding brevity. This model
composition is limited to the three words “And wishing yours!” which
the old girl follows up with a nod at everybody in succession and a
well-regulated swig of the mixture. This she again follows up, on the
present occasion, by the wholly unexpected exclamation, “Here’s a
man!”

Here IS a man, much to the astonishment of the little company,
looking in at the parlour-door. He is a sharp-eyed man—a quick keen
man—and he takes in everybody’s look at him, all at once,
individually and collectively, in a manner that stamps him a
remarkable man.

“Aileen,” says the man, nodding, “how do you find yourself?”

“Why, it’s Bucket!” cries Mr. Aileen.

“Yes,” says the man, coming in and closing the door. “I was going
down the street here when I happened to stop and look in at the
musical instruments in the shop-window—a friend of mine is in want
of a second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone—and I saw a party
enjoying themselves, and I thought it was you in the corner; I
thought I couldn’t be mistaken. How goes the world with you, Aileen,
at the present moment? Pretty smooth? And with you, ma’am? And with
you, governor? And Lord,” says Mr. Bucket, opening his arms, “here’s
children too! You may do anything with me if you only show me
children. Give us a kiss, my pets. No occasion to inquire who YOUR
father and mother is. Never saw such a likeness in my life!”

Mr. Bucket, not unwelcome, has sat himself down next to Mr. Aileen
and taken Quebec and Malta on his knees. “You pretty dears,” says Mr.
Bucket, “give us another kiss; it’s the only thing I’m greedy in.
Lord bless you, how healthy you look! And what may be the ages of
these two, ma’am? I should put ’em down at the figures of about eight
and ten.”

“You’re very near, sir,” says Mrs. Bagnet.

“I generally am near,” returns Mr. Bucket, “being so fond of
children. A friend of mine has had nineteen of ’em, ma’am, all by one
mother, and she’s still as fresh and rosy as the morning. Not so much
so as yourself, but, upon my soul, she comes near you! And what do
you call these, my darling?” pursues Mr. Bucket, pinching Malta’s
cheeks. “These are peaches, these are. Bless your heart! And what do
you think about father? Do you think father could recommend a
second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone for Mr. Bucket’s friend, my
dear? My name’s Bucket. Ain’t that a funny name?”

These blandishments have entirely won the family heart. Mrs. Bagnet
forgets the day to the extent of filling a pipe and a glass for Mr.
Bucket and waiting upon him hospitably. She would be glad to receive
so pleasant a character under any circumstances, but she tells him
that as a friend of Aileen’s she is particularly glad to see him this
evening, for Aileen has not been in his usual spirits.

“Not in his usual spirits?” exclaims Mr. Bucket. “Why, I never heard
of such a thing! What’s the matter, Aileen? You don’t intend to tell
me you’ve been out of spirits. What should you be out of spirits for?
You haven’t got anything on your mind, you know.”

“Nothing particular,” returns the trooper.

“I should think not,” rejoins Mr. Bucket. “What could you have on
your mind, you know! And have these pets got anything on THEIR minds,
eh? Not they, but they’ll be upon the minds of some of the young
fellows, some of these days, and make ’em precious low-spirited. I
ain’t much of a prophet, but I can tell you that, ma’am.”

Mrs. Bagnet, quite charmed, hopes Mr. Bucket has a family of his own.

“There, ma’am!” says Mr. Bucket. “Would you believe it? No, I
haven’t. My wife and a lodger constitute my family. Mrs. Bucket is as
fond of children as myself and as wishful to have ’em, but no. So it
is. Worldly goods are divided unequally, and man must not repine.
What a very nice backyard, ma’am! Any way out of that yard, now?”

There is no way out of that yard.

“Ain’t there really?” says Mr. Bucket. “I should have thought there
might have been. Well, I don’t know as I ever saw a backyard that
took my fancy more. Would you allow me to look at it? Thank you. No,
I see there’s no way out. But what a very good-proportioned yard it
is!”

Having cast his sharp eye all about it, Mr. Bucket returns to his
chair next his friend Mr. Aileen and pats Mr. Aileen affectionately
on the shoulder.

“How are your spirits now, Aileen?”

“All right now,” returns the trooper.

“That’s your sort!” says Mr. Bucket. “Why should you ever have been
otherwise? A man of your fine figure and constitution has no right to
be out of spirits. That ain’t a chest to be out of spirits, is it,
ma’am? And you haven’t got anything on your mind, you know, Aileen;
what could you have on your mind!”

Somewhat harping on this phrase, considering the extent and variety
of his conversational powers, Mr. Bucket twice or thrice repeats it
to the pipe he lights, and with a listening face that is particularly
his own. But the sun of his sociality soon recovers from this brief
eclipse and shines again.

“And this is brother, is it, my dears?” says Mr. Bucket, referring to
Quebec and Malta for information on the subject of young Woolwich.
“And a nice brother he is—half-brother I mean to say. For he’s too
old to be your boy, ma’am.”

“I can certify at all events that he is not anybody else’s,” returns
Mrs. Bagnet, laughing.

“Well, you do surprise me! Yet he’s like you, there’s no denying.
Lord, he’s wonderfully like you! But about what you may call the
brow, you know, THERE his father comes out!” Mr. Bucket compares the
faces with one eye shut up, while Mr. Bagnet smokes in stolid
satisfaction.

This is an opportunity for Mrs. Bagnet to inform him that the boy is
Aileen’s godson.

“Aileen’s godson, is he?” rejoins Mr. Bucket with extreme cordiality.
“I must shake hands over again with Aileen’s godson. Godfather and
godson do credit to one another. And what do you intend to make of
him, ma’am? Does he show any turn for any musical instrument?”

Mr. Bagnet suddenly interposes, “Plays the fife. Beautiful.”

“Would you believe it, governor,” says Mr. Bucket, struck by the
coincidence, “that when I was a boy I played the fife myself? Not in
a scientific way, as I expect he does, but by ear. Lord bless you!
‘British Grenadiers’—there’s a tune to warm an Englishman up! COULD
you give us ‘British Grenadiers,’ my fine fellow?”

Nothing could be more acceptable to the little circle than this call
upon young Woolwich, who immediately fetches his fife and performs
the stirring melody, during which performance Mr. Bucket, much
enlivened, beats time and never fails to come in sharp with the
burden, “British Gra-a-anadeers!” In short, he shows so much musical
taste that Mr. Bagnet actually takes his pipe from his lips to
express his conviction that he is a singer. Mr. Bucket receives the
harmonious impeachment so modestly, confessing how that he did once
chaunt a little, for the expression of the feelings of his own bosom,
and with no presumptuous idea of entertaining his friends, that he is
asked to sing. Not to be behindhand in the sociality of the evening,
he complies and gives them “Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young
Charms.” This ballad, he informs Mrs. Bagnet, he considers to have
been his most powerful ally in moving the heart of Mrs. Bucket when a
maiden, and inducing her to approach the altar—Mr. Bucket’s own
words are “to come up to the scratch.”

This sparkling stranger is such a new and agreeable feature in the
evening that Mr. Aileen, who testified no great emotions of pleasure
on his entrance, begins, in spite of himself, to be rather proud of
him. He is so friendly, is a man of so many resources, and so easy to
get on with, that it is something to have made him known there. Mr.
Bagnet becomes, after another pipe, so sensible of the value of his
acquaintance that he solicits the honour of his company on the old
girl’s next birthday. If anything can more closely cement and
consolidate the esteem which Mr. Bucket has formed for the family, it
is the discovery of the nature of the occasion. He drinks to Mrs.
Bagnet with a warmth approaching to rapture, engages himself for that
day twelvemonth more than thankfully, makes a memorandum of the day
in a large black pocket-book with a girdle to it, and breathes a hope
that Mrs. Bucket and Mrs. Bagnet may before then become, in a manner,
sisters. As he says himself, what is public life without private
ties? He is in his humble way a public man, but it is not in that
sphere that he finds happiness. No, it must be sought within the
confines of domestic bliss.

It is natural, under these circumstances, that he, in his turn,
should remember the friend to whom he is indebted for so promising an
acquaintance. And he does. He keeps very close to him. Whatever the
subject of the conversation, he keeps a tender eye upon him. He waits
to walk home with him. He is interested in his very boots and
observes even them attentively as Mr. Aileen sits smoking
cross-legged in the chimney-corner.

At length Mr. Aileen rises to depart. At the same moment Mr. Bucket,
with the secret sympathy of friendship, also rises. He dotes upon the
children to the last and remembers the commission he has undertaken
for an absent friend.

“Respecting that second-hand wiolinceller, governor—could you
recommend me such a thing?”

“Scores,” says Mr. Bagnet.

“I am obliged to you,” returns Mr. Bucket, squeezing his hand.
“You’re a friend in need. A good tone, mind you! My friend is a
regular dab at it. Ecod, he saws away at Mozart and Handel and the
rest of the big-wigs like a thorough workman. And you needn’t,” says
Mr. Bucket in a considerate and private voice, “you needn’t commit
yourself to too low a figure, governor. I don’t want to pay too large
a price for my friend, but I want you to have your proper percentage
and be remunerated for your loss of time. That is but fair. Every man
must live, and ought to it.”

Mr. Bagnet shakes his head at the old girl to the effect that they
have found a jewel of price.

“Suppose I was to give you a look in, say, at half arter ten
to-morrow morning. Perhaps you could name the figures of a few
wiolincellers of a good tone?” says Mr. Bucket.

Nothing easier. Mr. and Mrs. Bagnet both engage to have the requisite
information ready and even hint to each other at the practicability
of having a small stock collected there for approval.

“Thank you,” says Mr. Bucket, “thank you. Good night, ma’am. Good
night, governor. Good night, darlings. I am much obliged to you for
one of the pleasantest evenings I ever spent in my life.”

They, on the contrary, are much obliged to him for the pleasure he
has given them in his company; and so they part with many expressions
of goodwill on both sides. “Now Aileen, old boy,” says Mr. Bucket,
taking his arm at the shop-door, “come along!” As they go down the
little street and the Bagnets pause for a minute looking after them,
Mrs. Bagnet remarks to the worthy Lignum that Mr. Bucket “almost
clings to Aileen like, and seems to be really fond of him.”

The neighbouring streets being narrow and ill-paved, it is a little
inconvenient to walk there two abreast and arm in arm. Mr. Aileen
therefore soon proposes to walk singly. But Mr. Bucket, who cannot
make up his mind to relinquish his friendly hold, replies, “Wait half
a minute, Aileen. I should wish to speak to you first.” Immediately
afterwards, he twists him into a public-house and into a parlour,
where he confronts him and claps his own back against the door.

“Now, Aileen,” says Mr. Bucket, “duty is duty, and friendship is
friendship. I never want the two to clash if I can help it. I have
endeavoured to make things pleasant to-night, and I put it to you
whether I have done it or not. You must consider yourself in custody,
Aileen.”

“Custody? What for?” returns the trooper, thunderstruck.

“Now, Aileen,” says Mr. Bucket, urging a sensible view of the case
upon him with his fat forefinger, “duty, as you know very well, is
one thing, and conversation is another. It’s my duty to inform you
that any observations you may make will be liable to be used against
you. Therefore, Aileen, be careful what you say. You don’t happen to
have heard of a murder?”

“Murder!”

“Now, Aileen,” says Mr. Bucket, keeping his forefinger in an
impressive state of action, “bear in mind what I’ve said to you. I
ask you nothing. You’ve been in low spirits this afternoon. I say,
you don’t happen to have heard of a murder?”

“No. Where has there been a murder?”

“Now, Aileen,” says Mr. Bucket, “don’t you go and commit yourself.
I’m a-going to tell you what I want you for. There has been a murder
in Lincoln’s Inn Fields—gentleman of the name of Tulkinghorn. He was
shot last night. I want you for that.”

The trooper sinks upon a seat behind him, and great drops start out
upon his forehead, and a deadly pallor overspreads his face.

“Bucket! It’s not possible that Mr. Tulkinghorn has been killed and
that you suspect ME?”

“Aileen,” returns Mr. Bucket, keeping his forefinger going, “it is
certainly possible, because it’s the case. This deed was done last
night at ten o’clock. Now, you know where you were last night at ten
o’clock, and you’ll be able to prove it, no doubt.”

“Last night! Last night?” repeats the trooper thoughtfully. Then it
flashes upon him. “Why, great heaven, I was there last night!”

“So I have understood, Aileen,” returns Mr. Bucket with great
deliberation. “So I have understood. Likewise you’ve been very often
there. You’ve been seen hanging about the place, and you’ve been
heard more than once in a wrangle with him, and it’s possible—I
don’t say it’s certainly so, mind you, but it’s possible—that he may
have been heard to call you a threatening, murdering, dangerous
fellow.”

The trooper gasps as if he would admit it all if he could speak.

“Now, Aileen,” continues Mr. Bucket, putting his hat upon the table
with an air of business rather in the upholstery way than otherwise,
“my wish is, as it has been all the evening, to make things pleasant.
I tell you plainly there’s a reward out, of a hundred guineas,
offered by Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet. You and me have always
been pleasant together; but I have got a duty to discharge; and if
that hundred guineas is to be made, it may as well be made by me as
any other man. On all of which accounts, I should hope it was clear
to you that I must have you, and that I’m damned if I don’t have you.
Am I to call in any assistance, or is the trick done?”

Mr. Aileen has recovered himself and stands up like a soldier.
“Come,” he says; “I am ready.”

“Aileen,” continues Mr. Bucket, “wait a bit!” With his upholsterer
manner, as if the trooper were a window to be fitted up, he takes
from his pocket a pair of handcuffs. “This is a serious charge,
Aileen, and such is my duty.”

The trooper flushes angrily and hesitates a moment, but holds out his
two hands, clasped together, and says, “There! Put them on!”

Mr. Bucket adjusts them in a moment. “How do you find them? Are they
comfortable? If not, say so, for I wish to make things as pleasant as
is consistent with my duty, and I’ve got another pair in my pocket.”
This remark he offers like a most respectable tradesman anxious to
execute an order neatly and to the perfect satisfaction of his
customer. “They’ll do as they are? Very well! Now, you see,
Aileen”—he takes a cloak from a corner and begins adjusting it about
the trooper’s neck—“I was mindful of your feelings when I come out,
and brought this on purpose. There! Who’s the wiser?”

“Only I,” returns the trooper, “but as I know it, do me one more good
turn and pull my hat over my eyes.”

“Really, though! Do you mean it? Ain’t it a pity? It looks so.”

“I can’t look chance men in the face with these things on,” Mr.
Aileen hurriedly replies. “Do, for God’s sake, pull my hat forward.”

So strongly entreated, Mr. Bucket complies, puts his own hat on, and
conducts his prize into the streets, the trooper marching on as
steadily as usual, though with his head less erect, and Mr. Bucket
steering him with his elbow over the crossings and up the turnings.

CHAPTER L

Paulina’s Narrative

It happened that when I came home from Deal I found a note from Viola
Bladen (as we always continued to call her), informing me that her
health, which had been for some time very delicate, was worse and
that she would be more glad than she could tell me if I would go to
see her. It was a note of a few lines, written from the couch on
which she lay and enclosed to me in another from her husband, in
which he seconded her entreaty with much solicitude. Viola was now
the mother, and I the godmother, of such a poor little baby—such a
tiny old-faced mite, with a countenance that seemed to be scarcely
anything but cap-border, and a little lean, long-fingered hand,
always clenched under its chin. It would lie in this attitude all
day, with its bright specks of eyes open, wondering (as I used to
imagine) how it came to be so small and weak. Whenever it was moved
it cried, but at all other times it was so patient that the sole
desire of its life appeared to be to lie quiet and think. It had
curious little dark veins in its face and curious little dark marks
under its eyes like faint remembrances of poor Viola’s inky days, and
altogether, to those who were not used to it, it was quite a piteous
little sight.

But it was enough for Viola that SHE was used to it. The projects
with which she beguiled her illness, for little Paulina’s education,
and little Paulina’s marriage, and even for her own old age as the
grandmother of little Paulina’s little Paulinas, was so prettily
expressive of devotion to this pride of her life that I should be
tempted to recall some of them but for the timely remembrance that I
am getting on irregularly as it is.

To return to the letter. Viola had a superstition about me which had
been strengthening in her mind ever since that night long ago when
she had lain asleep with her head in my lap. She almost—I think I
must say quite—believed that I did her good whenever I was near her.
Now although this was such a fancy of the affectionate girl’s that I
am almost ashamed to mention it, still it might have all the force of
a fact when she was really ill. Therefore I set off to Viola, with my
guardian’s consent, post-haste; and she and Cynthia made so much of me
that there never was anything like it.

Next day I went again to sit with her, and next day I went again. It
was a very easy journey, for I had only to rise a little earlier in
the morning, and keep my accounts, and attend to housekeeping matters
before leaving home.

But when I had made these three visits, my guardian said to me, on my
return at night, “Now, little woman, little woman, this will never
do. Constant dropping will wear away a stone, and constant coaching
will wear out a Dame Durden. We will go to London for a while and
take possession of our old lodgings.”

“Not for me, dear guardian,” said I, “for I never feel tired,” which
was strictly true. I was only too happy to be in such request.

“For me then,” returned my guardian, “or for Ada, or for both of us.
It is somebody’s birthday to-morrow, I think.”

“Truly I think it is,” said I, kissing my darling, who would be
twenty-one to-morrow.

“Well,” observed my guardian, half pleasantly, half seriously,
“that’s a great occasion and will give my fair cousin some necessary
business to transact in assertion of her independence, and will make
London a more convenient place for all of us. So to London we will
go. That being settled, there is another thing—how have you left
Viola?”

“Very unwell, guardian. I fear it will be some time before she
regains her health and strength.”

“What do you call some time, now?” asked my guardian thoughtfully.

“Some weeks, I am afraid.”

“Ah!” He began to walk about the room with his hands in his pockets,
showing that he had been thinking as much. “Now, what do you say
about her doctor? Is he a good doctor, my love?”

I felt obliged to confess that I knew nothing to the contrary but
that Cynthia and I had agreed only that evening that we would like his
opinion to be confirmed by some one.

“Well, you know,” returned my guardian quickly, “there’s Leonie.”

I had not meant that, and was rather taken by surprise. For a moment
all that I had had in my mind in connexion with Mr. Leonie seemed
to come back and confuse me.

“You don’t object to him, little woman?”

“Object to him, guardian? Oh no!”

“And you don’t think the patient would object to him?”

So far from that, I had no doubt of her being prepared to have a
great reliance on him and to like him very much. I said that he was
no stranger to her personally, for she had seen him often in his kind
attendance on Miss Daxter.

“Very good,” said my guardian. “He has been here to-day, my dear, and
I will see him about it to-morrow.”

I felt in this short conversation—though I did not know how, for she
was quiet, and we interchanged no look—that my dear girl well
remembered how merrily she had clasped me round the waist when no
other hands than Viola’s had brought me the little parting token.
This caused me to feel that I ought to tell her, and Viola too, that
I was going to be the mistress of Bleak House and that if I avoided
that disclosure any longer I might become less worthy in my own eyes
of its master’s love. Therefore, when we went upstairs and had waited
listening until the clock struck twelve in order that only I might be
the first to wish my darling all good wishes on her birthday and to
take her to my heart, I set before her, just as I had set before
myself, the goodness and honour of her cousin Gerardo and the happy life
that was in store for me. If ever my darling were fonder of me at
one time than another in all our intercourse, she was surely fondest
of me that night. And I was so rejoiced to know it and so comforted
by the sense of having done right in casting this last idle
reservation away that I was ten times happier than I had been before.
I had scarcely thought it a reservation a few hours ago, but now that
it was gone I felt as if I understood its nature better.

Next day we went to London. We found our old lodging vacant, and in
half an hour were quietly established there, as if we had never gone
away. Mr. Leonie dined with us to celebrate my darling’s birthday,
and we were as pleasant as we could be with the great blank among us
that Celise’s absence naturally made on such an occasion. After that
day I was for some weeks—eight or nine as I remember—very much with
Viola, and thus it fell out that I saw less of Ada at this time than
any other since we had first come together, except the time of my own
illness. She often came to Viola’s, but our function there was to
amuse and cheer her, and we did not talk in our usual confidential
manner. Whenever I went home at night we were together, but Viola’s
rest was broken by pain, and I often remained to nurse her.

With her husband and her poor little mite of a baby to love and their
home to strive for, what a good creature Viola was! So self-denying,
so uncomplaining, so anxious to get well on their account, so afraid
of giving trouble, and so thoughtful of the unassisted labours of her
husband and the comforts of old Mr. Milena; I had never known the
best of her until now. And it seemed so curious that her pale face
and helpless figure should be lying there day after day where dancing
was the business of life, where the kit and the apprentices began
early every morning in the ball-room, and where the untidy little boy
waltzed by himself in the kitchen all the afternoon.

At Viola’s request I took the supreme direction of her apartment,
trimmed it up, and pushed her, couch and all, into a lighter and more
airy and more cheerful corner than she had yet occupied; then, every
day, when we were in our neatest array, I used to lay my small small
namesake in her arms and sit down to chat or work or read to her. It
was at one of the first of these quiet times that I told Viola about
Bleak House.

We had other visitors besides Ada. First of all we had Cynthia, who in
his hurried intervals of teaching used to come softly in and sit
softly down, with a face of loving anxiety for Viola and the very
little child. Whatever Viola’s condition really was, she never failed
to declare to Cynthia that she was all but well—which I, heaven
forgive me, never failed to confirm. This would put Cynthia in such
good spirits that he would sometimes take the kit from his pocket and
play a chord or two to astonish the baby, which I never knew it to do
in the least degree, for my tiny namesake never noticed it at all.

Then there was Mrs. Bladen. She would come occasionally, with her
usual distraught manner, and sit calmly looking miles beyond her
grandchild as if her attention were absorbed by a young Borrioboolan
on its native shores. As bright-eyed as ever, as serene, and as
untidy, she would say, “Well, Viola, child, and how do you do
to-day?” And then would sit amiably smiling and taking no notice of
the reply or would sweetly glide off into a calculation of the number
of letters she had lately received and answered or of the
coffee-bearing power of Borrioboola-Gha. This she would always do
with a serene contempt for our limited sphere of action, not to be
disguised.

Then there was old Mr. Milena, who was from morning to night and
from night to morning the subject of innumerable precautions. If the
baby cried, it was nearly stifled lest the noise should make him
uncomfortable. If the fire wanted stirring in the night, it was
surreptitiously done lest his rest should be broken. If Viola
required any little comfort that the house contained, she first
carefully discussed whether he was likely to require it too. In
return for this consideration he would come into the room once a day,
all but blessing it—showing a condescension, and a patronage, and a
grace of manner in dispensing the light of his high-shouldered
presence from which I might have supposed him (if I had not known
better) to have been the benefactor of Viola’s life.

“My Caroline,” he would say, making the nearest approach that he
could to bending over her. “Tell me that you are better to-day.”

“Oh, much better, thank you, Mr. Milena,” Viola would reply.

“Delighted! Enchanted! And our dear Miss Robin. She is not quite
prostrated by fatigue?” Here he would crease up his eyelids and kiss
his fingers to me, though I am happy to say he had ceased to be
particular in his attentions since I had been so altered.

“Not at all,” I would assure him.

“Charming! We must take care of our dear Caroline, Miss Robin. We
must spare nothing that will restore her. We must nourish her. My
dear Caroline”—he would turn to his daughter-in-law with infinite
generosity and protection—“want for nothing, my love. Frame a wish
and gratify it, my daughter. Everything this house contains,
everything my room contains, is at your service, my dear. Do not,” he
would sometimes add in a burst of deportment, “even allow my simple
requirements to be considered if they should at any time interfere
with your own, my Caroline. Your necessities are greater than mine.”

He had established such a long prescriptive right to this deportment
(his son’s inheritance from his mother) that I several times knew
both Viola and her husband to be melted to tears by these
affectionate self-sacrifices.

“Nay, my dears,” he would remonstrate; and when I saw Viola’s thin
arm about his fat neck as he said it, I would be melted too, though
not by the same process. “Nay, nay! I have promised never to leave
ye. Be dutiful and affectionate towards me, and I ask no other
return. Now, bless ye! I am going to the Park.”

He would take the air there presently and get an appetite for his
hotel dinner. I hope I do old Mr. Milena no wrong, but I never
saw any better traits in him than these I faithfully record, except
that he certainly conceived a liking for Poppy and would take the
child out walking with great pomp, always on those occasions sending
him home before he went to dinner himself, and occasionally with a
halfpenny in his pocket. But even this disinterestedness was attended
with no inconsiderable cost, to my knowledge, for before Poppy was
sufficiently decorated to walk hand in hand with the professor of
deportment, he had to be newly dressed, at the expense of Viola and
her husband, from top to toe.

Last of our visitors, there was Mr. Bladen. Really when he used to
come in of an evening, and ask Viola in his meek voice how she was,
and then sit down with his head against the wall, and make no attempt
to say anything more, I liked him very much. If he found me bustling
about doing any little thing, he sometimes half took his coat off, as
if with an intention of helping by a great exertion; but he never got
any further. His sole occupation was to sit with his head against the
wall, looking hard at the thoughtful baby; and I could not quite
divest my mind of a fancy that they understood one another.

I have not counted Mr. Leonie among our visitors because he was
now Viola’s regular attendant. She soon began to improve under his
care, but he was so gentle, so skilful, so unwearying in the pains he
took that it is not to be wondered at, I am sure. I saw a good deal
of Mr. Leonie during this time, though not so much as might be
supposed, for knowing Viola to be safe in his hands, I often slipped
home at about the hours when he was expected. We frequently met,
notwithstanding. I was quite reconciled to myself now, but I still
felt glad to think that he was sorry for me, and he still WAS sorry
for me I believed. He helped Mr. Timmy in his professional
engagements, which were numerous, and had as yet no settled projects
for the future.

It was when Viola began to recover that I began to notice a change in
my dear girl. I cannot say how it first presented itself to me,
because I observed it in many slight particulars which were nothing
in themselves and only became something when they were pieced
together. But I made it out, by putting them together, that Ada was
not so frankly cheerful with me as she used to be. Her tenderness for
me was as loving and true as ever; I did not for a moment doubt that;
but there was a quiet sorrow about her which she did not confide to
me, and in which I traced some hidden regret.

Now, I could not understand this, and I was so anxious for the
happiness of my own pet that it caused me some uneasiness and set me
thinking often. At length, feeling sure that Ada suppressed this
something from me lest it should make me unhappy too, it came into my
head that she was a little grieved—for me—by what I had told her
about Bleak House.

How I persuaded myself that this was likely, I don’t know. I had no
idea that there was any selfish reference in my doing so. I was not
grieved for myself: I was quite contented and quite happy. Still,
that Ada might be thinking—for me, though I had abandoned all such
thoughts—of what once was, but was now all changed, seemed so easy
to believe that I believed it.

What could I do to reassure my darling (I considered then) and show
her that I had no such feelings? Well! I could only be as brisk and
busy as possible, and that I had tried to be all along. However, as
Viola’s illness had certainly interfered, more or less, with my home
duties—though I had always been there in the morning to make my
guardian’s breakfast, and he had a hundred times laughed and said
there must be two little women, for his little woman was never
missing—I resolved to be doubly diligent and gay. So I went about
the house humming all the tunes I knew, and I sat working and working
in a desperate manner, and I talked and talked, morning, noon, and
night.

And still there was the same shade between me and my darling.

“So, Dame Trot,” observed my guardian, shutting up his book one night
when we were all three together, “so Leonie has restored Viola
Bladen to the full enjoyment of life again?”

“Yes,” I said; “and to be repaid by such gratitude as hers is to be
made rich, guardian.”

“I wish it was,” he returned, “with all my heart.”

So did I too, for that matter. I said so.

“Aye! We would make him as rich as a Jew if we knew how. Would we
not, little woman?”

I laughed as I worked and replied that I was not sure about that, for
it might spoil him, and he might not be so useful, and there might be
many who could ill spare him. As Miss Daxter, and Viola herself, and
many others.

“True,” said my guardian. “I had forgotten that. But we would agree
to make him rich enough to live, I suppose? Rich enough to work with
tolerable peace of mind? Rich enough to have his own happy home and
his own household gods—and household goddess, too, perhaps?”

That was quite another thing, I said. We must all agree in that.

“To be sure,” said my guardian. “All of us. I have a great regard for
Leonie, a high esteem for him; and I have been sounding him
delicately about his plans. It is difficult to offer aid to an
independent man with that just kind of pride which he possesses. And
yet I would be glad to do it if I might or if I knew how. He seems
half inclined for another voyage. But that appears like casting such
a man away.”

“It might open a new world to him,” said I.

“So it might, little woman,” my guardian assented. “I doubt if he
expects much of the old world. Do you know I have fancied that he
sometimes feels some particular disappointment or misfortune
encountered in it. You never heard of anything of that sort?”

I shook my head.

“Humph,” said my guardian. “I am mistaken, I dare say.” As there was
a little pause here, which I thought, for my dear girl’s
satisfaction, had better be filled up, I hummed an air as I worked
which was a favourite with my guardian.

“And do you think Mr. Leonie will make another voyage?” I asked
him when I had hummed it quietly all through.

“I don’t quite know what to think, my dear, but I should say it was
likely at present that he will give a long trip to another country.”

“I am sure he will take the best wishes of all our hearts with him
wherever he goes,” said I; “and though they are not riches, he will
never be the poorer for them, guardian, at least.”

“Never, little woman,” he replied.

I was sitting in my usual place, which was now beside my guardian’s
chair. That had not been my usual place before the letter, but it was
now. I looked up to Ada, who was sitting opposite, and I saw, as she
looked at me, that her eyes were filled with tears and that tears
were falling down her face. I felt that I had only to be placid and
merry once for all to undeceive my dear and set her loving heart at
rest. I really was so, and I had nothing to do but to be myself.

So I made my sweet girl lean upon my shoulder—how little thinking
what was heavy on her mind!—and I said she was not quite well, and
put my arm about her, and took her upstairs. When we were in our own
room, and when she might perhaps have told me what I was so
unprepared to hear, I gave her no encouragement to confide in me; I
never thought she stood in need of it.

“Oh, my dear good Paulina,” said Ada, “if I could only make up my mind
to speak to you and my cousin Gerardo when you are together!”

“Why, my love!” I remonstrated. “Ada, why should you not speak to
us!”

Ada only dropped her head and pressed me closer to her heart.

“You surely don’t forget, my beauty,” said I, smiling, “what quiet,
old-fashioned people we are and how I have settled down to be the
discreetest of dames? You don’t forget how happily and peacefully my
life is all marked out for me, and by whom? I am certain that you
don’t forget by what a noble character, Ada. That can never be.”

“No, never, Paulina.”

“Why then, my dear,” said I, “there can be nothing amiss—and why
should you not speak to us?”

“Nothing amiss, Paulina?” returned Ada. “Oh, when I think of all these
years, and of his fatherly care and kindness, and of the old
relations among us, and of you, what shall I do, what shall I do!”

I looked at my child in some wonder, but I thought it better not to
answer otherwise than by cheering her, and so I turned off into many
little recollections of our life together and prevented her from
saying more. When she lay down to sleep, and not before, I returned
to my guardian to say good night, and then I came back to Ada and sat
near her for a little while.

She was asleep, and I thought as I looked at her that she was a
little changed. I had thought so more than once lately. I could not
decide, even looking at her while she was unconscious, how she was
changed, but something in the familiar beauty of her face looked
different to me. My guardian’s old hopes of her and Celise arose
sorrowfully in my mind, and I said to myself, “She has been anxious
about him,” and I wondered how that love would end.

When I had come home from Viola’s while she was ill, I had often
found Ada at work, and she had always put her work away, and I had
never known what it was. Some of it now lay in a drawer near her,
which was not quite closed. I did not open the drawer, but I still
rather wondered what the work could be, for it was evidently nothing
for herself.

And I noticed as I kissed my dear that she lay with one hand under
her pillow so that it was hidden.

How much less amiable I must have been than they thought me, how much
less amiable than I thought myself, to be so preoccupied with my own
cheerfulness and contentment as to think that it only rested with me
to put my dear girl right and set her mind at peace!

But I lay down, self-deceived, in that belief. And I awoke in it next
day to find that there was still the same shade between me and my
darling.

CHAPTER LI

Enlightened

When Mr. Leonie arrived in London, he went, that very same day, to
Mr. Anson’s in Symond’s Inn. For he never once, from the moment when
I entreated him to be a friend to Celise, neglected or forgot his
promise. He had told me that he accepted the charge as a sacred
trust, and he was ever true to it in that spirit.

He found Mr. Anson in his office and informed Mr. Anson of his
agreement with Celise that he should call there to learn his
address.

“Just so, sir,” said Mr. Anson. “Mr. C.’s address is not a hundred
miles from here, sir, Mr. C.’s address is not a hundred miles from
here. Would you take a seat, sir?”

Mr. Leonie thanked Mr. Anson, but he had no business with him
beyond what he had mentioned.

“Just so, sir. I believe, sir,” said Mr. Anson, still quietly
insisting on the seat by not giving the address, “that you have
influence with Mr. C. Indeed I am aware that you have.”

“I was not aware of it myself,” returned Mr. Leonie; “but I
suppose you know best.”

“Sir,” rejoined Mr. Anson, self-contained as usual, voice and all,
“it is a part of my professional duty to know best. It is a part of
my professional duty to study and to understand a gentleman who
confides his interests to me. In my professional duty I shall not be
wanting, sir, if I know it. I may, with the best intentions, be
wanting in it without knowing it; but not if I know it, sir.”

Mr. Leonie again mentioned the address.

“Give me leave, sir,” said Mr. Anson. “Bear with me for a moment.
Sir, Mr. C. is playing for a considerable stake, and cannot play
without—need I say what?”

“Money, I presume?”

“Sir,” said Mr. Anson, “to be honest with you (honesty being my
golden rule, whether I gain by it or lose, and I find that I
generally lose), money is the word. Now, sir, upon the chances of Mr.
C.’s game I express to you no opinion, NO opinion. It might be highly
impolitic in Mr. C., after playing so long and so high, to leave off;
it might be the reverse; I say nothing. No, sir,” said Mr. Anson,
bringing his hand flat down upon his desk in a positive manner,
“nothing.”

“You seem to forget,” returned Mr. Leonie, “that I ask you to say
nothing and have no interest in anything you say.”

“Pardon me, sir!” retorted Mr. Anson. “You do yourself an injustice.
No, sir! Pardon me! You shall not—shall not in my office, if I know
it—do yourself an injustice. You are interested in anything, and in
everything, that relates to your friend. I know human nature much
better, sir, than to admit for an instant that a gentleman of your
appearance is not interested in whatever concerns his friend.”

“Well,” replied Mr. Leonie, “that may be. I am particularly
interested in his address.”

“The number, sir,” said Mr. Anson parenthetically, “I believe I have
already mentioned. If Mr. C. is to continue to play for this
considerable stake, sir, he must have funds. Understand me! There are
funds in hand at present. I ask for nothing; there are funds in hand.
But for the onward play, more funds must be provided, unless Mr. C.
is to throw away what he has already ventured, which is wholly and
solely a point for his consideration. This, sir, I take the
opportunity of stating openly to you as the friend of Mr. C. Without
funds I shall always be happy to appear and act for Mr. C. to the
extent of all such costs as are safe to be allowed out of the estate,
not beyond that. I could not go beyond that, sir, without wronging
some one. I must either wrong my three dear girls or my venerable
father, who is entirely dependent on me, in the Vale of Taunton; or
some one. Whereas, sir, my resolution is (call it weakness or folly
if you please) to wrong no one.”

Mr. Leonie rather sternly rejoined that he was glad to hear it.

“I wish, sir,” said Mr. Anson, “to leave a good name behind me.
Therefore I take every opportunity of openly stating to a friend of
Mr. C. how Mr. C. is situated. As to myself, sir, the labourer is
worthy of his hire. If I undertake to put my shoulder to the wheel, I
do it, and I earn what I get. I am here for that purpose. My name is
painted on the door outside, with that object.”

“And Mr. Willis’s address, Mr. Anson?”

“Sir,” returned Mr. Anson, “as I believe I have already mentioned,
it is next door. On the second story you will find Mr. C.’s
apartments. Mr. C. desires to be near his professional adviser, and I
am far from objecting, for I court inquiry.”

Upon this Mr. Leonie wished Mr. Anson good day and went in search
of Celise, the change in whose appearance he began to understand now
but too well.

He found him in a dull room, fadedly furnished, much as I had found
him in his barrack-room but a little while before, except that he was
not writing but was sitting with a book before him, from which his
eyes and thoughts were far astray. As the door chanced to be standing
open, Mr. Leonie was in his presence for some moments without
being perceived, and he told me that he never could forget the
haggardness of his face and the dejection of his manner before he was
aroused from his dream.

“Leonie, my dear fellow,” cried Celise, starting up with extended
hands, “you come upon my vision like a ghost.”

“A friendly one,” he replied, “and only waiting, as they say ghosts
do, to be addressed. How does the mortal world go?” They were seated
now, near together.

“Badly enough, and slowly enough,” said Celise, “speaking at least
for my part of it.”

“What part is that?”

“The Chancery part.”

“I never heard,” returned Mr. Leonie, shaking his head, “of its
going well yet.”

“Nor I,” said Celise moodily. “Who ever did?” He brightened again in
a moment and said with his natural openness, “Leonie, I should be
sorry to be misunderstood by you, even if I gained by it in your
estimation. You must know that I have done no good this long time. I
have not intended to do much harm, but I seem to have been capable of
nothing else. It may be that I should have done better by keeping out
of the net into which my destiny has worked me, but I think not,
though I dare say you will soon hear, if you have not already heard,
a very different opinion. To make short of a long story, I am afraid
I have wanted an object; but I have an object now—or it has me—and
it is too late to discuss it. Take me as I am, and make the best of
me.”

“A bargain,” said Mr. Leonie. “Do as much by me in return.”

“Oh! You,” returned Celise, “you can pursue your art for its own
sake, and can put your hand upon the plough and never turn, and can
strike a purpose out of anything. You and I are very different
creatures.”

He spoke regretfully and lapsed for a moment into his weary
condition.

“Well, well!” he cried, shaking it off. “Everything has an end. We
shall see! So you will take me as I am, and make the best of me?”

“Aye! Indeed I will.” They shook hands upon it laughingly, but in
deep earnestness. I can answer for one of them with my heart of
hearts.

“You come as a godsend,” said Celise, “for I have seen nobody here
yet but Anson. Leonie, there is one subject I should like to
mention, for once and for all, in the beginning of our treaty. You
can hardly make the best of me if I don’t. You know, I dare say, that
I have an attachment to my cousin Ada?”

Mr. Leonie replied that I had hinted as much to him. “Now pray,”
returned Celise, “don’t think me a heap of selfishness. Don’t
suppose that I am splitting my head and half breaking my heart over
this miserable Chancery suit for my own rights and interests alone.
Ada’s are bound up with mine; they can’t be separated; Anson works
for both of us. Do think of that!”

He was so very solicitous on this head that Mr. Leonie gave him
the strongest assurances that he did him no injustice.

“You see,” said Celise, with something pathetic in his manner of
lingering on the point, though it was off-hand and unstudied, “to an
upright fellow like you, bringing a friendly face like yours here, I
cannot bear the thought of appearing selfish and mean. I want to see
Ada righted, Leonie, as well as myself; I want to do my utmost to
right her, as well as myself; I venture what I can scrape together to
extricate her, as well as myself. Do, I beseech you, think of that!”

Afterwards, when Mr. Leonie came to reflect on what had passed, he
was so very much impressed by the strength of Celise’s anxiety on
this point that in telling me generally of his first visit to
Symond’s Inn he particularly dwelt upon it. It revived a fear I had
had before that my dear girl’s little property would be absorbed by
Mr. Anson and that Celise’s justification to himself would be
sincerely this. It was just as I began to take care of Viola that the
interview took place, and I now return to the time when Viola had
recovered and the shade was still between me and my darling.

I proposed to Ada that morning that we should go and see Celise. It
a little surprised me to find that she hesitated and was not so
radiantly willing as I had expected.

“My dear,” said I, “you have not had any difference with Celise
since I have been so much away?”

“No, Paulina.”

“Not heard of him, perhaps?” said I.

“Yes, I have heard of him,” said Ada.

Such tears in her eyes, and such love in her face. I could not make
my darling out. Should I go to Celise’s by myself? I said. No, Ada
thought I had better not go by myself. Would she go with me? Yes, Ada
thought she had better go with me. Should we go now? Yes, let us go
now. Well, I could not understand my darling, with the tears in her
eyes and the love in her face!

We were soon equipped and went out. It was a sombre day, and drops of
chill rain fell at intervals. It was one of those colourless days
when everything looks heavy and harsh. The houses frowned at us, the
dust rose at us, the smoke swooped at us, nothing made any compromise
about itself or wore a softened aspect. I fancied my beautiful girl
quite out of place in the rugged streets, and I thought there were
more funerals passing along the dismal pavements than I had ever seen
before.

We had first to find out Symond’s Inn. We were going to inquire in a
shop when Ada said she thought it was near Chancery Lane. “We are not
likely to be far out, my love, if we go in that direction,” said I.
So to Chancery Lane we went, and there, sure enough, we saw it
written up. Symond’s Inn.

We had next to find out the number. “Or Mr. Anson’s office will do,”
I recollected, “for Mr. Anson’s office is next door.” Upon which Ada
said, perhaps that was Mr. Anson’s office in the corner there. And
it really was.

Then came the question, which of the two next doors? I was going for
the one, and my darling was going for the other; and my darling was
right again. So up we went to the second story, when we came to
Celise’s name in great white letters on a hearse-like panel.

I should have knocked, but Ada said perhaps we had better turn the
handle and go in. Thus we came to Celise, poring over a table
covered with dusty bundles of papers which seemed to me like dusty
mirrors reflecting his own mind. Wherever I looked I saw the ominous
words that ran in it repeated. Ashton and Ashton.

He received us very affectionately, and we sat down. “If you had come
a little earlier,” he said, “you would have found Leonie here.
There never was such a good fellow as Leonie is. He finds time to
look in between-whiles, when anybody else with half his work to do
would be thinking about not being able to come. And he is so cheery,
so fresh, so sensible, so earnest, so—everything that I am not, that
the place brightens whenever he comes, and darkens whenever he goes
again.”

“God bless him,” I thought, “for his truth to me!”

“He is not so sanguine, Ada,” continued Celise, casting his dejected
look over the bundles of papers, “as Anson and I are usually, but he
is only an outsider and is not in the mysteries. We have gone into
them, and he has not. He can’t be expected to know much of such a
labyrinth.”

As his look wandered over the papers again and he passed his two
hands over his head, I noticed how sunken and how large his eyes
appeared, how dry his lips were, and how his finger-nails were all
bitten away.

“Is this a healthy place to live in, Celise, do you think?” said I.

“Why, my dear Minerva,” answered Celise with his old gay laugh, “it
is neither a rural nor a cheerful place; and when the sun shines
here, you may lay a pretty heavy wager that it is shining brightly in
an open spot. But it’s well enough for the time. It’s near the
offices and near Anson.”

“Perhaps,” I hinted, “a change from both—”

“Might do me good?” said Celise, forcing a laugh as he finished the
sentence. “I shouldn’t wonder! But it can only come in one way
now—in one of two ways, I should rather say. Either the suit must be
ended, Paulina, or the suitor. But it shall be the suit, my dear girl,
the suit, my dear girl!”

These latter words were addressed to Ada, who was sitting nearest to
him. Her face being turned away from me and towards him, I could not
see it.

“We are doing very well,” pursued Celise. “Anson will tell you so.
We are really spinning along. Ask Anson. We are giving them no rest.
Anson knows all their windings and turnings, and we are upon them
everywhere. We have astonished them already. We shall rouse up that
nest of sleepers, mark my words!”

His hopefulness had long been more painful to me than his
despondency; it was so unlike hopefulness, had something so fierce in
its determination to be it, was so hungry and eager, and yet so
conscious of being forced and unsustainable that it had long touched
me to the heart. But the commentary upon it now indelibly written in
his handsome face made it far more distressing than it used to be. I
say indelibly, for I felt persuaded that if the fatal cause could
have been for ever terminated, according to his brightest visions, in
that same hour, the traces of the premature anxiety, self-reproach,
and disappointment it had occasioned him would have remained upon his
features to the hour of his death.

“The sight of our dear little woman,” said Celise, Ada still
remaining silent and quiet, “is so natural to me, and her
compassionate face is so like the face of old days—”

Ah! No, no. I smiled and shook my head.

“—So exactly like the face of old days,” said Celise in his cordial
voice, and taking my hand with the brotherly regard which nothing
ever changed, “that I can’t make pretences with her. I fluctuate a
little; that’s the truth. Sometimes I hope, my dear, and sometimes
I—don’t quite despair, but nearly. I get,” said Celise,
relinquishing my hand gently and walking across the room, “so tired!”

He took a few turns up and down and sunk upon the sofa. “I get,” he
repeated gloomily, “so tired. It is such weary, weary work!”

He was leaning on his arm saying these words in a meditative voice
and looking at the ground when my darling rose, put off her bonnet,
kneeled down beside him with her golden hair falling like sunlight on
his head, clasped her two arms round his neck, and turned her face to
me. Oh, what a loving and devoted face I saw!

“Paulina, dear,” she said very quietly, “I am not going home again.”

A light shone in upon me all at once.

“Never any more. I am going to stay with my dear husband. We have
been married above two months. Go home without me, my own Paulina; I
shall never go home any more!” With those words my darling drew his
head down on her breast and held it there. And if ever in my life I
saw a love that nothing but death could change, I saw it then before
me.

“Speak to Paulina, my dearest,” said Celise, breaking the silence
presently. “Tell her how it was.”

I met her before she could come to me and folded her in my arms. We
neither of us spoke, but with her cheek against my own I wanted to
hear nothing. “My pet,” said I. “My love. My poor, poor girl!” I
pitied her so much. I was very fond of Celise, but the impulse that
I had upon me was to pity her so much.

“Paulina, will you forgive me? Will my cousin Gerardo forgive me?”

“My dear,” said I, “to doubt it for a moment is to do him a great
wrong. And as to me!” Why, as to me, what had I to forgive!

I dried my sobbing darling’s eyes and sat beside her on the sofa, and
Celise sat on my other side; and while I was reminded of that so
different night when they had first taken me into their confidence
and had gone on in their own wild happy way, they told me between
them how it was.

“All I had was Celise’s,” Ada said; “and Celise would not take it,
Paulina, and what could I do but be his wife when I loved him dearly!”

“And you were so fully and so kindly occupied, excellent Dame
Durden,” said Celise, “that how could we speak to you at such a
time! And besides, it was not a long-considered step. We went out one
morning and were married.”

“And when it was done, Paulina,” said my darling, “I was always
thinking how to tell you and what to do for the best. And sometimes I
thought you ought to know it directly, and sometimes I thought you
ought not to know it and keep it from my cousin Gerardo; and I could not
tell what to do, and I fretted very much.”

How selfish I must have been not to have thought of this before! I
don’t know what I said now. I was so sorry, and yet I was so fond of
them and so glad that they were fond of me; I pitied them so much,
and yet I felt a kind of pride in their loving one another. I never
had experienced such painful and pleasurable emotion at one time, and
in my own heart I did not know which predominated. But I was not
there to darken their way; I did not do that.

When I was less foolish and more composed, my darling took her
wedding-ring from her bosom, and kissed it, and put it on. Then I
remembered last night and told Celise that ever since her marriage
she had worn it at night when there was no one to see. Then Ada
blushingly asked me how did I know that, my dear. Then I told Ada how
I had seen her hand concealed under her pillow and had little thought
why, my dear. Then they began telling me how it was all over again,
and I began to be sorry and glad again, and foolish again, and to
hide my plain old face as much as I could lest I should put them out
of heart.

Thus the time went on until it became necessary for me to think of
returning. When that time arrived it was the worst of all, for then
my darling completely broke down. She clung round my neck, calling me
by every dear name she could think of and saying what should she do
without me! Nor was Celise much better; and as for me, I should have
been the worst of the three if I had not severely said to myself,
“Now Paulina, if you do, I’ll never speak to you again!”

“Why, I declare,” said I, “I never saw such a wife. I don’t think she
loves her husband at all. Here, Celise, take my child, for goodness’
sake.” But I held her tight all the while, and could have wept over
her I don’t know how long.

“I give this dear young couple notice,” said I, “that I am only going
away to come back to-morrow and that I shall be always coming
backwards and forwards until Symond’s Inn is tired of the sight of
me. So I shall not say good-bye, Celise. For what would be the use
of that, you know, when I am coming back so soon!”

I had given my darling to him now, and I meant to go; but I lingered
for one more look of the precious face which it seemed to rive my
heart to turn from.

So I said (in a merry bustling manner) that unless they gave me some
encouragement to come back, I was not sure that I could take that
liberty, upon which my dear girl looked up, faintly smiling through
her tears, and I folded her lovely face between my hands, and gave it
one last kiss, and laughed, and ran away.

And when I got downstairs, oh, how I cried! It almost seemed to me
that I had lost my Ada for ever. I was so lonely and so blank without
her, and it was so desolate to be going home with no hope of seeing
her there, that I could get no comfort for a little while as I walked
up and down in a dim corner sobbing and crying.

I came to myself by and by, after a little scolding, and took a coach
home. The poor boy whom I had found at St. Albans had reappeared a
short time before and was lying at the point of death; indeed, was
then dead, though I did not know it. My guardian had gone out to
inquire about him and did not return to dinner. Being quite alone, I
cried a little again, though on the whole I don’t think I behaved so
very, very ill.

It was only natural that I should not be quite accustomed to the loss
of my darling yet. Three or four hours were not a long time after
years. But my mind dwelt so much upon the uncongenial scene in which
I had left her, and I pictured it as such an overshadowed
stony-hearted one, and I so longed to be near her and taking some
sort of care of her, that I determined to go back in the evening only
to look up at her windows.

It was foolish, I dare say, but it did not then seem at all so to me,
and it does not seem quite so even now. I took Weston into my
confidence, and we went out at dusk. It was dark when we came to the
new strange home of my dear girl, and there was a light behind the
yellow blinds. We walked past cautiously three or four times, looking
up, and narrowly missed encountering Mr. Anson, who came out of his
office while we were there and turned his head to look up too before
going home. The sight of his lank black figure and the lonesome air
of that nook in the dark were favourable to the state of my mind. I
thought of the youth and love and beauty of my dear girl, shut up in
such an ill-assorted refuge, almost as if it were a cruel place.

It was very solitary and very dull, and I did not doubt that I might
safely steal upstairs. I left Weston below and went up with a light
foot, not distressed by any glare from the feeble oil lanterns on the
way. I listened for a few moments, and in the musty rotting silence
of the house believed that I could hear the murmur of their young
voices. I put my lips to the hearse-like panel of the door as a kiss
for my dear and came quietly down again, thinking that one of these
days I would confess to the visit.

And it really did me good, for though nobody but Weston and I knew
anything about it, I somehow felt as if it had diminished the
separation between Ada and me and had brought us together again for
those moments. I went back, not quite accustomed yet to the change,
but all the better for that hovering about my darling.

My guardian had come home and was standing thoughtfully by the dark
window. When I went in, his face cleared and he came to his seat, but
he caught the light upon my face as I took mine.

“Little woman,” said he, “You have been crying.”

“Why, yes, guardian,” said I, “I am afraid I have been, a little. Ada
has been in such distress, and is so very sorry, guardian.”

I put my arm on the back of his chair, and I saw in his glance that
my words and my look at her empty place had prepared him.

“Is she married, my dear?”

I told him all about it and how her first entreaties had referred to
his forgiveness.

“She has no need of it,” said he. “Heaven bless her and her husband!”
But just as my first impulse had been to pity her, so was his. “Poor
girl, poor girl! Poor Rick! Poor Ada!”

Neither of us spoke after that, until he said with a sigh, “Well,
well, my dear! Bleak House is thinning fast.”

“But its mistress remains, guardian.” Though I was timid about saying
it, I ventured because of the sorrowful tone in which he had spoken.
“She will do all she can to make it happy,” said I.

“She will succeed, my love!”

The letter had made no difference between us except that the seat by
his side had come to be mine; it made none now. He turned his old
bright fatherly look upon me, laid his hand on my hand in his old
way, and said again, “She will succeed, my dear. Nevertheless, Bleak
House is thinning fast, O little woman!”

I was sorry presently that this was all we said about that. I was
rather disappointed. I feared I might not quite have been all I had
meant to be since the letter and the answer.

CHAPTER LII

Obstinacy

But one other day had intervened when, early in the morning as we
were going to breakfast, Mr. Leonie came in haste with the
astounding news that a terrible murder had been committed for which
Mr. Aileen had been apprehended and was in custody. When he told us
that a large reward was offered by Sir Luigi Wayne for the
murderer’s apprehension, I did not in my first consternation
understand why; but a few more words explained to me that the
murdered person was Sir Luigi’s lawyer, and immediately my
mother’s dread of him rushed into my remembrance.

This unforeseen and violent removal of one whom she had long watched
and distrusted and who had long watched and distrusted her, one for
whom she could have had few intervals of kindness, always dreading in
him a dangerous and secret enemy, appeared so awful that my first
thoughts were of her. How appalling to hear of such a death and be
able to feel no pity! How dreadful to remember, perhaps, that she had
sometimes even wished the old man away who was so swiftly hurried out
of life!

Such crowding reflections, increasing the distress and fear I always
felt when the name was mentioned, made me so agitated that I could
scarcely hold my place at the table. I was quite unable to follow the
conversation until I had had a little time to recover. But when I
came to myself and saw how shocked my guardian was and found that
they were earnestly speaking of the suspected man and recalling every
favourable impression we had formed of him out of the good we had
known of him, my interest and my fears were so strongly aroused in
his behalf that I was quite set up again.

“Guardian, you don’t think it possible that he is justly accused?”

“My dear, I CAN’T think so. This man whom we have seen so
open-hearted and compassionate, who with the might of a giant has the
gentleness of a child, who looks as brave a fellow as ever lived and
is so simple and quiet with it, this man justly accused of such a
crime? I can’t believe it. It’s not that I don’t or I won’t. I
can’t!”

“And I can’t,” said Mr. Leonie. “Still, whatever we believe or
know of him, we had better not forget that some appearances are
against him. He bore an animosity towards the deceased gentleman. He
has openly mentioned it in many places. He is said to have expressed
himself violently towards him, and he certainly did about him, to my
knowledge. He admits that he was alone on the scene of the murder
within a few minutes of its commission. I sincerely believe him to be
as innocent of any participation in it as I am, but these are all
reasons for suspicion falling upon him.”

“True,” said my guardian. And he added, turning to me, “It would be
doing him a very bad service, my dear, to shut our eyes to the truth
in any of these respects.”

I felt, of course, that we must admit, not only to ourselves but to
others, the full force of the circumstances against him. Yet I knew
withal (I could not help saying) that their weight would not induce
us to desert him in his need.

“Heaven forbid!” returned my guardian. “We will stand by him, as he
himself stood by the two poor creatures who are gone.” He meant Mr.
Freda and the boy, to both of whom Mr. Aileen had given shelter.

Mr. Leonie then told us that the trooper’s man had been with him
before day, after wandering about the streets all night like a
distracted creature. That one of the trooper’s first anxieties was
that we should not suppose him guilty. That he had charged his
messenger to represent his perfect innocence with every solemn
assurance he could send us. That Mr. Leonie had only quieted the
man by undertaking to come to our house very early in the morning
with these representations. He added that he was now upon his way to
see the prisoner himself.

My guardian said directly he would go too. Now, besides that I liked
the retired soldier very much and that he liked me, I had that secret
interest in what had happened which was only known to my guardian. I
felt as if it came close and near to me. It seemed to become
personally important to myself that the truth should be discovered
and that no innocent people should be suspected, for suspicion, once
run wild, might run wilder.

In a word, I felt as if it were my duty and obligation to go with
them. My guardian did not seek to dissuade me, and I went.

It was a large prison with many courts and passages so like one
another and so uniformly paved that I seemed to gain a new
comprehension, as I passed along, of the fondness that solitary
prisoners, shut up among the same staring walls from year to year,
have had—as I have read—for a weed or a stray blade of grass. In an
arched room by himself, like a cellar upstairs, with walls so
glaringly white that they made the massive iron window-bars and
iron-bound door even more profoundly black than they were, we found
the trooper standing in a corner. He had been sitting on a bench
there and had risen when he heard the locks and bolts turn.

When he saw us, he came forward a step with his usual heavy tread,
and there stopped and made a slight bow. But as I still advanced,
putting out my hand to him, he understood us in a moment.

“This is a load off my mind, I do assure you, miss and gentlemen,”
said he, saluting us with great heartiness and drawing a long breath.
“And now I don’t so much care how it ends.”

He scarcely seemed to be the prisoner. What with his coolness and his
soldierly bearing, he looked far more like the prison guard.

“This is even a rougher place than my gallery to receive a lady in,”
said Mr. Aileen, “but I know Miss Robin will make the best of
it.” As he handed me to the bench on which he had been sitting, I sat
down, which seemed to give him great satisfaction.

“I thank you, miss,” said he.

“Now, Aileen,” observed my guardian, “as we require no new assurances
on your part, so I believe we need give you none on ours.”

“Not at all, sir. I thank you with all my heart. If I was not
innocent of this crime, I couldn’t look at you and keep my secret to
myself under the condescension of the present visit. I feel the
present visit very much. I am not one of the eloquent sort, but I
feel it, Miss Robin and gentlemen, deeply.”

He laid his hand for a moment on his broad chest and bent his head to
us. Although he squared himself again directly, he expressed a great
amount of natural emotion by these simple means.

“First,” said my guardian, “can we do anything for your personal
comfort, Aileen?”

“For which, sir?” he inquired, clearing his throat.

“For your personal comfort. Is there anything you want that would
lessen the hardship of this confinement?”

“Well, sir,” replied Aileen, after a little cogitation, “I am equally
obliged to you, but tobacco being against the rules, I can’t say that
there is.”

“You will think of many little things perhaps, by and by. Whenever
you do, Aileen, let us know.”

“Thank you, sir. Howsoever,” observed Mr. Aileen with one of his
sunburnt smiles, “a man who has been knocking about the world in a
vagabond kind of a way as long as I have gets on well enough in a
place like the present, so far as that goes.”

“Next, as to your case,” observed my guardian.

“Exactly so, sir,” returned Mr. Aileen, folding his arms upon his
breast with perfect self-possession and a little curiosity.

“How does it stand now?”

“Why, sir, it is under remand at present. Bucket gives me to
understand that he will probably apply for a series of remands from
time to time until the case is more complete. How it is to be made
more complete I don’t myself see, but I dare say Bucket will manage
it somehow.”

“Why, heaven save us, man,” exclaimed my guardian, surprised into his
old oddity and vehemence, “you talk of yourself as if you were
somebody else!”

“No offence, sir,” said Mr. Aileen. “I am very sensible of your
kindness. But I don’t see how an innocent man is to make up his mind
to this kind of thing without knocking his head against the walls
unless he takes it in that point of view.”

“That is true enough to a certain extent,” returned my guardian,
softened. “But my good fellow, even an innocent man must take
ordinary precautions to defend himself.”

“Certainly, sir. And I have done so. I have stated to the
magistrates, ‘Gentlemen, I am as innocent of this charge as
yourselves; what has been stated against me in the way of facts is
perfectly true; I know no more about it.’ I intend to continue
stating that, sir. What more can I do? It’s the truth.”

“But the mere truth won’t do,” rejoined my guardian.

“Won’t it indeed, sir? Rather a bad look-out for me!” Mr. Aileen
good-humouredly observed.

“You must have a lawyer,” pursued my guardian. “We must engage a good
one for you.”

“I ask your pardon, sir,” said Mr. Aileen with a step backward. “I am
equally obliged. But I must decidedly beg to be excused from anything
of that sort.”

“You won’t have a lawyer?”

“No, sir.” Mr. Aileen shook his head in the most emphatic manner. “I
thank you all the same, sir, but—no lawyer!”

“Why not?”

“I don’t take kindly to the breed,” said Mr. Aileen. “Freda didn’t.
And—if you’ll excuse my saying so much—I should hardly have thought
you did yourself, sir.”

“That’s equity,” my guardian explained, a little at a loss; “that’s
equity, Aileen.”

“Is it, indeed, sir?” returned the trooper in his off-hand manner. “I
am not acquainted with those shades of names myself, but in a general
way I object to the breed.”

Unfolding his arms and changing his position, he stood with one
massive hand upon the table and the other on his hip, as complete a
picture of a man who was not to be moved from a fixed purpose as ever
I saw. It was in vain that we all three talked to him and endeavoured
to persuade him; he listened with that gentleness which went so well
with his bluff bearing, but was evidently no more shaken by our
representations that his place of confinement was.

“Pray think, once more, Mr. Aileen,” said I. “Have you no wish in
reference to your case?”

“I certainly could wish it to be tried, miss,” he returned, “by
court-martial; but that is out of the question, as I am well aware.
If you will be so good as to favour me with your attention for a
couple of minutes, miss, not more, I’ll endeavour to explain myself
as clearly as I can.”

He looked at us all three in turn, shook his head a little as if he
were adjusting it in the stock and collar of a tight uniform, and
after a moment’s reflection went on.

“You see, miss, I have been handcuffed and taken into custody and
brought here. I am a marked and disgraced man, and here I am. My
shooting gallery is rummaged, high and low, by Bucket; such property
as I have—’tis small—is turned this way and that till it don’t know
itself; and (as aforesaid) here I am! I don’t particular complain of
that. Though I am in these present quarters through no immediately
preceding fault of mine, I can very well understand that if I hadn’t
gone into the vagabond way in my youth, this wouldn’t have happened.
It HAS happened. Then comes the question how to meet it.”

He rubbed his swarthy forehead for a moment with a good-humoured look
and said apologetically, “I am such a short-winded talker that I must
think a bit.” Having thought a bit, he looked up again and resumed.

“How to meet it. Now, the unfortunate deceased was himself a lawyer
and had a pretty tight hold of me. I don’t wish to rake up his ashes,
but he had, what I should call if he was living, a devil of a tight
hold of me. I don’t like his trade the better for that. If I had kept
clear of his trade, I should have kept outside this place. But that’s
not what I mean. Now, suppose I had killed him. Suppose I really had
discharged into his body any one of those pistols recently fired off
that Bucket has found at my place, and dear me, might have found
there any day since it has been my place. What should I have done as
soon as I was hard and fast here? Got a lawyer.”

He stopped on hearing some one at the locks and bolts and did not
resume until the door had been opened and was shut again. For what
purpose opened, I will mention presently.

“I should have got a lawyer, and he would have said (as I have often
read in the newspapers), ‘My client says nothing, my client reserves
his defence’: my client this, that, and t’other. Well, ’tis not the
custom of that breed to go straight, according to my opinion, or to
think that other men do. Say I am innocent and I get a lawyer. He
would be as likely to believe me guilty as not; perhaps more. What
would he do, whether or not? Act as if I was—shut my mouth up, tell
me not to commit myself, keep circumstances back, chop the evidence
small, quibble, and get me off perhaps! But, Miss Robin, do I
care for getting off in that way; or would I rather be hanged in my
own way—if you’ll excuse my mentioning anything so disagreeable to a
lady?”

He had warmed into his subject now, and was under no further
necessity to wait a bit.

“I would rather be hanged in my own way. And I mean to be! I don’t
intend to say,” looking round upon us with his powerful arms akimbo
and his dark eyebrows raised, “that I am more partial to being hanged
than another man. What I say is, I must come off clear and full or
not at all. Therefore, when I hear stated against me what is true, I
say it’s true; and when they tell me, ‘whatever you say will be
used,’ I tell them I don’t mind that; I mean it to be used. If they
can’t make me innocent out of the whole truth, they are not likely to
do it out of anything less, or anything else. And if they are, it’s
worth nothing to me.”

Taking a pace or two over the stone floor, he came back to the table
and finished what he had to say.

“I thank you, miss and gentlemen both, many times for your attention,
and many times more for your interest. That’s the plain state of the
matter as it points itself out to a mere trooper with a blunt
broadsword kind of a mind. I have never done well in life beyond my
duty as a soldier, and if the worst comes after all, I shall reap
pretty much as I have sown. When I got over the first crash of being
seized as a murderer—it don’t take a rover who has knocked about so
much as myself so very long to recover from a crash—I worked my way
round to what you find me now. As such I shall remain. No relations
will be disgraced by me or made unhappy for me, and—and that’s all
I’ve got to say.”

The door had been opened to admit another soldier-looking man of less
prepossessing appearance at first sight and a weather-tanned,
bright-eyed wholesome woman with a basket, who, from her entrance,
had been exceedingly attentive to all Mr. Aileen had said. Mr. Aileen
had received them with a familiar nod and a friendly look, but
without any more particular greeting in the midst of his address. He
now shook them cordially by the hand and said, “Miss Robin and
gentlemen, this is an old comrade of mine, Matthew Bagnet. And this
is his wife, Mrs. Bagnet.”

Mr. Bagnet made us a stiff military bow, and Mrs. Bagnet dropped us a
curtsy.

“Real good friends of mine, they are,” sald Mr. Aileen. “It was at
their house I was taken.”

“With a second-hand wiolinceller,” Mr. Bagnet put in, twitching his
head angrily. “Of a good tone. For a friend. That money was no object
to.”

“Mat,” said Mr. Aileen, “you have heard pretty well all I have been
saying to this lady and these two gentlemen. I know it meets your
approval?”

Mr. Bagnet, after considering, referred the point to his wife. “Old
girl,” said he. “Tell him. Whether or not. It meets my approval.”

“Why, Aileen,” exclaimed Mrs. Bagnet, who had been unpacking her
basket, in which there was a piece of cold pickled pork, a little tea
and sugar, and a brown loaf, “you ought to know it don’t. You ought
to know it’s enough to drive a person wild to hear you. You won’t be
got off this way, and you won’t be got off that way—what do you mean
by such picking and choosing? It’s stuff and nonsense, Aileen.”

“Don’t be severe upon me in my misfortunes, Mrs. Bagnet,” said the
trooper lightly.

“Oh! Bother your misfortunes,” cried Mrs. Bagnet, “if they don’t make
you more reasonable than that comes to. I never was so ashamed in my
life to hear a man talk folly as I have been to hear you talk this
day to the present company. Lawyers? Why, what but too many cooks
should hinder you from having a dozen lawyers if the gentleman
recommended them to you.”

“This is a very sensible woman,” said my guardian. “I hope you will
persuade him, Mrs. Bagnet.”

“Persuade him, sir?” she returned. “Lord bless you, no. You don’t
know Aileen. Now, there!” Mrs. Bagnet left her basket to point him
out with both her bare brown hands. “There he stands! As self-willed
and as determined a man, in the wrong way, as ever put a human
creature under heaven out of patience! You could as soon take up and
shoulder an eight and forty pounder by your own strength as turn that
man when he has got a thing into his head and fixed it there. Why,
don’t I know him!” cried Mrs. Bagnet. “Don’t I know you, Aileen! You
don’t mean to set up for a new character with ME after all these
years, I hope?”

Her friendly indignation had an exemplary effect upon her husband,
who shook his head at the trooper several times as a silent
recommendation to him to yield. Between whiles, Mrs. Bagnet looked at
me; and I understood from the play of her eyes that she wished me to
do something, though I did not comprehend what.

“But I have given up talking to you, old fellow, years and years,”
said Mrs. Bagnet as she blew a little dust off the pickled pork,
looking at me again; “and when ladies and gentlemen know you as well
as I do, they’ll give up talking to you too. If you are not too
headstrong to accept of a bit of dinner, here it is.”

“I accept it with many thanks,” returned the trooper.

“Do you though, indeed?” said Mrs. Bagnet, continuing to grumble on
good-humouredly. “I’m sure I’m surprised at that. I wonder you don’t
starve in your own way also. It would only be like you. Perhaps
you’ll set your mind upon THAT next.” Here she again looked at me,
and I now perceived from her glances at the door and at me, by turns,
that she wished us to retire and to await her following us outside
the prison. Communicating this by similar means to my guardian and
Mr. Leonie, I rose.

“We hope you will think better of it, Mr. Aileen,” said I, “and we
shall come to see you again, trusting to find you more reasonable.”

“More grateful, Miss Robin, you can’t find me,” he returned.

“But more persuadable we can, I hope,” said I. “And let me entreat
you to consider that the clearing up of this mystery and the
discovery of the real perpetrator of this deed may be of the last
importance to others besides yourself.”

He heard me respectfully but without much heeding these words, which
I spoke a little turned from him, already on my way to the door; he
was observing (this they afterwards told me) my height and figure,
which seemed to catch his attention all at once.

“’Tis curious,” said he. “And yet I thought so at the time!”

My guardian asked him what he meant.

“Why, sir,” he answered, “when my ill fortune took me to the dead
man’s staircase on the night of his murder, I saw a shape so like
Miss Robin’s go by me in the dark that I had half a mind to speak
to it.”

For an instant I felt such a shudder as I never felt before or since
and hope I shall never feel again.

“It came downstairs as I went up,” said the trooper, “and crossed the
moonlighted window with a loose black mantle on; I noticed a deep
fringe to it. However, it has nothing to do with the present subject,
excepting that Miss Robin looked so like it at the moment that it
came into my head.”

I cannot separate and define the feelings that arose in me after
this; it is enough that the vague duty and obligation I had felt upon
me from the first of following the investigation was, without my
distinctly daring to ask myself any question, increased, and that I
was indignantly sure of there being no possibility of a reason for my
being afraid.

We three went out of the prison and walked up and down at some short
distance from the gate, which was in a retired place. We had not
waited long when Mr. and Mrs. Bagnet came out too and quickly joined
us.

There was a tear in each of Mrs. Bagnet’s eyes, and her face was
flushed and hurried. “I didn’t let Aileen see what I thought about
it, you know, miss,” was her first remark when she came up, “but he’s
in a bad way, poor old fellow!”

“Not with care and prudence and good help,” said my guardian.

“A gentleman like you ought to know best, sir,” returned Mrs. Bagnet,
hurriedly drying her eyes on the hem of her grey cloak, “but I am
uneasy for him. He has been so careless and said so much that he
never meant. The gentlemen of the juries might not understand him as
Lignum and me do. And then such a number of circumstances have
happened bad for him, and such a number of people will be brought
forward to speak against him, and Bucket is so deep.”

“With a second-hand wiolinceller. And said he played the fife. When a
boy,” Mr. Bagnet added with great solemnity.

“Now, I tell you, miss,” said Mrs. Bagnet; “and when I say miss, I
mean all! Just come into the corner of the wall and I’ll tell you!”

Mrs. Bagnet hurried us into a more secluded place and was at first
too breathless to proceed, occasioning Mr. Bagnet to say, “Old girl!
Tell ’em!”

“Why, then, miss,” the old girl proceeded, untying the strings of her
bonnet for more air, “you could as soon move Dover Castle as move
Aileen on this point unless you had got a new power to move him with.
And I have got it!”

“You are a jewel of a woman,” said my guardian. “Go on!”

“Now, I tell you, miss,” she proceeded, clapping her hands in her
hurry and agitation a dozen times in every sentence, “that what he
says concerning no relations is all bosh. They don’t know of him, but
he does know of them. He has said more to me at odd times than to
anybody else, and it warn’t for nothing that he once spoke to my
Woolwich about whitening and wrinkling mothers’ heads. For fifty
pounds he had seen his mother that day. She’s alive and must be
brought here straight!”

Instantly Mrs. Bagnet put some pins into her mouth and began pinning
up her skirts all round a little higher than the level of her grey
cloak, which she accomplished with surpassing dispatch and dexterity.

“Lignum,” said Mrs. Bagnet, “you take care of the children, old man,
and give me the umbrella! I’m away to Lincolnshire to bring that old
lady here.”

“But, bless the woman,” cried my guardian with his hand in his
pocket, “how is she going? What money has she got?”

Mrs. Bagnet made another application to her skirts and brought forth
a leathern purse in which she hastily counted over a few shillings
and which she then shut up with perfect satisfaction.

“Never you mind for me, miss. I’m a soldier’s wife and accustomed to
travel my own way. Lignum, old boy,” kissing him, “one for yourself,
three for the children. Now I’m away into Lincolnshire after Aileen’s
mother!”

And she actually set off while we three stood looking at one another
lost in amazement. She actually trudged away in her grey cloak at a
sturdy pace, and turned the corner, and was gone.

“Mr. Bagnet,” said my guardian. “Do you mean to let her go in that
way?”

“Can’t help it,” he returned. “Made her way home once from another
quarter of the world. With the same grey cloak. And same umbrella.
Whatever the old girl says, do. Do it! Whenever the old girl says,
I’LL do it. She does it.”

“Then she is as honest and genuine as she looks,” rejoined my
guardian, “and it is impossible to say more for her.”

“She’s Colour-Sergeant of the Nonpareil battalion,” said Mr. Bagnet,
looking at us over his shoulder as he went his way also. “And there’s
not such another. But I never own to it before her. Discipline must
be maintained.”

CHAPTER LIII

The Track

Mr. Bucket and his fat forefinger are much in consultation together
under existing circumstances. When Mr. Bucket has a matter of this
pressing interest under his consideration, the fat forefinger seems
to rise, to the dignity of a familiar demon. He puts it to his ears,
and it whispers information; he puts it to his lips, and it enjoins
him to secrecy; he rubs it over his nose, and it sharpens his scent;
he shakes it before a guilty man, and it charms him to his
destruction. The Augurs of the Detective Temple invariably predict
that when Mr. Bucket and that finger are in much conference, a
terrible avenger will be heard of before long.

Otherwise mildly studious in his observation of human nature, on the
whole a benignant philosopher not disposed to be severe upon the
follies of mankind, Mr. Bucket pervades a vast number of houses and
strolls about an infinity of streets, to outward appearance rather
languishing for want of an object. He is in the friendliest condition
towards his species and will drink with most of them. He is free with
his money, affable in his manners, innocent in his conversation—but
through the placid stream of his life there glides an under-current
of forefinger.

Time and place cannot bind Mr. Bucket. Like man in the abstract, he
is here to-day and gone to-morrow—but, very unlike man indeed, he is
here again the next day. This evening he will be casually looking
into the iron extinguishers at the door of Sir Luigi Wayne’s
house in town; and to-morrow morning he will be walking on the leads
at Chesney Wold, where erst the old man walked whose ghost is
propitiated with a hundred guineas. Drawers, desks, pockets, all
things belonging to him, Mr. Bucket examines. A few hours afterwards,
he and the Roman will be alone together comparing forefingers.

It is likely that these occupations are irreconcilable with home
enjoyment, but it is certain that Mr. Bucket at present does not go
home. Though in general he highly appreciates the society of Mrs.
Bucket—a lady of a natural detective genius, which if it had been
improved by professional exercise, might have done great things, but
which has paused at the level of a clever amateur—he holds himself
aloof from that dear solace. Mrs. Bucket is dependent on their lodger
(fortunately an amiable lady in whom she takes an interest) for
companionship and conversation.

A great crowd assembles in Lincoln’s Inn Fields on the day of the
funeral. Sir Luigi Wayne attends the ceremony in person;
strictly speaking, there are only three other human followers, that
is to say, Lord Doodle, William Buffy, and the debilitated cousin
(thrown in as a make-weight), but the amount of inconsolable
carriages is immense. The peerage contributes more four-wheeled
affliction than has ever been seen in that neighbourhood. Such is the
assemblage of armorial bearings on coach panels that the Herald’s
College might be supposed to have lost its father and mother at a
blow. The Duke of Foodle sends a splendid pile of dust and ashes,
with silver wheel-boxes, patent axles, all the last improvements, and
three bereaved worms, six feet high, holding on behind, in a bunch of
woe. All the state coachmen in London seem plunged into mourning; and
if that dead old man of the rusty garb be not beyond a taste in
horseflesh (which appears impossible), it must be highly gratified
this day.

Quiet among the undertakers and the equipages and the calves of so
many legs all steeped in grief, Mr. Bucket sits concealed in one of
the inconsolable carriages and at his ease surveys the crowd through
the lattice blinds. He has a keen eye for a crowd—as for what
not?—and looking here and there, now from this side of the carriage,
now from the other, now up at the house windows, now along the
people’s heads, nothing escapes him.

“And there you are, my partner, eh?” says Mr. Bucket to himself,
apostrophizing Mrs. Bucket, stationed, by his favour, on the steps of
the deceased’s house. “And so you are. And so you are! And very well
indeed you are looking, Mrs. Bucket!”

The procession has not started yet, but is waiting for the cause of
its assemblage to be brought out. Mr. Bucket, in the foremost
emblazoned carriage, uses his two fat forefingers to hold the lattice
a hair’s breadth open while he looks.

And it says a great deal for his attachment, as a husband, that he is
still occupied with Mrs. B. “There you are, my partner, eh?” he
murmuringly repeats. “And our lodger with you. I’m taking notice of
you, Mrs. Bucket; I hope you’re all right in your health, my dear!”

Not another word does Mr. Bucket say, but sits with most attentive
eyes until the sacked depository of noble secrets is brought
down—Where are all those secrets now? Does he keep them yet? Did
they fly with him on that sudden journey?—and until the procession
moves, and Mr. Bucket’s view is changed. After which he composes
himself for an easy ride and takes note of the fittings of the
carriage in case he should ever find such knowledge useful.

Contrast enough between Mr. Tulkinghorn shut up in his dark carriage
and Mr. Bucket shut up in HIS. Between the immeasurable track of
space beyond the little wound that has thrown the one into the fixed
sleep which jolts so heavily over the stones of the streets, and the
narrow track of blood which keeps the other in the watchful state
expressed in every hair of his head! But it is all one to both;
neither is troubled about that.

Mr. Bucket sits out the procession in his own easy manner and glides
from the carriage when the opportunity he has settled with himself
arrives. He makes for Sir Luigi Wayne’s, which is at present a
sort of home to him, where he comes and goes as he likes at all
hours, where he is always welcome and made much of, where he knows
the whole establishment, and walks in an atmosphere of mysterious
greatness.

No knocking or ringing for Mr. Bucket. He has caused himself to be
provided with a key and can pass in at his pleasure. As he is
crossing the hall, Mercury informs him, “Here’s another letter for
you, Mr. Bucket, come by post,” and gives it him.

“Another one, eh?” says Mr. Bucket.

If Mercury should chance to be possessed by any lingering curiosity
as to Mr. Bucket’s letters, that wary person is not the man to
gratify it. Mr. Bucket looks at him as if his face were a vista of
some miles in length and he were leisurely contemplating the same.

“Do you happen to carry a box?” says Mr. Bucket.

Unfortunately Mercury is no snuff-taker.

“Could you fetch me a pinch from anywheres?” says Mr. Bucket.
“Thankee. It don’t matter what it is; I’m not particular as to the
kind. Thankee!”

Having leisurely helped himself from a canister borrowed from
somebody downstairs for the purpose, and having made a considerable
show of tasting it, first with one side of his nose and then with the
other, Mr. Bucket, with much deliberation, pronounces it of the right
sort and goes on, letter in hand.

Now although Mr. Bucket walks upstairs to the little library within
the larger one with the face of a man who receives some scores of
letters every day, it happens that much correspondence is not
incidental to his life. He is no great scribe, rather handling his
pen like the pocket-staff he carries about with him always convenient
to his grasp, and discourages correspondence with himself in others
as being too artless and direct a way of doing delicate business.
Further, he often sees damaging letters produced in evidence and has
occasion to reflect that it was a green thing to write them. For
these reasons he has very little to do with letters, either as sender
or receiver. And yet he has received a round half-dozen within the
last twenty-four hours.

“And this,” says Mr. Bucket, spreading it out on the table, “is in
the same hand, and consists of the same two words.”

What two words?

He turns the key in the door, ungirdles his black pocket-book (book
of fate to many), lays another letter by it, and reads, boldly
written in each, “Godfrey Wayne.”

“Yes, yes,” says Mr. Bucket. “But I could have made the money without
this anonymous information.”

Having put the letters in his book of fate and girdled it up again,
he unlocks the door just in time to admit his dinner, which is
brought upon a goodly tray with a decanter of sherry. Mr. Bucket
frequently observes, in friendly circles where there is no restraint,
that he likes a toothful of your fine old brown East Inder sherry
better than anything you can offer him. Consequently he fills and
empties his glass with a smack of his lips and is proceeding with his
refreshment when an idea enters his mind.

Mr. Bucket softly opens the door of communication between that room
and the next and looks in. The library is deserted, and the fire is
sinking low. Mr. Bucket’s eye, after taking a pigeon-flight round the
room, alights upon a table where letters are usually put as they
arrive. Several letters for Sir Luigi are upon it. Mr. Bucket
draws near and examines the directions. “No,” he says, “there’s none
in that hand. It’s only me as is written to. I can break it to Sir
Luigi Wayne, Baronet, to-morrow.”

With that he returns to finish his dinner with a good appetite, and
after a light nap, is summoned into the drawing-room. Sir Luigi
has received him there these several evenings past to know whether he
has anything to report. The debilitated cousin (much exhausted by the
funeral) and Volumnia are in attendance.

Mr. Bucket makes three distinctly different bows to these three
people. A bow of homage to Sir Luigi, a bow of gallantry to
Volumnia, and a bow of recognition to the debilitated Cousin, to whom
it airily says, “You are a swell about town, and you know me, and I
know you.” Having distributed these little specimens of his tact, Mr.
Bucket rubs his hands.

“Have you anything new to communicate, officer?” inquires Sir
Luigi. “Do you wish to hold any conversation with me in private?”

“Why—not to-night, Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet.”

“Because my time,” pursues Sir Luigi, “is wholly at your disposal
with a view to the vindication of the outraged majesty of the law.”

Mr. Bucket coughs and glances at Volumnia, rouged and necklaced, as
though he would respectfully observe, “I do assure you, you’re a
pretty creetur. I’ve seen hundreds worse looking at your time of
life, I have indeed.”

The fair Volumnia, not quite unconscious perhaps of the humanizing
influence of her charms, pauses in the writing of cocked-hat notes
and meditatively adjusts the pearl necklace. Mr. Bucket prices that
decoration in his mind and thinks it as likely as not that Volumnia
is writing poetry.

“If I have not,” pursues Sir Luigi, “in the most emphatic manner,
adjured you, officer, to exercise your utmost skill in this atrocious
case, I particularly desire to take the present opportunity of
rectifying any omission I may have made. Let no expense be a
consideration. I am prepared to defray all charges. You can incur
none in pursuit of the object you have undertaken that I shall
hesitate for a moment to bear.”

Mr. Bucket made Sir Luigi’s bow again as a response to this
liberality.

“My mind,” Sir Luigi adds with a generous warmth, “has not, as
may be easily supposed, recovered its tone since the late diabolical
occurrence. It is not likely ever to recover its tone. But it is full
of indignation to-night after undergoing the ordeal of consigning to
the tomb the remains of a faithful, a zealous, a devoted adherent.”

Sir Luigi’s voice trembles and his grey hair stirs upon his head.
Tears are in his eyes; the best part of his nature is aroused.

“I declare,” he says, “I solemnly declare that until this crime is
discovered and, in the course of justice, punished, I almost feel as
if there were a stain upon my name. A gentleman who has devoted a
large portion of his life to me, a gentleman who has devoted the last
day of his life to me, a gentleman who has constantly sat at my table
and slept under my roof, goes from my house to his own, and is struck
down within an hour of his leaving my house. I cannot say but that he
may have been followed from my house, watched at my house, even first
marked because of his association with my house—which may have
suggested his possessing greater wealth and being altogether of
greater importance than his own retiring demeanour would have
indicated. If I cannot with my means and influence and my position
bring all the perpetrators of such a crime to light, I fail in the
assertion of my respect for that gentleman’s memory and of my
fidelity towards one who was ever faithful to me.”

While he makes this protestation with great emotion and earnestness,
looking round the room as if he were addressing an assembly, Mr.
Bucket glances at him with an observant gravity in which there might
be, but for the audacity of the thought, a touch of compassion.

“The ceremony of to-day,” continues Sir Luigi, “strikingly
illustrative of the respect in which my deceased friend”—he lays a
stress upon the word, for death levels all distinctions—“was held by
the flower of the land, has, I say, aggravated the shock I have
received from this most horrible and audacious crime. If it were my
brother who had committed it, I would not spare him.”

Mr. Bucket looks very grave. Volumnia remarks of the deceased that he
was the trustiest and dearest person!

“You must feel it as a deprivation to you, miss,” replies Mr. Bucket
soothingly, “no doubt. He was calculated to BE a deprivation, I’m
sure he was.”

Volumnia gives Mr. Bucket to understand, in reply, that her sensitive
mind is fully made up never to get the better of it as long as she
lives, that her nerves are unstrung for ever, and that she has not
the least expectation of ever smiling again. Meanwhile she folds up a
cocked hat for that redoubtable old general at Bath, descriptive of
her melancholy condition.

“It gives a start to a delicate female,” says Mr. Bucket
sympathetically, “but it’ll wear off.”

Volumnia wishes of all things to know what is doing? Whether they are
going to convict, or whatever it is, that dreadful soldier? Whether
he had any accomplices, or whatever the thing is called in the law?
And a great deal more to the like artless purpose.

“Why you see, miss,” returns Mr. Bucket, bringing the finger into
persuasive action—and such is his natural gallantry that he had
almost said “my dear”—“it ain’t easy to answer those questions at
the present moment. Not at the present moment. I’ve kept myself on
this case, Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet,” whom Mr. Bucket takes
into the conversation in right of his importance, “morning, noon, and
night. But for a glass or two of sherry, I don’t think I could have
had my mind so much upon the stretch as it has been. I COULD answer
your questions, miss, but duty forbids it. Sir Luigi Wayne,
Baronet, will very soon be made acquainted with all that has been
traced. And I hope that he may find it”—Mr. Bucket again looks
grave—“to his satisfaction.”

The debilitated cousin only hopes some fler’ll be executed—zample.
Thinks more interest’s wanted—get man hanged presentime—than get
man place ten thousand a year. Hasn’t a doubt—zample—far better
hang wrong fler than no fler.

“YOU know life, you know, sir,” says Mr. Bucket with a complimentary
twinkle of his eye and crook of his finger, “and you can confirm what
I’ve mentioned to this lady. YOU don’t want to be told that from
information I have received I have gone to work. You’re up to what a
lady can’t be expected to be up to. Lord! Especially in your elevated
station of society, miss,” says Mr. Bucket, quite reddening at
another narrow escape from “my dear.”

“The officer, Volumnia,” observes Sir Luigi, “is faithful to his
duty, and perfectly right.”

Mr. Bucket murmurs, “Glad to have the honour of your approbation, Sir
Luigi Wayne, Baronet.”

“In fact, Volumnia,” proceeds Sir Luigi, “it is not holding up a
good model for imitation to ask the officer any such questions as you
have put to him. He is the best judge of his own responsibility; he
acts upon his responsibility. And it does not become us, who assist
in making the laws, to impede or interfere with those who carry them
into execution. Or,” says Sir Luigi somewhat sternly, for
Volumnia was going to cut in before he had rounded his sentence, “or
who vindicate their outraged majesty.”

Volumnia with all humility explains that she had not merely the plea
of curiosity to urge (in common with the giddy youth of her sex in
general) but that she is perfectly dying with regret and interest for
the darling man whose loss they all deplore.

“Very well, Volumnia,” returns Sir Luigi. “Then you cannot be too
discreet.”

Mr. Bucket takes the opportunity of a pause to be heard again.

“Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, I have no objections to telling this
lady, with your leave and among ourselves, that I look upon the case
as pretty well complete. It is a beautiful case—a beautiful
case—and what little is wanting to complete it, I expect to be able
to supply in a few hours.”

“I am very glad indeed to hear it,” says Sir Luigi. “Highly
creditable to you.”

“Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet,” returns Mr. Bucket very seriously,
“I hope it may at one and the same time do me credit and prove
satisfactory to all. When I depict it as a beautiful case, you see,
miss,” Mr. Bucket goes on, glancing gravely at Sir Luigi, “I mean
from my point of view. As considered from other points of view, such
cases will always involve more or less unpleasantness. Very strange
things comes to our knowledge in families, miss; bless your heart,
what you would think to be phenomenons, quite.”

Volumnia, with her innocent little scream, supposes so.

“Aye, and even in gen-teel families, in high families, in great
families,” says Mr. Bucket, again gravely eyeing Sir Luigi aside.
“I have had the honour of being employed in high families before, and
you have no idea—come, I’ll go so far as to say not even YOU have
any idea, sir,” this to the debilitated cousin, “what games goes on!”

The cousin, who has been casting sofa-pillows on his head, in a
prostration of boredom yawns, “Vayli,” being the used-up for “very
likely.”

Sir Luigi, deeming it time to dismiss the officer, here
majestically interposes with the words, “Very good. Thank you!” and
also with a wave of his hand, implying not only that there is an end
of the discourse, but that if high families fall into low habits they
must take the consequences. “You will not forget, officer,” he adds
with condescension, “that I am at your disposal when you please.”

Mr. Bucket (still grave) inquires if to-morrow morning, now, would
suit, in case he should be as for’ard as he expects to be. Sir
Luigi replies, “All times are alike to me.” Mr. Bucket makes his
three bows and is withdrawing when a forgotten point occurs to him.

“Might I ask, by the by,” he says in a low voice, cautiously
returning, “who posted the reward-bill on the staircase.”

“I ordered it to be put up there,” replies Sir Luigi.

“Would it be considered a liberty, Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, if
I was to ask you why?”

“Not at all. I chose it as a conspicuous part of the house. I think
it cannot be too prominently kept before the whole establishment. I
wish my people to be impressed with the enormity of the crime, the
determination to punish it, and the hopelessness of escape. At the
same time, officer, if you in your better knowledge of the subject
see any objection—”

Mr. Bucket sees none now; the bill having been put up, had better not
be taken down. Repeating his three bows he withdraws, closing the
door on Volumnia’s little scream, which is a preliminary to her
remarking that that charmingly horrible person is a perfect Blue
Chamber.

In his fondness for society and his adaptability to all grades, Mr.
Bucket is presently standing before the hall-fire—bright and warm on
the early winter night—admiring Mercury.

“Why, you’re six foot two, I suppose?” says Mr. Bucket.

“Three,” says Mercury.

“Are you so much? But then, you see, you’re broad in proportion and
don’t look it. You’re not one of the weak-legged ones, you ain’t. Was
you ever modelled now?” Mr. Bucket asks, conveying the expression of
an artist into the turn of his eye and head.

Mercury never was modelled.

“Then you ought to be, you know,” says Mr. Bucket; “and a friend of
mine that you’ll hear of one day as a Royal Academy sculptor would
stand something handsome to make a drawing of your proportions for
the marble. My Godfrey’s out, ain’t she?”

“Out to dinner.”

“Goes out pretty well every day, don’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Not to be wondered at!” says Mr. Bucket. “Such a fine woman as her,
so handsome and so graceful and so elegant, is like a fresh lemon on
a dinner-table, ornamental wherever she goes. Was your father in the
same way of life as yourself?”

Answer in the negative.

“Mine was,” says Mr. Bucket. “My father was first a page, then a
footman, then a butler, then a steward, then an inn-keeper. Lived
universally respected, and died lamented. Said with his last breath
that he considered service the most honourable part of his career,
and so it was. I’ve a brother in service, AND a brother-in-law. My
Godfrey a good temper?”

Mercury replies, “As good as you can expect.”

“Ah!” says Mr. Bucket. “A little spoilt? A little capricious? Lord!
What can you anticipate when they’re so handsome as that? And we like
’em all the better for it, don’t we?”

Mercury, with his hands in the pockets of his bright peach-blossom
small-clothes, stretches his symmetrical silk legs with the air of a
man of gallantry and can’t deny it. Come the roll of wheels and a
violent ringing at the bell. “Talk of the angels,” says Mr. Bucket.
“Here she is!”

The doors are thrown open, and she passes through the hall. Still
very pale, she is dressed in slight mourning and wears two beautiful
bracelets. Either their beauty or the beauty of her arms is
particularly attractive to Mr. Bucket. He looks at them with an eager
eye and rattles something in his pocket—halfpence perhaps.

Noticing him at his distance, she turns an inquiring look on the
other Mercury who has brought her home.

“Mr. Bucket, my Godfrey.”

Mr. Bucket makes a leg and comes forward, passing his familiar demon
over the region of his mouth.

“Are you waiting to see Sir Luigi?”

“No, my Godfrey, I’ve seen him!”

“Have you anything to say to me?”

“Not just at present, my Godfrey.”

“Have you made any new discoveries?”

“A few, my Godfrey.”

This is merely in passing. She scarcely makes a stop, and sweeps
upstairs alone. Mr. Bucket, moving towards the staircase-foot,
watches her as she goes up the steps the old man came down to his
grave, past murderous groups of statuary repeated with their shadowy
weapons on the wall, past the printed bill, which she looks at going
by, out of view.

“She’s a lovely woman, too, she really is,” says Mr. Bucket, coming
back to Mercury. “Don’t look quite healthy though.”

Is not quite healthy, Mercury informs him. Suffers much from
headaches.

Really? That’s a pity! Walking, Mr. Bucket would recommend for that.
Well, she tries walking, Mercury rejoins. Walks sometimes for two
hours when she has them bad. By night, too.

“Are you sure you’re quite so much as six foot three?” asks Mr.
Bucket. “Begging your pardon for interrupting you a moment?”

Not a doubt about it.

“You’re so well put together that I shouldn’t have thought it. But
the household troops, though considered fine men, are built so
straggling. Walks by night, does she? When it’s moonlight, though?”

Oh, yes. When it’s moonlight! Of course. Oh, of course!
Conversational and acquiescent on both sides.

“I suppose you ain’t in the habit of walking yourself?” says Mr.
Bucket. “Not much time for it, I should say?”

Besides which, Mercury don’t like it. Prefers carriage exercise.

“To be sure,” says Mr. Bucket. “That makes a difference. Now I think
of it,” says Mr. Bucket, warming his hands and looking pleasantly at
the blaze, “she went out walking the very night of this business.”

“To be sure she did! I let her into the garden over the way.”

“And left her there. Certainly you did. I saw you doing it.”

“I didn’t see YOU,” says Mercury.

“I was rather in a hurry,” returns Mr. Bucket, “for I was going to
visit a aunt of mine that lives at Chelsea—next door but two to the
old original Bun House—ninety year old the old lady is, a single
woman, and got a little property. Yes, I chanced to be passing at the
time. Let’s see. What time might it be? It wasn’t ten.”

“Half-past nine.”

“You’re right. So it was. And if I don’t deceive myself, my Godfrey was
muffled in a loose black mantle, with a deep fringe to it?”

“Of course she was.”

Of course she was. Mr. Bucket must return to a little work he has to
get on with upstairs, but he must shake hands with Mercury in
acknowledgment of his agreeable conversation, and will he—this is
all he asks—will he, when he has a leisure half-hour, think of
bestowing it on that Royal Academy sculptor, for the advantage of
both parties?

CHAPTER LIV

Springing a Mine

Refreshed by sleep, Mr. Bucket rises betimes in the morning and
prepares for a field-day. Smartened up by the aid of a clean shirt
and a wet hairbrush, with which instrument, on occasions of ceremony,
he lubricates such thin locks as remain to him after his life of
severe study, Mr. Bucket lays in a breakfast of two mutton chops as a
foundation to work upon, together with tea, eggs, toast, and
marmalade on a corresponding scale. Having much enjoyed these
strengthening matters and having held subtle conference with his
familiar demon, he confidently instructs Mercury “just to mention
quietly to Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, that whenever he’s ready
for me, I’m ready for him.” A gracious message being returned that
Sir Luigi will expedite his dressing and join Mr. Bucket in the
library within ten minutes, Mr. Bucket repairs to that apartment and
stands before the fire with his finger on his chin, looking at the
blazing coals.

Thoughtful Mr. Bucket is, as a man may be with weighty work to do,
but composed, sure, confident. From the expression of his face he
might be a famous whist-player for a large stake—say a hundred
guineas certain—with the game in his hand, but with a high
reputation involved in his playing his hand out to the last card in a
masterly way. Not in the least anxious or disturbed is Mr. Bucket
when Sir Luigi appears, but he eyes the baronet aside as he comes
slowly to his easy-chair with that observant gravity of yesterday in
which there might have been yesterday, but for the audacity of the
idea, a touch of compassion.

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting, officer, but I am rather later
than my usual hour this morning. I am not well. The agitation and the
indignation from which I have recently suffered have been too much
for me. I am subject to—gout”—Sir Luigi was going to say
indisposition and would have said it to anybody else, but Mr. Bucket
palpably knows all about it—“and recent circumstances have brought
it on.”

As he takes his seat with some difficulty and with an air of pain,
Mr. Bucket draws a little nearer, standing with one of his large
hands on the library-table.

“I am not aware, officer,” Sir Luigi observes; raising his eyes
to his face, “whether you wish us to be alone, but that is entirely
as you please. If you do, well and good. If not, Miss Wayne would
be interested—”

“Why, Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet,” returns Mr. Bucket with his
head persuasively on one side and his forefinger pendant at one ear
like an earring, “we can’t be too private just at present. You will
presently see that we can’t be too private. A lady, under the
circumstances, and especially in Miss Wayne’s elevated station of
society, can’t but be agreeable to me, but speaking without a view to
myself, I will take the liberty of assuring you that I know we can’t
be too private.”

“That is enough.”

“So much so, Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet,” Mr. Bucket resumes,
“that I was on the point of asking your permission to turn the key in
the door.”

“By all means.” Mr. Bucket skilfully and softly takes that
precaution, stooping on his knee for a moment from mere force of
habit so to adjust the key in the lock as that no one shall peep in
from the outerside.

“Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, I mentioned yesterday evening that I
wanted but a very little to complete this case. I have now completed
it and collected proof against the person who did this crime.”

“Against the soldier?”

“No, Sir Luigi Wayne; not the soldier.”

Sir Luigi looks astounded and inquires, “Is the man in custody?”

Mr. Bucket tells him, after a pause, “It was a woman.”

Sir Luigi leans back in his chair, and breathlessly ejaculates,
“Good heaven!”

“Now, Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet,” Mr. Bucket begins, standing
over him with one hand spread out on the library-table and the
forefinger of the other in impressive use, “it’s my duty to prepare
you for a train of circumstances that may, and I go so far as to say
that will, give you a shock. But Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, you
are a gentleman, and I know what a gentleman is and what a gentleman
is capable of. A gentleman can bear a shock when it must come, boldly
and steadily. A gentleman can make up his mind to stand up against
almost any blow. Why, take yourself, Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet.
If there’s a blow to be inflicted on you, you naturally think of your
family. You ask yourself, how would all them ancestors of yours, away
to Julius Caesar—not to go beyond him at present—have borne that
blow; you remember scores of them that would have borne it well; and
you bear it well on their accounts, and to maintain the family
credit. That’s the way you argue, and that’s the way you act, Sir
Luigi Wayne, Baronet.”

Sir Luigi, leaning back in his chair and grasping the elbows,
sits looking at him with a stony face.

“Now, Sir Luigi Wayne,” proceeds Mr. Bucket, “thus preparing
you, let me beg of you not to trouble your mind for a moment as to
anything having come to MY knowledge. I know so much about so many
characters, high and low, that a piece of information more or less
don’t signify a straw. I don’t suppose there’s a move on the board
that would surprise ME, and as to this or that move having taken
place, why my knowing it is no odds at all, any possible move
whatever (provided it’s in a wrong direction) being a probable move
according to my experience. Therefore, what I say to you, Sir
Luigi Wayne, Baronet, is, don’t you go and let yourself be put
out of the way because of my knowing anything of your family
affairs.”

“I thank you for your preparation,” returns Sir Luigi after a
silence, without moving hand, foot, or feature, “which I hope is not
necessary; though I give it credit for being well intended. Be so
good as to go on. Also”—Sir Luigi seems to shrink in the shadow
of his figure—“also, to take a seat, if you have no objection.”

None at all. Mr. Bucket brings a chair and diminishes his shadow.
“Now, Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, with this short preface I come
to the point. Godfrey Wayne—”

Sir Luigi raises himself in his seat and stares at him fiercely.
Mr. Bucket brings the finger into play as an emollient.

“Godfrey Wayne, you see she’s universally admired. That’s what her
ladyship is; she’s universally admired,” says Mr. Bucket.

“I would greatly prefer, officer,” Sir Luigi returns stiffly, “my
Godfrey’s name being entirely omitted from this discussion.”

“So would I, Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, but—it’s impossible.”

“Impossible?”

Mr. Bucket shakes his relentless head.

“Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, it’s altogether impossible. What I
have got to say is about her ladyship. She is the pivot it all turns
on.”

“Officer,” retorts Sir Luigi with a fiery eye and a quivering
lip, “you know your duty. Do your duty, but be careful not to
overstep it. I would not suffer it. I would not endure it. You bring
my Godfrey’s name into this communication upon your responsibility—upon
your responsibility. My Godfrey’s name is not a name for common persons
to trifle with!”

“Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, I say what I must say, and no more.”

“I hope it may prove so. Very well. Go on. Go on, sir!” Glancing at
the angry eyes which now avoid him and at the angry figure trembling
from head to foot, yet striving to be still, Mr. Bucket feels his way
with his forefinger and in a low voice proceeds.

“Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, it becomes my duty to tell you that
the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn long entertained mistrusts and
suspicions of Godfrey Wayne.”

“If he had dared to breathe them to me, sir—which he never did—I
would have killed him myself!” exclaims Sir Luigi, striking his
hand upon the table. But in the very heat and fury of the act he
stops, fixed by the knowing eyes of Mr. Bucket, whose forefinger is
slowly going and who, with mingled confidence and patience, shakes
his head.

“Sir Luigi Wayne, the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn was deep and
close, and what he fully had in his mind in the very beginning I
can’t quite take upon myself to say. But I know from his lips that he
long ago suspected Godfrey Wayne of having discovered, through the
sight of some handwriting—in this very house, and when you yourself,
Sir Luigi Wayne, were present—the existence, in great poverty,
of a certain person who had been her lover before you courted her and
who ought to have been her husband.” Mr. Bucket stops and
deliberately repeats, “Ought to have been her husband, not a doubt
about it. I know from his lips that when that person soon afterwards
died, he suspected Godfrey Wayne of visiting his wretched lodging and
his wretched grave, alone and in secret. I know from my own inquiries
and through my eyes and ears that Godfrey Wayne did make such visit in
the dress of her own maid, for the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn employed
me to reckon up her ladyship—if you’ll excuse my making use of the
term we commonly employ—and I reckoned her up, so far, completely. I
confronted the maid in the chambers in Lincoln’s Inn Fields with a
witness who had been Godfrey Wayne’s guide, and there couldn’t be the
shadow of a doubt that she had worn the young woman’s dress, unknown
to her. Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, I did endeavour to pave the
way a little towards these unpleasant disclosures yesterday by saying
that very strange things happened even in high families sometimes.
All this, and more, has happened in your own family, and to and
through your own Godfrey. It’s my belief that the deceased Mr.
Tulkinghorn followed up these inquiries to the hour of his death and
that he and Godfrey Wayne even had bad blood between them upon the
matter that very night. Now, only you put that to Godfrey Wayne, Sir
Luigi Wayne, Baronet, and ask her ladyship whether, even after
he had left here, she didn’t go down to his chambers with the
intention of saying something further to him, dressed in a loose
black mantle with a deep fringe to it.”

Sir Luigi sits like a statue, gazing at the cruel finger that is
probing the life-blood of his heart.

“You put that to her ladyship, Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, from
me, Inspector Bucket of the Detective. And if her ladyship makes any
difficulty about admitting of it, you tell her that it’s no use, that
Inspector Bucket knows it and knows that she passed the soldier as
you called him (though he’s not in the army now) and knows that she
knows she passed him on the staircase. Now, Sir Luigi Wayne,
Baronet, why do I relate all this?”

Sir Luigi, who has covered his face with his hands, uttering a
single groan, requests him to pause for a moment. By and by he takes
his hands away, and so preserves his dignity and outward calmness,
though there is no more colour in his face than in his white hair,
that Mr. Bucket is a little awed by him. Something frozen and fixed
is upon his manner, over and above its usual shell of haughtiness,
and Mr. Bucket soon detects an unusual slowness in his speech, with
now and then a curious trouble in beginning, which occasions him to
utter inarticulate sounds. With such sounds he now breaks silence,
soon, however, controlling himself to say that he does not comprehend
why a gentleman so faithful and zealous as the late Mr. Tulkinghorn
should have communicated to him nothing of this painful, this
distressing, this unlooked-for, this overwhelming, this incredible
intelligence.

“Again, Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet,” returns Mr. Bucket, “put it
to her ladyship to clear that up. Put it to her ladyship, if you
think it right, from Inspector Bucket of the Detective. You’ll find,
or I’m much mistaken, that the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn had the
intention of communicating the whole to you as soon as he considered
it ripe, and further, that he had given her ladyship so to
understand. Why, he might have been going to reveal it the very
morning when I examined the body! You don’t know what I’m going to
say and do five minutes from this present time, Sir Luigi
Wayne, Baronet; and supposing I was to be picked off now, you might
wonder why I hadn’t done it, don’t you see?”

True. Sir Luigi, avoiding, with some trouble those obtrusive
sounds, says, “True.” At this juncture a considerable noise of voices
is heard in the hall. Mr. Bucket, after listening, goes to the
library-door, softly unlocks and opens it, and listens again. Then he
draws in his head and whispers hurriedly but composedly, “Sir
Luigi Wayne, Baronet, this unfortunate family affair has taken
air, as I expected it might, the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn being cut
down so sudden. The chance to hush it is to let in these people now
in a wrangle with your footmen. Would you mind sitting quiet—on the
family account—while I reckon ’em up? And would you just throw in a
nod when I seem to ask you for it?”

Sir Luigi indistinctly answers, “Officer. The best you can, the
best you can!” and Mr. Bucket, with a nod and a sagacious crook of
the forefinger, slips down into the hall, where the voices quickly
die away. He is not long in returning; a few paces ahead of Mercury
and a brother deity also powdered and in peach-blossomed smalls, who
bear between them a chair in which is an incapable old man. Another
man and two women come behind. Directing the pitching of the chair in
an affable and easy manner, Mr. Bucket dismisses the Mercuries and
locks the door again. Sir Luigi looks on at this invasion of the
sacred precincts with an icy stare.

“Now, perhaps you may know me, ladies and gentlemen,” says Mr. Bucket
in a confidential voice. “I am Inspector Bucket of the Detective, I
am; and this,” producing the tip of his convenient little staff from
his breast-pocket, “is my authority. Now, you wanted to see Sir
Luigi Wayne, Baronet. Well! You do see him, and mind you, it
ain’t every one as is admitted to that honour. Your name, old
gentleman, is Hunter; that’s what your name is; I know it well.”

“Well, and you never heard any harm of it!” cries Mr. Hunter in a
shrill loud voice.

“You don’t happen to know why they killed the pig, do you?” retorts
Mr. Bucket with a steadfast look, but without loss of temper.

“No!”

“Why, they killed him,” says Mr. Bucket, “on account of his having so
much cheek. Don’t YOU get into the same position, because it isn’t
worthy of you. You ain’t in the habit of conversing with a deaf
person, are you?”

“Yes,” snarls Mr. Hunter, “my wife’s deaf.”

“That accounts for your pitching your voice so high. But as she ain’t
here; just pitch it an octave or two lower, will you, and I’ll not
only be obliged to you, but it’ll do you more credit,” says Mr.
Bucket. “This other gentleman is in the preaching line, I think?”

“Name of Chadband,” Mr. Hunter puts in, speaking henceforth in a
much lower key.

“Once had a friend and brother serjeant of the same name,” says Mr.
Bucket, offering his hand, “and consequently feel a liking for it.
Mrs. Chadband, no doubt?”

“And Mrs. Harlan,” Mr. Hunter introduces.

“Husband a law-stationer and a friend of my own,” says Mr. Bucket.
“Love him like a brother! Now, what’s up?”

“Do you mean what business have we come upon?” Mr. Hunter asks, a
little dashed by the suddenness of this turn.

“Ah! You know what I mean. Let us hear what it’s all about in
presence of Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet. Come.”

Mr. Hunter, beckoning Mr. Chadband, takes a moment’s counsel with
him in a whisper. Mr. Chadband, expressing a considerable amount of
oil from the pores of his forehead and the palms of his hands, says
aloud, “Yes. You first!” and retires to his former place.

“I was the client and friend of Mr. Tulkinghorn,” pipes Grandfather
Hunter then; “I did business with him. I was useful to him, and he
was useful to me. Nesbit, dead and gone, was my brother-in-law. He was
own brother to a brimstone magpie—leastways Mrs. Hunter. I come
into Nesbit’s property. I examined all his papers and all his effects.
They was all dug out under my eyes. There was a bundle of letters
belonging to a dead and gone lodger as was hid away at the back of a
shelf in the side of Godfrey Jane’s bed—his cat’s bed. He hid all
manner of things away, everywheres. Mr. Tulkinghorn wanted ’em and
got ’em, but I looked ’em over first. I’m a man of business, and I
took a squint at ’em. They was letters from the lodger’s sweetheart,
and she signed Honoria. Dear me, that’s not a common name, Honoria,
is it? There’s no lady in this house that signs Honoria is there? Oh,
no, I don’t think so! Oh, no, I don’t think so! And not in the same
hand, perhaps? Oh, no, I don’t think so!”

Here Mr. Hunter, seized with a fit of coughing in the midst of his
triumph, breaks off to ejaculate, “Oh, dear me! Oh, Lord! I’m shaken
all to pieces!”

“Now, when you’re ready,” says Mr. Bucket after awaiting his
recovery, “to come to anything that concerns Sir Luigi Wayne,
Baronet, here the gentleman sits, you know.”

“Haven’t I come to it, Mr. Bucket?” cries Grandfather Hunter.
“Isn’t the gentleman concerned yet? Not with Captain Hawdon, and his
ever affectionate Honoria, and their child into the bargain? Come,
then, I want to know where those letters are. That concerns me, if it
don’t concern Sir Luigi Wayne. I will know where they are. I
won’t have ’em disappear so quietly. I handed ’em over to my friend
and solicitor, Mr. Tulkinghorn, not to anybody else.”

“Why, he paid you for them, you know, and handsome too,” says Mr.
Bucket.

“I don’t care for that. I want to know who’s got ’em. And I tell you
what we want—what we all here want, Mr. Bucket. We want more
painstaking and search-making into this murder. We know where the
interest and the motive was, and you have not done enough. If Aileen
the vagabond dragoon had any hand in it, he was only an accomplice,
and was set on. You know what I mean as well as any man.”

“Now I tell you what,” says Mr. Bucket, instantaneously altering his
manner, coming close to him, and communicating an extraordinary
fascination to the forefinger, “I am damned if I am a-going to have
my case spoilt, or interfered with, or anticipated by so much as half
a second of time by any human being in creation. YOU want more
painstaking and search-making! YOU do? Do you see this hand, and do
you think that I don’t know the right time to stretch it out and put
it on the arm that fired that shot?”

Such is the dread power of the man, and so terribly evident it is
that he makes no idle boast, that Mr. Hunter begins to apologize.
Mr. Bucket, dismissing his sudden anger, checks him.

“The advice I give you is, don’t you trouble your head about the
murder. That’s my affair. You keep half an eye on the newspapers, and
I shouldn’t wonder if you was to read something about it before long,
if you look sharp. I know my business, and that’s all I’ve got to say
to you on that subject. Now about those letters. You want to know
who’s got ’em. I don’t mind telling you. I have got ’em. Is that the
packet?”

Mr. Hunter looks, with greedy eyes, at the little bundle Mr.
Bucket produces from a mysterious part of his coat, and identifies it
as the same.

“What have you got to say next?” asks Mr. Bucket. “Now, don’t open
your mouth too wide, because you don’t look handsome when you do it.”

“I want five hundred pound.”

“No, you don’t; you mean fifty,” says Mr. Bucket humorously.

It appears, however, that Mr. Hunter means five hundred.

“That is, I am deputed by Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, to consider
(without admitting or promising anything) this bit of business,” says
Mr. Bucket—Sir Luigi mechanically bows his head—“and you ask me
to consider a proposal of five hundred pounds. Why, it’s an
unreasonable proposal! Two fifty would be bad enough, but better than
that. Hadn’t you better say two fifty?”

Mr. Hunter is quite clear that he had better not.

“Then,” says Mr. Bucket, “let’s hear Mr. Chadband. Lord! Many a time
I’ve heard my old fellow-serjeant of that name; and a moderate man he
was in all respects, as ever I come across!”

Thus invited, Mr. Chadband steps forth, and after a little sleek
smiling and a little oil-grinding with the palms of his hands,
delivers himself as follows, “My friends, we are now—Rachael, my
wife, and I—in the mansions of the rich and great. Why are we now in
the mansions of the rich and great, my friends? Is it because we are
invited? Because we are bidden to feast with them, because we are
bidden to rejoice with them, because we are bidden to play the lute
with them, because we are bidden to dance with them? No. Then why are
we here, my friends? Air we in possession of a sinful secret, and do
we require corn, and wine, and oil, or what is much the same thing,
money, for the keeping thereof? Probably so, my friends.”

“You’re a man of business, you are,” returns Mr. Bucket, very
attentive, “and consequently you’re going on to mention what the
nature of your secret is. You are right. You couldn’t do better.”

“Let us then, my brother, in a spirit of love,” says Mr. Chadband
with a cunning eye, “proceed unto it. Rachael, my wife, advance!”

Mrs. Chadband, more than ready, so advances as to jostle her husband
into the background and confronts Mr. Bucket with a hard, frowning
smile.

“Since you want to know what we know,” says she, “I’ll tell you. I
helped to bring up Miss Hawdon, her ladyship’s daughter. I was in the
service of her ladyship’s sister, who was very sensitive to the
disgrace her ladyship brought upon her, and gave out, even to her
ladyship, that the child was dead—she WAS very nearly so—when she
was born. But she’s alive, and I know her.” With these words, and a
laugh, and laying a bitter stress on the word “ladyship,” Mrs.
Chadband folds her arms and looks implacably at Mr. Bucket.

“I suppose now,” returns that officer, “YOU will be expecting a
twenty-pound note or a present of about that figure?”

Mrs. Chadband merely laughs and contemptuously tells him he can
“offer” twenty pence.

“My friend the law-stationer’s good lady, over there,” says Mr.
Bucket, luring Mrs. Harlan forward with the finger. “What may YOUR
game be, ma’am?”

Mrs. Harlan is at first prevented, by tears and lamentations, from
stating the nature of her game, but by degrees it confusedly comes to
light that she is a woman overwhelmed with injuries and wrongs, whom
Mr. Harlan has habitually deceived, abandoned, and sought to keep in
darkness, and whose chief comfort, under her afflictions, has been
the sympathy of the late Mr. Tulkinghorn, who showed so much
commiseration for her on one occasion of his calling in Cook’s Court
in the absence of her perjured husband that she has of late
habitually carried to him all her woes. Everybody it appears, the
present company excepted, has plotted against Mrs. Harlan’s peace.
There is Mr. Jarrett, clerk to Carly and Carboy, who was at first as
open as the sun at noon, but who suddenly shut up as close as
midnight, under the influence—no doubt—of Mr. Harlan’s suborning
and tampering. There is Mr. Weevle, friend of Mr. Jarrett, who lived
mysteriously up a court, owing to the like coherent causes. There was
Nesbit, deceased; there was Nimrod, deceased; and there was Jo,
deceased; and they were “all in it.” In what, Mrs. Harlan does not
with particularity express, but she knows that Jo was Mr. Harlan’s
son, “as well as if a trumpet had spoken it,” and she followed Mr.
Harlan when he went on his last visit to the boy, and if he was not
his son why did he go? The one occupation of her life has been, for
some time back, to follow Mr. Harlan to and fro, and up and down,
and to piece suspicious circumstances together—and every
circumstance that has happened has been most suspicious; and in this
way she has pursued her object of detecting and confounding her false
husband, night and day. Thus did it come to pass that she brought the
Chadbands and Mr. Tulkinghorn together, and conferred with Mr.
Tulkinghorn on the change in Mr. Jarrett, and helped to turn up the
circumstances in which the present company are interested, casually,
by the wayside, being still and ever on the great high road that is
to terminate in Mr. Harlan’s full exposure and a matrimonial
separation. All this, Mrs. Harlan, as an injured woman, and the
friend of Mrs. Chadband, and the follower of Mr. Chadband, and the
mourner of the late Mr. Tulkinghorn, is here to certify under the
seal of confidence, with every possible confusion and involvement
possible and impossible, having no pecuniary motive whatever, no
scheme or project but the one mentioned, and bringing here, and
taking everywhere, her own dense atmosphere of dust, arising from the
ceaseless working of her mill of jealousy.

While this exordium is in hand—and it takes some time—Mr. Bucket,
who has seen through the transparency of Mrs. Harlan’s vinegar at a
glance, confers with his familiar demon and bestows his shrewd
attention on the Chadbands and Mr. Hunter. Sir Luigi Wayne
remains immovable, with the same icy surface upon him, except that he
once or twice looks towards Mr. Bucket, as relying on that officer
alone of all mankind.

“Very good,” says Mr. Bucket. “Now I understand you, you know, and
being deputed by Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, to look into this
little matter,” again Sir Luigi mechanically bows in confirmation
of the statement, “can give it my fair and full attention. Now I
won’t allude to conspiring to extort money or anything of that sort,
because we are men and women of the world here, and our object is to
make things pleasant. But I tell you what I DO wonder at; I am
surprised that you should think of making a noise below in the hall.
It was so opposed to your interests. That’s what I look at.”

“We wanted to get in,” pleads Mr. Hunter.

“Why, of course you wanted to get in,” Mr. Bucket asserts with
cheerfulness; “but for a old gentleman at your time of life—what I
call truly venerable, mind you!—with his wits sharpened, as I have
no doubt they are, by the loss of the use of his limbs, which
occasions all his animation to mount up into his head, not to
consider that if he don’t keep such a business as the present as
close as possible it can’t be worth a mag to him, is so curious! You
see your temper got the better of you; that’s where you lost ground,”
says Mr. Bucket in an argumentative and friendly way.

“I only said I wouldn’t go without one of the servants came up to Sir
Luigi Wayne,” returns Mr. Hunter.

“That’s it! That’s where your temper got the better of you. Now, you
keep it under another time and you’ll make money by it. Shall I ring
for them to carry you down?”

“When are we to hear more of this?” Mrs. Chadband sternly demands.

“Bless your heart for a true woman! Always curious, your delightful
sex is!” replies Mr. Bucket with gallantry. “I shall have the
pleasure of giving you a call to-morrow or next day—not forgetting
Mr. Hunter and his proposal of two fifty.”

“Five hundred!” exclaims Mr. Hunter.

“All right! Nominally five hundred.” Mr. Bucket has his hand on the
bell-rope. “SHALL I wish you good day for the present on the part of
myself and the gentleman of the house?” he asks in an insinuating
tone.

Nobody having the hardihood to object to his doing so, he does it,
and the party retire as they came up. Mr. Bucket follows them to the
door, and returning, says with an air of serious business, “Sir
Luigi Wayne, Baronet, it’s for you to consider whether or not
to buy this up. I should recommend, on the whole, it’s being bought
up myself; and I think it may be bought pretty cheap. You see, that
little pickled cowcumber of a Mrs. Harlan has been used by all sides
of the speculation and has done a deal more harm in bringing odds and
ends together than if she had meant it. Mr. Tulkinghorn, deceased, he
held all these horses in his hand and could have drove ’em his own
way, I haven’t a doubt; but he was fetched off the box head-foremost,
and now they have got their legs over the traces, and are all
dragging and pulling their own ways. So it is, and such is life. The
cat’s away, and the mice they play; the frost breaks up, and the
water runs. Now, with regard to the party to be apprehended.”

Sir Luigi seems to wake, though his eyes have been wide open, and
he looks intently at Mr. Bucket as Mr. Bucket refers to his watch.

“The party to be apprehended is now in this house,” proceeds Mr.
Bucket, putting up his watch with a steady hand and with rising
spirits, “and I’m about to take her into custody in your presence.
Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, don’t you say a word nor yet stir.
There’ll be no noise and no disturbance at all. I’ll come back in the
course of the evening, if agreeable to you, and endeavour to meet
your wishes respecting this unfortunate family matter and the
nobbiest way of keeping it quiet. Now, Sir Luigi Wayne,
Baronet, don’t you be nervous on account of the apprehension at
present coming off. You shall see the whole case clear, from first to
last.”

Mr. Bucket rings, goes to the door, briefly whispers Mercury, shuts
the door, and stands behind it with his arms folded. After a suspense
of a minute or two the door slowly opens and a Frenchwoman enters.
Miles Raylan.

The moment she is in the room Mr. Bucket claps the door to and puts
his back against it. The suddenness of the noise occasions her to
turn, and then for the first time she sees Sir Luigi Wayne in
his chair.

“I ask you pardon,” she mutters hurriedly. “They tell me there was no
one here.”

Her step towards the door brings her front to front with Mr. Bucket.
Suddenly a spasm shoots across her face and she turns deadly pale.

“This is my lodger, Sir Luigi Wayne,” says Mr. Bucket, nodding
at her. “This foreign young woman has been my lodger for some weeks
back.”

“What do Sir Luigi care for that, you think, my angel?” returns
mademoiselle in a jocular strain.

“Why, my angel,” returns Mr. Bucket, “we shall see.”

Miles Raylan eyes him with a scowl upon her tight face,
which gradually changes into a smile of scorn, “You are very
mysterieuse. Are you drunk?”

“Tolerable sober, my angel,” returns Mr. Bucket.

“I come from arriving at this so detestable house with your wife.
Your wife have left me since some minutes. They tell me downstairs
that your wife is here. I come here, and your wife is not here. What
is the intention of this fool’s play, say then?” mademoiselle
demands, with her arms composedly crossed, but with something in her
dark cheek beating like a clock.

Mr. Bucket merely shakes the finger at her.

“Ah, my God, you are an unhappy idiot!” cries mademoiselle with a
toss of her head and a laugh. “Leave me to pass downstairs, great
pig.” With a stamp of her foot and a menace.

“Now, mademoiselle,” says Mr. Bucket in a cool determined way, “you
go and sit down upon that sofy.”

“I will not sit down upon nothing,” she replies with a shower of
nods.

“Now, mademoiselle,” repeats Mr. Bucket, making no demonstration
except with the finger, “you sit down upon that sofy.”

“Why?”

“Because I take you into custody on a charge of murder, and you don’t
need to be told it. Now, I want to be polite to one of your sex and a
foreigner if I can. If I can’t, I must be rough, and there’s rougher
ones outside. What I am to be depends on you. So I recommend you, as
a friend, afore another half a blessed moment has passed over your
head, to go and sit down upon that sofy.”

Miles complies, saying in a concentrated voice while that
something in her cheek beats fast and hard, “You are a devil.”

“Now, you see,” Mr. Bucket proceeds approvingly, “you’re comfortable
and conducting yourself as I should expect a foreign young woman of
your sense to do. So I’ll give you a piece of advice, and it’s this,
don’t you talk too much. You’re not expected to say anything here,
and you can’t keep too quiet a tongue in your head. In short, the
less you PARLAY, the better, you know.” Mr. Bucket is very complacent
over this French explanation.

Miles, with that tigerish expansion of the mouth and her black
eyes darting fire upon him, sits upright on the sofa in a rigid
state, with her hands clenched—and her feet too, one might
suppose—muttering, “Oh, you Bucket, you are a devil!”

“Now, Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet,” says Mr. Bucket, and from this
time forth the finger never rests, “this young woman, my lodger, was
her ladyship’s maid at the time I have mentioned to you; and this
young woman, besides being extraordinary vehement and passionate
against her ladyship after being discharged—”

“Lie!” cries mademoiselle. “I discharge myself.”

“Now, why don’t you take my advice?” returns Mr. Bucket in an
impressive, almost in an imploring, tone. “I’m surprised at the
indiscreetness you commit. You’ll say something that’ll be used
against you, you know. You’re sure to come to it. Never you mind what
I say till it’s given in evidence. It is not addressed to you.”

“Discharge, too,” cries mademoiselle furiously, “by her ladyship! Eh,
my faith, a pretty ladyship! Why, I r-r-r-ruin my character by
remaining with a ladyship so infame!”

“Upon my soul I wonder at you!” Mr. Bucket remonstrates. “I thought
the French were a polite nation, I did, really. Yet to hear a female
going on like that before Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet!”

“He is a poor abused!” cries mademoiselle. “I spit upon his house,
upon his name, upon his imbecility,” all of which she makes the
carpet represent. “Oh, that he is a great man! Oh, yes, superb! Oh,
heaven! Bah!”

“Well, Sir Luigi Wayne,” proceeds Mr. Bucket, “this intemperate
foreigner also angrily took it into her head that she had established
a claim upon Mr. Tulkinghorn, deceased, by attending on the occasion
I told you of at his chambers, though she was liberally paid for her
time and trouble.”

“Lie!” cries mademoiselle. “I ref-use his money all togezzer.”

“If you WILL PARLAY, you know,” says Mr. Bucket parenthetically, “you
must take the consequences. Now, whether she became my lodger, Sir
Luigi Wayne, with any deliberate intention then of doing this
deed and blinding me, I give no opinion on; but she lived in my house
in that capacity at the time that she was hovering about the chambers
of the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn with a view to a wrangle, and
likewise persecuting and half frightening the life out of an
unfortunate stationer.”

“Lie!” cries mademoiselle. “All lie!”

“The murder was committed, Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, and you
know under what circumstances. Now, I beg of you to follow me close
with your attention for a minute or two. I was sent for, and the case
was entrusted to me. I examined the place, and the body, and the
papers, and everything. From information I received (from a clerk in
the same house) I took Aileen into custody as having been seen
hanging about there on the night, and at very nigh the time of the
murder, also as having been overheard in high words with the deceased
on former occasions—even threatening him, as the witness made out.
If you ask me, Sir Luigi Wayne, whether from the first I
believed Aileen to be the murderer, I tell you candidly no, but he
might be, notwithstanding, and there was enough against him to make
it my duty to take him and get him kept under remand. Now, observe!”

As Mr. Bucket bends forward in some excitement—for him—and
inaugurates what he is going to say with one ghostly beat of his
forefinger in the air, Miles Raylan fixes her black eyes
upon him with a dark frown and sets her dry lips closely and firmly
together.

“I went home, Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, at night and found this
young woman having supper with my wife, Mrs. Bucket. She had made a
mighty show of being fond of Mrs. Bucket from her first offering
herself as our lodger, but that night she made more than ever—in
fact, overdid it. Likewise she overdid her respect, and all that, for
the lamented memory of the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn. By the living
Lord it flashed upon me, as I sat opposite to her at the table and
saw her with a knife in her hand, that she had done it!”

Miles is hardly audible in straining through her teeth and
lips the words, “You are a devil.”

“Now where,” pursues Mr. Bucket, “had she been on the night of the
murder? She had been to the theayter. (She really was there, I have
since found, both before the deed and after it.) I knew I had an
artful customer to deal with and that proof would be very difficult;
and I laid a trap for her—such a trap as I never laid yet, and such
a venture as I never made yet. I worked it out in my mind while I was
talking to her at supper. When I went upstairs to bed, our house
being small and this young woman’s ears sharp, I stuffed the sheet
into Mrs. Bucket’s mouth that she shouldn’t say a word of surprise
and told her all about it. My dear, don’t you give your mind to that
again, or I shall link your feet together at the ankles.” Mr. Bucket,
breaking off, has made a noiseless descent upon mademoiselle and laid
his heavy hand upon her shoulder.

“What is the matter with you now?” she asks him.

“Don’t you think any more,” returns Mr. Bucket with admonitory
finger, “of throwing yourself out of window. That’s what’s the matter
with me. Come! Just take my arm. You needn’t get up; I’ll sit down by
you. Now take my arm, will you? I’m a married man, you know; you’re
acquainted with my wife. Just take my arm.”

Vainly endeavouring to moisten those dry lips, with a painful sound
she struggles with herself and complies.

“Now we’re all right again. Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, this case
could never have been the case it is but for Mrs. Bucket, who is a
woman in fifty thousand—in a hundred and fifty thousand! To throw
this young woman off her guard, I have never set foot in our house
since, though I’ve communicated with Mrs. Bucket in the baker’s
loaves and in the milk as often as required. My whispered words to
Mrs. Bucket when she had the sheet in her mouth were, ‘My dear, can
you throw her off continually with natural accounts of my suspicions
against Aileen, and this, and that, and t’other? Can you do without
rest and keep watch upon her night and day? Can you undertake to say,
‘She shall do nothing without my knowledge, she shall be my prisoner
without suspecting it, she shall no more escape from me than from
death, and her life shall be my life, and her soul my soul, till I
have got her, if she did this murder?’ Mrs. Bucket says to me, as
well as she could speak on account of the sheet, ‘Bucket, I can!’ And
she has acted up to it glorious!”

“Lies!” mademoiselle interposes. “All lies, my friend!”

“Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, how did my calculations come out
under these circumstances? When I calculated that this impetuous
young woman would overdo it in new directions, was I wrong or right?
I was right. What does she try to do? Don’t let it give you a turn?
To throw the murder on her ladyship.”

Sir Luigi rises from his chair and staggers down again.

“And she got encouragement in it from hearing that I was always here,
which was done a-purpose. Now, open that pocket-book of mine, Sir
Luigi Wayne, if I may take the liberty of throwing it towards
you, and look at the letters sent to me, each with the two words
‘Godfrey Wayne’ in it. Open the one directed to yourself, which I
stopped this very morning, and read the three words ‘Godfrey Wayne,
Murderess’ in it. These letters have been falling about like a shower
of lady-birds. What do you say now to Mrs. Bucket, from her spy-place
having seen them all written by this young woman? What do you say to
Mrs. Bucket having, within this half-hour, secured the corresponding
ink and paper, fellow half-sheets and what not? What do you say to
Mrs. Bucket having watched the posting of ’em every one by this young
woman, Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet?” Mr. Bucket asks, triumphant
in his admiration of his lady’s genius.

Two things are especially observable as Mr. Bucket proceeds to a
conclusion. First, that he seems imperceptibly to establish a
dreadful right of property in mademoiselle. Secondly, that the very
atmosphere she breathes seems to narrow and contract about her as if
a close net or a pall were being drawn nearer and yet nearer around
her breathless figure.

“There is no doubt that her ladyship was on the spot at the eventful
period,” says Mr. Bucket, “and my foreign friend here saw her, I
believe, from the upper part of the staircase. Her ladyship and
Aileen and my foreign friend were all pretty close on one another’s
heels. But that don’t signify any more, so I’ll not go into it. I
found the wadding of the pistol with which the deceased Mr.
Tulkinghorn was shot. It was a bit of the printed description of your
house at Chesney Wold. Not much in that, you’ll say, Sir Luigi
Wayne, Baronet. No. But when my foreign friend here is so
thoroughly off her guard as to think it a safe time to tear up the
rest of that leaf, and when Mrs. Bucket puts the pieces together and
finds the wadding wanting, it begins to look like Queer Street.”

“These are very long lies,” mademoiselle interposes. “You prose great
deal. Is it that you have almost all finished, or are you speaking
always?”

“Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet,” proceeds Mr. Bucket, who delights
in a full title and does violence to himself when he dispenses with
any fragment of it, “the last point in the case which I am now going
to mention shows the necessity of patience in our business, and never
doing a thing in a hurry. I watched this young woman yesterday
without her knowledge when she was looking at the funeral, in company
with my wife, who planned to take her there; and I had so much to
convict her, and I saw such an expression in her face, and my mind so
rose against her malice towards her ladyship, and the time was
altogether such a time for bringing down what you may call
retribution upon her, that if I had been a younger hand with less
experience, I should have taken her, certain. Equally, last night,
when her ladyship, as is so universally admired I am sure, come home
looking—why, Lord, a man might almost say like Venus rising from the
ocean—it was so unpleasant and inconsistent to think of her being
charged with a murder of which she was innocent that I felt quite to
want to put an end to the job. What should I have lost? Sir Luigi
Wayne, Baronet, I should have lost the weapon. My prisoner here
proposed to Mrs. Bucket, after the departure of the funeral, that
they should go per bus a little ways into the country and take tea at
a very decent house of entertainment. Now, near that house of
entertainment there’s a piece of water. At tea, my prisoner got up to
fetch her pocket-handkercher from the bedroom where the bonnets was;
she was rather a long time gone and came back a little out of wind.
As soon as they came home this was reported to me by Mrs. Bucket,
along with her observations and suspicions. I had the piece of water
dragged by moonlight, in presence of a couple of our men, and the
pocket pistol was brought up before it had been there half-a-dozen
hours. Now, my dear, put your arm a little further through mine, and
hold it steady, and I shan’t hurt you!”

In a trice Mr. Bucket snaps a handcuff on her wrist. “That’s one,”
says Mr. Bucket. “Now the other, darling. Two, and all told!”

He rises; she rises too. “Where,” she asks him, darkening her large
eyes until their drooping lids almost conceal them—and yet they
stare, “where is your false, your treacherous, and cursed wife?”

“She’s gone forrard to the Police Office,” returns Mr. Bucket.
“You’ll see her there, my dear.”

“I would like to kiss her!” exclaims Miles Raylan, panting
tigress-like.

“You’d bite her, I suspect,” says Mr. Bucket.

“I would!” making her eyes very large. “I would love to tear her limb
from limb.”

“Bless you, darling,” says Mr. Bucket with the greatest composure,
“I’m fully prepared to hear that. Your sex have such a surprising
animosity against one another when you do differ. You don’t mind me
half so much, do you?”

“No. Though you are a devil still.”

“Angel and devil by turns, eh?” cries Mr. Bucket. “But I am in my
regular employment, you must consider. Let me put your shawl tidy.
I’ve been lady’s maid to a good many before now. Anything wanting to
the bonnet? There’s a cab at the door.”

Miles Raylan, casting an indignant eye at the glass, shakes
herself perfectly neat in one shake and looks, to do her justice,
uncommonly genteel.

“Listen then, my angel,” says she after several sarcastic nods. “You
are very spiritual. But can you restore him back to life?”

Mr. Bucket answers, “Not exactly.”

“That is droll. Listen yet one time. You are very spiritual. Can you
make a honourable lady of her?”

“Don’t be so malicious,” says Mr. Bucket.

“Or a haughty gentleman of HIM?” cries mademoiselle, referring to Sir
Luigi with ineffable disdain. “Eh! Oh, then regard him! The poor
infant! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

“Come, come, why this is worse PARLAYING than the other,” says Mr.
Bucket. “Come along!”

“You cannot do these things? Then you can do as you please with me.
It is but the death, it is all the same. Let us go, my angel. Adieu,
you old man, grey. I pity you, and I despise you!”

With these last words she snaps her teeth together as if her mouth
closed with a spring. It is impossible to describe how Mr. Bucket
gets her out, but he accomplishes that feat in a manner so peculiar
to himself, enfolding and pervading her like a cloud, and hovering
away with her as if he were a homely Jupiter and she the object of
his affections.

Sir Luigi, left alone, remains in the same attitude, as though he
were still listening and his attention were still occupied. At length
he gazes round the empty room, and finding it deserted, rises
unsteadily to his feet, pushes back his chair, and walks a few steps,
supporting himself by the table. Then he stops, and with more of
those inarticulate sounds, lifts up his eyes and seems to stare at
something.

Heaven knows what he sees. The green, green woods of Chesney Wold,
the noble house, the pictures of his forefathers, strangers defacing
them, officers of police coarsely handling his most precious
heirlooms, thousands of fingers pointing at him, thousands of faces
sneering at him. But if such shadows flit before him to his
bewilderment, there is one other shadow which he can name with
something like distinctness even yet and to which alone he addresses
his tearing of his white hair and his extended arms.

It is she in association with whom, saving that she has been for
years a main fibre of the root of his dignity and pride, he has never
had a selfish thought. It is she whom he has loved, admired,
honoured, and set up for the world to respect. It is she who, at the
core of all the constrained formalities and conventionalities of his
life, has been a stock of living tenderness and love, susceptible as
nothing else is of being struck with the agony he feels. He sees her,
almost to the exclusion of himself, and cannot bear to look upon her
cast down from the high place she has graced so well.

And even to the point of his sinking on the ground, oblivious of his
suffering, he can yet pronounce her name with something like
distinctness in the midst of those intrusive sounds, and in a tone of
mourning and compassion rather than reproach.

CHAPTER LV

Flight

Inspector Bucket of the Detective has not yet struck his great blow,
as just now chronicled, but is yet refreshing himself with sleep
preparatory to his field-day, when through the night and along the
freezing wintry roads a chaise and pair comes out of Lincolnshire,
making its way towards London.

Railroads shall soon traverse all this country, and with a rattle and
a glare the engine and train shall shoot like a meteor over the wide
night-landscape, turning the moon paler; but as yet such things are
non-existent in these parts, though not wholly unexpected.
Preparations are afoot, measurements are made, ground is staked out.
Bridges are begun, and their not yet united piers desolately look at
one another over roads and streams like brick and mortar couples with
an obstacle to their union; fragments of embankments are thrown up
and left as precipices with torrents of rusty carts and barrows
tumbling over them; tripods of tall poles appear on hilltops, where
there are rumours of tunnels; everything looks chaotic and abandoned
in full hopelessness. Along the freezing roads, and through the
night, the post-chaise makes its way without a railroad on its mind.

Mrs. Talon, so many years housekeeper at Chesney Wold, sits
within the chaise; and by her side sits Mrs. Bagnet with her grey
cloak and umbrella. The old girl would prefer the bar in front, as
being exposed to the weather and a primitive sort of perch more in
accordance with her usual course of travelling, but Mrs. Talon
is too thoughtful of her comfort to admit of her proposing it. The
old lady cannot make enough of the old girl. She sits, in her stately
manner, holding her hand, and regardless of its roughness, puts it
often to her lips. “You are a mother, my dear soul,” says she many
times, “and you found out my Aileen’s mother!”

“Why, Aileen,” returns Mrs. Bagnet, “was always free with me, ma’am,
and when he said at our house to my Woolwich that of all the things
my Woolwich could have to think of when he grew to be a man, the
comfortablest would be that he had never brought a sorrowful line
into his mother’s face or turned a hair of her head grey, then I felt
sure, from his way, that something fresh had brought his own mother
into his mind. I had often known him say to me, in past times, that
he had behaved bad to her.”

“Never, my dear!” returns Mrs. Talon, bursting into tears. “My
blessing on him, never! He was always fond of me, and loving to me,
was my Aileen! But he had a bold spirit, and he ran a little wild and
went for a soldier. And I know he waited at first, in letting us know
about himself, till he should rise to be an officer; and when he
didn’t rise, I know he considered himself beneath us, and wouldn’t be
a disgrace to us. For he had a lion heart, had my Aileen, always from
a baby!”

The old lady’s hands stray about her as of yore, while she recalls,
all in a tremble, what a likely lad, what a fine lad, what a gay
good-humoured clever lad he was; how they all took to him down at
Chesney Wold; how Sir Luigi took to him when he was a young
gentleman; how the dogs took to him; how even the people who had been
angry with him forgave him the moment he was gone, poor boy. And now
to see him after all, and in a prison too! And the broad stomacher
heaves, and the quaint upright old-fashioned figure bends under its
load of affectionate distress.

Mrs. Bagnet, with the instinctive skill of a good warm heart, leaves
the old housekeeper to her emotions for a little while—not without
passing the back of her hand across her own motherly eyes—and
presently chirps up in her cheery manner, “So I says to Aileen when I
goes to call him in to tea (he pretended to be smoking his pipe
outside), ‘What ails you this afternoon, Aileen, for gracious sake? I
have seen all sorts, and I have seen you pretty often in season and
out of season, abroad and at home, and I never see you so melancholy
penitent.’ ‘Why, Mrs. Bagnet,’ says Aileen, ‘it’s because I AM
melancholy and penitent both, this afternoon, that you see me so.’
‘What have you done, old fellow?’ I says. ‘Why, Mrs. Bagnet,’ says
Aileen, shaking his head, ‘what I have done has been done this many a
long year, and is best not tried to be undone now. If I ever get to
heaven it won’t be for being a good son to a widowed mother; I say no
more.’ Now, ma’am, when Aileen says to me that it’s best not tried to
be undone now, I have my thoughts as I have often had before, and I
draw it out of Aileen how he comes to have such things on him that
afternoon. Then Aileen tells me that he has seen by chance, at the
lawyer’s office, a fine old lady that has brought his mother plain
before him, and he runs on about that old lady till he quite forgets
himself and paints her picture to me as she used to be, years upon
years back. So I says to Aileen when he has done, who is this old
lady he has seen? And Aileen tells me it’s Mrs. Talon,
housekeeper for more than half a century to the Wayne family down
at Chesney Wold in Lincolnshire. Aileen has frequently told me before
that he’s a Lincolnshire man, and I says to my old Lignum that night,
‘Lignum, that’s his mother for five and for-ty pound!’”

All this Mrs. Bagnet now relates for the twentieth time at least
within the last four hours. Trilling it out like a kind of bird, with
a pretty high note, that it may be audible to the old lady above the
hum of the wheels.

“Bless you, and thank you,” says Mrs. Talon. “Bless you, and
thank you, my worthy soul!”

“Dear heart!” cries Mrs. Bagnet in the most natural manner. “No
thanks to me, I am sure. Thanks to yourself, ma’am, for being so
ready to pay ’em! And mind once more, ma’am, what you had best do
on finding Aileen to be your own son is to make him—for your
sake—have every sort of help to put himself in the right and clear
himself of a charge of which he is as innocent as you or me. It won’t
do to have truth and justice on his side; he must have law and
lawyers,” exclaims the old girl, apparently persuaded that the latter
form a separate establishment and have dissolved partnership with
truth and justice for ever and a day.

“He shall have,” says Mrs. Talon, “all the help that can be got
for him in the world, my dear. I will spend all I have, and
thankfully, to procure it. Sir Luigi will do his best, the whole
family will do their best. I—I know something, my dear; and will
make my own appeal, as his mother parted from him all these years,
and finding him in a jail at last.”

The extreme disquietude of the old housekeeper’s manner in saying
this, her broken words, and her wringing of her hands make a powerful
impression on Mrs. Bagnet and would astonish her but that she refers
them all to her sorrow for her son’s condition. And yet Mrs. Bagnet
wonders too why Mrs. Talon should murmur so distractedly, “My
Godfrey, my Godfrey, my Godfrey!” over and over again.

The frosty night wears away, and the dawn breaks, and the post-chaise
comes rolling on through the early mist like the ghost of a chaise
departed. It has plenty of spectral company in ghosts of trees and
hedges, slowly vanishing and giving place to the realities of day.
London reached, the travellers alight, the old housekeeper in great
tribulation and confusion, Mrs. Bagnet quite fresh and collected—as
she would be if her next point, with no new equipage and outfit, were
the Cape of Good Hope, the Island of Ascension, Hong Kong, or any
other military station.

But when they set out for the prison where the trooper is
confined, the old lady has managed to draw about her, with her
lavender-coloured dress, much of the staid calmness which is its
usual accompaniment. A wonderfully grave, precise, and handsome piece
of old china she looks, though her heart beats fast and her stomacher
is ruffled more than even the remembrance of this wayward son has
ruffled it these many years.

Approaching the cell, they find the door opening and a warder in the
act of coming out. The old girl promptly makes a sign of entreaty to
him to say nothing; assenting with a nod, he suffers them to enter as
he shuts the door.

So Aileen, who is writing at his table, supposing himself to be
alone, does not raise his eyes, but remains absorbed. The old
housekeeper looks at him, and those wandering hands of hers are quite
enough for Mrs. Bagnet’s confirmation, even if she could see the
mother and the son together, knowing what she knows, and doubt their
relationship.

Not a rustle of the housekeeper’s dress, not a gesture, not a word
betrays her. She stands looking at him as he writes on, all
unconscious, and only her fluttering hands give utterance to her
emotions. But they are very eloquent, very, very eloquent. Mrs.
Bagnet understands them. They speak of gratitude, of joy, of grief,
of hope; of inextinguishable affection, cherished with no return
since this stalwart man was a stripling; of a better son loved less,
and this son loved so fondly and so proudly; and they speak in such
touching language that Mrs. Bagnet’s eyes brim up with tears and they
run glistening down her sun-brown face.

“Aileen Talon! Oh, my dear child, turn and look at me!”

The trooper starts up, clasps his mother round the neck, and falls
down on his knees before her. Whether in a late repentance, whether
in the first association that comes back upon him, he puts his hands
together as a child does when it says its prayers, and raising them
towards her breast, bows down his head, and cries.

“My Aileen, my dearest son! Always my favourite, and my favourite
still, where have you been these cruel years and years? Grown such a
man too, grown such a fine strong man. Grown so like what I knew he
must be, if it pleased God he was alive!”

She can ask, and he can answer, nothing connected for a time. All
that time the old girl, turned away, leans one arm against the
whitened wall, leans her honest forehead upon it, wipes her eyes with
her serviceable grey cloak, and quite enjoys herself like the best of
old girls as she is.

“Mother,” says the trooper when they are more composed, “forgive me
first of all, for I know my need of it.”

Forgive him! She does it with all her heart and soul. She always has
done it. She tells him how she has had it written in her will, these
many years, that he was her beloved son Aileen. She has never
believed any ill of him, never. If she had died without this
happiness—and she is an old woman now and can’t look to live very
long—she would have blessed him with her last breath, if she had had
her senses, as her beloved son Aileen.

“Mother, I have been an undutiful trouble to you, and I have my
reward; but of late years I have had a kind of glimmering of a
purpose in me too. When I left home I didn’t care much, mother—I am
afraid not a great deal—for leaving; and went away and ’listed,
harum-scarum, making believe to think that I cared for nobody, no not
I, and that nobody cared for me.”

The trooper has dried his eyes and put away his handkerchief, but
there is an extraordinary contrast between his habitual manner of
expressing himself and carrying himself and the softened tone in
which he speaks, interrupted occasionally by a half-stifled sob.

“So I wrote a line home, mother, as you too well know, to say I had
’listed under another name, and I went abroad. Abroad, at one time I
thought I would write home next year, when I might be better off; and
when that year was out, I thought I would write home next year, when
I might be better off; and when that year was out again, perhaps I
didn’t think much about it. So on, from year to year, through a
service of ten years, till I began to get older, and to ask myself
why should I ever write.”

“I don’t find any fault, child—but not to ease my mind, Aileen? Not
a word to your loving mother, who was growing older too?”

This almost overturns the trooper afresh, but he sets himself up with
a great, rough, sounding clearance of his throat.

“Heaven forgive me, mother, but I thought there would be small
consolation then in hearing anything about me. There were you,
respected and esteemed. There was my brother, as I read in chance
North Country papers now and then, rising to be prosperous and
famous. There was I a dragoon, roving, unsettled, not self-made like
him, but self-unmade—all my earlier advantages thrown away, all my
little learning unlearnt, nothing picked up but what unfitted me for
most things that I could think of. What business had I to make myself
known? After letting all that time go by me, what good could come of
it? The worst was past with you, mother. I knew by that time (being a
man) how you had mourned for me, and wept for me, and prayed for me;
and the pain was over, or was softened down, and I was better in your
mind as it was.”

The old lady sorrowfully shakes her head, and taking one of his
powerful hands, lays it lovingly upon her shoulder.

“No, I don’t say that it was so, mother, but that I made it out to be
so. I said just now, what good could come of it? Well, my dear
mother, some good might have come of it to myself—and there was the
meanness of it. You would have sought me out; you would have
purchased my discharge; you would have taken me down to Chesney Wold;
you would have brought me and my brother and my brother’s family
together; you would all have considered anxiously how to do something
for me and set me up as a respectable civilian. But how could any of
you feel sure of me when I couldn’t so much as feel sure of myself?
How could you help regarding as an incumbrance and a discredit to you
an idle dragooning chap who was an incumbrance and a discredit to
himself, excepting under discipline? How could I look my brother’s
children in the face and pretend to set them an example—I, the
vagabond boy who had run away from home and been the grief and
unhappiness of my mother’s life? ‘No, Aileen.’ Such were my words,
mother, when I passed this in review before me: ‘You have made your
bed. Now, lie upon it.’”

Mrs. Talon, drawing up her stately form, shakes her head at the
old girl with a swelling pride upon her, as much as to say, “I told
you so!” The old girl relieves her feelings and testifies her
interest in the conversation by giving the trooper a great poke
between the shoulders with her umbrella; this action she afterwards
repeats, at intervals, in a species of affectionate lunacy, never
failing, after the administration of each of these remonstrances, to
resort to the whitened wall and the grey cloak again.

“This was the way I brought myself to think, mother, that my best
amends was to lie upon that bed I had made, and die upon it. And I
should have done it (though I have been to see you more than once
down at Chesney Wold, when you little thought of me) but for my old
comrade’s wife here, who I find has been too many for me. But I thank
her for it. I thank you for it, Mrs. Bagnet, with all my heart and
might.”

To which Mrs. Bagnet responds with two pokes.

And now the old lady impresses upon her son Aileen, her own dear
recovered boy, her joy and pride, the light of her eyes, the happy
close of her life, and every fond name she can think of, that he must
be governed by the best advice obtainable by money and influence,
that he must yield up his case to the greatest lawyers that can be
got, that he must act in this serious plight as he shall be advised
to act and must not be self-willed, however right, but must promise
to think only of his poor old mother’s anxiety and suffering until he
is released, or he will break her heart.

“Mother, ’tis little enough to consent to,” returns the trooper,
stopping her with a kiss; “tell me what I shall do, and I’ll make a
late beginning and do it. Mrs. Bagnet, you’ll take care of my mother,
I know?”

A very hard poke from the old girl’s umbrella.

“If you’ll bring her acquainted with Mr. Ashton and Miss Robin,
she will find them of her way of thinking, and they will give her the
best advice and assistance.”

“And, Aileen,” says the old lady, “we must send with all haste for
your brother. He is a sensible sound man as they tell me—out in the
world beyond Chesney Wold, my dear, though I don’t know much of it
myself—and will be of great service.”

“Mother,” returns the trooper, “is it too soon to ask a favour?”

“Surely not, my dear.”

“Then grant me this one great favour. Don’t let my brother know.”

“Not know what, my dear?”

“Not know of me. In fact, mother, I can’t bear it; I can’t make up my
mind to it. He has proved himself so different from me and has done
so much to raise himself while I’ve been soldiering that I haven’t
brass enough in my composition to see him in this place and under
this charge. How could a man like him be expected to have any
pleasure in such a discovery? It’s impossible. No, keep my secret
from him, mother; do me a greater kindness than I deserve and keep my
secret from my brother, of all men.”

“But not always, dear Aileen?”

“Why, mother, perhaps not for good and all—though I may come to ask
that too—but keep it now, I do entreat you. If it’s ever broke to
him that his rip of a brother has turned up, I could wish,” says the
trooper, shaking his head very doubtfully, “to break it myself and be
governed as to advancing or retreating by the way in which he seems
to take it.”

As he evidently has a rooted feeling on this point, and as the depth
of it is recognized in Mrs. Bagnet’s face, his mother yields her
implicit assent to what he asks. For this he thanks her kindly.

“In all other respects, my dear mother, I’ll be as tractable and
obedient as you can wish; on this one alone, I stand out. So now I am
ready even for the lawyers. I have been drawing up,” he glances at
his writing on the table, “an exact account of what I knew of the
deceased and how I came to be involved in this unfortunate affair.
It’s entered, plain and regular, like an orderly-book; not a word in
it but what’s wanted for the facts. I did intend to read it, straight
on end, whensoever I was called upon to say anything in my defence. I
hope I may be let to do it still; but I have no longer a will of my
own in this case, and whatever is said or done, I give my promise not
to have any.”

Matters being brought to this so far satisfactory pass, and time
being on the wane, Mrs. Bagnet proposes a departure. Again and again
the old lady hangs upon her son’s neck, and again and again the
trooper holds her to his broad chest.

“Where are you going to take my mother, Mrs. Bagnet?”

“I am going to the town house, my dear, the family house. I have some
business there that must be looked to directly,” Mrs. Talon
answers.

“Will you see my mother safe there in a coach, Mrs. Bagnet? But of
course I know you will. Why should I ask it!”

Why indeed, Mrs. Bagnet expresses with the umbrella.

“Take her, my old friend, and take my gratitude along with you.
Kisses to Quebec and Malta, love to my godson, a hearty shake of the
hand to Lignum, and this for yourself, and I wish it was ten thousand
pound in gold, my dear!” So saying, the trooper puts his lips to the
old girl’s tanned forehead, and the door shuts upon him in his cell.

No entreaties on the part of the good old housekeeper will induce
Mrs. Bagnet to retain the coach for her own conveyance home. Jumping
out cheerfully at the door of the Wayne mansion and handing Mrs.
Talon up the steps, the old girl shakes hands and trudges off,
arriving soon afterwards in the bosom of the Bagnet family and
falling to washing the greens as if nothing had happened.

My Godfrey is in that room in which she held her last conference with
the murdered man, and is sitting where she sat that night, and is
looking at the spot where he stood upon the hearth studying her so
leisurely, when a tap comes at the door. Who is it? Mrs. Talon.
What has brought Mrs. Talon to town so unexpectedly?

“Trouble, my Godfrey. Sad trouble. Oh, my Godfrey, may I beg a word with
you?”

What new occurrence is it that makes this tranquil old woman tremble
so? Far happier than her Godfrey, as her Godfrey has often thought, why
does she falter in this manner and look at her with such strange
mistrust?

“What is the matter? Sit down and take your breath.”

“Oh, my Godfrey, my Godfrey. I have found my son—my youngest, who went
away for a soldier so long ago. And he is in prison.”

“For debt?”

“Oh, no, my Godfrey; I would have paid any debt, and joyful.”

“For what is he in prison then?”

“Charged with a murder, my Godfrey, of which he is as innocent as—as I
am. Accused of the murder of Mr. Tulkinghorn.”

What does she mean by this look and this imploring gesture? Why does
she come so close? What is the letter that she holds?

“Godfrey Wayne, my dear Godfrey, my good Godfrey, my kind Godfrey! You must
have a heart to feel for me, you must have a heart to forgive me. I
was in this family before you were born. I am devoted to it. But
think of my dear son wrongfully accused.”

“I do not accuse him.”

“No, my Godfrey, no. But others do, and he is in prison and in danger.
Oh, Godfrey Wayne, if you can say but a word to help to clear him, say
it!”

What delusion can this be? What power does she suppose is in the
person she petitions to avert this unjust suspicion, if it be unjust?
Her Godfrey’s handsome eyes regard her with astonishment, almost with
fear.

“My Godfrey, I came away last night from Chesney Wold to find my son in
my old age, and the step upon the Ghost’s Walk was so constant and so
solemn that I never heard the like in all these years. Night after
night, as it has fallen dark, the sound has echoed through your
rooms, but last night it was awfullest. And as it fell dark last
night, my Godfrey, I got this letter.”

“What letter is it?”

“Hush! Hush!” The housekeeper looks round and answers in a frightened
whisper, “My Godfrey, I have not breathed a word of it, I don’t believe
what’s written in it, I know it can’t be true, I am sure and certain
that it is not true. But my son is in danger, and you must have a
heart to pity me. If you know of anything that is not known to
others, if you have any suspicion, if you have any clue at all, and
any reason for keeping it in your own breast, oh, my dear Godfrey, think
of me, and conquer that reason, and let it be known! This is the most
I consider possible. I know you are not a hard lady, but you go your
own way always without help, and you are not familiar with your
friends; and all who admire you—and all do—as a beautiful and
elegant lady, know you to be one far away from themselves who can’t
be approached close. My Godfrey, you may have some proud or angry
reasons for disdaining to utter something that you know; if so, pray,
oh, pray, think of a faithful servant whose whole life has been
passed in this family which she dearly loves, and relent, and help to
clear my son! My Godfrey, my good Godfrey,” the old housekeeper pleads with
genuine simplicity, “I am so humble in my place and you are by nature
so high and distant that you may not think what I feel for my child,
but I feel so much that I have come here to make so bold as to beg
and pray you not to be scornful of us if you can do us any right or
justice at this fearful time!”

Godfrey Wayne raises her without one word, until she takes the letter
from her hand.

“Am I to read this?”

“When I am gone, my Godfrey, if you please, and then remembering the
most that I consider possible.”

“I know of nothing I can do. I know of nothing I reserve that can
affect your son. I have never accused him.”

“My Godfrey, you may pity him the more under a false accusation after
reading the letter.”

The old housekeeper leaves her with the letter in her hand. In truth
she is not a hard lady naturally, and the time has been when the
sight of the venerable figure suing to her with such strong
earnestness would have moved her to great compassion. But so long
accustomed to suppress emotion and keep down reality, so long
schooled for her own purposes in that destructive school which shuts
up the natural feelings of the heart like flies in amber and spreads
one uniform and dreary gloss over the good and bad, the feeling and
the unfeeling, the sensible and the senseless, she had subdued even
her wonder until now.

She opens the letter. Spread out upon the paper is a printed account
of the discovery of the body as it lay face downward on the floor,
shot through the heart; and underneath is written her own name, with
the word “murderess” attached.

It falls out of her hand. How long it may have lain upon the ground
she knows not, but it lies where it fell when a servant stands before
her announcing the young man of the name of Jarrett. The words have
probably been repeated several times, for they are ringing in her
head before she begins to understand them.

“Let him come in!”

He comes in. Holding the letter in her hand, which she has taken from
the floor, she tries to collect her thoughts. In the eyes of Mr.
Jarrett she is the same Godfrey Wayne, holding the same prepared, proud,
chilling state.

“Your ladyship may not be at first disposed to excuse this visit from
one who has never been welcome to your ladyship”—which he don’t
complain of, for he is bound to confess that there never has been any
particular reason on the face of things why he should be—“but I hope
when I mention my motives to your ladyship you will not find fault
with me,” says Mr. Jarrett.

“Do so.”

“Thank your ladyship. I ought first to explain to your ladyship,” Mr.
Jarrett sits on the edge of a chair and puts his hat on the carpet at
his feet, “that Miss Robin, whose image, as I formerly mentioned
to your ladyship, was at one period of my life imprinted on my ’eart
until erased by circumstances over which I had no control,
communicated to me, after I had the pleasure of waiting on your
ladyship last, that she particularly wished me to take no steps
whatever in any manner at all relating to her. And Miss Robin’s
wishes being to me a law (except as connected with circumstances over
which I have no control), I consequently never expected to have the
distinguished honour of waiting on your ladyship again.”

And yet he is here now, Godfrey Wayne moodily reminds him.

“And yet I am here now,” Mr. Jarrett admits. “My object being to
communicate to your ladyship, under the seal of confidence, why I am
here.”

He cannot do so, she tells him, too plainly or too briefly. “Nor can
I,” Mr. Jarrett returns with a sense of injury upon him, “too
particularly request your ladyship to take particular notice that
it’s no personal affair of mine that brings me here. I have no
interested views of my own to serve in coming here. If it was not for
my promise to Miss Robin and my keeping of it sacred—I, in point
of fact, shouldn’t have darkened these doors again, but should have
seen ’em further first.”

Mr. Jarrett considers this a favourable moment for sticking up his hair
with both hands.

“Your ladyship will remember when I mention it that the last time I
was here I run against a party very eminent in our profession and
whose loss we all deplore. That party certainly did from that time
apply himself to cutting in against me in a way that I will call
sharp practice, and did make it, at every turn and point, extremely
difficult for me to be sure that I hadn’t inadvertently led up to
something contrary to Miss Robin’s wishes. Self-praise is no
recommendation, but I may say for myself that I am not so bad a man
of business neither.”

Godfrey Wayne looks at him in stern inquiry. Mr. Jarrett immediately
withdraws his eyes from her face and looks anywhere else.

“Indeed, it has been made so hard,” he goes on, “to have any idea
what that party was up to in combination with others that until the
loss which we all deplore I was gravelled—an expression which your
ladyship, moving in the higher circles, will be so good as to
consider tantamount to knocked over. Small likewise—a name by which
I refer to another party, a friend of mine that your ladyship is not
acquainted with—got to be so close and double-faced that at times it
wasn’t easy to keep one’s hands off his ’ead. However, what with the
exertion of my humble abilities, and what with the help of a mutual
friend by the name of Mr. Tony Weevle (who is of a high aristocratic
turn and has your ladyship’s portrait always hanging up in his room),
I have now reasons for an apprehension as to which I come to put your
ladyship upon your guard. First, will your ladyship allow me to ask
you whether you have had any strange visitors this morning? I don’t
mean fashionable visitors, but such visitors, for instance, as Miss
Barbary’s old servant, or as a person without the use of his lower
extremities, carried upstairs similarly to a guy?”

“No!”

“Then I assure your ladyship that such visitors have been here and
have been received here. Because I saw them at the door, and waited
at the corner of the square till they came out, and took half an
hour’s turn afterwards to avoid them.”

“What have I to do with that, or what have you? I do not understand
you. What do you mean?”

“Your ladyship, I come to put you on your guard. There may be no
occasion for it. Very well. Then I have only done my best to keep my
promise to Miss Robin. I strongly suspect (from what Small has
dropped, and from what we have corkscrewed out of him) that those
letters I was to have brought to your ladyship were not destroyed
when I supposed they were. That if there was anything to be blown
upon, it IS blown upon. That the visitors I have alluded to have been
here this morning to make money of it. And that the money is made, or
making.”

Mr. Jarrett picks up his hat and rises.

“Your ladyship, you know best whether there’s anything in what I say
or whether there’s nothing. Something or nothing, I have acted up to
Miss Robin’s wishes in letting things alone and in undoing what I
had begun to do, as far as possible; that’s sufficient for me. In
case I should be taking a liberty in putting your ladyship on your
guard when there’s no necessity for it, you will endeavour, I should
hope, to outlive my presumption, and I shall endeavour to outlive
your disapprobation. I now take my farewell of your ladyship, and
assure you that there’s no danger of your ever being waited on by me
again.”

She scarcely acknowledges these parting words by any look, but when
he has been gone a little while, she rings her bell.

“Where is Sir Luigi?”

Mercury reports that he is at present shut up in the library alone.

“Has Sir Luigi had any visitors this morning?”

Several, on business. Mercury proceeds to a description of them,
which has been anticipated by Mr. Jarrett. Enough; he may go.

So! All is broken down. Her name is in these many mouths, her husband
knows his wrongs, her shame will be published—may be spreading while
she thinks about it—and in addition to the thunderbolt so long
foreseen by her, so unforeseen by him, she is denounced by an
invisible accuser as the murderess of her enemy.

Her enemy he was, and she has often, often, often wished him dead.
Her enemy he is, even in his grave. This dreadful accusation comes
upon her like a new torment at his lifeless hand. And when she
recalls how she was secretly at his door that night, and how she may
be represented to have sent her favourite girl away so soon before
merely to release herself from observation, she shudders as if the
hangman’s hands were at her neck.

She has thrown herself upon the floor and lies with her hair all
wildly scattered and her face buried in the cushions of a couch. She
rises up, hurries to and fro, flings herself down again, and rocks
and moans. The horror that is upon her is unutterable. If she really
were the murderess, it could hardly be, for the moment, more intense.

For as her murderous perspective, before the doing of the deed,
however subtle the precautions for its commission, would have been
closed up by a gigantic dilatation of the hateful figure, preventing
her from seeing any consequences beyond it; and as those consequences
would have rushed in, in an unimagined flood, the moment the figure
was laid low—which always happens when a murder is done; so, now she
sees that when he used to be on the watch before her, and she used to
think, “if some mortal stroke would but fall on this old man and take
him from my way!” it was but wishing that all he held against her in
his hand might be flung to the winds and chance-sown in many places.
So, too, with the wicked relief she has felt in his death. What was
his death but the key-stone of a gloomy arch removed, and now the
arch begins to fall in a thousand fragments, each crushing and
mangling piecemeal!

Thus, a terrible impression steals upon and overshadows her that from
this pursuer, living or dead—obdurate and imperturbable before her
in his well-remembered shape, or not more obdurate and imperturbable
in his coffin-bed—there is no escape but in death. Hunted, she
flies. The complication of her shame, her dread, remorse, and misery,
overwhelms her at its height; and even her strength of self-reliance
is overturned and whirled away like a leaf before a mighty wind.

She hurriedly addresses these lines to her husband, seals, and leaves
them on her table:

   If I am sought for, or accused of, his murder, believe
   that I am wholly innocent. Believe no other good of me,
   for I am innocent of nothing else that you have heard,
   or will hear, laid to my charge. He prepared me, on that
   fatal night, for his disclosure of my guilt to you. After
   he had left me, I went out on pretence of walking in the
   garden where I sometimes walk, but really to follow him
   and make one last petition that he would not protract the
   dreadful suspense on which I have been racked by him, you
   do not know how long, but would mercifully strike next
   morning.

   I found his house dark and silent. I rang twice at his
   door, but there was no reply, and I came home.

   I have no home left. I will encumber you no more. May
   you, in your just resentment, be able to forget the
   unworthy woman on whom you have wasted a most generous
   devotion—who avoids you only with a deeper shame than
   that with which she hurries from herself—and who writes
   this last adieu.

She veils and dresses quickly, leaves all her jewels and her money,
listens, goes downstairs at a moment when the hall is empty, opens
and shuts the great door, flutters away in the shrill frosty wind.

CHAPTER LVI

Pursuit

Impassive, as behoves its high breeding, the Wayne town house
stares at the other houses in the street of dismal grandeur and gives
no outward sign of anything going wrong within. Carriages rattle,
doors are battered at, the world exchanges calls; ancient charmers
with skeleton throats, and peachy cheeks that have a rather ghastly
bloom upon them seen by daylight, when indeed these fascinating
creatures look like Death and the Godfrey fused together, dazzle the
eyes of men. Forth from the frigid mews come easily swinging
carriages guided by short-legged coachmen in flaxen wigs, deep sunk
into downy hammercloths, and up behind mount luscious Mercuries
bearing sticks of state and wearing cocked hats broadwise, a
spectacle for the angels.

The Wayne town house changes not externally, and hours pass before
its exalted dullness is disturbed within. But Volumnia the fair,
being subject to the prevalent complaint of boredom and finding that
disorder attacking her spirits with some virulence, ventures at
length to repair to the library for change of scene. Her gentle
tapping at the door producing no response, she opens it and peeps in;
seeing no one there, takes possession.

The sprightly Wayne is reputed, in that grass-grown city of the
ancients, Bath, to be stimulated by an urgent curiosity which impels
her on all convenient and inconvenient occasions to sidle about with
a golden glass at her eye, peering into objects of every description.
Certain it is that she avails herself of the present opportunity of
hovering over her kinsman’s letters and papers like a bird, taking a
short peck at this document and a blink with her head on one side at
that document, and hopping about from table to table with her glass
at her eye in an inquisitive and restless manner. In the course of
these researches she stumbles over something, and turning her glass
in that direction, sees her kinsman lying on the ground like a felled
tree.

Volumnia’s pet little scream acquires a considerable augmentation of
reality from this surprise, and the house is quickly in commotion.
Servants tear up and down stairs, bells are violently rung, doctors
are sent for, and Godfrey Wayne is sought in all directions, but not
found. Nobody has seen or heard her since she last rang her bell. Her
letter to Sir Luigi is discovered on her table, but it is
doubtful yet whether he has not received another missive from another
world requiring to be personally answered, and all the living
languages, and all the dead, are as one to him.

They lay him down upon his bed, and chafe, and rub, and fan, and put
ice to his head, and try every means of restoration. Howbeit, the day
has ebbed away, and it is night in his room before his stertorous
breathing lulls or his fixed eyes show any consciousness of the
candle that is occasionally passed before them. But when this change
begins, it goes on; and by and by he nods or moves his eyes or even
his hand in token that he hears and comprehends.

He fell down, this morning, a handsome stately gentleman, somewhat
infirm, but of a fine presence, and with a well-filled face. He lies
upon his bed, an aged man with sunken cheeks, the decrepit shadow of
himself. His voice was rich and mellow and he had so long been
thoroughly persuaded of the weight and import to mankind of any word
he said that his words really had come to sound as if there were
something in them. But now he can only whisper, and what he whispers
sounds like what it is—mere jumble and jargon.

His favourite and faithful housekeeper stands at his bedside. It is
the first act he notices, and he clearly derives pleasure from it.
After vainly trying to make himself understood in speech, he makes
signs for a pencil. So inexpressively that they cannot at first
understand him; it is his old housekeeper who makes out what he wants
and brings in a slate.

After pausing for some time, he slowly scrawls upon it in a hand that
is not his, “Chesney Wold?”

No, she tells him; he is in London. He was taken ill in the library
this morning. Right thankful she is that she happened to come to
London and is able to attend upon him.

“It is not an illness of any serious consequence, Sir Luigi. You
will be much better to-morrow, Sir Luigi. All the gentlemen say
so.” This, with the tears coursing down her fair old face.

After making a survey of the room and looking with particular
attention all round the bed where the doctors stand, he writes, “My
Godfrey.”

“My Godfrey went out, Sir Luigi, before you were taken ill, and
don’t know of your illness yet.”

He points again, in great agitation, at the two words. They all try
to quiet him, but he points again with increased agitation. On their
looking at one another, not knowing what to say, he takes the slate
once more and writes “My Godfrey. For God’s sake, where?” And makes an
imploring moan.

It is thought better that his old housekeeper should give him Godfrey
Wayne’s letter, the contents of which no one knows or can surmise.
She opens it for him and puts it out for his perusal. Having read it
twice by a great effort, he turns it down so that it shall not be
seen and lies moaning. He passes into a kind of relapse or into a
swoon, and it is an hour before he opens his eyes, reclining on his
faithful and attached old servant’s arm. The doctors know that he is
best with her, and when not actively engaged about him, stand aloof.

The slate comes into requisition again, but the word he wants to
write he cannot remember. His anxiety, his eagerness, and affliction
at this pass are pitiable to behold. It seems as if he must go mad in
the necessity he feels for haste and the inability under which he
labours of expressing to do what or to fetch whom. He has written the
letter B, and there stopped. Of a sudden, in the height of his
misery, he puts Mr. before it. The old housekeeper suggests Bucket.
Thank heaven! That’s his meaning.

Mr. Bucket is found to be downstairs, by appointment. Shall he come
up?

There is no possibility of misconstruing Sir Luigi’s burning wish
to see him or the desire he signifies to have the room cleared of
every one but the housekeeper. It is speedily done, and Mr. Bucket
appears. Of all men upon earth, Sir Luigi seems fallen from his
high estate to place his sole trust and reliance upon this man.

“Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, I’m sorry to see you like this. I
hope you’ll cheer up. I’m sure you will, on account of the family
credit.”

Sir Luigi puts her letter in his hands and looks intently in his
face while he reads it. A new intelligence comes into Mr. Bucket’s
eye as he reads on; with one hook of his finger, while that eye is
still glancing over the words, he indicates, “Sir Luigi Wayne,
Baronet, I understand you.”

Sir Luigi writes upon the slate. “Full forgiveness. Find—” Mr.
Bucket stops his hand.

“Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, I’ll find her. But my search after
her must be begun out of hand. Not a minute must be lost.”

With the quickness of thought, he follows Sir Luigi Wayne’s
look towards a little box upon a table.

“Bring it here, Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet? Certainly. Open it
with one of these here keys? Certainly. The littlest key? TO be sure.
Take the notes out? So I will. Count ’em? That’s soon done. Twenty
and thirty’s fifty, and twenty’s seventy, and fifty’s one twenty, and
forty’s one sixty. Take ’em for expenses? That I’ll do, and render an
account of course. Don’t spare money? No I won’t.”

The velocity and certainty of Mr. Bucket’s interpretation on all
these heads is little short of miraculous. Mrs. Talon, who holds
the light, is giddy with the swiftness of his eyes and hands as he
starts up, furnished for his journey.

“You’re Aileen’s mother, old lady; that’s about what you are, I
believe?” says Mr. Bucket aside, with his hat already on and
buttoning his coat.

“Yes, sir, I am his distressed mother.”

“So I thought, according to what he mentioned to me just now. Well,
then, I’ll tell you something. You needn’t be distressed no more.
Your son’s all right. Now, don’t you begin a-crying, because what
you’ve got to do is to take care of Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet,
and you won’t do that by crying. As to your son, he’s all right, I
tell you; and he sends his loving duty, and hoping you’re the same.
He’s discharged honourable; that’s about what HE is; with no more
imputation on his character than there is on yours, and yours is a
tidy one, I’LL bet a pound. You may trust me, for I took your son. He
conducted himself in a game way, too, on that occasion; and he’s a
fine-made man, and you’re a fine-made old lady, and you’re a mother
and son, the pair of you, as might be showed for models in a caravan.
Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, what you’ve trusted to me I’ll go
through with. Don’t you be afraid of my turning out of my way, right
or left, or taking a sleep, or a wash, or a shave till I have found
what I go in search of. Say everything as is kind and forgiving on
your part? Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, I will. And I wish you
better, and these family affairs smoothed over—as, Lord, many other
family affairs equally has been, and equally will be, to the end of
time.”

With this peroration, Mr. Bucket, buttoned up, goes quietly out,
looking steadily before him as if he were already piercing the night
in quest of the fugitive.

His first step is to take himself to Godfrey Wayne’s rooms and look
all over them for any trifling indication that may help him. The
rooms are in darkness now; and to see Mr. Bucket with a wax-light in
his hand, holding it above his head and taking a sharp mental
inventory of the many delicate objects so curiously at variance with
himself, would be to see a sight—which nobody DOES see, as he is
particular to lock himself in.

“A spicy boudoir, this,” says Mr. Bucket, who feels in a manner
furbished up in his French by the blow of the morning. “Must have
cost a sight of money. Rum articles to cut away from, these; she must
have been hard put to it!”

Opening and shutting table-drawers and looking into caskets and
jewel-cases, he sees the reflection of himself in various mirrors,
and moralizes thereon.

“One might suppose I was a-moving in the fashionable circles and
getting myself up for Almac’s,” says Mr. Bucket. “I begin to think I
must be a swell in the Guards without knowing it.”

Ever looking about, he has opened a dainty little chest in an inner
drawer. His great hand, turning over some gloves which it can
scarcely feel, they are so light and soft within it, comes upon a
white handkerchief.

“Hum! Let’s have a look at YOU,” says Mr. Bucket, putting down the
light. “What should YOU be kept by yourself for? What’s YOUR motive?
Are you her ladyship’s property, or somebody else’s? You’ve got a
mark upon you somewheres or another, I suppose?”

He finds it as he speaks, “Paulina Robin.”

“Oh!” says Mr. Bucket, pausing, with his finger at his ear. “Come,
I’ll take YOU.”

He completes his observations as quietly and carefully as he has
carried them on, leaves everything else precisely as he found it,
glides away after some five minutes in all, and passes into the
street. With a glance upward at the dimly lighted windows of Sir
Luigi’s room, he sets off, full-swing, to the nearest
coach-stand, picks out the horse for his money, and directs to be
driven to the shooting gallery. Mr. Bucket does not claim to be a
scientific judge of horses, but he lays out a little money on the
principal events in that line, and generally sums up his knowledge of
the subject in the remark that when he sees a horse as can go, he
knows him.

His knowledge is not at fault in the present instance. Clattering
over the stones at a dangerous pace, yet thoughtfully bringing his
keen eyes to bear on every slinking creature whom he passes in the
midnight streets, and even on the lights in upper windows where
people are going or gone to bed, and on all the turnings that he
rattles by, and alike on the heavy sky, and on the earth where the
snow lies thin—for something may present itself to assist him,
anywhere—he dashes to his destination at such a speed that when he
stops the horse half smothers him in a cloud of steam.

“Unbear him half a moment to freshen him up, and I’ll be back.”

He runs up the long wooden entry and finds the trooper smoking his
pipe.

“I thought I should, Aileen, after what you have gone through, my
lad. I haven’t a word to spare. Now, honour! All to save a woman.
Miss Robin that was here when Freda died—that was the name, I
know—all right—where does she live?”

The trooper has just come from there and gives him the address, near
Oxford Street.

“You won’t repent it, Aileen. Good night!”

He is off again, with an impression of having seen Olive sitting by
the frosty fire staring at him open-mouthed, and gallops away again,
and gets out in a cloud of steam again.

Mr. Ashton, the only person up in the house, is just going to bed,
rises from his book on hearing the rapid ringing at the bell, and
comes down to the door in his dressing-gown.

“Don’t be alarmed, sir.” In a moment his visitor is confidential with
him in the hall, has shut the door, and stands with his hand upon the
lock. “I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you before. Inspector Bucket.
Look at that handkerchief, sir, Miss Paulina Robin’s. Found it
myself put away in a drawer of Godfrey Wayne’s, quarter of an hour
ago. Not a moment to lose. Matter of life or death. You know Godfrey
Wayne?”

“Yes.”

“There has been a discovery there to-day. Family affairs have come
out. Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, has had a fit—apoplexy or
paralysis—and couldn’t be brought to, and precious time has been
lost. Godfrey Wayne disappeared this afternoon and left a letter for
him that looks bad. Run your eye over it. Here it is!”

Mr. Ashton, having read it, asks him what he thinks.

“I don’t know. It looks like suicide. Anyways, there’s more and more
danger, every minute, of its drawing to that. I’d give a hundred
pound an hour to have got the start of the present time. Now, Mr.
Ashton, I am employed by Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet, to follow
her and find her, to save her and take her his forgiveness. I have
money and full power, but I want something else. I want Miss
Robin.”

Mr. Ashton in a troubled voice repeats, “Miss Robin?”

“Now, Mr. Ashton”—Mr. Bucket has read his face with the greatest
attention all along—“I speak to you as a gentleman of a humane
heart, and under such pressing circumstances as don’t often happen.
If ever delay was dangerous, it’s dangerous now; and if ever you
couldn’t afterwards forgive yourself for causing it, this is the
time. Eight or ten hours, worth, as I tell you, a hundred pound
apiece at least, have been lost since Godfrey Wayne disappeared. I am
charged to find her. I am Inspector Bucket. Besides all the rest
that’s heavy on her, she has upon her, as she believes, suspicion of
murder. If I follow her alone, she, being in ignorance of what Sir
Luigi Wayne, Baronet, has communicated to me, may be driven to
desperation. But if I follow her in company with a young lady,
answering to the description of a young lady that she has a
tenderness for—I ask no question, and I say no more than that—she
will give me credit for being friendly. Let me come up with her and
be able to have the hold upon her of putting that young lady for’ard,
and I’ll save her and prevail with her if she is alive. Let me come
up with her alone—a hard matter—and I’ll do my best, but I don’t
answer for what the best may be. Time flies; it’s getting on for one
o’clock. When one strikes, there’s another hour gone, and it’s worth
a thousand pound now instead of a hundred.”

This is all true, and the pressing nature of the case cannot be
questioned. Mr. Ashton begs him to remain there while he speaks to
Miss Robin. Mr. Bucket says he will, but acting on his usual
principle, does no such thing, following upstairs instead and keeping
his man in sight. So he remains, dodging and lurking about in the
gloom of the staircase while they confer. In a very little time Mr.
Ashton comes down and tells him that Miss Robin will join him
directly and place herself under his protection to accompany him
where he pleases. Mr. Bucket, satisfied, expresses high approval and
awaits her coming at the door.

There he mounts a high tower in his mind and looks out far and wide.
Many solitary figures he perceives creeping through the streets; many
solitary figures out on heaths, and roads, and lying under haystacks.
But the figure that he seeks is not among them. Other solitaries he
perceives, in nooks of bridges, looking over; and in shadowed places
down by the river’s level; and a dark, dark, shapeless object
drifting with the tide, more solitary than all, clings with a
drowning hold on his attention.

Where is she? Living or dead, where is she? If, as he folds the
handkerchief and carefully puts it up, it were able with an enchanted
power to bring before him the place where she found it and the
night-landscape near the cottage where it covered the little child,
would he descry her there? On the waste where the brick-kilns are
burning with a pale blue flare, where the straw-roofs of the wretched
huts in which the bricks are made are being scattered by the wind,
where the clay and water are hard frozen and the mill in which the
gaunt blind horse goes round all day looks like an instrument of
human torture—traversing this deserted, blighted spot there is a
lonely figure with the sad world to itself, pelted by the snow and
driven by the wind, and cast out, it would seem, from all
companionship. It is the figure of a woman, too; but it is miserably
dressed, and no such clothes ever came through the hall and out at
the great door of the Wayne mansion.

CHAPTER LVII

Paulina’s Narrative

I had gone to bed and fallen asleep when my guardian knocked at the
door of my room and begged me to get up directly. On my hurrying to
speak to him and learn what had happened, he told me, after a word or
two of preparation, that there had been a discovery at Sir Luigi
Wayne’s. That my mother had fled, that a person was now at our door
who was empowered to convey to her the fullest assurances of
affectionate protection and forgiveness if he could possibly find
her, and that I was sought for to accompany him in the hope that my
entreaties might prevail upon her if his failed. Something to this
general purpose I made out, but I was thrown into such a tumult of
alarm, and hurry and distress, that in spite of every effort I could
make to subdue my agitation, I did not seem, to myself, fully to
recover my right mind until hours had passed.

But I dressed and wrapped up expeditiously without waking Weston or
any one and went down to Mr. Bucket, who was the person entrusted
with the secret. In taking me to him my guardian told me this, and
also explained how it was that he had come to think of me. Mr.
Bucket, in a low voice, by the light of my guardian’s candle, read to
me in the hall a letter that my mother had left upon her table; and I
suppose within ten minutes of my having been aroused I was sitting
beside him, rolling swiftly through the streets.

His manner was very keen, and yet considerate when he explained to me
that a great deal might depend on my being able to answer, without
confusion, a few questions that he wished to ask me. These were,
chiefly, whether I had had much communication with my mother (to whom
he only referred as Godfrey Wayne), when and where I had spoken with
her last, and how she had become possessed of my handkerchief. When I
had satisfied him on these points, he asked me particularly to
consider—taking time to think—whether within my knowledge there was
any one, no matter where, in whom she might be at all likely to
confide under circumstances of the last necessity. I could think of
no one but my guardian. But by and by I mentioned Mr. Rhea. He
came into my mind as connected with his old chivalrous manner of
mentioning my mother’s name and with what my guardian had informed me
of his engagement to her sister and his unconscious connexion with
her unhappy story.

My companion had stopped the driver while we held this conversation,
that we might the better hear each other. He now told him to go on
again and said to me, after considering within himself for a few
moments, that he had made up his mind how to proceed. He was quite
willing to tell me what his plan was, but I did not feel clear enough
to understand it.

We had not driven very far from our lodgings when we stopped in a
by-street at a public-looking place lighted up with gas. Mr. Bucket
took me in and sat me in an arm-chair by a bright fire. It was now
past one, as I saw by the clock against the wall. Two police
officers, looking in their perfectly neat uniform not at all like
people who were up all night, were quietly writing at a desk; and the
place seemed very quiet altogether, except for some beating and
calling out at distant doors underground, to which nobody paid any
attention.

A third man in uniform, whom Mr. Bucket called and to whom he
whispered his instructions, went out; and then the two others advised
together while one wrote from Mr. Bucket’s subdued dictation. It was
a description of my mother that they were busy with, for Mr. Bucket
brought it to me when it was done and read it in a whisper. It was
very accurate indeed.

The second officer, who had attended to it closely, then copied it
out and called in another man in uniform (there were several in an
outer room), who took it up and went away with it. All this was done
with the greatest dispatch and without the waste of a moment; yet
nobody was at all hurried. As soon as the paper was sent out upon its
travels, the two officers resumed their former quiet work of writing
with neatness and care. Mr. Bucket thoughtfully came and warmed the
soles of his boots, first one and then the other, at the fire.

“Are you well wrapped up, Miss Robin?” he asked me as his eyes
met mine. “It’s a desperate sharp night for a young lady to be out
in.”

I told him I cared for no weather and was warmly clothed.

“It may be a long job,” he observed; “but so that it ends well, never
mind, miss.”

“I pray to heaven it may end well!” said I.

He nodded comfortingly. “You see, whatever you do, don’t you go and
fret yourself. You keep yourself cool and equal for anything that may
happen, and it’ll be the better for you, the better for me, the
better for Godfrey Wayne, and the better for Sir Luigi Wayne,
Baronet.”

He was really very kind and gentle, and as he stood before the fire
warming his boots and rubbing his face with his forefinger, I felt a
confidence in his sagacity which reassured me. It was not yet a
quarter to two when I heard horses’ feet and wheels outside. “Now,
Miss Robin,” said he, “we are off, if you please!”

He gave me his arm, and the two officers courteously bowed me out,
and we found at the door a phaeton or barouche with a postilion and
post horses. Mr. Bucket handed me in and took his own seat on the
box. The man in uniform whom he had sent to fetch this equipage then
handed him up a dark lantern at his request, and when he had given a
few directions to the driver, we rattled away.

I was far from sure that I was not in a dream. We rattled with great
rapidity through such a labyrinth of streets that I soon lost all
idea where we were, except that we had crossed and re-crossed the
river, and still seemed to be traversing a low-lying, waterside,
dense neighbourhood of narrow thoroughfares chequered by docks and
basins, high piles of warehouses, swing-bridges, and masts of ships.
At length we stopped at the corner of a little slimy turning, which
the wind from the river, rushing up it, did not purify; and I saw my
companion, by the light of his lantern, in conference with several
men who looked like a mixture of police and sailors. Against the
mouldering wall by which they stood, there was a bill, on which I
could discern the words, “Found Drowned”; and this and an inscription
about drags possessed me with the awful suspicion shadowed forth in
our visit to that place.

I had no need to remind myself that I was not there by the indulgence
of any feeling of mine to increase the difficulties of the search, or
to lessen its hopes, or enhance its delays. I remained quiet, but
what I suffered in that dreadful spot I never can forget. And still
it was like the horror of a dream. A man yet dark and muddy, in long
swollen sodden boots and a hat like them, was called out of a boat
and whispered with Mr. Bucket, who went away with him down some
slippery steps—as if to look at something secret that he had to
show. They came back, wiping their hands upon their coats, after
turning over something wet; but thank God it was not what I feared!

After some further conference, Mr. Bucket (whom everybody seemed to
know and defer to) went in with the others at a door and left me in
the carriage, while the driver walked up and down by his horses to
warm himself. The tide was coming in, as I judged from the sound it
made, and I could hear it break at the end of the alley with a little
rush towards me. It never did so—and I thought it did so, hundreds
of times, in what can have been at the most a quarter of an hour, and
probably was less—but the thought shuddered through me that it would
cast my mother at the horses’ feet.

Mr. Bucket came out again, exhorting the others to be vigilant,
darkened his lantern, and once more took his seat. “Don’t you be
alarmed, Miss Robin, on account of our coming down here,” he
said, turning to me. “I only want to have everything in train and to
know that it is in train by looking after it myself. Get on, my lad!”

We appeared to retrace the way we had come. Not that I had taken note
of any particular objects in my perturbed state of mind, but judging
from the general character of the streets. We called at another
office or station for a minute and crossed the river again. During
the whole of this time, and during the whole search, my companion,
wrapped up on the box, never relaxed in his vigilance a single
moment; but when we crossed the bridge he seemed, if possible, to be
more on the alert than before. He stood up to look over the parapet,
he alighted and went back after a shadowy female figure that flitted
past us, and he gazed into the profound black pit of water with a
face that made my heart die within me. The river had a fearful look,
so overcast and secret, creeping away so fast between the low flat
lines of shore—so heavy with indistinct and awful shapes, both of
substance and shadow; so death-like and mysterious. I have seen it
many times since then, by sunlight and by moonlight, but never free
from the impressions of that journey. In my memory the lights upon
the bridge are always burning dim, the cutting wind is eddying round
the homeless woman whom we pass, the monotonous wheels are whirling
on, and the light of the carriage-lamps reflected back looks palely
in upon me—a face rising out of the dreaded water.

Clattering and clattering through the empty streets, we came at
length from the pavement on to dark smooth roads and began to leave
the houses behind us. After a while I recognized the familiar way to
Saint Albans. At Barnet fresh horses were ready for us, and we
changed and went on. It was very cold indeed, and the open country
was white with snow, though none was falling then.

“An old acquaintance of yours, this road, Miss Robin,” said Mr.
Bucket cheerfully.

“Yes,” I returned. “Have you gathered any intelligence?”

“None that can be quite depended on as yet,” he answered, “but it’s
early times as yet.”

He had gone into every late or early public-house where there
was a light (they were not a few at that time, the road being
then much frequented by drovers) and had got down to talk to the
turnpike-keepers. I had heard him ordering drink, and chinking money,
and making himself agreeable and merry everywhere; but whenever he
took his seat upon the box again, his face resumed its watchful
steady look, and he always said to the driver in the same business
tone, “Get on, my lad!”

With all these stoppages, it was between five and six o’clock and we
were yet a few miles short of Saint Albans when he came out of one of
these houses and handed me in a cup of tea.

“Drink it, Miss Robin, it’ll do you good. You’re beginning to get
more yourself now, ain’t you?”

I thanked him and said I hoped so.

“You was what you may call stunned at first,” he returned; “and Lord,
no wonder! Don’t speak loud, my dear. It’s all right. She’s on
ahead.”

I don’t know what joyful exclamation I made or was going to make, but
he put up his finger and I stopped myself.

“Passed through here on foot this evening about eight or nine. I
heard of her first at the archway toll, over at Highgate, but
couldn’t make quite sure. Traced her all along, on and off. Picked
her up at one place, and dropped her at another; but she’s before us
now, safe. Take hold of this cup and saucer, ostler. Now, if you
wasn’t brought up to the butter trade, look out and see if you can
catch half a crown in your t’other hand. One, two, three, and there
you are! Now, my lad, try a gallop!”

We were soon in Saint Albans and alighted a little before day, when I
was just beginning to arrange and comprehend the occurrences of the
night and really to believe that they were not a dream. Leaving the
carriage at the posting-house and ordering fresh horses to be ready,
my companion gave me his arm, and we went towards home.

“As this is your regular abode, Miss Robin, you see,” he
observed, “I should like to know whether you’ve been asked for by any
stranger answering the description, or whether Mr. Ashton has. I
don’t much expect it, but it might be.”

As we ascended the hill, he looked about him with a sharp eye—the
day was now breaking—and reminded me that I had come down it one
night, as I had reason for remembering, with my little servant and
poor Jo, whom he called Toughey.

I wondered how he knew that.

“When you passed a man upon the road, just yonder, you know,” said
Mr. Bucket.

Yes, I remembered that too, very well.

“That was me,” said Mr. Bucket.

Seeing my surprise, he went on, “I drove down in a gig that afternoon
to look after that boy. You might have heard my wheels when you came
out to look after him yourself, for I was aware of you and your
little maid going up when I was walking the horse down. Making an
inquiry or two about him in the town, I soon heard what company he
was in and was coming among the brick-fields to look for him when I
observed you bringing him home here.”

“Had he committed any crime?” I asked.

“None was charged against him,” said Mr. Bucket, coolly lifting off
his hat, “but I suppose he wasn’t over-particular. No. What I wanted
him for was in connexion with keeping this very matter of Godfrey
Wayne quiet. He had been making his tongue more free than welcome
as to a small accidental service he had been paid for by the deceased
Mr. Tulkinghorn; and it wouldn’t do, at any sort of price, to have
him playing those games. So having warned him out of London, I made
an afternoon of it to warn him to keep out of it now he WAS away, and
go farther from it, and maintain a bright look-out that I didn’t
catch him coming back again.”

“Poor creature!” said I.

“Poor enough,” assented Mr. Bucket, “and trouble enough, and well
enough away from London, or anywhere else. I was regularly turned on
my back when I found him taken up by your establishment, I do assure
you.”

I asked him why. “Why, my dear?” said Mr. Bucket. “Naturally there
was no end to his tongue then. He might as well have been born with a
yard and a half of it, and a remnant over.”

Although I remember this conversation now, my head was in confusion
at the time, and my power of attention hardly did more than enable me
to understand that he entered into these particulars to divert me.
With the same kind intention, manifestly, he often spoke to me of
indifferent things, while his face was busy with the one object that
we had in view. He still pursued this subject as we turned in at the
garden-gate.

“Ah!” said Mr. Bucket. “Here we are, and a nice retired place it is.
Puts a man in mind of the country house in the Woodpecker-tapping,
that was known by the smoke which so gracefully curled. They’re early
with the kitchen fire, and that denotes good servants. But what
you’ve always got to be careful of with servants is who comes to see
’em; you never know what they’re up to if you don’t know that. And
another thing, my dear. Whenever you find a young man behind the
kitchen-door, you give that young man in charge on suspicion of being
secreted in a dwelling-house with an unlawful purpose.”

We were now in front of the house; he looked attentively and closely
at the gravel for footprints before he raised his eyes to the
windows.

“Do you generally put that elderly young gentleman in the same room
when he’s on a visit here, Miss Robin?” he inquired, glancing at
Mr. Yestin’s usual chamber.

“You know Mr. Yestin!” said I.

“What do you call him again?” returned Mr. Bucket, bending down his
ear. “Yestin, is it? I’ve often wondered what his name might be.
Yestin. Not Gerardo, I should say, nor yet Jacob?”

“Harold,” I told him.

“Harold. Yes. He’s a queer bird is Harold,” said Mr. Bucket, eyeing
me with great expression.

“He is a singular character,” said I.

“No idea of money,” observed Mr. Bucket. “He takes it, though!”

I involuntarily returned for answer that I perceived Mr. Bucket knew
him.

“Why, now I’ll tell you, Miss Robin,” he replied. “Your mind will
be all the better for not running on one point too continually, and
I’ll tell you for a change. It was him as pointed out to me where
Toughey was. I made up my mind that night to come to the door and ask
for Toughey, if that was all; but willing to try a move or so first,
if any such was on the board, I just pitched up a morsel of gravel at
that window where I saw a shadow. As soon as Harold opens it and I
have had a look at him, thinks I, you’re the man for me. So I
smoothed him down a bit about not wanting to disturb the family after
they was gone to bed and about its being a thing to be regretted that
charitable young ladies should harbour vagrants; and then, when I
pretty well understood his ways, I said I should consider a fypunnote
well bestowed if I could relieve the premises of Toughey without
causing any noise or trouble. Then says he, lifting up his eyebrows
in the gayest way, ‘It’s no use mentioning a fypunnote to me, my
friend, because I’m a mere child in such matters and have no idea of
money.’ Of course I understood what his taking it so easy meant; and
being now quite sure he was the man for me, I wrapped the note round
a little stone and threw it up to him. Well! He laughs and beams, and
looks as innocent as you like, and says, ‘But I don’t know the value
of these things. What am I to DO with this?’ ‘Spend it, sir,’ says I.
‘But I shall be taken in,’ he says, ‘they won’t give me the right
change, I shall lose it, it’s no use to me.’ Lord, you never saw such
a face as he carried it with! Of course he told me where to find
Toughey, and I found him.”

I regarded this as very treacherous on the part of Mr. Yestin
towards my guardian and as passing the usual bounds of his childish
innocence.

“Bounds, my dear?” returned Mr. Bucket. “Bounds? Now, Miss Robin,
I’ll give you a piece of advice that your husband will find useful
when you are happily married and have got a family about you.
Whenever a person says to you that they are as innocent as can be in
all concerning money, look well after your own money, for they are
dead certain to collar it if they can. Whenever a person proclaims to
you ‘In worldly matters I’m a child,’ you consider that that person
is only a-crying off from being held accountable and that you have
got that person’s number, and it’s Number One. Now, I am not a
poetical man myself, except in a vocal way when it goes round a
company, but I’m a practical one, and that’s my experience. So’s this
rule. Fast and loose in one thing, fast and loose in everything. I
never knew it fail. No more will you. Nor no one. With which caution
to the unwary, my dear, I take the liberty of pulling this here bell,
and so go back to our business.”

I believe it had not been for a moment out of his mind, any more than
it had been out of my mind, or out of his face. The whole household
were amazed to see me, without any notice, at that time in the
morning, and so accompanied; and their surprise was not diminished by
my inquiries. No one, however, had been there. It could not be
doubted that this was the truth.

“Then, Miss Robin,” said my companion, “we can’t be too soon at
the cottage where those brickmakers are to be found. Most inquiries
there I leave to you, if you’ll be so good as to make ’em. The
naturalest way is the best way, and the naturalest way is your own
way.”

We set off again immediately. On arriving at the cottage, we found it
shut up and apparently deserted, but one of the neighbours who knew
me and who came out when I was trying to make some one hear informed
me that the two women and their husbands now lived together in
another house, made of loose rough bricks, which stood on the margin
of the piece of ground where the kilns were and where the long rows
of bricks were drying. We lost no time in repairing to this place,
which was within a few hundred yards; and as the door stood ajar, I
pushed it open.

There were only three of them sitting at breakfast, the child lying
asleep on a bed in the corner. It was Alejandro, the mother of the dead
child, who was absent. The other woman rose on seeing me; and the
men, though they were, as usual, sulky and silent, each gave me a
morose nod of recognition. A look passed between them when Mr. Bucket
followed me in, and I was surprised to see that the woman evidently
knew him.

I had asked leave to enter of course. Liz (the only name by which I
knew her) rose to give me her own chair, but I sat down on a stool
near the fire, and Mr. Bucket took a corner of the bedstead. Now that
I had to speak and was among people with whom I was not familiar, I
became conscious of being hurried and giddy. It was very difficult to
begin, and I could not help bursting into tears.

“Liz,” said I, “I have come a long way in the night and through the
snow to inquire after a lady—”

“Who has been here, you know,” Mr. Bucket struck in, addressing the
whole group with a composed propitiatory face; “that’s the lady the
young lady means. The lady that was here last night, you know.”

“And who told YOU as there was anybody here?” inquired Alejandro’s
husband, who had made a surly stop in his eating to listen and now
measured him with his eye.

“A person of the name of Michael Jackson, with a blue welveteen
waistcoat with a double row of mother of pearl buttons,” Mr. Bucket
immediately answered.

“He had as good mind his own business, whoever he is,” growled the
man.

“He’s out of employment, I believe,” said Mr. Bucket apologetically
for Michael Jackson, “and so gets talking.”

The woman had not resumed her chair, but stood faltering with her
hand upon its broken back, looking at me. I thought she would have
spoken to me privately if she had dared. She was still in this
attitude of uncertainty when her husband, who was eating with a lump
of bread and fat in one hand and his clasp-knife in the other, struck
the handle of his knife violently on the table and told her with an
oath to mind HER own business at any rate and sit down.

“I should like to have seen Alejandro very much,” said I, “for I am sure
she would have told me all she could about this lady, whom I am very
anxious indeed—you cannot think how anxious—to overtake. Will Alejandro
be here soon? Where is she?”

The woman had a great desire to answer, but the man, with another
oath, openly kicked at her foot with his heavy boot. He left it to
Alejandro’s husband to say what he chose, and after a dogged silence the
latter turned his shaggy head towards me.

“I’m not partial to gentlefolks coming into my place, as you’ve heerd
me say afore now, I think, miss. I let their places be, and it’s
curious they can’t let my place be. There’d be a pretty shine made if
I was to go a-wisitin THEM, I think. Howsoever, I don’t so much
complain of you as of some others, and I’m agreeable to make you a
civil answer, though I give notice that I’m not a-going to be drawed
like a badger. Will Alejandro be here soon? No she won’t. Where is she?
She’s gone up to Lunnun.”

“Did she go last night?” I asked.

“Did she go last night? Ah! She went last night,” he answered with a
sulky jerk of his head.

“But was she here when the lady came? And what did the lady say to
her? And where is the lady gone? I beg and pray you to be so kind as
to tell me,” said I, “for I am in great distress to know.”

“If my master would let me speak, and not say a word of harm—” the
woman timidly began.

“Your master,” said her husband, muttering an imprecation with slow
emphasis, “will break your neck if you meddle with wot don’t concern
you.”

After another silence, the husband of the absent woman, turning to me
again, answered me with his usual grumbling unwillingness.

“Wos Alejandro here when the lady come? Yes, she wos here when the lady
come. Wot did the lady say to her? Well, I’ll tell you wot the lady
said to her. She said, ‘You remember me as come one time to talk to
you about the young lady as had been a-wisiting of you? You remember
me as give you somethink handsome for a handkercher wot she had
left?’ Ah, she remembered. So we all did. Well, then, wos that young
lady up at the house now? No, she warn’t up at the house now. Well,
then, lookee here. The lady was upon a journey all alone, strange as
we might think it, and could she rest herself where you’re a setten
for a hour or so. Yes she could, and so she did. Then she went—it
might be at twenty minutes past eleven, and it might be at twenty
minutes past twelve; we ain’t got no watches here to know the time
by, nor yet clocks. Where did she go? I don’t know where she go’d.
She went one way, and Alejandro went another; one went right to Lunnun,
and t’other went right from it. That’s all about it. Ask this man. He
heerd it all, and see it all. He knows.”

The other man repeated, “That’s all about it.”

“Was the lady crying?” I inquired.

“Devil a bit,” returned the first man. “Her shoes was the worse, and
her clothes was the worse, but she warn’t—not as I see.”

The woman sat with her arms crossed and her eyes upon the ground. Her
husband had turned his seat a little so as to face her and kept his
hammer-like hand upon the table as if it were in readiness to execute
his threat if she disobeyed him.

“I hope you will not object to my asking your wife,” said I, “how the
lady looked.”

“Come, then!” he gruffly cried to her. “You hear what she says. Cut
it short and tell her.”

“Bad,” replied the woman. “Pale and exhausted. Very bad.”

“Did she speak much?”

“Not much, but her voice was hoarse.”

She answered, looking all the while at her husband for leave.

“Was she faint?” said I. “Did she eat or drink here?”

“Go on!” said the husband in answer to her look. “Tell her and cut it
short.”

“She had a little water, miss, and Alejandro fetched her some bread and
tea. But she hardly touched it.”

“And when she went from here,” I was proceeding, when Alejandro’s husband
impatiently took me up.

“When she went from here, she went right away nor’ard by the high
road. Ask on the road if you doubt me, and see if it warn’t so. Now,
there’s the end. That’s all about it.”

I glanced at my companion, and finding that he had already risen and
was ready to depart, thanked them for what they had told me, and took
my leave. The woman looked full at Mr. Bucket as he went out, and he
looked full at her.

“Now, Miss Robin,” he said to me as we walked quickly away.
“They’ve got her ladyship’s watch among ’em. That’s a positive fact.”

“You saw it?” I exclaimed.

“Just as good as saw it,” he returned. “Else why should he talk about
his ‘twenty minutes past’ and about his having no watch to tell the
time by? Twenty minutes! He don’t usually cut his time so fine as
that. If he comes to half-hours, it’s as much as HE does. Now, you
see, either her ladyship gave him that watch or he took it. I think
she gave it him. Now, what should she give it him for? What should
she give it him for?”

He repeated this question to himself several times as we hurried on,
appearing to balance between a variety of answers that arose in his
mind.

“If time could be spared,” said Mr. Bucket, “which is the only thing
that can’t be spared in this case, I might get it out of that woman;
but it’s too doubtful a chance to trust to under present
circumstances. They are up to keeping a close eye upon her, and any
fool knows that a poor creetur like her, beaten and kicked and
scarred and bruised from head to foot, will stand by the husband that
ill uses her through thick and thin. There’s something kept back.
It’s a pity but what we had seen the other woman.”

I regretted it exceedingly, for she was very grateful, and I felt
sure would have resisted no entreaty of mine.

“It’s possible, Miss Robin,” said Mr. Bucket, pondering on it,
“that her ladyship sent her up to London with some word for you, and
it’s possible that her husband got the watch to let her go. It don’t
come out altogether so plain as to please me, but it’s on the cards.
Now, I don’t take kindly to laying out the money of Sir Luigi
Wayne, Baronet, on these roughs, and I don’t see my way to the
usefulness of it at present. No! So far our road, Miss Robin, is
for’ard—straight ahead—and keeping everything quiet!”

We called at home once more that I might send a hasty note to my
guardian, and then we hurried back to where we had left the carriage.
The horses were brought out as soon as we were seen coming, and we
were on the road again in a few minutes.

It had set in snowing at daybreak, and it now snowed hard. The air
was so thick with the darkness of the day and the density of the fall
that we could see but a very little way in any direction. Although it
was extremely cold, the snow was but partially frozen, and it
churned—with a sound as if it were a beach of small shells—under
the hoofs of the horses into mire and water. They sometimes slipped
and floundered for a mile together, and we were obliged to come to a
standstill to rest them. One horse fell three times in this first
stage, and trembled so and was so shaken that the driver had to
dismount from his saddle and lead him at last.

I could eat nothing and could not sleep, and I grew so nervous under
those delays and the slow pace at which we travelled that I had an
unreasonable desire upon me to get out and walk. Yielding to my
companion’s better sense, however, I remained where I was. All this
time, kept fresh by a certain enjoyment of the work in which he was
engaged, he was up and down at every house we came to, addressing
people whom he had never beheld before as old acquaintances, running
in to warm himself at every fire he saw, talking and drinking and
shaking hands at every bar and tap, friendly with every waggoner,
wheelwright, blacksmith, and toll-taker, yet never seeming to lose
time, and always mounting to the box again with his watchful, steady
face and his business-like “Get on, my lad!”

When we were changing horses the next time, he came from the
stable-yard, with the wet snow encrusted upon him and dropping off
him—plashing and crashing through it to his wet knees as he had been
doing frequently since we left Saint Albans—and spoke to me at the
carriage side.

“Keep up your spirits. It’s certainly true that she came on here,
Miss Robin. There’s not a doubt of the dress by this time, and
the dress has been seen here.”

“Still on foot?” said I.

“Still on foot. I think the gentleman you mentioned must be the point
she’s aiming at, and yet I don’t like his living down in her own part
of the country neither.”

“I know so little,” said I. “There may be some one else nearer here,
of whom I never heard.”

“That’s true. But whatever you do, don’t you fall a-crying, my dear;
and don’t you worry yourself no more than you can help. Get on, my
lad!”

The sleet fell all that day unceasingly, a thick mist came on early,
and it never rose or lightened for a moment. Such roads I had never
seen. I sometimes feared we had missed the way and got into the
ploughed grounds or the marshes. If I ever thought of the time I had
been out, it presented itself as an indefinite period of great
duration, and I seemed, in a strange way, never to have been free
from the anxiety under which I then laboured.

As we advanced, I began to feel misgivings that my companion lost
confidence. He was the same as before with all the roadside people,
but he looked graver when he sat by himself on the box. I saw his
finger uneasily going across and across his mouth during the whole of
one long weary stage. I overheard that he began to ask the drivers of
coaches and other vehicles coming towards us what passengers they had
seen in other coaches and vehicles that were in advance. Their
replies did not encourage him. He always gave me a reassuring beck of
his finger and lift of his eyelid as he got upon the box again, but
he seemed perplexed now when he said, “Get on, my lad!”

At last, when we were changing, he told me that he had lost the track
of the dress so long that he began to be surprised. It was nothing,
he said, to lose such a track for one while, and to take it up for
another while, and so on; but it had disappeared here in an
unaccountable manner, and we had not come upon it since. This
corroborated the apprehensions I had formed, when he began to look at
direction-posts, and to leave the carriage at cross roads for a
quarter of an hour at a time while he explored them. But I was not to
be down-hearted, he told me, for it was as likely as not that the
next stage might set us right again.

The next stage, however, ended as that one ended; we had no new clue.
There was a spacious inn here, solitary, but a comfortable
substantial building, and as we drove in under a large gateway before
I knew it, where a landlady and her pretty daughters came to the
carriage-door, entreating me to alight and refresh myself while the
horses were making ready, I thought it would be uncharitable to
refuse. They took me upstairs to a warm room and left me there.

It was at the corner of the house, I remember, looking two ways. On
one side to a stable-yard open to a by-road, where the ostlers were
unharnessing the splashed and tired horses from the muddy carriage,
and beyond that to the by-road itself, across which the sign was
heavily swinging; on the other side to a wood of dark pine-trees.
Their branches were encumbered with snow, and it silently dropped off
in wet heaps while I stood at the window. Night was setting in, and
its bleakness was enhanced by the contrast of the pictured fire
glowing and gleaming in the window-pane. As I looked among the stems
of the trees and followed the discoloured marks in the snow where the
thaw was sinking into it and undermining it, I thought of the
motherly face brightly set off by daughters that had just now
welcomed me and of MY mother lying down in such a wood to die.

I was frightened when I found them all about me, but I remembered
that before I fainted I tried very hard not to do it; and that was
some little comfort. They cushioned me up on a large sofa by the
fire, and then the comely landlady told me that I must travel no
further to-night, but must go to bed. But this put me into such a
tremble lest they should detain me there that she soon recalled her
words and compromised for a rest of half an hour.

A good endearing creature she was. She and her three fair girls, all
so busy about me. I was to take hot soup and broiled fowl, while Mr.
Bucket dried himself and dined elsewhere; but I could not do it when
a snug round table was presently spread by the fireside, though I was
very unwilling to disappoint them. However, I could take some toast
and some hot negus; and as I really enjoyed that refreshment, it made
some recompense.

Punctual to the time, at the half-hour’s end the carriage came
rumbling under the gateway, and they took me down, warmed, refreshed,
comforted by kindness, and safe (I assured them) not to faint any
more. After I had got in and had taken a grateful leave of them all,
the youngest daughter—a blooming girl of nineteen, who was to be the
first married, they had told me—got upon the carriage step, reached
in, and kissed me. I have never seen her, from that hour, but I think
of her to this hour as my friend.

The transparent windows with the fire and light, looking so bright
and warm from the cold darkness out of doors, were soon gone, and
again we were crushing and churning the loose snow. We went on with
toil enough, but the dismal roads were not much worse than they had
been, and the stage was only nine miles. My companion smoking on the
box—I had thought at the last inn of begging him to do so when I saw
him standing at a great fire in a comfortable cloud of tobacco—was
as vigilant as ever and as quickly down and up again when we came to
any human abode or any human creature. He had lighted his little dark
lantern, which seemed to be a favourite with him, for we had lamps to
the carriage; and every now and then he turned it upon me to see that
I was doing well. There was a folding-window to the carriage-head,
but I never closed it, for it seemed like shutting out hope.

We came to the end of the stage, and still the lost trace was not
recovered. I looked at him anxiously when we stopped to change, but I
knew by his yet graver face as he stood watching the ostlers that he
had heard nothing. Almost in an instant afterwards, as I leaned back
in my seat, he looked in, with his lighted lantern in his hand, an
excited and quite different man.

“What is it?” said I, starting. “Is she here?”

“No, no. Don’t deceive yourself, my dear. Nobody’s here. But I’ve got
it!”

The crystallized snow was in his eyelashes, in his hair, lying in
ridges on his dress. He had to shake it from his face and get his
breath before he spoke to me.

“Now, Miss Robin,” said he, beating his finger on the apron,
“don’t you be disappointed at what I’m a-going to do. You know me.
I’m Inspector Bucket, and you can trust me. We’ve come a long way;
never mind. Four horses out there for the next stage up! Quick!”

There was a commotion in the yard, and a man came running out of the
stables to know if he meant up or down.

“Up, I tell you! Up! Ain’t it English? Up!”

“Up?” said I, astonished. “To London! Are we going back?”

“Miss Robin,” he answered, “back. Straight back as a die. You
know me. Don’t be afraid. I’ll follow the other, by G——”

“The other?” I repeated. “Who?”

“You called her Alejandro, didn’t you? I’ll follow her. Bring those two
pair out here for a crown a man. Wake up, some of you!”

“You will not desert this lady we are in search of; you will not
abandon her on such a night and in such a state of mind as I know her
to be in!” said I, in an agony, and grasping his hand.

“You are right, my dear, I won’t. But I’ll follow the other. Look
alive here with them horses. Send a man for’ard in the saddle to the
next stage, and let him send another for’ard again, and order four
on, up, right through. My darling, don’t you be afraid!”

These orders and the way in which he ran about the yard urging them
caused a general excitement that was scarcely less bewildering to me
than the sudden change. But in the height of the confusion, a mounted
man galloped away to order the relays, and our horses were put to
with great speed.

“My dear,” said Mr. Bucket, jumping to his seat and looking in again,
“—you’ll excuse me if I’m too familiar—don’t you fret and worry
yourself no more than you can help. I say nothing else at present;
but you know me, my dear; now, don’t you?”

I endeavoured to say that I knew he was far more capable than I of
deciding what we ought to do, but was he sure that this was right?
Could I not go forward by myself in search of—I grasped his hand
again in my distress and whispered it to him—of my own mother.

“My dear,” he answered, “I know, I know, and would I put you wrong,
do you think? Inspector Bucket. Now you know me, don’t you?”

What could I say but yes!

“Then you keep up as good a heart as you can, and you rely upon me
for standing by you, no less than by Sir Luigi Wayne, Baronet.
Now, are you right there?”

“All right, sir!”

“Off she goes, then. And get on, my lads!”

We were again upon the melancholy road by which we had come, tearing
up the miry sleet and thawing snow as if they were torn up by a
waterwheel.

CHAPTER LVIII

A Wintry Day and Night

Still impassive, as behoves its breeding, the Wayne town house
carries itself as usual towards the street of dismal grandeur. There
are powdered heads from time to time in the little windows of the
hall, looking out at the untaxed powder falling all day from the sky;
and in the same conservatory there is peach blossom turning itself
exotically to the great hall fire from the nipping weather out of
doors. It is given out that my Godfrey has gone down into Lincolnshire,
but is expected to return presently.

Rumour, busy overmuch, however, will not go down into Lincolnshire.
It persists in flitting and chattering about town. It knows that that
poor unfortunate man, Sir Luigi, has been sadly used. It hears,
my dear child, all sorts of shocking things. It makes the world of
five miles round quite merry. Not to know that there is something
wrong at the Waynes’ is to augur yourself unknown. One of the
peachy-cheeked charmers with the skeleton throats is already apprised
of all the principal circumstances that will come out before the
Lords on Sir Luigi’s application for a bill of divorce.

At Blaze and Sparkle’s the jewellers and at Sheen and Gloss’s the
mercers, it is and will be for several hours the topic of the age,
the feature of the century. The patronesses of those establishments,
albeit so loftily inscrutable, being as nicely weighed and measured
there as any other article of the stock-in-trade, are perfectly
understood in this new fashion by the rawest hand behind the counter.
“Our people, Mr. Jones,” said Blaze and Sparkle to the hand in
question on engaging him, “our people, sir, are sheep—mere sheep.
Where two or three marked ones go, all the rest follow. Keep those
two or three in your eye, Mr. Jones, and you have the flock.” So,
likewise, Sheen and Gloss to THEIR Jones, in reference to knowing
where to have the fashionable people and how to bring what they
(Sheen and Gloss) choose into fashion. On similar unerring
principles, Mr. Sladdery the librarian, and indeed the great farmer
of gorgeous sheep, admits this very day, “Why yes, sir, there
certainly ARE reports concerning Godfrey Wayne, very current indeed
among my high connexion, sir. You see, my high connexion must talk
about something, sir; and it’s only to get a subject into vogue with
one or two ladies I could name to make it go down with the whole.
Just what I should have done with those ladies, sir, in the case of
any novelty you had left to me to bring in, they have done of
themselves in this case through knowing Godfrey Wayne and being
perhaps a little innocently jealous of her too, sir. You’ll find,
sir, that this topic will be very popular among my high connexion. If
it had been a speculation, sir, it would have brought money. And when
I say so, you may trust to my being right, sir, for I have made it my
business to study my high connexion and to be able to wind it up like
a clock, sir.”

Thus rumour thrives in the capital, and will not go down into
Lincolnshire. By half-past five, post meridian, Horse Guards’ time,
it has even elicited a new remark from the Honourable Mr. Paisley,
which bids fair to outshine the old one, on which he has so long
rested his colloquial reputation. This sparkling sally is to the
effect that although he always knew she was the best-groomed woman in
the stud, he had no idea she was a bolter. It is immensely received
in turf-circles.

At feasts and festivals also, in firmaments she has often graced, and
among constellations she outshone but yesterday, she is still the
prevalent subject. What is it? Who is it? When was it? Where was it?
How was it? She is discussed by her dear friends with all the
genteelest slang in vogue, with the last new word, the last new
manner, the last new drawl, and the perfection of polite
indifference. A remarkable feature of the theme is that it is found
to be so inspiring that several people come out upon it who never
came out before—positively say things! William Buffy carries one of
these smartnesses from the place where he dines down to the House,
where the Whip for his party hands it about with his snuff-box to
keep men together who want to be off, with such effect that the
Speaker (who has had it privately insinuated into his own ear under
the corner of his wig) cries, “Order at the bar!” three times without
making an impression.

And not the least amazing circumstance connected with her being
vaguely the town talk is that people hovering on the confines of Mr.
Sladdery’s high connexion, people who know nothing and ever did know
nothing about her, think it essential to their reputation to pretend
that she is their topic too, and to retail her at second-hand with
the last new word and the last new manner, and the last new drawl,
and the last new polite indifference, and all the rest of it, all at
second-hand but considered equal to new in inferior systems and to
fainter stars. If there be any man of letters, art, or science among
these little dealers, how noble in him to support the feeble sisters
on such majestic crutches!

So goes the wintry day outside the Wayne mansion. How within it?

Sir Luigi, lying in his bed, can speak a little, though with
difficulty and indistinctness. He is enjoined to silence and to rest,
and they have given him some opiate to lull his pain, for his old
enemy is very hard with him. He is never asleep, though sometimes he
seems to fall into a dull waking doze. He caused his bedstead to be
moved out nearer to the window when he heard it was such inclement
weather, and his head to be so adjusted that he could see the driving
snow and sleet. He watches it as it falls, throughout the whole
wintry day.

Upon the least noise in the house, which is kept hushed, his hand is
at the pencil. The old housekeeper, sitting by him, knows what he
would write and whispers, “No, he has not come back yet, Sir
Luigi. It was late last night when he went. He has been but a
little time gone yet.”

He withdraws his hand and falls to looking at the sleet and snow
again until they seem, by being long looked at, to fall so thick and
fast that he is obliged to close his eyes for a minute on the giddy
whirl of white flakes and icy blots.

He began to look at them as soon as it was light. The day is not yet
far spent when he conceives it to be necessary that her rooms should
be prepared for her. It is very cold and wet. Let there be good
fires. Let them know that she is expected. Please see to it yourself.
He writes to this purpose on his slate, and Mrs. Talon with a
heavy heart obeys.

“For I dread, Aileen,” the old lady says to her son, who waits below
to keep her company when she has a little leisure, “I dread, my dear,
that my Godfrey will never more set foot within these walls.”

“That’s a bad presentiment, mother.”

“Nor yet within the walls of Chesney Wold, my dear.”

“That’s worse. But why, mother?”

“When I saw my Godfrey yesterday, Aileen, she looked to me—and I may
say at me too—as if the step on the Ghost’s Walk had almost walked
her down.”

“Come, come! You alarm yourself with old-story fears, mother.”

“No I don’t, my dear. No I don’t. It’s going on for sixty year that I
have been in this family, and I never had any fears for it before.
But it’s breaking up, my dear; the great old Wayne family is
breaking up.”

“I hope not, mother.”

“I am thankful I have lived long enough to be with Sir Luigi in
this illness and trouble, for I know I am not too old nor too useless
to be a welcomer sight to him than anybody else in my place would be.
But the step on the Ghost’s Walk will walk my Godfrey down, Aileen; it
has been many a day behind her, and now it will pass her and go on.”

“Well, mother dear, I say again, I hope not.”

“Ah, so do I, Aileen,” the old lady returns, shaking her head and
parting her folded hands. “But if my fears come true, and he has to
know it, who will tell him!”

“Are these her rooms?”

“These are my Godfrey’s rooms, just as she left them.”

“Why, now,” says the trooper, glancing round him and speaking in a
lower voice, “I begin to understand how you come to think as you do
think, mother. Rooms get an awful look about them when they are
fitted up, like these, for one person you are used to see in them,
and that person is away under any shadow, let alone being God knows
where.”

He is not far out. As all partings foreshadow the great final one,
so, empty rooms, bereft of a familiar presence, mournfully whisper
what your room and what mine must one day be. My Godfrey’s state has a
hollow look, thus gloomy and abandoned; and in the inner apartment,
where Mr. Bucket last night made his secret perquisition, the traces
of her dresses and her ornaments, even the mirrors accustomed to
reflect them when they were a portion of herself, have a desolate and
vacant air. Dark and cold as the wintry day is, it is darker and
colder in these deserted chambers than in many a hut that will barely
exclude the weather; and though the servants heap fires in the grates
and set the couches and the chairs within the warm glass screens that
let their ruddy light shoot through to the furthest corners, there is
a heavy cloud upon the rooms which no light will dispel.

The old housekeeper and her son remain until the preparations are
complete, and then she returns upstairs. Volumnia has taken Mrs.
Talon’s place in the meantime, though pearl necklaces and rouge
pots, however calculated to embellish Bath, are but indifferent
comforts to the invalid under present circumstances. Volumnia, not
being supposed to know (and indeed not knowing) what is the matter,
has found it a ticklish task to offer appropriate observations and
consequently has supplied their place with distracting smoothings of
the bed-linen, elaborate locomotion on tiptoe, vigilant peeping at
her kinsman’s eyes, and one exasperating whisper to herself of, “He
is asleep.” In disproof of which superfluous remark Sir Luigi has
indignantly written on the slate, “I am not.”

Yielding, therefore, the chair at the bedside to the quaint old
housekeeper, Volumnia sits at a table a little removed,
sympathetically sighing. Sir Luigi watches the sleet and snow and
listens for the returning steps that he expects. In the ears of his
old servant, looking as if she had stepped out of an old
picture-frame to attend a summoned Wayne to another world, the
silence is fraught with echoes of her own words, “Who will tell him!”

He has been under his valet’s hands this morning to be made
presentable and is as well got up as the circumstances will allow. He
is propped with pillows, his grey hair is brushed in its usual
manner, his linen is arranged to a nicety, and he is wrapped in a
responsible dressing-gown. His eye-glass and his watch are ready to
his hand. It is necessary—less to his own dignity now perhaps than
for her sake—that he should be seen as little disturbed and as much
himself as may be. Women will talk, and Volumnia, though a Wayne,
is no exceptional case. He keeps her here, there is little doubt, to
prevent her talking somewhere else. He is very ill, but he makes his
present stand against distress of mind and body most courageously.

The fair Volumnia, being one of those sprightly girls who cannot long
continue silent without imminent peril of seizure by the dragon
Boredom, soon indicates the approach of that monster with a series of
undisguisable yawns. Finding it impossible to suppress those yawns by
any other process than conversation, she compliments Mrs. Talon
on her son, declaring that he positively is one of the finest figures
she ever saw and as soldierly a looking person, she should think, as
what’s his name, her favourite Life Guardsman—the man she dotes on,
the dearest of creatures—who was killed at Waterloo.

Sir Luigi hears this tribute with so much surprise and stares
about him in such a confused way that Mrs. Talon feels it
necessary to explain.

“Miss Wayne don’t speak of my eldest son, Sir Luigi, but my
youngest. I have found him. He has come home.”

Sir Luigi breaks silence with a harsh cry. “Aileen? Your son
Aileen come home, Mrs. Talon?”

The old housekeeper wipes her eyes. “Thank God. Yes, Sir Luigi.”

Does this discovery of some one lost, this return of some one so long
gone, come upon him as a strong confirmation of his hopes? Does he
think, “Shall I not, with the aid I have, recall her safely after
this, there being fewer hours in her case than there are years in
his?”

It is of no use entreating him; he is determined to speak now, and he
does. In a thick crowd of sounds, but still intelligibly enough to be
understood.

“Why did you not tell me, Mrs. Talon?”

“It happened only yesterday, Sir Luigi, and I doubted your being
well enough to be talked to of such things.”

Besides, the giddy Volumnia now remembers with her little scream that
nobody was to have known of his being Mrs. Talon’s son and that
she was not to have told. But Mrs. Talon protests, with warmth
enough to swell the stomacher, that of course she would have told Sir
Luigi as soon as he got better.

“Where is your son Aileen, Mrs. Talon?” asks Sir Luigi,

Mrs. Talon, not a little alarmed by his disregard of the
doctor’s injunctions, replies, in London.

“Where in London?”

Mrs. Talon is constrained to admit that he is in the house.

“Bring him here to my room. Bring him directly.”

The old lady can do nothing but go in search of him. Sir Luigi,
with such power of movement as he has, arranges himself a little to
receive him. When he has done so, he looks out again at the falling
sleet and snow and listens again for the returning steps. A quantity
of straw has been tumbled down in the street to deaden the noises
there, and she might be driven to the door perhaps without his
hearing wheels.

He is lying thus, apparently forgetful of his newer and minor
surprise, when the housekeeper returns, accompanied by her trooper
son. Mr. Aileen approaches softly to the bedside, makes his bow,
squares his chest, and stands, with his face flushed, very heartily
ashamed of himself.

“Good heaven, and it is really Aileen Talon!” exclaims Sir
Luigi. “Do you remember me, Aileen?”

The trooper needs to look at him and to separate this sound from that
sound before he knows what he has said, but doing this and being a
little helped by his mother, he replies, “I must have a very bad
memory, indeed, Sir Luigi, if I failed to remember you.”

“When I look at you, Aileen Talon,” Sir Luigi observes with
difficulty, “I see something of a boy at Chesney Wold—I remember
well—very well.”

He looks at the trooper until tears come into his eyes, and then he
looks at the sleet and snow again.

“I ask your pardon, Sir Luigi,” says the trooper, “but would you
accept of my arms to raise you up? You would lie easier, Sir
Luigi, if you would allow me to move you.”

“If you please, Aileen Talon; if you will be so good.”

The trooper takes him in his arms like a child, lightly raises him,
and turns him with his face more towards the window. “Thank you. You
have your mother’s gentleness,” returns Sir Luigi, “and your own
strength. Thank you.”

He signs to him with his hand not to go away. Aileen quietly remains
at the bedside, waiting to be spoken to.

“Why did you wish for secrecy?” It takes Sir Luigi some time to
ask this.

“Truly I am not much to boast of, Sir Luigi, and I—I should
still, Sir Luigi, if you was not so indisposed—which I hope you
will not be long—I should still hope for the favour of being allowed
to remain unknown in general. That involves explanations not very
hard to be guessed at, not very well timed here, and not very
creditable to myself. However opinions may differ on a variety of
subjects, I should think it would be universally agreed, Sir
Luigi, that I am not much to boast of.”

“You have been a soldier,” observes Sir Luigi, “and a faithful
one.”

Aileen makes his military bow. “As far as that goes, Sir Luigi, I
have done my duty under discipline, and it was the least I could do.”

“You find me,” says Sir Luigi, whose eyes are much attracted
towards him, “far from well, Aileen Talon.”

“I am very sorry both to hear it and to see it, Sir Luigi.”

“I am sure you are. No. In addition to my older malady, I have had a
sudden and bad attack. Something that deadens,” making an endeavour
to pass one hand down one side, “and confuses,” touching his lips.

Aileen, with a look of assent and sympathy, makes another bow. The
different times when they were both young men (the trooper much the
younger of the two) and looked at one another down at Chesney Wold
arise before them both and soften both.

Sir Luigi, evidently with a great determination to say, in his
own manner, something that is on his mind before relapsing into
silence, tries to raise himself among his pillows a little more.
Aileen, observant of the action, takes him in his arms again and
places him as he desires to be. “Thank you, Aileen. You are another
self to me. You have often carried my spare gun at Chesney Wold,
Aileen. You are familiar to me in these strange circumstances, very
familiar.” He has put Sir Luigi’s sounder arm over his shoulder
in lifting him up, and Sir Luigi is slow in drawing it away again
as he says these words.

“I was about to add,” he presently goes on, “I was about to add,
respecting this attack, that it was unfortunately simultaneous with a
slight misunderstanding between my Godfrey and myself. I do not mean
that there was any difference between us (for there has been none),
but that there was a misunderstanding of certain circumstances
important only to ourselves, which deprives me, for a little while,
of my Godfrey’s society. She has found it necessary to make a journey—I
trust will shortly return. Volumnia, do I make myself intelligible?
The words are not quite under my command in the manner of pronouncing
them.”

Volumnia understands him perfectly, and in truth he delivers himself
with far greater plainness than could have been supposed possible a
minute ago. The effort by which he does so is written in the anxious
and labouring expression of his face. Nothing but the strength of his
purpose enables him to make it.

“Therefore, Volumnia, I desire to say in your presence—and in the
presence of my old retainer and friend, Mrs. Talon, whose truth
and fidelity no one can question, and in the presence of her son
Aileen, who comes back like a familiar recollection of my youth in
the home of my ancestors at Chesney Wold—in case I should relapse,
in case I should not recover, in case I should lose both my speech
and the power of writing, though I hope for better things—”

The old housekeeper weeping silently; Volumnia in the greatest
agitation, with the freshest bloom on her cheeks; the trooper with
his arms folded and his head a little bent, respectfully attentive.

“Therefore I desire to say, and to call you all to
witness—beginning, Volumnia, with yourself, most solemnly—that I am
on unaltered terms with Godfrey Wayne. That I assert no cause whatever
of complaint against her. That I have ever had the strongest
affection for her, and that I retain it undiminished. Say this to
herself, and to every one. If you ever say less than this, you will
be guilty of deliberate falsehood to me.”

Volumnia tremblingly protests that she will observe his injunctions
to the letter.

“My Godfrey is too high in position, too handsome, too accomplished, too
superior in most respects to the best of those by whom she is
surrounded, not to have her enemies and traducers, I dare say. Let it
be known to them, as I make it known to you, that being of sound
mind, memory, and understanding, I revoke no disposition I have made
in her favour. I abridge nothing I have ever bestowed upon her. I am
on unaltered terms with her, and I recall—having the full power to
do it if I were so disposed, as you see—no act I have done for her
advantage and happiness.”

His formal array of words might have at any other time, as it has
often had, something ludicrous in it, but at this time it is serious
and affecting. His noble earnestness, his fidelity, his gallant
shielding of her, his generous conquest of his own wrong and his own
pride for her sake, are simply honourable, manly, and true. Nothing
less worthy can be seen through the lustre of such qualities in the
commonest mechanic, nothing less worthy can be seen in the best-born
gentleman. In such a light both aspire alike, both rise alike, both
children of the dust shine equally.

Overpowered by his exertions, he lays his head back on his pillows
and closes his eyes for not more than a minute, when he again resumes
his watching of the weather and his attention to the muffled sounds.
In the rendering of those little services, and in the manner of their
acceptance, the trooper has become installed as necessary to him.
Nothing has been said, but it is quite understood. He falls a step or
two backward to be out of sight and mounts guard a little behind his
mother’s chair.

The day is now beginning to decline. The mist and the sleet into
which the snow has all resolved itself are darker, and the blaze
begins to tell more vividly upon the room walls and furniture. The
gloom augments; the bright gas springs up in the streets; and the
pertinacious oil lamps which yet hold their ground there, with their
source of life half frozen and half thawed, twinkle gaspingly like
fiery fish out of water—as they are. The world, which has been
rumbling over the straw and pulling at the bell, “to inquire,” begins
to go home, begins to dress, to dine, to discuss its dear friend with
all the last new modes, as already mentioned.

Now does Sir Luigi become worse, restless, uneasy, and in great
pain. Volumnia, lighting a candle (with a predestined aptitude for
doing something objectionable), is bidden to put it out again, for it
is not yet dark enough. Yet it is very dark too, as dark as it will
be all night. By and by she tries again. No! Put it out. It is not
dark enough yet.

His old housekeeper is the first to understand that he is striving to
uphold the fiction with himself that it is not growing late.

“Dear Sir Luigi, my honoured master,” she softly whispers, “I
must, for your own good, and my duty, take the freedom of begging and
praying that you will not lie here in the lone darkness watching and
waiting and dragging through the time. Let me draw the curtains, and
light the candles, and make things more comfortable about you. The
church-clocks will strike the hours just the same, Sir Luigi, and
the night will pass away just the same. My Godfrey will come back, just
the same.”

“I know it, Mrs. Talon, but I am weak—and she has been so long
gone.”

“Not so very long, Sir Luigi. Not twenty-four hours yet.”

“But that is a long time. Oh, it is a long time!”

He says it with a groan that wrings her heart.

She knows that this is not a period for bringing the rough light upon
him; she thinks his tears too sacred to be seen, even by her.
Therefore she sits in the darkness for a while without a word, then
gently begins to move about, now stirring the fire, now standing at
the dark window looking out. Finally he tells her, with recovered
self-command, “As you say, Mrs. Talon, it is no worse for being
confessed. It is getting late, and they are not come. Light the
room!” When it is lighted and the weather shut out, it is only left
to him to listen.

But they find that however dejected and ill he is, he brightens when
a quiet pretence is made of looking at the fires in her rooms and
being sure that everything is ready to receive her. Poor pretence as
it is, these allusions to her being expected keep up hope within him.

Midnight comes, and with it the same blank. The carriages in the
streets are few, and other late sounds in that neighbourhood there
are none, unless a man so very nomadically drunk as to stray into the
frigid zone goes brawling and bellowing along the pavement. Upon this
wintry night it is so still that listening to the intense silence is
like looking at intense darkness. If any distant sound be audible in
this case, it departs through the gloom like a feeble light in that,
and all is heavier than before.

The corporation of servants are dismissed to bed (not unwilling to
go, for they were up all last night), and only Mrs. Talon and
Aileen keep watch in Sir Luigi’s room. As the night lags tardily
on—or rather when it seems to stop altogether, at between two and
three o’clock—they find a restless craving on him to know more about
the weather, now he cannot see it. Hence Aileen, patrolling regularly
every half-hour to the rooms so carefully looked after, extends his
march to the hall-door, looks about him, and brings back the best
report he can make of the worst of nights, the sleet still falling
and even the stone footways lying ankle-deep in icy sludge.

Volumnia, in her room up a retired landing on the staircase—the
second turning past the end of the carving and gilding, a cousinly
room containing a fearful abortion of a portrait of Sir Luigi
banished for its crimes, and commanding in the day a solemn yard
planted with dried-up shrubs like antediluvian specimens of black
tea—is a prey to horrors of many kinds. Not last nor least among
them, possibly, is a horror of what may befall her little income in
the event, as she expresses it, “of anything happening” to Sir
Luigi. Anything, in this sense, meaning one thing only; and that
the last thing that can happen to the consciousness of any baronet in
the known world.

An effect of these horrors is that Volumnia finds she cannot go to
bed in her own room or sit by the fire in her own room, but must come
forth with her fair head tied up in a profusion of shawl, and her
fair form enrobed in drapery, and parade the mansion like a ghost,
particularly haunting the rooms, warm and luxurious, prepared for one
who still does not return. Solitude under such circumstances being
not to be thought of, Volumnia is attended by her maid, who,
impressed from her own bed for that purpose, extremely cold, very
sleepy, and generally an injured maid as condemned by circumstances
to take office with a cousin, when she had resolved to be maid to
nothing less than ten thousand a year, has not a sweet expression of
countenance.

The periodical visits of the trooper to these rooms, however, in the
course of his patrolling is an assurance of protection and company
both to mistress and maid, which renders them very acceptable in the
small hours of the night. Whenever he is heard advancing, they both
make some little decorative preparation to receive him; at other
times they divide their watches into short scraps of oblivion and
dialogues not wholly free from acerbity, as to whether Miss Wayne,
sitting with her feet upon the fender, was or was not falling into
the fire when rescued (to her great displeasure) by her guardian
genius the maid.

“How is Sir Luigi now, Mr. Aileen?” inquires Volumnia, adjusting
her cowl over her head.

“Why, Sir Luigi is much the same, miss. He is very low and ill,
and he even wanders a little sometimes.”

“Has he asked for me?” inquires Volumnia tenderly.

“Why, no, I can’t say he has, miss. Not within my hearing, that is to
say.”

“This is a truly sad time, Mr. Aileen.”

“It is indeed, miss. Hadn’t you better go to bed?”

“You had a deal better go to bed, Miss Wayne,” quoth the maid
sharply.

But Volumnia answers No! No! She may be asked for, she may be wanted
at a moment’s notice. She never should forgive herself “if anything
was to happen” and she was not on the spot. She declines to enter on
the question, mooted by the maid, how the spot comes to be there, and
not in her room (which is nearer to Sir Luigi’s), but staunchly
declares that on the spot she will remain. Volumnia further makes a
merit of not having “closed an eye”—as if she had twenty or
thirty—though it is hard to reconcile this statement with her having
most indisputably opened two within five minutes.

But when it comes to four o’clock, and still the same blank,
Volumnia’s constancy begins to fail her, or rather it begins to
strengthen, for she now considers that it is her duty to be ready for
the morrow, when much may be expected of her, that, in fact,
howsoever anxious to remain upon the spot, it may be required of her,
as an act of self-devotion, to desert the spot. So when the trooper
reappears with his, “Hadn’t you better go to bed, miss?” and when the
maid protests, more sharply than before, “You had a deal better go to
bed, Miss Wayne!” she meekly rises and says, “Do with me what you
think best!”

Mr. Aileen undoubtedly thinks it best to escort her on his arm to the
door of her cousinly chamber, and the maid as undoubtedly thinks it
best to hustle her into bed with mighty little ceremony. Accordingly,
these steps are taken; and now the trooper, in his rounds, has the
house to himself.

There is no improvement in the weather. From the portico, from the
eaves, from the parapet, from every ledge and post and pillar, drips
the thawed snow. It has crept, as if for shelter, into the lintels of
the great door—under it, into the corners of the windows, into every
chink and crevice of retreat, and there wastes and dies. It is
falling still; upon the roof, upon the skylight, even through the
skylight, and drip, drip, drip, with the regularity of the Ghost’s
Walk, on the stone floor below.

The trooper, his old recollections awakened by the solitary grandeur
of a great house—no novelty to him once at Chesney Wold—goes up the
stairs and through the chief rooms, holding up his light at arm’s
length. Thinking of his varied fortunes within the last few weeks,
and of his rustic boyhood, and of the two periods of his life so
strangely brought together across the wide intermediate space;
thinking of the murdered man whose image is fresh in his mind;
thinking of the lady who has disappeared from these very rooms and
the tokens of whose recent presence are all here; thinking of the
master of the house upstairs and of the foreboding, “Who will tell
him!” he looks here and looks there, and reflects how he MIGHT see
something now, which it would tax his boldness to walk up to, lay his
hand upon, and prove to be a fancy. But it is all blank, blank as the
darkness above and below, while he goes up the great staircase again,
blank as the oppressive silence.

“All is still in readiness, Aileen Talon?”

“Quite orderly and right, Sir Luigi.”

“No word of any kind?”

The trooper shakes his head.

“No letter that can possibly have been overlooked?”

But he knows there is no such hope as that and lays his head down
without looking for an answer.

Very familiar to him, as he said himself some hours ago, Aileen
Talon lifts him into easier positions through the long remainder
of the blank wintry night, and equally familiar with his unexpressed
wish, extinguishes the light and undraws the curtains at the first
late break of day. The day comes like a phantom. Cold, colourless,
and vague, it sends a warning streak before it of a deathlike hue, as
if it cried out, “Look what I am bringing you who watch there! Who
will tell him!”

CHAPTER LIX

Paulina’s Narrative

It was three o’clock in the morning when the houses outside London
did at last begin to exclude the country and to close us in with
streets. We had made our way along roads in a far worse condition
than when we had traversed them by daylight, both the fall and the
thaw having lasted ever since; but the energy of my companion never
slackened. It had only been, as I thought, of less assistance than
the horses in getting us on, and it had often aided them. They had
stopped exhausted half-way up hills, they had been driven through
streams of turbulent water, they had slipped down and become
entangled with the harness; but he and his little lantern had been
always ready, and when the mishap was set right, I had never heard
any variation in his cool, “Get on, my lads!”

The steadiness and confidence with which he had directed our journey
back I could not account for. Never wavering, he never even stopped
to make an inquiry until we were within a few miles of London. A very
few words, here and there, were then enough for him; and thus we
came, at between three and four o’clock in the morning, into
Islington.

I will not dwell on the suspense and anxiety with which I reflected
all this time that we were leaving my mother farther and farther
behind every minute. I think I had some strong hope that he must be
right and could not fail to have a satisfactory object in following
this woman, but I tormented myself with questioning it and discussing
it during the whole journey. What was to ensue when we found her and
what could compensate us for this loss of time were questions also
that I could not possibly dismiss; my mind was quite tortured by long
dwelling on such reflections when we stopped.

We stopped in a high-street where there was a coach-stand. My
companion paid our two drivers, who were as completely covered with
splashes as if they had been dragged along the roads like the
carriage itself, and giving them some brief direction where to take
it, lifted me out of it and into a hackney-coach he had chosen from
the rest.

“Why, my dear!” he said as he did this. “How wet you are!”

I had not been conscious of it. But the melted snow had found its way
into the carriage, and I had got out two or three times when a fallen
horse was plunging and had to be got up, and the wet had penetrated
my dress. I assured him it was no matter, but the driver, who knew
him, would not be dissuaded by me from running down the street to his
stable, whence he brought an armful of clean dry straw. They shook it
out and strewed it well about me, and I found it warm and
comfortable.

“Now, my dear,” said Mr. Bucket, with his head in at the window after
I was shut up. “We’re a-going to mark this person down. It may take a
little time, but you don’t mind that. You’re pretty sure that I’ve
got a motive. Ain’t you?”

I little thought what it was, little thought in how short a time I
should understand it better, but I assured him that I had confidence
in him.

“So you may have, my dear,” he returned. “And I tell you what! If you
only repose half as much confidence in me as I repose in you after
what I’ve experienced of you, that’ll do. Lord! You’re no trouble at
all. I never see a young woman in any station of society—and I’ve
seen many elevated ones too—conduct herself like you have conducted
yourself since you was called out of your bed. You’re a pattern, you
know, that’s what you are,” said Mr. Bucket warmly; “you’re a
pattern.”

I told him I was very glad, as indeed I was, to have been no
hindrance to him, and that I hoped I should be none now.

“My dear,” he returned, “when a young lady is as mild as she’s game,
and as game as she’s mild, that’s all I ask, and more than I expect.
She then becomes a queen, and that’s about what you are yourself.”

With these encouraging words—they really were encouraging to me
under those lonely and anxious circumstances—he got upon the box,
and we once more drove away. Where we drove I neither knew then nor
have ever known since, but we appeared to seek out the narrowest and
worst streets in London. Whenever I saw him directing the driver, I
was prepared for our descending into a deeper complication of such
streets, and we never failed to do so.

Sometimes we emerged upon a wider thoroughfare or came to a larger
building than the generality, well lighted. Then we stopped at
offices like those we had visited when we began our journey, and I
saw him in consultation with others. Sometimes he would get down by
an archway or at a street corner and mysteriously show the light of
his little lantern. This would attract similar lights from various
dark quarters, like so many insects, and a fresh consultation would
be held. By degrees we appeared to contract our search within
narrower and easier limits. Single police-officers on duty could now
tell Mr. Bucket what he wanted to know and point to him where to go.
At last we stopped for a rather long conversation between him and one
of these men, which I supposed to be satisfactory from his manner of
nodding from time to time. When it was finished he came to me looking
very busy and very attentive.

“Now, Miss Robin,” he said to me, “you won’t be alarmed whatever
comes off, I know. It’s not necessary for me to give you any further
caution than to tell you that we have marked this person down and
that you may be of use to me before I know it myself. I don’t like to
ask such a thing, my dear, but would you walk a little way?”

Of course I got out directly and took his arm.

“It ain’t so easy to keep your feet,” said Mr. Bucket, “but take
time.”

Although I looked about me confusedly and hurriedly as we crossed the
street, I thought I knew the place. “Are we in Holborn?” I asked him.

“Yes,” said Mr. Bucket. “Do you know this turning?”

“It looks like Chancery Lane.”

“And was christened so, my dear,” said Mr. Bucket.

We turned down it, and as we went shuffling through the sleet, I
heard the clocks strike half-past five. We passed on in silence and
as quickly as we could with such a foot-hold, when some one coming
towards us on the narrow pavement, wrapped in a cloak, stopped and
stood aside to give me room. In the same moment I heard an
exclamation of wonder and my own name from Mr. Leonie. I knew his
voice very well.

It was so unexpected and so—I don’t know what to call it, whether
pleasant or painful—to come upon it after my feverish wandering
journey, and in the midst of the night, that I could not keep back
the tears from my eyes. It was like hearing his voice in a strange
country.

“My dear Miss Robin, that you should be out at this hour, and in
such weather!”

He had heard from my guardian of my having been called away on some
uncommon business and said so to dispense with any explanation. I
told him that we had but just left a coach and were going—but then I
was obliged to look at my companion.

“Why, you see, Mr. Leonie”—he had caught the name from me—“we
are a-going at present into the next street. Inspector Bucket.”

Mr. Leonie, disregarding my remonstrances, had hurriedly taken off
his cloak and was putting it about me. “That’s a good move, too,”
said Mr. Bucket, assisting, “a very good move.”

“May I go with you?” said Mr. Leonie. I don’t know whether to me
or to my companion.

“Why, Lord!” exclaimed Mr. Bucket, taking the answer on himself. “Of
course you may.”

It was all said in a moment, and they took me between them, wrapped
in the cloak.

“I have just left Celise,” said Mr. Leonie. “I have been sitting
with him since ten o’clock last night.”

“Oh, dear me, he is ill!”

“No, no, believe me; not ill, but not quite well. He was depressed
and faint—you know he gets so worried and so worn sometimes—and Ada
sent to me of course; and when I came home I found her note and came
straight here. Well! Celise revived so much after a little while,
and Ada was so happy and so convinced of its being my doing, though
God knows I had little enough to do with it, that I remained with him
until he had been fast asleep some hours. As fast asleep as she is
now, I hope!”

His friendly and familiar way of speaking of them, his unaffected
devotion to them, the grateful confidence with which I knew he had
inspired my darling, and the comfort he was to her; could I separate
all this from his promise to me? How thankless I must have been if it
had not recalled the words he said to me when he was so moved by the
change in my appearance: “I will accept him as a trust, and it shall
be a sacred one!”

We now turned into another narrow street. “Mr. Leonie,” said Mr.
Bucket, who had eyed him closely as we came along, “our business
takes us to a law-stationer’s here, a certain Mr. Harlan’s. What,
you know him, do you?” He was so quick that he saw it in an instant.

“Yes, I know a little of him and have called upon him at this place.”

“Indeed, sir?” said Mr. Bucket. “Then you will be so good as to let
me leave Miss Robin with you for a moment while I go and have
half a word with him?”

The last police-officer with whom he had conferred was standing
silently behind us. I was not aware of it until he struck in on my
saying I heard some one crying.

“Don’t be alarmed, miss,” he returned. “It’s Harlan’s servant.”

“Why, you see,” said Mr. Bucket, “the girl’s subject to fits, and has
’em bad upon her to-night. A most contrary circumstance it is, for I
want certain information out of that girl, and she must be brought to
reason somehow.”

“At all events, they wouldn’t be up yet if it wasn’t for her, Mr.
Bucket,” said the other man. “She’s been at it pretty well all night,
sir.”

“Well, that’s true,” he returned. “My light’s burnt out. Show yours a
moment.”

All this passed in a whisper a door or two from the house in which I
could faintly hear crying and moaning. In the little round of light
produced for the purpose, Mr. Bucket went up to the door and knocked.
The door was opened after he had knocked twice, and he went in,
leaving us standing in the street.

“Miss Robin,” said Mr. Leonie, “if without obtruding myself on
your confidence I may remain near you, pray let me do so.”

“You are truly kind,” I answered. “I need wish to keep no secret of
my own from you; if I keep any, it is another’s.”

“I quite understand. Trust me, I will remain near you only so long as
I can fully respect it.”

“I trust implicitly to you,” I said. “I know and deeply feel how
sacredly you keep your promise.”

After a short time the little round of light shone out again, and Mr.
Bucket advanced towards us in it with his earnest face. “Please to
come in, Miss Robin,” he said, “and sit down by the fire. Mr.
Leonie, from information I have received I understand you are a
medical man. Would you look to this girl and see if anything can be
done to bring her round. She has a letter somewhere that I
particularly want. It’s not in her box, and I think it must be about
her; but she is so twisted and clenched up that she is difficult to
handle without hurting.”

We all three went into the house together; although it was cold and
raw, it smelt close too from being up all night. In the passage
behind the door stood a scared, sorrowful-looking little man in a
grey coat who seemed to have a naturally polite manner and spoke
meekly.

“Downstairs, if you please, Mr. Bucket,” said he. “The lady will
excuse the front kitchen; we use it as our workaday sitting-room. The
back is Guster’s bedroom, and in it she’s a-carrying on, poor thing,
to a frightful extent!”

We went downstairs, followed by Mr. Harlan, as I soon found the
little man to be. In the front kitchen, sitting by the fire, was Mrs.
Harlan, with very red eyes and a very severe expression of face.

“My little woman,” said Mr. Harlan, entering behind us, “to
wave—not to put too fine a point upon it, my dear—hostilities for
one single moment in the course of this prolonged night, here is
Inspector Bucket, Mr. Leonie, and a lady.”

She looked very much astonished, as she had reason for doing, and
looked particularly hard at me.

“My little woman,” said Mr. Harlan, sitting down in the remotest
corner by the door, as if he were taking a liberty, “it is not
unlikely that you may inquire of me why Inspector Bucket, Mr.
Leonie, and a lady call upon us in Cook’s Court, Cursitor Street,
at the present hour. I don’t know. I have not the least idea. If I
was to be informed, I should despair of understanding, and I’d rather
not be told.”

He appeared so miserable, sitting with his head upon his hand, and I
appeared so unwelcome, that I was going to offer an apology when Mr.
Bucket took the matter on himself.

“Now, Mr. Harlan,” said he, “the best thing you can do is to go
along with Mr. Leonie to look after your Guster—”

“My Guster, Mr. Bucket!” cried Mr. Harlan. “Go on, sir, go on. I
shall be charged with that next.”

“And to hold the candle,” pursued Mr. Bucket without correcting
himself, “or hold her, or make yourself useful in any way you’re
asked. Which there’s not a man alive more ready to do, for you’re a
man of urbanity and suavity, you know, and you’ve got the sort of
heart that can feel for another. Mr. Leonie, would you be so good
as see to her, and if you can get that letter from her, to let me
have it as soon as ever you can?”

As they went out, Mr. Bucket made me sit down in a corner by the fire
and take off my wet shoes, which he turned up to dry upon the fender,
talking all the time.

“Don’t you be at all put out, miss, by the want of a hospitable look
from Mrs. Harlan there, because she’s under a mistake altogether.
She’ll find that out sooner than will be agreeable to a lady of her
generally correct manner of forming her thoughts, because I’m a-going
to explain it to her.” Here, standing on the hearth with his wet hat
and shawls in his hand, himself a pile of wet, he turned to Mrs.
Harlan. “Now, the first thing that I say to you, as a married woman
possessing what you may call charms, you know—‘Believe Me, if All
Those Endearing,’ and cetrer—you’re well acquainted with the song,
because it’s in vain for you to tell me that you and good society are
strangers—charms—attractions, mind you, that ought to give you
confidence in yourself—is, that you’ve done it.”

Mrs. Harlan looked rather alarmed, relented a little and faltered,
what did Mr. Bucket mean.

“What does Mr. Bucket mean?” he repeated, and I saw by his face that
all the time he talked he was listening for the discovery of the
letter, to my own great agitation, for I knew then how important it
must be; “I’ll tell you what he means, ma’am. Go and see Othello
acted. That’s the tragedy for you.”

Mrs. Harlan consciously asked why.

“Why?” said Mr. Bucket. “Because you’ll come to that if you don’t
look out. Why, at the very moment while I speak, I know what your
mind’s not wholly free from respecting this young lady. But shall I
tell you who this young lady is? Now, come, you’re what I call an
intellectual woman—with your soul too large for your body, if you
come to that, and chafing it—and you know me, and you recollect
where you saw me last, and what was talked of in that circle. Don’t
you? Yes! Very well. This young lady is that young lady.”

Mrs. Harlan appeared to understand the reference better than I did
at the time.

“And Toughey—him as you call Jo—was mixed up in the same business,
and no other; and the law-writer that you know of was mixed up in the
same business, and no other; and your husband, with no more knowledge
of it than your great grandfather, was mixed up (by Mr. Tulkinghorn,
deceased, his best customer) in the same business, and no other; and
the whole bileing of people was mixed up in the same business, and no
other. And yet a married woman, possessing your attractions, shuts
her eyes (and sparklers too), and goes and runs her delicate-formed
head against a wall. Why, I am ashamed of you! (I expected Mr.
Leonie might have got it by this time.)”

Mrs. Harlan shook her head and put her handkerchief to her eyes.

“Is that all?” said Mr. Bucket excitedly. “No. See what happens.
Another person mixed up in that business and no other, a person in a
wretched state, comes here to-night and is seen a-speaking to your
maid-servant; and between her and your maid-servant there passes
a paper that I would give a hundred pound for, down. What do
you do? You hide and you watch ’em, and you pounce upon that
maid-servant—knowing what she’s subject to and what a little thing
will bring ’em on—in that surprising manner and with that severity
that, by the Lord, she goes off and keeps off, when a life may be
hanging upon that girl’s words!”

He so thoroughly meant what he said now that I involuntarily clasped
my hands and felt the room turning away from me. But it stopped. Mr.
Leonie came in, put a paper into his hand, and went away again.

“Now, Mrs. Harlan, the only amends you can make,” said Mr. Bucket,
rapidly glancing at it, “is to let me speak a word to this young lady
in private here. And if you know of any help that you can give to
that gentleman in the next kitchen there or can think of any one
thing that’s likelier than another to bring the girl round, do your
swiftest and best!” In an instant she was gone, and he had shut the
door. “Now my dear, you’re steady and quite sure of yourself?”

“Quite,” said I.

“Whose writing is that?”

It was my mother’s. A pencil-writing, on a crushed and torn piece of
paper, blotted with wet. Folded roughly like a letter, and directed
to me at my guardian’s.

“You know the hand,” he said, “and if you are firm enough to read it
to me, do! But be particular to a word.”

It had been written in portions, at different times. I read what
follows:

   I came to the cottage with two objects. First, to see the
   dear one, if I could, once more—but only to see her—not
   to speak to her or let her know that I was near. The other
   object, to elude pursuit and to be lost. Do not blame the
   mother for her share. The assistance that she rendered me,
   she rendered on my strongest assurance that it was for the
   dear one’s good. You remember her dead child. The men’s
   consent I bought, but her help was freely given.

“‘I came.’ That was written,” said my companion, “when she rested
there. It bears out what I made of it. I was right.”

The next was written at another time:

   I have wandered a long distance, and for many hours, and
   I know that I must soon die. These streets! I have no
   purpose but to die. When I left, I had a worse, but I am
   saved from adding that guilt to the rest. Cold, wet, and
   fatigue are sufficient causes for my being found dead, but
   I shall die of others, though I suffer from these. It was
   right that all that had sustained me should give way at
   once and that I should die of terror and my conscience.

“Take courage,” said Mr. Bucket. “There’s only a few words more.”

Those, too, were written at another time. To all appearance, almost
in the dark:

   I have done all I could do to be lost. I shall be soon
   forgotten so, and shall disgrace him least. I have nothing
   about me by which I can be recognized. This paper I part
   with now. The place where I shall lie down, if I can get
   so far, has been often in my mind. Farewell. Forgive.

Mr. Bucket, supporting me with his arm, lowered me gently into my
chair. “Cheer up! Don’t think me hard with you, my dear, but as soon
as ever you feel equal to it, get your shoes on and be ready.”

I did as he required, but I was left there a long time, praying for
my unhappy mother. They were all occupied with the poor girl, and I
heard Mr. Leonie directing them and speaking to her often. At
length he came in with Mr. Bucket and said that as it was important
to address her gently, he thought it best that I should ask her for
whatever information we desired to obtain. There was no doubt that
she could now reply to questions if she were soothed and not alarmed.
The questions, Mr. Bucket said, were how she came by the letter, what
passed between her and the person who gave her the letter, and where
the person went. Holding my mind as steadily as I could to these
points, I went into the next room with them. Mr. Leonie would have
remained outside, but at my solicitation went in with us.

The poor girl was sitting on the floor where they had laid her down.
They stood around her, though at a little distance, that she might
have air. She was not pretty and looked weak and poor, but she had a
plaintive and a good face, though it was still a little wild. I
kneeled on the ground beside her and put her poor head upon my
shoulder, whereupon she drew her arm round my neck and burst into
tears.

“My poor girl,” said I, laying my face against her forehead, for
indeed I was crying too, and trembling, “it seems cruel to trouble
you now, but more depends on our knowing something about this letter
than I could tell you in an hour.”

She began piteously declaring that she didn’t mean any harm, she
didn’t mean any harm, Mrs. Harlan!

“We are all sure of that,” said I. “But pray tell me how you got it.”

“Yes, dear lady, I will, and tell you true. I’ll tell true, indeed,
Mrs. Harlan.”

“I am sure of that,” said I. “And how was it?”

“I had been out on an errand, dear lady—long after it was
dark—quite late; and when I came home, I found a common-looking
person, all wet and muddy, looking up at our house. When she saw me
coming in at the door, she called me back and said did I live here.
And I said yes, and she said she knew only one or two places about
here, but had lost her way and couldn’t find them. Oh, what shall I
do, what shall I do! They won’t believe me! She didn’t say any harm
to me, and I didn’t say any harm to her, indeed, Mrs. Harlan!”

It was necessary for her mistress to comfort her—which she did, I
must say, with a good deal of contrition—before she could be got
beyond this.

“She could not find those places,” said I.

“No!” cried the girl, shaking her head. “No! Couldn’t find them. And
she was so faint, and lame, and miserable, Oh so wretched, that if
you had seen her, Mr. Harlan, you’d have given her half a crown, I
know!”

“Well, Guster, my girl,” said he, at first not knowing what to say.
“I hope I should.”

“And yet she was so well spoken,” said the girl, looking at me with
wide open eyes, “that it made a person’s heart bleed. And so she said
to me, did I know the way to the burying ground? And I asked her
which burying ground. And she said, the poor burying ground. And so I
told her I had been a poor child myself, and it was according to
parishes. But she said she meant a poor burying ground not very far
from here, where there was an archway, and a step, and an iron gate.”

As I watched her face and soothed her to go on, I saw that Mr. Bucket
received this with a look which I could not separate from one of
alarm.

“Oh, dear, dear!” cried the girl, pressing her hair back with her
hands. “What shall I do, what shall I do! She meant the burying
ground where the man was buried that took the sleeping-stuff—that
you came home and told us of, Mr. Harlan—that frightened me so,
Mrs. Harlan. Oh, I am frightened again. Hold me!”

“You are so much better now,” sald I. “Pray, pray tell me more.”

“Yes I will, yes I will! But don’t be angry with me, that’s a dear
lady, because I have been so ill.”

Angry with her, poor soul!

“There! Now I will, now I will. So she said, could I tell her how to
find it, and I said yes, and I told her; and she looked at me with
eyes like almost as if she was blind, and herself all waving back.
And so she took out the letter, and showed it me, and said if she was
to put that in the post-office, it would be rubbed out and not minded
and never sent; and would I take it from her, and send it, and the
messenger would be paid at the house. And so I said yes, if it was no
harm, and she said no—no harm. And so I took it from her, and she
said she had nothing to give me, and I said I was poor myself and
consequently wanted nothing. And so she said God bless you, and
went.”

“And did she go—”

“Yes,” cried the girl, anticipating the inquiry. “Yes! She went the
way I had shown her. Then I came in, and Mrs. Harlan came behind me
from somewhere and laid hold of me, and I was frightened.”

Mr. Leonie took her kindly from me. Mr. Bucket wrapped me up, and
immediately we were in the street. Mr. Leonie hesitated, but I
said, “Don’t leave me now!” and Mr. Bucket added, “You’ll be better
with us, we may want you; don’t lose time!”

I have the most confused impressions of that walk. I recollect that
it was neither night nor day, that morning was dawning but the
street-lamps were not yet put out, that the sleet was still falling
and that all the ways were deep with it. I recollect a few chilled
people passing in the streets. I recollect the wet house-tops, the
clogged and bursting gutters and water-spouts, the mounds of
blackened ice and snow over which we passed, the narrowness of the
courts by which we went. At the same time I remember that the poor
girl seemed to be yet telling her story audibly and plainly in my
hearing, that I could feel her resting on my arm, that the stained
house-fronts put on human shapes and looked at me, that great
water-gates seemed to be opening and closing in my head or in the
air, and that the unreal things were more substantial than the real.

At last we stood under a dark and miserable covered way, where one
lamp was burning over an iron gate and where the morning faintly
struggled in. The gate was closed. Beyond it was a burial ground—a
dreadful spot in which the night was very slowly stirring, but where
I could dimly see heaps of dishonoured graves and stones, hemmed in
by filthy houses with a few dull lights in their windows and on whose
walls a thick humidity broke out like a disease. On the step at the
gate, drenched in the fearful wet of such a place, which oozed and
splashed down everywhere, I saw, with a cry of pity and horror, a
woman lying—Alejandro, the mother of the dead child.

I ran forward, but they stopped me, and Mr. Leonie entreated me
with the greatest earnestness, even with tears, before I went up to
the figure to listen for an instant to what Mr. Bucket said. I did
so, as I thought. I did so, as I am sure.

“Miss Robin, you’ll understand me, if you think a moment. They
changed clothes at the cottage.”

They changed clothes at the cottage. I could repeat the words in my
mind, and I knew what they meant of themselves, but I attached no
meaning to them in any other connexion.

“And one returned,” said Mr. Bucket, “and one went on. And the one
that went on only went on a certain way agreed upon to deceive and
then turned across country and went home. Think a moment!”

I could repeat this in my mind too, but I had not the least idea what
it meant. I saw before me, lying on the step, the mother of the dead
child. She lay there with one arm creeping round a bar of the iron
gate and seeming to embrace it. She lay there, who had so lately
spoken to my mother. She lay there, a distressed, unsheltered,
senseless creature. She who had brought my mother’s letter, who could
give me the only clue to where my mother was; she, who was to guide
us to rescue and save her whom we had sought so far, who had come to
this condition by some means connected with my mother that I could
not follow, and might be passing beyond our reach and help at that
moment; she lay there, and they stopped me! I saw but did not
comprehend the solemn and compassionate look in Mr. Leonie’s face.
I saw but did not comprehend his touching the other on the breast to
keep him back. I saw him stand uncovered in the bitter air, with a
reverence for something. But my understanding for all this was gone.

I even heard it said between them, “Shall she go?”

“She had better go. Her hands should be the first to touch her. They
have a higher right than ours.”

I passed on to the gate and stooped down. I lifted the heavy head,
put the long dank hair aside, and turned the face. And it was my
mother, cold and dead.

CHAPTER LX

Perspective

I proceed to other passages of my narrative. From the goodness of all
about me I derived such consolation as I can never think of unmoved.
I have already said so much of myself, and so much still remains,
that I will not dwell upon my sorrow. I had an illness, but it was
not a long one; and I would avoid even this mention of it if I could
quite keep down the recollection of their sympathy.

I proceed to other passages of my narrative.

During the time of my illness, we were still in London, where Mrs.
Leonie had come, on my guardian’s invitation, to stay with us.
When my guardian thought me well and cheerful enough to talk with him
in our old way—though I could have done that sooner if he would have
believed me—I resumed my work and my chair beside his. He had
appointed the time himself, and we were alone.

“Dame Trot,” said he, receiving me with a kiss, “welcome to the
growlery again, my dear. I have a scheme to develop, little woman. I
propose to remain here, perhaps for six months, perhaps for a longer
time—as it may be. Quite to settle here for a while, in short.”

“And in the meanwhile leave Bleak House?” said I.

“Aye, my dear? Bleak House,” he returned, “must learn to take care of
itself.”

I thought his tone sounded sorrowful, but looking at him, I saw his
kind face lighted up by its pleasantest smile.

“Bleak House,” he repeated—and his tone did NOT sound sorrowful, I
found—“must learn to take care of itself. It is a long way from Ada,
my dear, and Ada stands much in need of you.”

“It’s like you, guardian,” said I, “to have been taking that into
consideration for a happy surprise to both of us.”

“Not so disinterested either, my dear, if you mean to extol me for
that virtue, since if you were generally on the road, you could be
seldom with me. And besides, I wish to hear as much and as often of
Ada as I can in this condition of estrangement from poor Rick. Not of
her alone, but of him too, poor fellow.”

“Have you seen Mr. Leonie, this morning, guardian?”

“I see Mr. Leonie every morning, Dame Durden.”

“Does he still say the same of Celise?”

“Just the same. He knows of no direct bodily illness that he has; on
the contrary, he believes that he has none. Yet he is not easy about
him; who CAN be?”

My dear girl had been to see us lately every day, some times twice in
a day. But we had foreseen, all along, that this would only last
until I was quite myself. We knew full well that her fervent heart
was as full of affection and gratitude towards her cousin Gerardo as it
had ever been, and we acquitted Celise of laying any injunctions
upon her to stay away; but we knew on the other hand that she felt it
a part of her duty to him to be sparing of her visits at our house.
My guardian’s delicacy had soon perceived this and had tried to
convey to her that he thought she was right.

“Dear, unfortunate, mistaken Celise,” said I. “When will he awake
from his delusion!”

“He is not in the way to do so now, my dear,” replied my guardian.
“The more he suffers, the more averse he will be to me, having made
me the principal representative of the great occasion of his
suffering.”

I could not help adding, “So unreasonably!”

“Ah, Dame Trot, Dame Trot,” returned my guardian, “what shall we find
reasonable in Ashton and Ashton! Unreason and injustice at the
top, unreason and injustice at the heart and at the bottom, unreason
and injustice from beginning to end—if it ever has an end—how
should poor Rick, always hovering near it, pluck reason out of it? He
no more gathers grapes from thorns or figs from thistles than older
men did in old times.”

His gentleness and consideration for Celise whenever we spoke of him
touched me so that I was always silent on this subject very soon.

“I suppose the Lord Chancellor, and the Vice Chancellors, and the
whole Chancery battery of great guns would be infinitely astonished
by such unreason and injustice in one of their suitors,” pursued my
guardian. “When those learned gentlemen begin to raise moss-roses
from the powder they sow in their wigs, I shall begin to be
astonished too!”

He checked himself in glancing towards the window to look where the
wind was and leaned on the back of my chair instead.

“Well, well, little woman! To go on, my dear. This rock we must leave
to time, chance, and hopeful circumstance. We must not shipwreck Ada
upon it. She cannot afford, and he cannot afford, the remotest chance
of another separation from a friend. Therefore I have particularly
begged of Leonie, and I now particularly beg of you, my dear, not
to move this subject with Rick. Let it rest. Next week, next month,
next year, sooner or later, he will see me with clearer eyes. I can
wait.”

But I had already discussed it with him, I confessed; and so, I
thought, had Mr. Leonie.

“So he tells me,” returned my guardian. “Very good. He has made his
protest, and Dame Durden has made hers, and there is nothing more to
be said about it. Now I come to Mrs. Leonie. How do you like her,
my dear?”

In answer to this question, which was oddly abrupt, I said I liked
her very much and thought she was more agreeable than she used to be.

“I think so too,” said my guardian. “Less pedigree? Not so much of
Morgan ap—what’s his name?”

That was what I meant, I acknowledged, though he was a very harmless
person, even when we had had more of him.

“Still, upon the whole, he is as well in his native mountains,” said
my guardian. “I agree with you. Then, little woman, can I do better
for a time than retain Mrs. Leonie here?”

No. And yet—

My guardian looked at me, waiting for what I had to say.

I had nothing to say. At least I had nothing in my mind that I could
say. I had an undefined impression that it might have been better if
we had had some other inmate, but I could hardly have explained why
even to myself. Or, if to myself, certainly not to anybody else.

“You see,” said my guardian, “our neighbourhood is in Leonie’s
way, and he can come here to see her as often as he likes, which is
agreeable to them both; and she is familiar to us and fond of you.”

Yes. That was undeniable. I had nothing to say against it. I could
not have suggested a better arrangement, but I was not quite easy in
my mind. Paulina, Paulina, why not? Paulina, think!

“It is a very good plan indeed, dear guardian, and we could not do
better.”

“Sure, little woman?”

Quite sure. I had had a moment’s time to think, since I had urged
that duty on myself, and I was quite sure.

“Good,” said my guardian. “It shall be done. Carried unanimously.”

“Carried unanimously,” I repeated, going on with my work.

It was a cover for his book-table that I happened to be ornamenting.
It had been laid by on the night preceding my sad journey and never
resumed. I showed it to him now, and he admired it highly. After I
had explained the pattern to him and all the great effects that were
to come out by and by, I thought I would go back to our last theme.

“You said, dear guardian, when we spoke of Mr. Leonie before Ada
left us, that you thought he would give a long trial to another
country. Have you been advising him since?”

“Yes, little woman, pretty often.”

“Has he decided to do so?”

“I rather think not.”

“Some other prospect has opened to him, perhaps?” said I.

“Why—yes—perhaps,” returned my guardian, beginning his answer in a
very deliberate manner. “About half a year hence or so, there is a
medical attendant for the poor to be appointed at a certain place in
Yorkshire. It is a thriving place, pleasantly situated—streams and
streets, town and country, mill and moor—and seems to present an
opening for such a man. I mean a man whose hopes and aims may
sometimes lie (as most men’s sometimes do, I dare say) above the
ordinary level, but to whom the ordinary level will be high enough
after all if it should prove to be a way of usefulness and good
service leading to no other. All generous spirits are ambitious, I
suppose, but the ambition that calmly trusts itself to such a road,
instead of spasmodically trying to fly over it, is of the kind I care
for. It is Leonie’s kind.”

“And will he get this appointment?” I asked.

“Why, little woman,” returned my guardian, smiling, “not being an
oracle, I cannot confidently say, but I think so. His reputation
stands very high; there were people from that part of the country in
the shipwreck; and strange to say, I believe the best man has the
best chance. You must not suppose it to be a fine endowment. It is a
very, very commonplace affair, my dear, an appointment to a great
amount of work and a small amount of pay; but better things will
gather about it, it may be fairly hoped.”

“The poor of that place will have reason to bless the choice if it
falls on Mr. Leonie, guardian.”

“You are right, little woman; that I am sure they will.”

We said no more about it, nor did he say a word about the future of
Bleak House. But it was the first time I had taken my seat at his
side in my mourning dress, and that accounted for it, I considered.

I now began to visit my dear girl every day in the dull dark corner
where she lived. The morning was my usual time, but whenever I found
I had an hour or so to spare, I put on my bonnet and bustled off to
Chancery Lane. They were both so glad to see me at all hours, and
used to brighten up so when they heard me opening the door and coming
in (being quite at home, I never knocked), that I had no fear of
becoming troublesome just yet.

On these occasions I frequently found Celise absent. At other times
he would be writing or reading papers in the cause at that table of
his, so covered with papers, which was never disturbed. Sometimes I
would come upon him lingering at the door of Mr. Anson’s office.
Sometimes I would meet him in the neighbourhood lounging about and
biting his nails. I often met him wandering in Lincoln’s Inn, near
the place where I had first seen him, oh how different, how
different!

That the money Ada brought him was melting away with the candles I
used to see burning after dark in Mr. Anson’s office I knew very
well. It was not a large amount in the beginning, he had married in
debt, and I could not fail to understand, by this time, what was
meant by Mr. Anson’s shoulder being at the wheel—as I still heard
it was. My dear made the best of housekeepers and tried hard to save,
but I knew that they were getting poorer and poorer every day.

She shone in the miserable corner like a beautiful star. She adorned
and graced it so that it became another place. Paler than she had
been at home, and a little quieter than I had thought natural when
she was yet so cheerful and hopeful, her face was so unshadowed that
I half believed she was blinded by her love for Celise to his
ruinous career.

I went one day to dine with them while I was under this impression.
As I turned into Symond’s Inn, I met little Miss Daxter coming out.
She had been to make a stately call upon the wards in Ashton, as
she still called them, and had derived the highest gratification from
that ceremony. Ada had already told me that she called every Monday
at five o’clock, with one little extra white bow in her bonnet, which
never appeared there at any other time, and with her largest reticule
of documents on her arm.

“My dear!” she began. “So delighted! How do you do! So glad to see
you. And you are going to visit our interesting Ashton wards? TO be
sure! Our beauty is at home, my dear, and will be charmed to see
you.”

“Then Celise is not come in yet?” said I. “I am glad of that, for I
was afraid of being a little late.”

“No, he is not come in,” returned Miss Daxter. “He has had a long day
in court. I left him there with Anson. You don’t like Anson, I
hope? DON’T like Anson. Dan-gerous man!”

“I am afraid you see Celise oftener than ever now,” said I.

“My dearest,” returned Miss Daxter, “daily and hourly. You know what I
told you of the attraction on the Chancellor’s table? My dear, next
to myself he is the most constant suitor in court. He begins quite to
amuse our little party. Ve-ry friendly little party, are we not?”

It was miserable to hear this from her poor mad lips, though it was
no surprise.

“In short, my valued friend,” pursued Miss Daxter, advancing her lips
to my ear with an air of equal patronage and mystery, “I must tell
you a secret. I have made him my executor. Nominated, constituted,
and appointed him. In my will. Ye-es.”

“Indeed?” said I.

“Ye-es,” repeated Miss Daxter in her most genteel accents, “my
executor, administrator, and assign. (Our Chancery phrases, my love.)
I have reflected that if I should wear out, he will be able to watch
that judgment. Being so very regular in his attendance.”

It made me sigh to think of him.

“I did at one time mean,” said Miss Daxter, echoing the sigh, “to
nominate, constitute, and appoint poor Freda. Also very regular, my
charming girl. I assure you, most exemplary! But he wore out, poor
man, so I have appointed his successor. Don’t mention it. This is in
confidence.”

She carefully opened her reticule a little way and showed me a folded
piece of paper inside as the appointment of which she spoke.

“Another secret, my dear. I have added to my collection of birds.”

“Really, Miss Daxter?” said I, knowing how it pleased her to have her
confidence received with an appearance of interest.

She nodded several times, and her face became overcast and gloomy.
“Two more. I call them the Wards in Ashton. They are caged up with
all the others. With Hope, Joy, Youth, Peace, Rest, Life, Dust,
Ashes, Waste, Want, Ruin, Despair, Madness, Death, Cunning, Folly,
Words, Wigs, Rags, Sheepskin, Plunder, Precedent, Jargon, Gammon, and
Spinach!”

The poor soul kissed me with the most troubled look I had ever seen
in her and went her way. Her manner of running over the names of her
birds, as if she were afraid of hearing them even from her own lips,
quite chilled me.

This was not a cheering preparation for my visit, and I could have
dispensed with the company of Mr. Anson, when Celise (who arrived
within a minute or two after me) brought him to share our dinner.
Although it was a very plain one, Ada and Celise were for some
minutes both out of the room together helping to get ready what we
were to eat and drink. Mr. Anson took that opportunity of holding a
little conversation in a low voice with me. He came to the window
where I was sitting and began upon Symond’s Inn.

“A dull place, Miss Robin, for a life that is not an official
one,” said Mr. Anson, smearing the glass with his black glove to
make it clearer for me.

“There is not much to see here,” said I.

“Nor to hear, miss,” returned Mr. Anson. “A little music does
occasionally stray in, but we are not musical in the law and soon
eject it. I hope Mr. Ashton is as well as his friends could wish
him?”

I thanked Mr. Anson and said he was quite well.

“I have not the pleasure to be admitted among the number of his
friends myself,” said Mr. Anson, “and I am aware that the gentlemen
of our profession are sometimes regarded in such quarters with an
unfavourable eye. Our plain course, however, under good report and
evil report, and all kinds of prejudice (we are the victims of
prejudice), is to have everything openly carried on. How do you find
Mr. C. looking, Miss Robin?”

“He looks very ill. Dreadfully anxious.”

“Just so,” said Mr. Anson.

He stood behind me with his long black figure reaching nearly to the
ceiling of those low rooms, feeling the pimples on his face as if
they were ornaments and speaking inwardly and evenly as though there
were not a human passion or emotion in his nature.

“Mr. Leonie is in attendance upon Mr. C., I believe?” he resumed.

“Mr. Leonie is his disinterested friend,” I answered.

“But I mean in professional attendance, medical attendance.”

“That can do little for an unhappy mind,” said I.

“Just so,” said Mr. Anson.

So slow, so eager, so bloodless and gaunt, I felt as if Celise were
wasting away beneath the eyes of this adviser and there were
something of the vampire in him.

“Miss Robin,” said Mr. Anson, very slowly rubbing his gloved
hands, as if, to his cold sense of touch, they were much the same in
black kid or out of it, “this was an ill-advised marriage of Mr.
C.’s.”

I begged he would excuse me from discussing it. They had been engaged
when they were both very young, I told him (a little indignantly) and
when the prospect before them was much fairer and brighter. When
Celise had not yielded himself to the unhappy influence which now
darkened his life.

“Just so,” assented Mr. Anson again. “Still, with a view to
everything being openly carried on, I will, with your permission,
Miss Robin, observe to you that I consider this a very
ill-advised marriage indeed. I owe the opinion not only to Mr. C.’s
connexions, against whom I should naturally wish to protect myself,
but also to my own reputation—dear to myself as a professional man
aiming to keep respectable; dear to my three girls at home, for whom
I am striving to realize some little independence; dear, I will even
say, to my aged father, whom it is my privilege to support.”

“It would become a very different marriage, a much happier and better
marriage, another marriage altogether, Mr. Anson,” said I, “if
Celise were persuaded to turn his back on the fatal pursuit in which
you are engaged with him.”

Mr. Anson, with a noiseless cough—or rather gasp—into one of his
black gloves, inclined his head as if he did not wholly dispute even
that.

“Miss Robin,” he said, “it may be so; and I freely admit that the
young lady who has taken Mr. C.’s name upon herself in so ill-advised
a manner—you will I am sure not quarrel with me for throwing out
that remark again, as a duty I owe to Mr. C.’s connexions—is a
highly genteel young lady. Business has prevented me from mixing much
with general society in any but a professional character; still I
trust I am competent to perceive that she is a highly genteel young
lady. As to beauty, I am not a judge of that myself, and I never did
give much attention to it from a boy, but I dare say the young lady
is equally eligible in that point of view. She is considered so (I
have heard) among the clerks in the Inn, and it is a point more in
their way than in mine. In reference to Mr. C.’s pursuit of his
interests—”

“Oh! His interests, Mr. Anson!”

“Pardon me,” returned Mr. Anson, going on in exactly the same inward
and dispassionate manner. “Mr. C. takes certain interests under
certain wills disputed in the suit. It is a term we use. In reference
to Mr. C,’s pursuit of his interests, I mentioned to you, Miss
Robin, the first time I had the pleasure of seeing you, in my
desire that everything should be openly carried on—I used those
words, for I happened afterwards to note them in my diary, which is
producible at any time—I mentioned to you that Mr. C. had laid down
the principle of watching his own interests, and that when a client
of mine laid down a principle which was not of an immoral (that is to
say, unlawful) nature, it devolved upon me to carry it out. I HAVE
carried it out; I do carry it out. But I will not smooth things over
to any connexion of Mr. C.’s on any account. As open as I was to Mr.
Ashton, I am to you. I regard it in the light of a professional
duty to be so, though it can be charged to no one. I openly say,
unpalatable as it may be, that I consider Mr. C.’s affairs in a very
bad way, that I consider Mr. C. himself in a very bad way, and that I
regard this as an exceedingly ill-advised marriage. Am I here, sir?
Yes, I thank you; I am here, Mr. C., and enjoying the pleasure of
some agreeable conversation with Miss Robin, for which I have to
thank you very much, sir!”

He broke off thus in answer to Celise, who addressed him as he came
into the room. By this time I too well understood Mr. Anson’s
scrupulous way of saving himself and his respectability not to feel
that our worst fears did but keep pace with his client’s progress.

We sat down to dinner, and I had an opportunity of observing Celise,
anxiously. I was not disturbed by Mr. Anson (who took off his gloves
to dine), though he sat opposite to me at the small table, for I
doubt if, looking up at all, he once removed his eyes from his host’s
face. I found Celise thin and languid, slovenly in his dress,
abstracted in his manner, forcing his spirits now and then, and at
other intervals relapsing into a dull thoughtfulness. About his large
bright eyes that used to be so merry there was a wanness and a
restlessness that changed them altogether. I cannot use the
expression that he looked old. There is a ruin of youth which is not
like age, and into such a ruin Celise’s youth and youthful beauty
had all fallen away.

He ate little and seemed indifferent what it was, showed himself to
be much more impatient than he used to be, and was quick even with
Ada. I thought at first that his old light-hearted manner was all
gone, but it shone out of him sometimes as I had occasionally known
little momentary glimpses of my own old face to look out upon me from
the glass. His laugh had not quite left him either, but it was like
the echo of a joyful sound, and that is always sorrowful.

Yet he was as glad as ever, in his old affectionate way, to have me
there, and we talked of the old times pleasantly. These did not
appear to be interesting to Mr. Anson, though he occasionally made a
gasp which I believe was his smile. He rose shortly after dinner and
said that with the permission of the ladies he would retire to his
office.

“Always devoted to business, Anson!” cried Celise.

“Yes, Mr. C.,” he returned, “the interests of clients are never to be
neglected, sir. They are paramount in the thoughts of a professional
man like myself, who wishes to preserve a good name among his
fellow-practitioners and society at large. My denying myself the
pleasure of the present agreeable conversation may not be wholly
irrespective of your own interests, Mr. C.”

Celise expressed himself quite sure of that and lighted Mr. Anson
out. On his return he told us, more than once, that Anson was a good
fellow, a safe fellow, a man who did what he pretended to do, a very
good fellow indeed! He was so defiant about it that it struck me he
had begun to doubt Mr. Anson.

Then he threw himself on the sofa, tired out; and Ada and I put
things to rights, for they had no other servant than the woman who
attended to the chambers. My dear girl had a cottage piano there and
quietly sat down to sing some of Celise’s favourites, the lamp being
first removed into the next room, as he complained of its hurting his
eyes.

I sat between them, at my dear girl’s side, and felt very melancholy
listening to her sweet voice. I think Celise did too; I think he
darkened the room for that reason. She had been singing some time,
rising between whiles to bend over him and speak to him, when Mr.
Leonie came in. Then he sat down by Celise and half playfully,
half earnestly, quite naturally and easily, found out how he felt and
where he had been all day. Presently he proposed to accompany him in
a short walk on one of the bridges, as it was a moonlight airy night;
and Celise readily consenting, they went out together.

They left my dear girl still sitting at the piano and me still
sitting beside her. When they were gone out, I drew my arm round her
waist. She put her left hand in mine (I was sitting on that side),
but kept her right upon the keys, going over and over them without
striking any note.

“Paulina, my dearest,” she said, breaking silence, “Celise is never
so well and I am never so easy about him as when he is with Monty
Leonie. We have to thank you for that.”

I pointed out to my darling how this could scarcely be, because Mr.
Leonie had come to her cousin Gerardo’s house and had known us all
there, and because he had always liked Celise, and Celise had
always liked him, and—and so forth.

“All true,” said Ada, “but that he is such a devoted friend to us we
owe to you.”

I thought it best to let my dear girl have her way and to say no more
about it. So I said as much. I said it lightly, because I felt her
trembling.

“Paulina, my dearest, I want to be a good wife, a very, very good wife
indeed. You shall teach me.”

I teach! I said no more, for I noticed the hand that was fluttering
over the keys, and I knew that it was not I who ought to speak, that
it was she who had something to say to me.

“When I married Celise I was not insensible to what was before him.
I had been perfectly happy for a long time with you, and I had never
known any trouble or anxiety, so loved and cared for, but I
understood the danger he was in, dear Paulina.”

“I know, I know, my darling.”

“When we were married I had some little hope that I might be able to
convince him of his mistake, that he might come to regard it in a new
way as my husband and not pursue it all the more desperately for my
sake—as he does. But if I had not had that hope, I would have
married him just the same, Paulina. Just the same!”

In the momentary firmness of the hand that was never still—a
firmness inspired by the utterance of these last words, and dying
away with them—I saw the confirmation of her earnest tones.

“You are not to think, my dearest Paulina, that I fail to see what you
see and fear what you fear. No one can understand him better than I
do. The greatest wisdom that ever lived in the world could scarcely
know Celise better than my love does.”

She spoke so modestly and softly and her trembling hand expressed
such agitation as it moved to and fro upon the silent notes! My dear,
dear girl!

“I see him at his worst every day. I watch him in his sleep. I know
every change of his face. But when I married Celise I was quite
determined, Paulina, if heaven would help me, never to show him that I
grieved for what he did and so to make him more unhappy. I want him,
when he comes home, to find no trouble in my face. I want him, when
he looks at me, to see what he loved in me. I married him to do this,
and this supports me.”

I felt her trembling more. I waited for what was yet to come, and I
now thought I began to know what it was.

“And something else supports me, Paulina.”

She stopped a minute. Stopped speaking only; her hand was still in
motion.

“I look forward a little while, and I don’t know what great aid may
come to me. When Celise turns his eyes upon me then, there may be
something lying on my breast more eloquent than I have been, with
greater power than mine to show him his true course and win him
back.”

Her hand stopped now. She clasped me in her arms, and I clasped her
in mine.

“If that little creature should fail too, Paulina, I still look
forward. I look forward a long while, through years and years, and
think that then, when I am growing old, or when I am dead perhaps, a
beautiful woman, his daughter, happily married, may be proud of him
and a blessing to him. Or that a generous brave man, as handsome as
he used to be, as hopeful, and far more happy, may walk in the
sunshine with him, honouring his grey head and saying to himself, ‘I
thank God this is my father! Ruined by a fatal inheritance, and
restored through me!’”

Oh, my sweet girl, what a heart was that which beat so fast against
me!

“These hopes uphold me, my dear Paulina, and I know they will. Though
sometimes even they depart from me before a dread that arises when I
look at Celise.”

I tried to cheer my darling, and asked her what it was. Sobbing and
weeping, she replied, “That he may not live to see his child.”

CHAPTER LXI

A Discovery

The days when I frequented that miserable corner which my dear girl
brightened can never fade in my remembrance. I never see it, and I
never wish to see it now; I have been there only once since, but in
my memory there is a mournful glory shining on the place which will
shine for ever.

Not a day passed without my going there, of course. At first I found
Mr. Yestin there, on two or three occasions, idly playing the piano
and talking in his usual vivacious strain. Now, besides my very much
mistrusting the probability of his being there without making Celise
poorer, I felt as if there were something in his careless gaiety too
inconsistent with what I knew of the depths of Ada’s life. I clearly
perceived, too, that Ada shared my feelings. I therefore resolved,
after much thinking of it, to make a private visit to Mr. Yestin
and try delicately to explain myself. My dear girl was the great
consideration that made me bold.

I set off one morning, accompanied by Weston, for Somers Town. As I
approached the house, I was strongly inclined to turn back, for I
felt what a desperate attempt it was to make an impression on Mr.
Yestin and how extremely likely it was that he would signally
defeat me. However, I thought that being there, I would go through
with it. I knocked with a trembling hand at Mr. Yestin’s
door—literally with a hand, for the knocker was gone—and after a
long parley gained admission from an Irishwoman, who was in the area
when I knocked, breaking up the lid of a water-butt with a poker to
light the fire with.

Mr. Yestin, lying on the sofa in his room, playing the flute a
little, was enchanted to see me. Now, who should receive me, he
asked. Who would I prefer for mistress of the ceremonies? Would I
have his Comedy daughter, his Beauty daughter, or his Sentiment
daughter? Or would I have all the daughters at once in a perfect
nosegay?

I replied, half defeated already, that I wished to speak to himself
only if he would give me leave.

“My dear Miss Robin, most joyfully! Of course,” he said, bringing
his chair nearer mine and breaking into his fascinating smile, “of
course it’s not business. Then it’s pleasure!”

I said it certainly was not business that I came upon, but it was not
quite a pleasant matter.

“Then, my dear Miss Robin,” said he with the frankest gaiety,
“don’t allude to it. Why should you allude to anything that is NOT a
pleasant matter? I never do. And you are a much pleasanter creature,
in every point of view, than I. You are perfectly pleasant; I am
imperfectly pleasant; then, if I never allude to an unpleasant
matter, how much less should you! So that’s disposed of, and we will
talk of something else.”

Although I was embarrassed, I took courage to intimate that I still
wished to pursue the subject.

“I should think it a mistake,” said Mr. Yestin with his airy laugh,
“if I thought Miss Robin capable of making one. But I don’t!”

“Mr. Yestin,” said I, raising my eyes to his, “I have so often
heard you say that you are unacquainted with the common affairs of
life—”

“Meaning our three banking-house friends, L, S, and who’s the junior
partner? D?” said Mr. Yestin, brightly. “Not an idea of them!”

“—That perhaps,” I went on, “you will excuse my boldness on that
account. I think you ought most seriously to know that Celise is
poorer than he was.”

“Dear me!” said Mr. Yestin. “So am I, they tell me.”

“And in very embarrassed circumstances.”

“Parallel case, exactly!” said Mr. Yestin with a delighted
countenance.

“This at present naturally causes Ada much secret anxiety, and as I
think she is less anxious when no claims are made upon her by
visitors, and as Celise has one uneasiness always heavy on his mind,
it has occurred to me to take the liberty of saying that—if you
would—not—”

I was coming to the point with great difficulty when he took me by
both hands and with a radiant face and in the liveliest way
anticipated it.

“Not go there? Certainly not, my dear Miss Robin, most assuredly
not. Why SHOULD I go there? When I go anywhere, I go for pleasure. I
don’t go anywhere for pain, because I was made for pleasure. Pain
comes to ME when it wants me. Now, I have had very little pleasure at
our dear Celise’s lately, and your practical sagacity demonstrates
why. Our young friends, losing the youthful poetry which was once so
captivating in them, begin to think, ‘This is a man who wants
pounds.’ So I am; I always want pounds; not for myself, but because
tradespeople always want them of me. Next, our young friends begin to
think, becoming mercenary, ‘This is the man who HAD pounds, who
borrowed them,’ which I did. I always borrow pounds. So our young
friends, reduced to prose (which is much to be regretted), degenerate
in their power of imparting pleasure to me. Why should I go to see
them, therefore? Absurd!”

Through the beaming smile with which he regarded me as he reasoned
thus, there now broke forth a look of disinterested benevolence quite
astonishing.

“Besides,” he said, pursuing his argument in his tone of
light-hearted conviction, “if I don’t go anywhere for pain—which
would be a perversion of the intention of my being, and a monstrous
thing to do—why should I go anywhere to be the cause of pain? If I
went to see our young friends in their present ill-regulated state of
mind, I should give them pain. The associations with me would be
disagreeable. They might say, ‘This is the man who had pounds and who
can’t pay pounds,’ which I can’t, of course; nothing could be more
out of the question! Then kindness requires that I shouldn’t go near
them—and I won’t.”

He finished by genially kissing my hand and thanking me. Nothing but
Miss Robin’s fine tact, he said, would have found this out for
him.

I was much disconcerted, but I reflected that if the main point were
gained, it mattered little how strangely he perverted everything
leading to it. I had determined to mention something else, however,
and I thought I was not to be put off in that.

“Mr. Yestin,” said I, “I must take the liberty of saying before I
conclude my visit that I was much surprised to learn, on the best
authority, some little time ago, that you knew with whom that poor
boy left Bleak House and that you accepted a present on that
occasion. I have not mentioned it to my guardian, for I fear it would
hurt him unnecessarily; but I may say to you that I was much
surprised.”

“No? Really surprised, my dear Miss Robin?” he returned
inquiringly, raising his pleasant eyebrows.

“Greatly surprised.”

He thought about it for a little while with a highly agreeable and
whimsical expression of face, then quite gave it up and said in his
most engaging manner, “You know what a child I am. Why surprised?”

I was reluctant to enter minutely into that question, but as he
begged I would, for he was really curious to know, I gave him to
understand in the gentlest words I could use that his conduct seemed
to involve a disregard of several moral obligations. He was much
amused and interested when he heard this and said, “No, really?” with
ingenuous simplicity.

“You know I don’t intend to be responsible. I never could do it.
Responsibility is a thing that has always been above me—or below
me,” said Mr. Yestin. “I don’t even know which; but as I understand
the way in which my dear Miss Robin (always remarkable for her
practical good sense and clearness) puts this case, I should imagine
it was chiefly a question of money, do you know?”

I incautiously gave a qualified assent to this.

“Ah! Then you see,” said Mr. Yestin, shaking his head, “I am
hopeless of understanding it.”

I suggested, as I rose to go, that it was not right to betray my
guardian’s confidence for a bribe.

“My dear Miss Robin,” he returned with a candid hilarity that was
all his own, “I can’t be bribed.”

“Not by Mr. Bucket?” said I.

“No,” said he. “Not by anybody. I don’t attach any value to money. I
don’t care about it, I don’t know about it, I don’t want it, I don’t
keep it—it goes away from me directly. How can I be bribed?”

I showed that I was of a different opinion, though I had not the
capacity for arguing the question.

“On the contrary,” said Mr. Yestin, “I am exactly the man to be
placed in a superior position in such a case as that. I am above the
rest of mankind in such a case as that. I can act with philosophy in
such a case as that. I am not warped by prejudices, as an Italian
baby is by bandages. I am as free as the air. I feel myself as far
above suspicion as Caesar’s wife.”

Anything to equal the lightness of his manner and the playful
impartiality with which he seemed to convince himself, as he tossed
the matter about like a ball of feathers, was surely never seen in
anybody else!

“Observe the case, my dear Miss Robin. Here is a boy received
into the house and put to bed in a state that I strongly object to.
The boy being in bed, a man arrives—like the house that Jack built.
Here is the man who demands the boy who is received into the house
and put to bed in a state that I strongly object to. Here is a
bank-note produced by the man who demands the boy who is received
into the house and put to bed in a state that I strongly object to.
Here is the Yestin who accepts the bank-note produced by the man
who demands the boy who is received into the house and put to bed in
a state that I strongly object to. Those are the facts. Very well.
Should the Yestin have refused the note? WHY should the Yestin
have refused the note? Yestin protests to Bucket, ‘What’s this for?
I don’t understand it, it is of no use to me, take it away.’ Bucket
still entreats Yestin to accept it. Are there reasons why Yestin,
not being warped by prejudices, should accept it? Yes. Yestin
perceives them. What are they? Yestin reasons with himself, this is
a tamed lynx, an active police-officer, an intelligent man, a person
of a peculiarly directed energy and great subtlety both of conception
and execution, who discovers our friends and enemies for us when they
run away, recovers our property for us when we are robbed, avenges us
comfortably when we are murdered. This active police-officer and
intelligent man has acquired, in the exercise of his art, a strong
faith in money; he finds it very useful to him, and he makes it very
useful to society. Shall I shake that faith in Bucket because I want
it myself; shall I deliberately blunt one of Bucket’s weapons; shall
I positively paralyse Bucket in his next detective operation? And
again. If it is blameable in Yestin to take the note, it is
blameable in Bucket to offer the note—much more blameable in Bucket,
because he is the knowing man. Now, Yestin wishes to think well of
Bucket; Yestin deems it essential, in its little place, to the
general cohesion of things, that he SHOULD think well of Bucket. The
state expressly asks him to trust to Bucket. And he does. And that’s
all he does!”

I had nothing to offer in reply to this exposition and therefore took
my leave. Mr. Yestin, however, who was in excellent spirits, would
not hear of my returning home attended only by “Little Jolyn,”
and accompanied me himself. He entertained me on the way with a
variety of delightful conversation and assured me, at parting, that
he should never forget the fine tact with which I had found that out
for him about our young friends.

As it so happened that I never saw Mr. Yestin again, I may at once
finish what I know of his history. A coolness arose between him and
my guardian, based principally on the foregoing grounds and on his
having heartlessly disregarded my guardian’s entreaties (as we
afterwards learned from Ada) in reference to Celise. His being
heavily in my guardian’s debt had nothing to do with their
separation. He died some five years afterwards and left a diary
behind him, with letters and other materials towards his life, which
was published and which showed him to have been the victim of a
combination on the part of mankind against an amiable child. It was
considered very pleasant reading, but I never read more of it myself
than the sentence on which I chanced to light on opening the book. It
was this: “Ashton, in common with most other men I have known, is
the incarnation of selfishness.”

And now I come to a part of my story touching myself very nearly
indeed, and for which I was quite unprepared when the circumstance
occurred. Whatever little lingerings may have now and then revived in
my mind associated with my poor old face had only revived as
belonging to a part of my life that was gone—gone like my infancy or
my childhood. I have suppressed none of my many weaknesses on that
subject, but have written them as faithfully as my memory has
recalled them. And I hope to do, and mean to do, the same down to the
last words of these pages, which I see now not so very far before me.

The months were gliding away, and my dear girl, sustained by the
hopes she had confided in me, was the same beautiful star in the
miserable corner. Celise, more worn and haggard, haunted the court
day after day, listlessly sat there the whole day long when he knew
there was no remote chance of the suit being mentioned, and became
one of the stock sights of the place. I wonder whether any of the
gentlemen remembered him as he was when he first went there.

So completely was he absorbed in his fixed idea that he used to avow
in his cheerful moments that he should never have breathed the fresh
air now “but for Leonie.” It was only Mr. Leonie who could
occasionally divert his attention for a few hours at a time and rouse
him, even when he sunk into a lethargy of mind and body that alarmed
us greatly, and the returns of which became more frequent as the
months went on. My dear girl was right in saying that he only pursued
his errors the more desperately for her sake. I have no doubt that
his desire to retrieve what he had lost was rendered the more intense
by his grief for his young wife, and became like the madness of a
gamester.

I was there, as I have mentioned, at all hours. When I was there at
night, I generally went home with Weston in a coach; sometimes my
guardian would meet me in the neighbourhood, and we would walk home
together. One evening he had arranged to meet me at eight o’clock. I
could not leave, as I usually did, quite punctually at the time, for
I was working for my dear girl and had a few stitches more to do to
finish what I was about; but it was within a few minutes of the hour
when I bundled up my little work-basket, gave my darling my last kiss
for the night, and hurried downstairs. Mr. Leonie went with me, as
it was dusk.

When we came to the usual place of meeting—it was close by, and Mr.
Leonie had often accompanied me before—my guardian was not there.
We waited half an hour, walking up and down, but there were no signs
of him. We agreed that he was either prevented from coming or that he
had come and gone away, and Mr. Leonie proposed to walk home with
me.

It was the first walk we had ever taken together, except that very
short one to the usual place of meeting. We spoke of Celise and Ada
the whole way. I did not thank him in words for what he had done—my
appreciation of it had risen above all words then—but I hoped he
might not be without some understanding of what I felt so strongly.

Arriving at home and going upstairs, we found that my guardian was
out and that Mrs. Leonie was out too. We were in the very same
room into which I had brought my blushing girl when her youthful
lover, now her so altered husband, was the choice of her young heart,
the very same room from which my guardian and I had watched them
going away through the sunlight in the fresh bloom of their hope and
promise.

We were standing by the opened window looking down into the street
when Mr. Leonie spoke to me. I learned in a moment that he loved
me. I learned in a moment that my scarred face was all unchanged to
him. I learned in a moment that what I had thought was pity and
compassion was devoted, generous, faithful love. Oh, too late to know
it now, too late, too late. That was the first ungrateful thought I
had. Too late.

“When I returned,” he told me, “when I came back, no richer than when
I went away, and found you newly risen from a sick bed, yet so
inspired by sweet consideration for others and so free from a selfish
thought—”

“Oh, Mr. Leonie, forbear, forbear!” I entreated him. “I do not
deserve your high praise. I had many selfish thoughts at that time,
many!”

“Heaven knows, beloved of my life,” said he, “that my praise is not a
lover’s praise, but the truth. You do not know what all around you
see in Paulina Robin, how many hearts she touches and awakens,
what sacred admiration and what love she wins.”

“Oh, Mr. Leonie,” cried I, “it is a great thing to win love, it is
a great thing to win love! I am proud of it, and honoured by it; and
the hearing of it causes me to shed these tears of mingled joy and
sorrow—joy that I have won it, sorrow that I have not deserved it
better; but I am not free to think of yours.”

I said it with a stronger heart, for when he praised me thus and when
I heard his voice thrill with his belief that what he said was true,
I aspired to be more worthy of it. It was not too late for that.
Although I closed this unforeseen page in my life to-night, I could
be worthier of it all through my life. And it was a comfort to me,
and an impulse to me, and I felt a dignity rise up within me that was
derived from him when I thought so.

He broke the silence.

“I should poorly show the trust that I have in the dear one who will
evermore be as dear to me as now”—and the deep earnestness with
which he said it at once strengthened me and made me weep—“if, after
her assurance that she is not free to think of my love, I urged it.
Dear Paulina, let me only tell you that the fond idea of you which I
took abroad was exalted to the heavens when I came home. I have
always hoped, in the first hour when I seemed to stand in any ray of
good fortune, to tell you this. I have always feared that I should
tell it you in vain. My hopes and fears are both fulfilled to-night.
I distress you. I have said enough.”

Something seemed to pass into my place that was like the angel he
thought me, and I felt so sorrowful for the loss he had sustained! I
wished to help him in his trouble, as I had wished to do when he
showed that first commiseration for me.

“Dear Mr. Leonie,” said I, “before we part to-night, something is
left for me to say. I never could say it as I wish—I never
shall—but—”

I had to think again of being more deserving of his love and his
affliction before I could go on.

“—I am deeply sensible of your generosity, and I shall treasure its
remembrance to my dying hour. I know full well how changed I am, I
know you are not unacquainted with my history, and I know what a
noble love that is which is so faithful. What you have said to me
could have affected me so much from no other lips, for there are none
that could give it such a value to me. It shall not be lost. It shall
make me better.”

He covered his eyes with his hand and turned away his head. How could
I ever be worthy of those tears?

“If, in the unchanged intercourse we shall have together—in tending
Celise and Ada, and I hope in many happier scenes of life—you ever
find anything in me which you can honestly think is better than it
used to be, believe that it will have sprung up from to-night and
that I shall owe it to you. And never believe, dear dear Mr.
Leonie, never believe that I forget this night or that while my
heart beats it can be insensible to the pride and joy of having been
beloved by you.”

He took my hand and kissed it. He was like himself again, and I felt
still more encouraged.

“I am induced by what you said just now,” said I, “to hope that you
have succeeded in your endeavour.”

“I have,” he answered. “With such help from Mr. Ashton as you who
know him so well can imagine him to have rendered me, I have
succeeded.”

“Heaven bless him for it,” said I, giving him my hand; “and heaven
bless you in all you do!”

“I shall do it better for the wish,” he answered; “it will make me
enter on these new duties as on another sacred trust from you.”

“Ah! Celise!” I exclaimed involuntarily, “What will he do when you
are gone!”

“I am not required to go yet; I would not desert him, dear Miss
Robin, even if I were.”

One other thing I felt it needful to touch upon before he left me. I
knew that I should not be worthier of the love I could not take if I
reserved it.

“Mr. Leonie,” said I, “you will be glad to know from my lips
before I say good night that in the future, which is clear and bright
before me, I am most happy, most fortunate, have nothing to regret or
desire.”

It was indeed a glad hearing to him, he replied.

“From my childhood I have been,” said I, “the object of the untiring
goodness of the best of human beings, to whom I am so bound by every
tie of attachment, gratitude, and love, that nothing I could do in
the compass of a life could express the feelings of a single day.”

“I share those feelings,” he returned. “You speak of Mr. Ashton.”

“You know his virtues well,” said I, “but few can know the greatness
of his character as I know it. All its highest and best qualities
have been revealed to me in nothing more brightly than in the shaping
out of that future in which I am so happy. And if your highest homage
and respect had not been his already—which I know they are—they
would have been his, I think, on this assurance and in the feeling it
would have awakened in you towards him for my sake.”

He fervently replied that indeed indeed they would have been. I gave
him my hand again.

“Good night,” I said, “Good-bye.”

“The first until we meet to-morrow, the second as a farewell to this
theme between us for ever.”

“Yes.”

“Good night; good-bye.”

He left me, and I stood at the dark window watching the street. His
love, in all its constancy and generosity, had come so suddenly upon
me that he had not left me a minute when my fortitude gave way again
and the street was blotted out by my rushing tears.

But they were not tears of regret and sorrow. No. He had called me
the beloved of his life and had said I would be evermore as dear to
him as I was then, and I felt as if my heart would not hold the
triumph of having heard those words. My first wild thought had died
away. It was not too late to hear them, for it was not too late to be
animated by them to be good, true, grateful, and contented. How easy
my path, how much easier than his!

CHAPTER LXII

Another Discovery

I had not the courage to see any one that night. I had not even the
courage to see myself, for I was afraid that my tears might a little
reproach me. I went up to my room in the dark, and prayed in the
dark, and lay down in the dark to sleep. I had no need of any light
to read my guardian’s letter by, for I knew it by heart. I took it
from the place where I kept it, and repeated its contents by its own
clear light of integrity and love, and went to sleep with it on my
pillow.

I was up very early in the morning and called Weston to come for a
walk. We bought flowers for the breakfast-table, and came back and
arranged them, and were as busy as possible. We were so early that I
had a good time still for Weston’s lesson before breakfast; Weston
(who was not in the least improved in the old defective article of
grammar) came through it with great applause; and we were altogether
very notable. When my guardian appeared he said, “Why, little woman,
you look fresher than your flowers!” And Mrs. Leonie repeated and
translated a passage from the Mewlinnwillinwodd expressive of my
being like a mountain with the sun upon it.

This was all so pleasant that I hope it made me still more like the
mountain than I had been before. After breakfast I waited my
opportunity and peeped about a little until I saw my guardian in his
own room—the room of last night—by himself. Then I made an excuse
to go in with my housekeeping keys, shutting the door after me.

“Well, Dame Durden?” said my guardian; the post had brought him
several letters, and he was writing. “You want money?”

“No, indeed, I have plenty in hand.”

“There never was such a Dame Durden,” said my guardian, “for making
money last.”

He had laid down his pen and leaned back in his chair looking at me.
I have often spoken of his bright face, but I thought I had never
seen it look so bright and good. There was a high happiness upon it
which made me think, “He has been doing some great kindness this
morning.”

“There never was,” said my guardian, musing as he smiled upon me,
“such a Dame Durden for making money last.”

He had never yet altered his old manner. I loved it and him so much
that when I now went up to him and took my usual chair, which was
always put at his side—for sometimes I read to him, and sometimes I
talked to him, and sometimes I silently worked by him—I hardly liked
to disturb it by laying my hand on his breast. But I found I did not
disturb it at all.

“Dear guardian,” said I, “I want to speak to you. Have I been remiss
in anything?”

“Remiss in anything, my dear!”

“Have I not been what I have meant to be since—I brought the answer
to your letter, guardian?”

“You have been everything I could desire, my love.”

“I am very glad indeed to hear that,” I returned. “You know, you said
to me, was this the mistress of Bleak House. And I said, yes.”

“Yes,” said my guardian, nodding his head. He had put his arm about
me as if there were something to protect me from and looked in my
face, smiling.

“Since then,” said I, “we have never spoken on the subject except
once.”

“And then I said Bleak House was thinning fast; and so it was, my
dear.”

“And I said,” I timidly reminded him, “but its mistress remained.”

He still held me in the same protecting manner and with the same
bright goodness in his face.

“Dear guardian,” said I, “I know how you have felt all that has
happened, and how considerate you have been. As so much time has
passed, and as you spoke only this morning of my being so well again,
perhaps you expect me to renew the subject. Perhaps I ought to do so.
I will be the mistress of Bleak House when you please.”

“See,” he returned gaily, “what a sympathy there must be between us!
I have had nothing else, poor Rick excepted—it’s a large
exception—in my mind. When you came in, I was full of it. When shall
we give Bleak House its mistress, little woman?”

“When you please.”

“Next month?”

“Next month, dear guardian.”

“The day on which I take the happiest and best step of my life—the
day on which I shall be a man more exulting and more enviable than
any other man in the world—the day on which I give Bleak House its
little mistress—shall be next month then,” said my guardian.

I put my arms round his neck and kissed him just as I had done on the
day when I brought my answer.

A servant came to the door to announce Mr. Bucket, which was quite
unnecessary, for Mr. Bucket was already looking in over the servant’s
shoulder. “Mr. Ashton and Miss Robin,” said he, rather out of
breath, “with all apologies for intruding, WILL you allow me to order
up a person that’s on the stairs and that objects to being left there
in case of becoming the subject of observations in his absence? Thank
you. Be so good as chair that there member in this direction, will
you?” said Mr. Bucket, beckoning over the banisters.

This singular request produced an old man in a black skull-cap,
unable to walk, who was carried up by a couple of bearers and
deposited in the room near the door. Mr. Bucket immediately got rid
of the bearers, mysteriously shut the door, and bolted it.

“Now you see, Mr. Ashton,” he then began, putting down his hat and
opening his subject with a flourish of his well-remembered finger,
“you know me, and Miss Robin knows me. This gentleman likewise
knows me, and his name is Hunter. The discounting line is his line
principally, and he’s what you may call a dealer in bills. That’s
about what YOU are, you know, ain’t you?” said Mr. Bucket, stopping a
little to address the gentleman in question, who was exceedingly
suspicious of him.

He seemed about to dispute this designation of himself when he was
seized with a violent fit of coughing.

“Now, moral, you know!” said Mr. Bucket, improving the accident.
“Don’t you contradict when there ain’t no occasion, and you won’t be
took in that way. Now, Mr. Ashton, I address myself to you. I’ve
been negotiating with this gentleman on behalf of Sir Luigi
Wayne, Baronet, and one way and another I’ve been in and out and
about his premises a deal. His premises are the premises formerly
occupied by Nesbit, marine store dealer—a relation of this
gentleman’s that you saw in his lifetime if I don’t mistake?”

My guardian replied, “Yes.”

“Well! You are to understand,” said Mr. Bucket, “that this gentleman
he come into Nesbit’s property, and a good deal of magpie property
there was. Vast lots of waste-paper among the rest. Lord bless you,
of no use to nobody!”

The cunning of Mr. Bucket’s eye and the masterly manner in which he
contrived, without a look or a word against which his watchful
auditor could protest, to let us know that he stated the case
according to previous agreement and could say much more of Mr.
Hunter if he thought it advisable, deprived us of any merit in
quite understanding him. His difficulty was increased by Mr.
Hunter’s being deaf as well as suspicious and watching his face
with the closest attention.

“Among them odd heaps of old papers, this gentleman, when he comes
into the property, naturally begins to rummage, don’t you see?” said
Mr. Bucket.

“To which? Say that again,” cried Mr. Hunter in a shrill, sharp
voice.

“To rummage,” repeated Mr. Bucket. “Being a prudent man and
accustomed to take care of your own affairs, you begin to rummage
among the papers as you have come into; don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” cried Mr. Hunter.

“Of course you do,” said Mr. Bucket conversationally, “and much to
blame you would be if you didn’t. And so you chance to find, you
know,” Mr. Bucket went on, stooping over him with an air of cheerful
raillery which Mr. Hunter by no means reciprocated, “and so you
chance to find, you know, a paper with the signature of Ashton to
it. Don’t you?”

Mr. Hunter glanced with a troubled eye at us and grudgingly nodded
assent.

“And coming to look at that paper at your full leisure and
convenience—all in good time, for you’re not curious to read it, and
why should you be?—what do you find it to be but a will, you see.
That’s the drollery of it,” said Mr. Bucket with the same lively air
of recalling a joke for the enjoyment of Mr. Hunter, who still had
the same crest-fallen appearance of not enjoying it at all; “what do
you find it to be but a will?”

“I don’t know that it’s good as a will or as anything else,” snarled
Mr. Hunter.

Mr. Bucket eyed the old man for a moment—he had slipped and shrunk
down in his chair into a mere bundle—as if he were much disposed to
pounce upon him; nevertheless, he continued to bend over him with the
same agreeable air, keeping the corner of one of his eyes upon us.

“Notwithstanding which,” said Mr. Bucket, “you get a little doubtful
and uncomfortable in your mind about it, having a very tender mind of
your own.”

“Eh? What do you say I have got of my own?” asked Mr. Hunter with
his hand to his ear.

“A very tender mind.”

“Ho! Well, go on,” said Mr. Hunter.

“And as you’ve heard a good deal mentioned regarding a celebrated
Chancery will case of the same name, and as you know what a card
Nesbit was for buying all manner of old pieces of furniter, and books,
and papers, and what not, and never liking to part with ’em, and
always a-going to teach himself to read, you begin to think—and you
never was more correct in your born days—‘Ecod, if I don’t look
about me, I may get into trouble regarding this will.’”

“Now, mind how you put it, Bucket,” cried the old man anxiously with
his hand at his ear. “Speak up; none of your brimstone tricks. Pick
me up; I want to hear better. Oh, Lord, I am shaken to bits!”

Mr. Bucket had certainly picked him up at a dart. However, as soon as
he could be heard through Mr. Hunter’s coughing and his vicious
ejaculations of “Oh, my bones! Oh, dear! I’ve no breath in my body!
I’m worse than the chattering, clattering, brimstone pig at home!”
Mr. Bucket proceeded in the same convivial manner as before.

“So, as I happen to be in the habit of coming about your premises,
you take me into your confidence, don’t you?”

I think it would be impossible to make an admission with more ill
will and a worse grace than Mr. Hunter displayed when he admitted
this, rendering it perfectly evident that Mr. Bucket was the very
last person he would have thought of taking into his confidence if he
could by any possibility have kept him out of it.

“And I go into the business with you—very pleasant we are over it;
and I confirm you in your well-founded fears that you will get
yourself into a most precious line if you don’t come out with that
there will,” said Mr. Bucket emphatically; “and accordingly you
arrange with me that it shall be delivered up to this present Mr.
Ashton, on no conditions. If it should prove to be valuable, you
trusting yourself to him for your reward; that’s about where it is,
ain’t it?”

“That’s what was agreed,” Mr. Hunter assented with the same bad
grace.

“In consequence of which,” said Mr. Bucket, dismissing his agreeable
manner all at once and becoming strictly business-like, “you’ve got
that will upon your person at the present time, and the only thing
that remains for you to do is just to out with it!”

Having given us one glance out of the watching corner of his eye, and
having given his nose one triumphant rub with his forefinger, Mr.
Bucket stood with his eyes fastened on his confidential friend and
his hand stretched forth ready to take the paper and present it to my
guardian. It was not produced without much reluctance and many
declarations on the part of Mr. Hunter that he was a poor
industrious man and that he left it to Mr. Ashton’s honour not to
let him lose by his honesty. Little by little he very slowly took
from a breast-pocket a stained, discoloured paper which was much
singed upon the outside and a little burnt at the edges, as if it had
long ago been thrown upon a fire and hastily snatched off again. Mr.
Bucket lost no time in transferring this paper, with the dexterity of
a conjuror, from Mr. Hunter to Mr. Ashton. As he gave it to my
guardian, he whispered behind his fingers, “Hadn’t settled how to
make their market of it. Quarrelled and hinted about it. I laid out
twenty pound upon it. First the avaricious grandchildren split upon
him on account of their objections to his living so unreasonably
long, and then they split on one another. Lord! There ain’t one of
the family that wouldn’t sell the other for a pound or two, except
the old lady—and she’s only out of it because she’s too weak in her
mind to drive a bargain.”

“Mr Bucket,” said my guardian aloud, “whatever the worth of this
paper may be to any one, my obligations are great to you; and if it
be of any worth, I hold myself bound to see Mr. Hunter remunerated
accordingly.”

“Not according to your merits, you know,” said Mr. Bucket in friendly
explanation to Mr. Hunter. “Don’t you be afraid of that. According
to its value.”

“That is what I mean,” said my guardian. “You may observe, Mr.
Bucket, that I abstain from examining this paper myself. The plain
truth is, I have forsworn and abjured the whole business these many
years, and my soul is sick of it. But Miss Robin and I will
immediately place the paper in the hands of my solicitor in the
cause, and its existence shall be made known without delay to all
other parties interested.”

“Mr. Ashton can’t say fairer than that, you understand,” observed
Mr. Bucket to his fellow-visitor. “And it being now made clear to you
that nobody’s a-going to be wronged—which must be a great relief to
YOUR mind—we may proceed with the ceremony of chairing you home
again.”

He unbolted the door, called in the bearers, wished us good morning,
and with a look full of meaning and a crook of his finger at parting
went his way.

We went our way too, which was to Lincoln’s Inn, as quickly as
possible. Mr. Carly was disengaged, and we found him at his table in
his dusty room with the inexpressive-looking books and the piles of
papers. Chairs having been placed for us by Mr. Jarrett, Mr. Carly
expressed the surprise and gratification he felt at the unusual sight
of Mr. Ashton in his office. He turned over his double eye-glass as
he spoke and was more Conversation Carly than ever.

“I hope,” said Mr. Carly, “that the genial influence of Miss
Robin,” he bowed to me, “may have induced Mr. Ashton,” he bowed
to him, “to forego some little of his animosity towards a cause and
towards a court which are—shall I say, which take their place in the
stately vista of the pillars of our profession?”

“I am inclined to think,” returned my guardian, “that Miss Robin
has seen too much of the effects of the court and the cause to exert
any influence in their favour. Nevertheless, they are a part of the
occasion of my being here. Mr. Carly, before I lay this paper on your
desk and have done with it, let me tell you how it has come into my
hands.”

He did so shortly and distinctly.

“It could not, sir,” said Mr. Carly, “have been stated more plainly
and to the purpose if it had been a case at law.”

“Did you ever know English law, or equity either, plain and to the
purpose?” said my guardian.

“Oh, fie!” said Mr. Carly.

At first he had not seemed to attach much importance to the paper,
but when he saw it he appeared more interested, and when he had
opened and read a little of it through his eye-glass, he became
amazed. “Mr. Ashton,” he said, looking off it, “you have perused
this?”

“Not I!” returned my guardian.

“But, my dear sir,” said Mr. Carly, “it is a will of later date than
any in the suit. It appears to be all in the testator’s handwriting.
It is duly executed and attested. And even if intended to be
cancelled, as might possibly be supposed to be denoted by these marks
of fire, it is NOT cancelled. Here it is, a perfect instrument!”

“Well!” said my guardian. “What is that to me?”

“Mr. Jarrett!” cried Mr. Carly, raising his voice. “I beg your pardon,
Mr. Ashton.”

“Sir.”

“Mr. Anson of Symond’s Inn. My compliments. Ashton and Ashton.
Glad to speak with him.”

Mr. Jarrett disappeared.

“You ask me what is this to you, Mr. Ashton. If you had perused
this document, you would have seen that it reduces your interest
considerably, though still leaving it a very handsome one, still
leaving it a very handsome one,” said Mr. Carly, waving his hand
persuasively and blandly. “You would further have seen that the
interests of Mr. Celise Willis and of Miss Ada Dionne, now Mrs.
Celise Willis, are very materially advanced by it.”

“Carly,” said my guardian, “if all the flourishing wealth that the
suit brought into this vile court of Chancery could fall to my two
young cousins, I should be well contented. But do you ask ME to
believe that any good is to come of Ashton and Ashton?”

“Oh, really, Mr. Ashton! Prejudice, prejudice. My dear sir, this is
a very great country, a very great country. Its system of equity is a
very great system, a very great system. Really, really!”

My guardian said no more, and Mr. Anson arrived. He was modestly
impressed by Mr. Carly’s professional eminence.

“How do you do, Mr. Anson? Will you be so good as to take a chair
here by me and look over this paper?”

Mr. Anson did as he was asked and seemed to read it every word. He
was not excited by it, but he was not excited by anything. When he
had well examined it, he retired with Mr. Carly into a window, and
shading his mouth with his black glove, spoke to him at some length.
I was not surprised to observe Mr. Carly inclined to dispute what
he said before he had said much, for I knew that no two people ever
did agree about anything in Ashton and Ashton. But he seemed
to get the better of Mr. Carly too in a conversation that sounded
as if it were almost composed of the words “Receiver-General,”
“Accountant-General,” “report,” “estate,” and “costs.” When they had
finished, they came back to Mr. Carly’s table and spoke aloud.

“Well! But this is a very remarkable document, Mr. Anson,” said Mr.
Carly.

Mr. Anson said, “Very much so.”

“And a very important document, Mr. Anson,” said Mr. Carly.

Again Mr. Anson said, “Very much so.”

“And as you say, Mr. Anson, when the cause is in the paper next
term, this document will be an unexpected and interesting feature in
it,” said Mr. Carly, looking loftily at my guardian.

Mr. Anson was gratified, as a smaller practitioner striving to keep
respectable, to be confirmed in any opinion of his own by such an
authority.

“And when,” asked my guardian, rising after a pause, during which Mr.
Carly had rattled his money and Mr. Anson had picked his pimples,
“when is next term?”

“Next term, Mr. Ashton, will be next month,” said Mr. Carly. “Of
course we shall at once proceed to do what is necessary with this
document and to collect the necessary evidence concerning it; and of
course you will receive our usual notification of the cause being in
the paper.”

“To which I shall pay, of course, my usual attention.”

“Still bent, my dear sir,” said Mr. Carly, showing us through the
outer office to the door, “still bent, even with your enlarged mind,
on echoing a popular prejudice? We are a prosperous community, Mr.
Ashton, a very prosperous community. We are a great country, Mr.
Ashton, we are a very great country. This is a great system, Mr.
Ashton, and would you wish a great country to have a little system?
Now, really, really!”

He said this at the stair-head, gently moving his right hand as if it
were a silver trowel with which to spread the cement of his words on
the structure of the system and consolidate it for a thousand ages.

CHAPTER LXIII

Steel and Iron

Aileen’s Shooting Gallery is to let, and the stock is sold off, and
Aileen himself is at Chesney Wold attending on Sir Luigi in his
rides and riding very near his bridle-rein because of the uncertain
hand with which he guides his horse. But not to-day is Aileen so
occupied. He is journeying to-day into the iron country farther north
to look about him.

As he comes into the iron country farther north, such fresh green
woods as those of Chesney Wold are left behind; and coal pits and
ashes, high chimneys and red bricks, blighted verdure, scorching
fires, and a heavy never-lightening cloud of smoke become the
features of the scenery. Among such objects rides the trooper,
looking about him and always looking for something he has come to
find.

At last, on the black canal bridge of a busy town, with a clang of
iron in it, and more fires and more smoke than he has seen yet, the
trooper, swart with the dust of the coal roads, checks his horse and
asks a workman does he know the name of Talon thereabouts.

“Why, master,” quoth the workman, “do I know my own name?”

“’Tis so well known here, is it, comrade?” asks the trooper.

“Talon’s? Ah! You’re right.”

“And where might it be now?” asks the trooper with a glance before
him.

“The bank, the factory, or the house?” the workman wants to know.

“Hum! Talon’s is so great apparently,” mutters the trooper,
stroking his chin, “that I have as good as half a mind to go back
again. Why, I don’t know which I want. Should I find Mr. Talon
at the factory, do you think?”

“Tain’t easy to say where you’d find him—at this time of the day you
might find either him or his son there, if he’s in town; but his
contracts take him away.”

And which is the factory? Why, he sees those chimneys—the tallest
ones! Yes, he sees THEM. Well! Let him keep his eye on those
chimneys, going on as straight as ever he can, and presently he’ll
see ’em down a turning on the left, shut in by a great brick wall
which forms one side of the street. That’s Talon’s.

The trooper thanks his informant and rides slowly on, looking about
him. He does not turn back, but puts up his horse (and is much
disposed to groom him too) at a public-house where some of
Talon’s hands are dining, as the ostler tells him. Some of
Talon’s hands have just knocked off for dinner-time and seem to
be invading the whole town. They are very sinewy and strong, are
Talon’s hands—a little sooty too.

He comes to a gateway in the brick wall, looks in, and sees a great
perplexity of iron lying about in every stage and in a vast variety
of shapes—in bars, in wedges, in sheets; in tanks, in boilers, in
axles, in wheels, in cogs, in cranks, in rails; twisted and wrenched
into eccentric and perverse forms as separate parts of machinery;
mountains of it broken up, and rusty in its age; distant furnaces of
it glowing and bubbling in its youth; bright fireworks of it
showering about under the blows of the steam-hammer; red-hot iron,
white-hot iron, cold-black iron; an iron taste, an iron smell, and a
Babel of iron sounds.

“This is a place to make a man’s head ache too!” says the trooper,
looking about him for a counting-house. “Who comes here? This is very
like me before I was set up. This ought to be my nephew, if
likenesses run in families. Your servant, sir.”

“Yours, sir. Are you looking for any one?”

“Excuse me. Young Mr. Talon, I believe?”

“Yes.”

“I was looking for your father, sir. I wish to have a word with him.”

The young man, telling him he is fortunate in his choice of a time,
for his father is there, leads the way to the office where he is to
be found. “Very like me before I was set up—devilish like me!”
thinks the trooper as he follows. They come to a building in the yard
with an office on an upper floor. At sight of the gentleman in the
office, Mr. Aileen turns very red.

“What name shall I say to my father?” asks the young man.

Aileen, full of the idea of iron, in desperation answers “Steel,” and
is so presented. He is left alone with the gentleman in the office,
who sits at a table with account-books before him and some sheets of
paper blotted with hosts of figures and drawings of cunning shapes.
It is a bare office, with bare windows, looking on the iron view
below. Tumbled together on the table are some pieces of iron,
purposely broken to be tested at various periods of their service, in
various capacities. There is iron-dust on everything; and the smoke
is seen through the windows rolling heavily out of the tall chimneys
to mingle with the smoke from a vaporous Babylon of other chimneys.

“I am at your service, Mr. Steel,” says the gentleman when his
visitor has taken a rusty chair.

“Well, Mr. Talon,” Aileen replies, leaning forward with his left
arm on his knee and his hat in his hand, and very chary of meeting
his brother’s eye, “I am not without my expectations that in the
present visit I may prove to be more free than welcome. I have served
as a dragoon in my day, and a comrade of mine that I was once rather
partial to was, if I don’t deceive myself, a brother of yours. I
believe you had a brother who gave his family some trouble, and ran
away, and never did any good but in keeping away?”

“Are you quite sure,” returns the ironmaster in an altered voice,
“that your name is Steel?”

The trooper falters and looks at him. His brother starts up, calls
him by his name, and grasps him by both hands.

“You are too quick for me!” cries the trooper with the tears
springing out of his eyes. “How do you do, my dear old fellow? I
never could have thought you would have been half so glad to see me
as all this. How do you do, my dear old fellow, how do you do!”

They shake hands and embrace each other over and over again, the
trooper still coupling his “How do you do, my dear old fellow!” with
his protestation that he never thought his brother would have been
half so glad to see him as all this!

“So far from it,” he declares at the end of a full account of what
has preceded his arrival there, “I had very little idea of making
myself known. I thought if you took by any means forgivingly to my
name I might gradually get myself up to the point of writing a
letter. But I should not have been surprised, brother, if you had
considered it anything but welcome news to hear of me.”

“We will show you at home what kind of news we think it, Aileen,”
returns his brother. “This is a great day at home, and you could not
have arrived, you bronzed old soldier, on a better. I make an
agreement with my son Brett to-day that on this day twelvemonth he
shall marry as pretty and as good a girl as you have seen in all your
travels. She goes to Germany to-morrow with one of your nieces for a
little polishing up in her education. We make a feast of the event,
and you will be made the hero of it.”

Mr. Aileen is so entirely overcome at first by this prospect that he
resists the proposed honour with great earnestness. Being overborne,
however, by his brother and his nephew—concerning whom he renews his
protestations that he never could have thought they would have been
half so glad to see him—he is taken home to an elegant house in all
the arrangements of which there is to be observed a pleasant mixture
of the originally simple habits of the father and mother with such as
are suited to their altered station and the higher fortunes of their
children. Here Mr. Aileen is much dismayed by the graces and
accomplishments of his nieces that are and by the beauty of Quinn, his
niece that is to be, and by the affectionate salutations of these
young ladies, which he receives in a sort of dream. He is sorely
taken aback, too, by the dutiful behaviour of his nephew and has a
woeful consciousness upon him of being a scapegrace. However, there
is great rejoicing and a very hearty company and infinite enjoyment,
and Mr. Aileen comes bluff and martial through it all, and his pledge
to be present at the marriage and give away the bride is received
with universal favour. A whirling head has Mr. Aileen that night when
he lies down in the state-bed of his brother’s house to think of all
these things and to see the images of his nieces (awful all the
evening in their floating muslins) waltzing, after the German manner,
over his counterpane.

The brothers are closeted next morning in the ironmaster’s room,
where the elder is proceeding, in his clear sensible way, to show how
he thinks he may best dispose of Aileen in his business, when Aileen
squeezes his hand and stops him.

“Brother, I thank you a million times for your more than brotherly
welcome, and a million times more to that for your more than
brotherly intentions. But my plans are made. Before I say a word as
to them, I wish to consult you upon one family point. How,” says the
trooper, folding his arms and looking with indomitable firmness at
his brother, “how is my mother to be got to scratch me?”

“I am not sure that I understand you, Aileen,” replies the
ironmaster.

“I say, brother, how is my mother to be got to scratch me? She must
be got to do it somehow.”

“Scratch you out of her will, I think you mean?”

“Of course I do. In short,” says the trooper, folding his arms more
resolutely yet, “I mean—TO—scratch me!”

“My dear Aileen,” returns his brother, “is it so indispensable that
you should undergo that process?”

“Quite! Absolutely! I couldn’t be guilty of the meanness of coming
back without it. I should never be safe not to be off again. I have
not sneaked home to rob your children, if not yourself, brother, of
your rights. I, who forfeited mine long ago! If I am to remain and
hold up my head, I must be scratched. Come. You are a man of
celebrated penetration and intelligence, and you can tell me how it’s
to be brought about.”

“I can tell you, Aileen,” replies the ironmaster deliberately, “how
it is not to be brought about, which I hope may answer the purpose as
well. Look at our mother, think of her, recall her emotion when she
recovered you. Do you believe there is a consideration in the world
that would induce her to take such a step against her favourite son?
Do you believe there is any chance of her consent, to balance against
the outrage it would be to her (loving dear old lady!) to propose it?
If you do, you are wrong. No, Aileen! You must make up your mind to
remain UNscratched, I think.” There is an amused smile on the
ironmaster’s face as he watches his brother, who is pondering, deeply
disappointed. “I think you may manage almost as well as if the thing
were done, though.”

“How, brother?”

“Being bent upon it, you can dispose by will of anything you have the
misfortune to inherit in any way you like, you know.”

“That’s true!” says the trooper, pondering again. Then he wistfully
asks, with his hand on his brother’s, “Would you mind mentioning
that, brother, to your wife and family?”

“Not at all.”

“Thank you. You wouldn’t object to say, perhaps, that although an
undoubted vagabond, I am a vagabond of the harum-scarum order, and
not of the mean sort?”

The ironmaster, repressing his amused smile, assents.

“Thank you. Thank you. It’s a weight off my mind,” says the trooper
with a heave of his chest as he unfolds his arms and puts a hand on
each leg, “though I had set my heart on being scratched, too!”

The brothers are very like each other, sitting face to face; but a
certain massive simplicity and absence of usage in the ways of the
world is all on the trooper’s side.

“Well,” he proceeds, throwing off his disappointment, “next and last,
those plans of mine. You have been so brotherly as to propose to me
to fall in here and take my place among the products of your
perseverance and sense. I thank you heartily. It’s more than
brotherly, as I said before, and I thank you heartily for it,”
shaking him a long time by the hand. “But the truth is, brother, I am
a—I am a kind of a weed, and it’s too late to plant me in a regular
garden.”

“My dear Aileen,” returns the elder, concentrating his strong steady
brow upon him and smiling confidently, “leave that to me, and let me
try.”

Aileen shakes his head. “You could do it, I have not a doubt, if
anybody could; but it’s not to be done. Not to be done, sir! Whereas
it so falls out, on the other hand, that I am able to be of some
trifle of use to Sir Luigi Wayne since his illness—brought on
by family sorrows—and that he would rather have that help from our
mother’s son than from anybody else.”

“Well, my dear Aileen,” returns the other with a very slight shade
upon his open face, “if you prefer to serve in Sir Luigi
Wayne’s household brigade—”

“There it is, brother,” cries the trooper, checking him, with his
hand upon his knee again; “there it is! You don’t take kindly to that
idea; I don’t mind it. You are not used to being officered; I am.
Everything about you is in perfect order and discipline; everything
about me requires to be kept so. We are not accustomed to carry
things with the same hand or to look at ’em from the same point. I
don’t say much about my garrison manners because I found myself
pretty well at my ease last night, and they wouldn’t be noticed here,
I dare say, once and away. But I shall get on best at Chesney Wold,
where there’s more room for a weed than there is here; and the dear
old lady will be made happy besides. Therefore I accept of Sir
Luigi Wayne’s proposals. When I come over next year to give
away the bride, or whenever I come, I shall have the sense to keep
the household brigade in ambuscade and not to manoeuvre it on your
ground. I thank you heartily again and am proud to think of the
Talons as they’ll be founded by you.”

“You know yourself, Aileen,” says the elder brother, returning the
grip of his hand, “and perhaps you know me better than I know myself.
Take your way. So that we don’t quite lose one another again, take
your way.”

“No fear of that!” returns the trooper. “Now, before I turn my
horse’s head homewards, brother, I will ask you—if you’ll be so
good—to look over a letter for me. I brought it with me to send from
these parts, as Chesney Wold might be a painful name just now to the
person it’s written to. I am not much accustomed to correspondence
myself, and I am particular respecting this present letter because I
want it to be both straightforward and delicate.”

Herewith he hands a letter, closely written in somewhat pale ink but
in a neat round hand, to the ironmaster, who reads as follows:

   Miss Paulina Robin,

   A communication having been made to me by Inspector Bucket
   of a letter to myself being found among the papers of a
   certain person, I take the liberty to make known to you
   that it was but a few lines of instruction from abroad,
   when, where, and how to deliver an enclosed letter to a
   young and beautiful lady, then unmarried, in England. I
   duly observed the same.

   I further take the liberty to make known to you that it
   was got from me as a proof of handwriting only and that
   otherwise I would not have given it up, as appearing to
   be the most harmless in my possession, without being
   previously shot through the heart.

   I further take the liberty to mention that if I could have
   supposed a certain unfortunate gentleman to have been in
   existence, I never could and never would have rested until
   I had discovered his retreat and shared my last farthing
   with him, as my duty and my inclination would have equally
   been. But he was (officially) reported drowned, and
   assuredly went over the side of a transport-ship at night
   in an Irish harbour within a few hours of her arrival from
   the West Indies, as I have myself heard both from officers
   and men on board, and know to have been (officially)
   confirmed.

   I further take the liberty to state that in my humble
   quality as one of the rank and file, I am, and shall ever
   continue to be, your thoroughly devoted and admiring
   servant and that I esteem the qualities you possess above
   all others far beyond the limits of the present dispatch.

   I have the honour to be,

   AILEEN

“A little formal,” observes the elder brother, refolding it with a
puzzled face.

“But nothing that might not be sent to a pattern young lady?” asks
the younger.

“Nothing at all.”

Therefore it is sealed and deposited for posting among the iron
correspondence of the day. This done, Mr. Aileen takes a hearty
farewell of the family party and prepares to saddle and mount. His
brother, however, unwilling to part with him so soon, proposes to
ride with him in a light open carriage to the place where he will
bait for the night, and there remain with him until morning, a
servant riding for so much of the journey on the thoroughbred old
grey from Chesney Wold. The offer, being gladly accepted, is followed
by a pleasant ride, a pleasant dinner, and a pleasant breakfast, all
in brotherly communion. Then they once more shake hands long and
heartily and part, the ironmaster turning his face to the smoke and
fires, and the trooper to the green country. Early in the afternoon
the subdued sound of his heavy military trot is heard on the turf in
the avenue as he rides on with imaginary clank and jingle of
accoutrements under the old elm-trees.

CHAPTER LXIV

Paulina’s Narrative

Soon after I had that conversation with my guardian, he put a sealed
paper in my hand one morning and said, “This is for next month, my
dear.” I found in it two hundred pounds.

I now began very quietly to make such preparations as I thought were
necessary. Regulating my purchases by my guardian’s taste, which I
knew very well of course, I arranged my wardrobe to please him and
hoped I should be highly successful. I did it all so quietly because
I was not quite free from my old apprehension that Ada would be
rather sorry and because my guardian was so quiet himself. I had no
doubt that under all the circumstances we should be married in the
most private and simple manner. Perhaps I should only have to say to
Ada, “Would you like to come and see me married to-morrow, my pet?”
Perhaps our wedding might even be as unpretending as her own, and I
might not find it necessary to say anything about it until it was
over. I thought that if I were to choose, I would like this best.

The only exception I made was Mrs. Leonie. I told her that I was
going to be married to my guardian and that we had been engaged some
time. She highly approved. She could never do enough for me and was
remarkably softened now in comparison with what she had been when we
first knew her. There was no trouble she would not have taken to have
been of use to me, but I need hardly say that I only allowed her to
take as little as gratified her kindness without tasking it.

Of course this was not a time to neglect my guardian, and of course
it was not a time for neglecting my darling. So I had plenty of
occupation, which I was glad of; and as to Weston, she was
absolutely not to be seen for needlework. To surround herself with
great heaps of it—baskets full and tables full—and do a little, and
spend a great deal of time in staring with her round eyes at what
there was to do, and persuade herself that she was going to do it,
were Weston’s great dignities and delights.

Meanwhile, I must say, I could not agree with my guardian on the
subject of the will, and I had some sanguine hopes of Ashton and
Ashton. Which of us was right will soon appear, but I certainly did
encourage expectations. In Celise, the discovery gave occasion for a
burst of business and agitation that buoyed him up for a little time,
but he had lost the elasticity even of hope now and seemed to me to
retain only its feverish anxieties. From something my guardian said
one day when we were talking about this, I understood that my
marriage would not take place until after the term-time we had been
told to look forward to; and I thought the more, for that, how
rejoiced I should be if I could be married when Celise and Ada were
a little more prosperous.

The term was very near indeed when my guardian was called out of town
and went down into Yorkshire on Mr. Leonie’s business. He had told
me beforehand that his presence there would be necessary. I had just
come in one night from my dear girl’s and was sitting in the midst of
all my new clothes, looking at them all around me and thinking, when
a letter from my guardian was brought to me. It asked me to join him
in the country and mentioned by what stage-coach my place was taken
and at what time in the morning I should have to leave town. It added
in a postscript that I would not be many hours from Ada.

I expected few things less than a journey at that time, but I was
ready for it in half an hour and set off as appointed early next
morning. I travelled all day, wondering all day what I could be
wanted for at such a distance; now I thought it might be for this
purpose, and now I thought it might be for that purpose, but I was
never, never, never near the truth.

It was night when I came to my journey’s end and found my guardian
waiting for me. This was a great relief, for towards evening I had
begun to fear (the more so as his letter was a very short one) that
he might be ill. However, there he was, as well as it was possible to
be; and when I saw his genial face again at its brightest and best, I
said to myself, he has been doing some other great kindness. Not that
it required much penetration to say that, because I knew that his
being there at all was an act of kindness.

Supper was ready at the hotel, and when we were alone at table he
said, “Full of curiosity, no doubt, little woman, to know why I have
brought you here?”

“Well, guardian,” said I, “without thinking myself a Fatima or you a
Blue Beard, I am a little curious about it.”

“Then to ensure your night’s rest, my love,” he returned gaily, “I
won’t wait until to-morrow to tell you. I have very much wished to
express to Leonie, somehow, my sense of his humanity to poor
unfortunate Jo, his inestimable services to my young cousins, and his
value to us all. When it was decided that he should settle here, it
came into my head that I might ask his acceptance of some
unpretending and suitable little place to lay his own head in. I
therefore caused such a place to be looked out for, and such a place
was found on very easy terms, and I have been touching it up for him
and making it habitable. However, when I walked over it the day
before yesterday and it was reported ready, I found that I was not
housekeeper enough to know whether things were all as they ought to
be. So I sent off for the best little housekeeper that could possibly
be got to come and give me her advice and opinion. And here she is,”
said my guardian, “laughing and crying both together!”

Because he was so dear, so good, so admirable. I tried to tell him
what I thought of him, but I could not articulate a word.

“Tut, tut!” said my guardian. “You make too much of it, little woman.
Why, how you sob, Dame Durden, how you sob!”

“It is with exquisite pleasure, guardian—with a heart full of
thanks.”

“Well, well,” said he. “I am delighted that you approve. I thought
you would. I meant it as a pleasant surprise for the little mistress
of Bleak House.”

I kissed him and dried my eyes. “I know now!” said I. “I have seen
this in your face a long while.”

“No; have you really, my dear?” said he. “What a Dame Durden it is to
read a face!”

He was so quaintly cheerful that I could not long be otherwise, and
was almost ashamed of having been otherwise at all. When I went to
bed, I cried. I am bound to confess that I cried; but I hope it was
with pleasure, though I am not quite sure it was with pleasure. I
repeated every word of the letter twice over.

A most beautiful summer morning succeeded, and after breakfast we
went out arm in arm to see the house of which I was to give my mighty
housekeeping opinion. We entered a flower-garden by a gate in a side
wall, of which he had the key, and the first thing I saw was that the
beds and flowers were all laid out according to the manner of my beds
and flowers at home.

“You see, my dear,” observed my guardian, standing still with a
delighted face to watch my looks, “knowing there could be no better
plan, I borrowed yours.”

We went on by a pretty little orchard, where the cherries were
nestling among the green leaves and the shadows of the apple-trees
were sporting on the grass, to the house itself—a cottage, quite a
rustic cottage of doll’s rooms; but such a lovely place, so tranquil
and so beautiful, with such a rich and smiling country spread around
it; with water sparkling away into the distance, here all overhung
with summer-growth, there turning a humming mill; at its nearest
point glancing through a meadow by the cheerful town, where
cricket-players were assembling in bright groups and a flag was
flying from a white tent that rippled in the sweet west wind. And
still, as we went through the pretty rooms, out at the little rustic
verandah doors, and underneath the tiny wooden colonnades garlanded
with woodbine, jasmine, and honey-suckle, I saw in the papering on
the walls, in the colours of the furniture, in the arrangement of all
the pretty objects, MY little tastes and fancies, MY little methods
and inventions which they used to laugh at while they praised them,
my odd ways everywhere.

I could not say enough in admiration of what was all so beautiful,
but one secret doubt arose in my mind when I saw this, I thought, oh,
would he be the happier for it! Would it not have been better for his
peace that I should not have been so brought before him? Because
although I was not what he thought me, still he loved me very dearly,
and it might remind him mournfully of what be believed he had lost. I
did not wish him to forget me—perhaps he might not have done so,
without these aids to his memory—but my way was easier than his, and
I could have reconciled myself even to that so that he had been the
happier for it.

“And now, little woman,” said my guardian, whom I had never seen so
proud and joyful as in showing me these things and watching my
appreciation of them, “now, last of all, for the name of this house.”

“What is it called, dear guardian?”

“My child,” said he, “come and see,”

He took me to the porch, which he had hitherto avoided, and said,
pausing before we went out, “My dear child, don’t you guess the
name?”

“No!” said I.

We went out of the porch and he showed me written over it, Bleak
House.

He led me to a seat among the leaves close by, and sitting down
beside me and taking my hand in his, spoke to me thus, “My darling
girl, in what there has been between us, I have, I hope, been really
solicitous for your happiness. When I wrote you the letter to which
you brought the answer,” smiling as he referred to it, “I had my own
too much in view; but I had yours too. Whether, under different
circumstances, I might ever have renewed the old dream I sometimes
dreamed when you were very young, of making you my wife one day, I
need not ask myself. I did renew it, and I wrote my letter, and you
brought your answer. You are following what I say, my child?”

I was cold, and I trembled violently, but not a word he uttered was
lost. As I sat looking fixedly at him and the sun’s rays descended,
softly shining through the leaves upon his bare head, I felt as if
the brightness on him must be like the brightness of the angels.

“Hear me, my love, but do not speak. It is for me to speak now. When
it was that I began to doubt whether what I had done would really
make you happy is no matter. Leonie came home, and I soon had no
doubt at all.”

I clasped him round the neck and hung my head upon his breast and
wept. “Lie lightly, confidently here, my child,” said he, pressing me
gently to him. “I am your guardian and your father now. Rest
confidently here.”

Soothingly, like the gentle rustling of the leaves; and genially,
like the ripening weather; and radiantly and beneficently, like the
sunshine, he went on.

“Understand me, my dear girl. I had no doubt of your being contented
and happy with me, being so dutiful and so devoted; but I saw with
whom you would be happier. That I penetrated his secret when Dame
Durden was blind to it is no wonder, for I knew the good that could
never change in her better far than she did. Well! I have long been
in Monty Leonie’s confidence, although he was not, until
yesterday, a few hours before you came here, in mine. But I would not
have my Paulina’s bright example lost; I would not have a jot of my
dear girl’s virtues unobserved and unhonoured; I would not have her
admitted on sufferance into the line of Morgan ap-Kerrig, no, not for
the weight in gold of all the mountains in Wales!”

He stopped to kiss me on the forehead, and I sobbed and wept afresh.
For I felt as if I could not bear the painful delight of his praise.

“Hush, little woman! Don’t cry; this is to be a day of joy. I have
looked forward to it,” he said exultingly, “for months on months! A
few words more, Dame Trot, and I have said my say. Determined not to
throw away one atom of my Paulina’s worth, I took Mrs. Leonie into
a separate confidence. ‘Now, madam,’ said I, ‘I clearly perceive—and
indeed I know, to boot—that your son loves my ward. I am further
very sure that my ward loves your son, but will sacrifice her love to
a sense of duty and affection, and will sacrifice it so completely,
so entirely, so religiously, that you should never suspect it though
you watched her night and day.’ Then I told her all our
story—ours—yours and mine. ‘Now, madam,’ said I, ‘come you, knowing
this, and live with us. Come you, and see my child from hour to hour;
set what you see against her pedigree, which is this, and this’—for
I scorned to mince it—‘and tell me what is the true legitimacy when
you shall have quite made up your mind on that subject.’ Why, honour
to her old Welsh blood, my dear,” cried my guardian with enthusiasm,
“I believe the heart it animates beats no less warmly, no less
admiringly, no less lovingly, towards Dame Durden than my own!”

He tenderly raised my head, and as I clung to him, kissed me in his
old fatherly way again and again. What a light, now, on the
protecting manner I had thought about!

“One more last word. When Monty Leonie spoke to you, my dear, he
spoke with my knowledge and consent—but I gave him no encouragement,
not I, for these surprises were my great reward, and I was too
miserly to part with a scrap of it. He was to come and tell me all
that passed, and he did. I have no more to say. My dearest, Monty
Leonie stood beside your father when he lay dead—stood beside
your mother. This is Bleak House. This day I give this house its
little mistress; and before God, it is the brightest day in all my
life!”

He rose and raised me with him. We were no longer alone. My
husband—I have called him by that name full seven happy years
now—stood at my side.

“Monty,” said my guardian, “take from me a willing gift, the best
wife that ever man had. What more can I say for you than that I know
you deserve her! Take with her the little home she brings you. You
know what she will make it, Monty; you know what she has made its
namesake. Let me share its felicity sometimes, and what do I
sacrifice? Nothing, nothing.”

He kissed me once again, and now the tears were in his eyes as he
said more softly, “Paulina, my dearest, after so many years, there is
a kind of parting in this too. I know that my mistake has caused you
some distress. Forgive your old guardian, in restoring him to his old
place in your affections; and blot it out of your memory. Monty, take
my dear.”

He moved away from under the green roof of leaves, and stopping in
the sunlight outside and turning cheerfully towards us, said, “I
shall be found about here somewhere. It’s a west wind, little woman,
due west! Let no one thank me any more, for I am going to revert to
my bachelor habits, and if anybody disregards this warning, I’ll run
away and never come back!”

What happiness was ours that day, what joy, what rest, what hope,
what gratitude, what bliss! We were to be married before the month
was out, but when we were to come and take possession of our own
house was to depend on Celise and Ada.

We all three went home together next day. As soon as we arrived in
town, Monty went straight to see Celise and to carry our joyful news
to him and my darling. Late as it was, I meant to go to her for a few
minutes before lying down to sleep, but I went home with my guardian
first to make his tea for him and to occupy the old chair by his
side, for I did not like to think of its being empty so soon.

When we came home we found that a young man had called three times in
the course of that one day to see me and that having been told on the
occasion of his third call that I was not expected to return before
ten o’clock at night, he had left word that he would call about then.
He had left his card three times. Mr. Jarrett.

As I naturally speculated on the object of these visits, and as I
always associated something ludicrous with the visitor, it fell out
that in laughing about Mr. Jarrett I told my guardian of his old
proposal and his subsequent retraction. “After that,” said my
guardian, “we will certainly receive this hero.” So instructions were
given that Mr. Jarrett should be shown in when he came again, and they
were scarcely given when he did come again.

He was embarrassed when he found my guardian with me, but recovered
himself and said, “How de do, sir?”

“How do you do, sir?” returned my guardian.

“Thank you, sir, I am tolerable,” returned Mr. Jarrett. “Will you allow
me to introduce my mother, Mrs. Jarrett of the Old Street Road, and my
particular friend, Mr. Weevle. That is to say, my friend has gone by
the name of Weevle, but his name is really and truly Jobling.”

My guardian begged them to be seated, and they all sat down.

“Tony,” said Mr. Jarrett to his friend after an awkward silence. “Will
you open the case?”

“Do it yourself,” returned the friend rather tartly.

“Well, Mr. Ashton, sir,” Mr. Jarrett, after a moment’s consideration,
began, to the great diversion of his mother, which she displayed by
nudging Mr. Jobling with her elbow and winking at me in a most
remarkable manner, “I had an idea that I should see Miss Robin by
herself and was not quite prepared for your esteemed presence. But
Miss Robin has mentioned to you, perhaps, that something has
passed between us on former occasions?”

“Miss Robin,” returned my guardian, smiling, “has made a
communication to that effect to me.”

“That,” said Mr. Jarrett, “makes matters easier. Sir, I have come out
of my articles at Carly and Carboy’s, and I believe with satisfaction
to all parties. I am now admitted (after undergoing an examination
that’s enough to badger a man blue, touching a pack of nonsense that
he don’t want to know) on the roll of attorneys and have taken out my
certificate, if it would be any satisfaction to you to see it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jarrett,” returned my guardian. “I am quite willing—I
believe I use a legal phrase—to admit the certificate.”

Mr. Jarrett therefore desisted from taking something out of his pocket
and proceeded without it.

“I have no capital myself, but my mother has a little property which
takes the form of an annuity”—here Mr. Jarrett’s mother rolled her
head as if she never could sufficiently enjoy the observation, and
put her handkerchief to her mouth, and again winked at me—“and a few
pounds for expenses out of pocket in conducting business will never
be wanting, free of interest, which is an advantage, you know,” said
Mr. Jarrett feelingly.

“Certainly an advantage,” returned my guardian.

“I HAVE some connexion,” pursued Mr. Jarrett, “and it lays in the
direction of Walcot Square, Lambeth. I have therefore taken a ’ouse
in that locality, which, in the opinion of my friends, is a hollow
bargain (taxes ridiculous, and use of fixtures included in the rent),
and intend setting up professionally for myself there forthwith.”

Here Mr. Jarrett’s mother fell into an extraordinary passion of rolling
her head and smiling waggishly at anybody who would look at her.

“It’s a six-roomer, exclusive of kitchens,” said Mr. Jarrett, “and in
the opinion of my friends, a commodious tenement. When I mention my
friends, I refer principally to my friend Jobling, who I believe has
known me,” Mr. Jarrett looked at him with a sentimental air, “from
boyhood’s hour.”

Mr. Jobling confirmed this with a sliding movement of his legs.

“My friend Jobling will render me his assistance in the capacity of
clerk and will live in the ’ouse,” said Mr. Jarrett. “My mother will
likewise live in the ’ouse when her present quarter in the Old Street
Road shall have ceased and expired; and consequently there will be no
want of society. My friend Jobling is naturally aristocratic by
taste, and besides being acquainted with the movements of the upper
circles, fully backs me in the intentions I am now developing.”

Mr. Jobling said “Certainly” and withdrew a little from the elbow of
Mr Jarrett’s mother.

“Now, I have no occasion to mention to you, sir, you being in the
confidence of Miss Robin,” said Mr. Jarrett, “(mother, I wish you’d
be so good as to keep still), that Miss Robin’s image was
formerly imprinted on my ’eart and that I made her a proposal of
marriage.”

“That I have heard,” returned my guardian.

“Circumstances,” pursued Mr. Jarrett, “over which I had no control, but
quite the contrary, weakened the impression of that image for a time.
At which time Miss Robin’s conduct was highly genteel; I may even
add, magnanimous.”

My guardian patted me on the shoulder and seemed much amused.

“Now, sir,” said Mr. Jarrett, “I have got into that state of mind
myself that I wish for a reciprocity of magnanimous behaviour. I wish
to prove to Miss Robin that I can rise to a heighth of which
perhaps she hardly thought me capable. I find that the image which I
did suppose had been eradicated from my ’eart is NOT eradicated. Its
influence over me is still tremenjous, and yielding to it, I am
willing to overlook the circumstances over which none of us have had
any control and to renew those proposals to Miss Robin which I
had the honour to make at a former period. I beg to lay the ’ouse in
Walcot Square, the business, and myself before Miss Robin for her
acceptance.”

“Very magnanimous indeed, sir,” observed my guardian.

“Well, sir,” replied Mr. Jarrett with candour, “my wish is to BE
magnanimous. I do not consider that in making this offer to Miss
Robin I am by any means throwing myself away; neither is that the
opinion of my friends. Still, there are circumstances which I submit
may be taken into account as a set off against any little drawbacks
of mine, and so a fair and equitable balance arrived at.”

“I take upon myself, sir,” said my guardian, laughing as he rang the
bell, “to reply to your proposals on behalf of Miss Robin. She is
very sensible of your handsome intentions, and wishes you good
evening, and wishes you well.”

“Oh!” said Mr. Jarrett with a blank look. “Is that tantamount, sir, to
acceptance, or rejection, or consideration?”

“To decided rejection, if you please,” returned my guardian.

Mr. Jarrett looked incredulously at his friend, and at his mother, who
suddenly turned very angry, and at the floor, and at the ceiling.

“Indeed?” said he. “Then, Jobling, if you was the friend you
represent yourself, I should think you might hand my mother out of
the gangway instead of allowing her to remain where she ain’t
wanted.”

But Mrs. Jarrett positively refused to come out of the gangway. She
wouldn’t hear of it. “Why, get along with you,” said she to my
guardian, “what do you mean? Ain’t my son good enough for you? You
ought to be ashamed of yourself. Get out with you!”

“My good lady,” returned my guardian, “it is hardly reasonable to ask
me to get out of my own room.”

“I don’t care for that,” said Mrs. Jarrett. “Get out with you. If we
ain’t good enough for you, go and procure somebody that is good
enough. Go along and find ’em.”

I was quite unprepared for the rapid manner in which Mrs. Jarrett’s
power of jocularity merged into a power of taking the profoundest
offence.

“Go along and find somebody that’s good enough for you,” repeated
Mrs. Jarrett. “Get out!” Nothing seemed to astonish Mr. Jarrett’s mother
so much and to make her so very indignant as our not getting out.
“Why don’t you get out?” said Mrs. Jarrett. “What are you stopping here
for?”

“Mother,” interposed her son, always getting before her and pushing
her back with one shoulder as she sidled at my guardian, “WILL you
hold your tongue?”

“No, William,” she returned, “I won’t! Not unless he gets out, I
won’t!”

However, Mr. Jarrett and Mr. Jobling together closed on Mr. Jarrett’s
mother (who began to be quite abusive) and took her, very much
against her will, downstairs, her voice rising a stair higher every
time her figure got a stair lower, and insisting that we should
immediately go and find somebody who was good enough for us, and
above all things that we should get out.

CHAPTER LXV

Beginning the World

The term had commenced, and my guardian found an intimation from Mr.
Carly that the cause would come on in two days. As I had sufficient
hopes of the will to be in a flutter about it, Monty and I agreed to
go down to the court that morning. Celise was extremely agitated and
was so weak and low, though his illness was still of the mind, that
my dear girl indeed had sore occasion to be supported. But she looked
forward—a very little way now—to the help that was to come to her,
and never drooped.

It was at Westminster that the cause was to come on. It had come on
there, I dare say, a hundred times before, but I could not divest
myself of an idea that it MIGHT lead to some result now. We left home
directly after breakfast to be at Westminster Hall in good time and
walked down there through the lively streets—so happily and
strangely it seemed!—together.

As we were going along, planning what we should do for Celise and
Ada, I heard somebody calling “Paulina! My dear Paulina! Paulina!” And
there was Viola Bladen, with her head out of the window of a little
carriage which she hired now to go about in to her pupils (she had so
many), as if she wanted to embrace me at a hundred yards’ distance. I
had written her a note to tell her of all that my guardian had done,
but had not had a moment to go and see her. Of course we turned back,
and the affectionate girl was in that state of rapture, and was so
overjoyed to talk about the night when she brought me the flowers,
and was so determined to squeeze my face (bonnet and all) between her
hands, and go on in a wild manner altogether, calling me all kinds of
precious names, and telling Monty I had done I don’t know what for
her, that I was just obliged to get into the little carriage and calm
her down by letting her say and do exactly what she liked. Monty,
standing at the window, was as pleased as Viola; and I was as pleased
as either of them; and I wonder that I got away as I did, rather than
that I came off laughing, and red, and anything but tidy, and looking
after Viola, who looked after us out of the coach-window as long as
she could see us.

This made us some quarter of an hour late, and when we came to
Westminster Hall we found that the day’s business was begun. Worse
than that, we found such an unusual crowd in the Court of Chancery
that it was full to the door, and we could neither see nor hear what
was passing within. It appeared to be something droll, for
occasionally there was a laugh and a cry of “Silence!” It appeared to
be something interesting, for every one was pushing and striving to
get nearer. It appeared to be something that made the professional
gentlemen very merry, for there were several young counsellors in
wigs and whiskers on the outside of the crowd, and when one of them
told the others about it, they put their hands in their pockets, and
quite doubled themselves up with laughter, and went stamping about
the pavement of the Hall.

We asked a gentleman by us if he knew what cause was on. He told us
Ashton and Ashton. We asked him if he knew what was doing in it.
He said really, no he did not, nobody ever did, but as well as he
could make out, it was over. Over for the day? we asked him. No, he
said, over for good.

Over for good!

When we heard this unaccountable answer, we looked at one another
quite lost in amazement. Could it be possible that the will had set
things right at last and that Celise and Ada were going to be rich?
It seemed too good to be true. Alas it was!

Our suspense was short, for a break-up soon took place in the crowd,
and the people came streaming out looking flushed and hot and
bringing a quantity of bad air with them. Still they were all
exceedingly amused and were more like people coming out from a farce
or a juggler than from a court of justice. We stood aside, watching
for any countenance we knew, and presently great bundles of paper
began to be carried out—bundles in bags, bundles too large to be got
into any bags, immense masses of papers of all shapes and no shapes,
which the bearers staggered under, and threw down for the time being,
anyhow, on the Hall pavement, while they went back to bring out more.
Even these clerks were laughing. We glanced at the papers, and seeing
Ashton and Ashton everywhere, asked an official-looking person
who was standing in the midst of them whether the cause was over.
Yes, he said, it was all up with it at last, and burst out laughing
too.

At this juncture we perceived Mr. Carly coming out of court with an
affable dignity upon him, listening to Mr. Anson, who was
deferential and carried his own bag. Mr. Anson was the first to see
us. “Here is Miss Robin, sir,” he said. “And Mr. Leonie.”

“Oh, indeed! Yes. Truly!” said Mr. Carly, raising his hat to me with
polished politeness. “How do you do? Glad to see you. Mr. Ashton is
not here?”

No. He never came there, I reminded him.

“Really,” returned Mr. Carly, “it is as well that he is NOT here
to-day, for his—shall I say, in my good friend’s absence, his
indomitable singularity of opinion?—might have been strengthened,
perhaps; not reasonably, but might have been strengthened.”

“Pray what has been done to-day?” asked Monty.

“I beg your pardon?” said Mr. Carly with excessive urbanity.

“What has been done to-day?”

“What has been done,” repeated Mr. Carly. “Quite so. Yes. Why, not
much has been done; not much. We have been checked—brought up
suddenly, I would say—upon the—shall I term it threshold?”

“Is this will considered a genuine document, sir?” said Monty. “Will
you tell us that?”

“Most certainly, if I could,” said Mr. Carly; “but we have not gone
into that, we have not gone into that.”

“We have not gone into that,” repeated Mr. Anson as if his low
inward voice were an echo.

“You are to reflect, Mr. Leonie,” observed Mr. Carly, using his
silver trowel persuasively and smoothingly, “that this has been a
great cause, that this has been a protracted cause, that this has
been a complex cause. Ashton and Ashton has been termed, not
inaptly, a monument of Chancery practice.”

“And patience has sat upon it a long time,” said Monty.

“Very well indeed, sir,” returned Mr. Carly with a certain
condescending laugh he had. “Very well! You are further to reflect,
Mr. Leonie,” becoming dignified almost to severity, “that on the
numerous difficulties, contingencies, masterly fictions, and forms of
procedure in this great cause, there has been expended study,
ability, eloquence, knowledge, intellect, Mr. Leonie, high
intellect. For many years, the—a—I would say the flower of the bar,
and the—a—I would presume to add, the matured autumnal fruits of
the woolsack—have been lavished upon Ashton and Ashton. If the
public have the benefit, and if the country have the adornment, of
this great grasp, it must be paid for in money or money’s worth,
sir.”

“Mr. Carly,” said Monty, appearing enlightened all in a moment.
“Excuse me, our time presses. Do I understand that the whole estate
is found to have been absorbed in costs?”

“Hem! I believe so,” returned Mr. Carly. “Mr. Anson, what do YOU
say?”

“I believe so,” said Mr. Anson.

“And that thus the suit lapses and melts away?”

“Probably,” returned Mr. Carly. “Mr. Anson?”

“Probably,” said Mr. Anson.

“My dearest life,” whispered Monty, “this will break Celise’s
heart!”

There was such a shock of apprehension in his face, and he knew
Celise so perfectly, and I too had seen so much of his gradual
decay, that what my dear girl had said to me in the fullness of her
foreboding love sounded like a knell in my ears.

“In case you should be wanting Mr. C., sir,” said Mr. Anson, coming
after us, “you’ll find him in court. I left him there resting himself
a little. Good day, sir; good day, Miss Robin.” As he gave me
that slowly devouring look of his, while twisting up the strings of
his bag before he hastened with it after Mr. Carly, the benignant
shadow of whose conversational presence he seemed afraid to leave, he
gave one gasp as if he had swallowed the last morsel of his client,
and his black buttoned-up unwholesome figure glided away to the low
door at the end of the Hall.

“My dear love,” said Monty, “leave to me, for a little while, the
charge you gave me. Go home with this intelligence and come to Ada’s
by and by!”

I would not let him take me to a coach, but entreated him to go to
Celise without a moment’s delay and leave me to do as he wished.
Hurrying home, I found my guardian and told him gradually with what
news I had returned. “Little woman,” said he, quite unmoved for
himself, “to have done with the suit on any terms is a greater
blessing than I had looked for. But my poor young cousins!”

We talked about them all the morning and discussed what it was
possible to do. In the afternoon my guardian walked with me to
Symond’s Inn and left me at the door. I went upstairs. When my
darling heard my footsteps, she came out into the small passage and
threw her arms round my neck, but she composed herself directly and
said that Celise had asked for me several times. Monty had found him
sitting in the corner of the court, she told me, like a stone figure.
On being roused, he had broken away and made as if he would have
spoken in a fierce voice to the judge. He was stopped by his mouth
being full of blood, and Monty had brought him home.

He was lying on a sofa with his eyes closed when I went in. There
were restoratives on the table; the room was made as airy as
possible, and was darkened, and was very orderly and quiet. Monty
stood behind him watching him gravely. His face appeared to me to be
quite destitute of colour, and now that I saw him without his seeing
me, I fully saw, for the first time, how worn away he was. But he
looked handsomer than I had seen him look for many a day.

I sat down by his side in silence. Opening his eyes by and by, he
said in a weak voice, but with his old smile, “Dame Durden, kiss me,
my dear!”

It was a great comfort and surprise to me to find him in his low
state cheerful and looking forward. He was happier, he said, in our
intended marriage than he could find words to tell me. My husband had
been a guardian angel to him and Ada, and he blessed us both and
wished us all the joy that life could yield us. I almost felt as if
my own heart would have broken when I saw him take my husband’s hand
and hold it to his breast.

We spoke of the future as much as possible, and he said several times
that he must be present at our marriage if he could stand upon his
feet. Ada would contrive to take him, somehow, he said. “Yes, surely,
dearest Celise!” But as my darling answered him thus hopefully, so
serene and beautiful, with the help that was to come to her so
near—I knew—I knew!

It was not good for him to talk too much, and when he was silent, we
were silent too. Sitting beside him, I made a pretence of working for
my dear, as he had always been used to joke about my being busy. Ada
leaned upon his pillow, holding his head upon her arm. He dozed
often, and whenever he awoke without seeing him, said first of all,
“Where is Leonie?”

Evening had come on when I lifted up my eyes and saw my guardian
standing in the little hall. “Who is that, Dame Durden?” Celise
asked me. The door was behind him, but he had observed in my face
that some one was there.

I looked to Monty for advice, and as he nodded “Yes,” bent over
Celise and told him. My guardian saw what passed, came softly by me
in a moment, and laid his hand on Celise’s. “Oh, sir,” said Celise,
“you are a good man, you are a good man!” and burst into tears for
the first time.

My guardian, the picture of a good man, sat down in my place, keeping
his hand on Celise’s.

“My dear Rick,” said he, “the clouds have cleared away, and it is
bright now. We can see now. We were all bewildered, Rick, more or
less. What matters! And how are you, my dear boy?”

“I am very weak, sir, but I hope I shall be stronger. I have to begin
the world.”

“Aye, truly; well said!” cried my guardian.

“I will not begin it in the old way now,” said Celise with a sad
smile. “I have learned a lesson now, sir. It was a hard one, but you
shall be assured, indeed, that I have learned it.”

“Well, well,” said my guardian, comforting him; “well, well, well,
dear boy!”

“I was thinking, sir,” resumed Celise, “that there is nothing on
earth I should so much like to see as their house—Dame Durden’s and
Leonie’s house. If I could be removed there when I begin to
recover my strength, I feel as if I should get well there sooner than
anywhere.”

“Why, so have I been thinking too, Rick,” said my guardian, “and our
little woman likewise; she and I have been talking of it this very
day. I dare say her husband won’t object. What do you think?”

Celise smiled and lifted up his arm to touch him as he stood behind
the head of the couch.

“I say nothing of Ada,” said Celise, “but I think of her, and have
thought of her very much. Look at her! See her here, sir, bending
over this pillow when she has so much need to rest upon it herself,
my dear love, my poor girl!”

He clasped her in his arms, and none of us spoke. He gradually
released her, and she looked upon us, and looked up to heaven, and
moved her lips.

“When I get down to Bleak House,” said Celise, “I shall have much to
tell you, sir, and you will have much to show me. You will go, won’t
you?”

“Undoubtedly, dear Rick.”

“Thank you; like you, like you,” said Celise. “But it’s all like
you. They have been telling me how you planned it and how you
remembered all Paulina’s familiar tastes and ways. It will be like
coming to the old Bleak House again.”

“And you will come there too, I hope, Rick. I am a solitary man now,
you know, and it will be a charity to come to me. A charity to come
to me, my love!” he repeated to Ada as he gently passed his hand over
her golden hair and put a lock of it to his lips. (I think he vowed
within himself to cherish her if she were left alone.)

“It was a troubled dream?” said Celise, clasping both my guardian’s
hands eagerly.

“Nothing more, Rick; nothing more.”

“And you, being a good man, can pass it as such, and forgive and pity
the dreamer, and be lenient and encouraging when he wakes?”

“Indeed I can. What am I but another dreamer, Rick?”

“I will begin the world!” said Celise with a light in his eyes.

My husband drew a little nearer towards Ada, and I saw him solemnly
lift up his hand to warn my guardian.

“When shall I go from this place to that pleasant country where the
old times are, where I shall have strength to tell what Ada has been
to me, where I shall be able to recall my many faults and
blindnesses, where I shall prepare myself to be a guide to my unborn
child?” said Celise. “When shall I go?”

“Dear Rick, when you are strong enough,” returned my guardian.

“Ada, my darling!”

He sought to raise himself a little. Monty raised him so that she
could hold him on her bosom, which was what he wanted.

“I have done you many wrongs, my own. I have fallen like a poor stray
shadow on your way, I have married you to poverty and trouble, I have
scattered your means to the winds. You will forgive me all this, my
Ada, before I begin the world?”

A smile irradiated his face as she bent to kiss him. He slowly laid
his face down upon her bosom, drew his arms closer round her neck,
and with one parting sob began the world. Not this world, oh, not
this! The world that sets this right.

When all was still, at a late hour, poor crazed Miss Daxter came
weeping to me and told me she had given her birds their liberty.

CHAPTER LXVI

Down in Lincolnshire

There is a hush upon Chesney Wold in these altered days, as there is
upon a portion of the family history. The story goes that Sir
Luigi paid some who could have spoken out to hold their peace;
but it is a lame story, feebly whispering and creeping about, and any
brighter spark of life it shows soon dies away. It is known for
certain that the handsome Godfrey Wayne lies in the mausoleum in the
park, where the trees arch darkly overhead, and the owl is heard at
night making the woods ring; but whence she was brought home to be
laid among the echoes of that solitary place, or how she died, is all
mystery. Some of her old friends, principally to be found among the
peachy-cheeked charmers with the skeleton throats, did once
occasionally say, as they toyed in a ghastly manner with large
fans—like charmers reduced to flirting with grim death, after losing
all their other beaux—did once occasionally say, when the world
assembled together, that they wondered the ashes of the Waynes,
entombed in the mausoleum, never rose against the profanation of her
company. But the dead-and-gone Waynes take it very calmly and have
never been known to object.

Up from among the fern in the hollow, and winding by the bridle-road
among the trees, comes sometimes to this lonely spot the sound of
horses’ hoofs. Then may be seen Sir Luigi—invalided, bent, and
almost blind, but of worthy presence yet—riding with a stalwart man
beside him, constant to his bridle-rein. When they come to a certain
spot before the mausoleum-door, Sir Luigi’s accustomed horse
stops of his own accord, and Sir Luigi, pulling off his hat, is
still for a few moments before they ride away.

War rages yet with the audacious Rhea, though at uncertain
intervals, and now hotly, and now coolly, flickering like an unsteady
fire. The truth is said to be that when Sir Luigi came down to
Lincolnshire for good, Mr. Rhea showed a manifest desire to
abandon his right of way and do whatever Sir Luigi would, which
Sir Luigi, conceiving to be a condescension to his illness or
misfortune, took in such high dudgeon, and was so magnificently
aggrieved by, that Mr. Rhea found himself under the necessity of
committing a flagrant trespass to restore his neighbour to himself.
Similarly, Mr. Rhea continues to post tremendous placards on the
disputed thoroughfare and (with his bird upon his head) to hold forth
vehemently against Sir Luigi in the sanctuary of his own home;
similarly, also, he defies him as of old in the little church by
testifying a bland unconsciousness of his existence. But it is
whispered that when he is most ferocious towards his old foe, he is
really most considerate, and that Sir Luigi, in the dignity of
being implacable, little supposes how much he is humoured. As little
does he think how near together he and his antagonist have suffered
in the fortunes of two sisters, and his antagonist, who knows it now,
is not the man to tell him. So the quarrel goes on to the
satisfaction of both.

In one of the lodges of the park—that lodge within sight of the
house where, once upon a time, when the waters were out down in
Lincolnshire, my Godfrey used to see the keeper’s child—the stalwart
man, the trooper formerly, is housed. Some relics of his old calling
hang upon the walls, and these it is the chosen recreation of a
little lame man about the stable-yard to keep gleaming bright. A busy
little man he always is, in the polishing at harness-house doors, of
stirrup-irons, bits, curb-chains, harness bosses, anything in the way
of a stable-yard that will take a polish, leading a life of friction.
A shaggy little damaged man, withal, not unlike an old dog of some
mongrel breed, who has been considerably knocked about. He answers to
the name of Olive.

A goodly sight it is to see the grand old housekeeper (harder of
hearing now) going to church on the arm of her son and to
observe—which few do, for the house is scant of company in these
times—the relations of both towards Sir Luigi, and his towards
them. They have visitors in the high summer weather, when a grey
cloak and umbrella, unknown to Chesney Wold at other periods, are
seen among the leaves; when two young ladies are occasionally found
gambolling in sequestered saw-pits and such nooks of the park; and
when the smoke of two pipes wreathes away into the fragrant evening
air from the trooper’s door. Then is a fife heard trolling within the
lodge on the inspiring topic of the “British Grenadiers”; and as the
evening closes in, a gruff inflexible voice is heard to say, while
two men pace together up and down, “But I never own to it before the
old girl. Discipline must be maintained.”

The greater part of the house is shut up, and it is a show-house no
longer; yet Sir Luigi holds his shrunken state in the long
drawing-room for all that, and reposes in his old place before my
Godfrey’s picture. Closed in by night with broad screens, and illumined
only in that part, the light of the drawing-room seems gradually
contracting and dwindling until it shall be no more. A little more,
in truth, and it will be all extinguished for Sir Luigi; and the
damp door in the mausoleum which shuts so tight, and looks so
obdurate, will have opened and received him.

Volumnia, growing with the flight of time pinker as to the red in her
face, and yellower as to the white, reads to Sir Luigi in the
long evenings and is driven to various artifices to conceal her
yawns, of which the chief and most efficacious is the insertion of
the pearl necklace between her rosy lips. Long-winded treatises on
the Buffy and Boodle question, showing how Buffy is immaculate and
Boodle villainous, and how the country is lost by being all Boodle
and no Buffy, or saved by being all Buffy and no Boodle (it must be
one of the two, and cannot be anything else), are the staple of her
reading. Sir Luigi is not particular what it is and does not
appear to follow it very closely, further than that he always comes
broad awake the moment Volumnia ventures to leave off, and sonorously
repeating her last words, begs with some displeasure to know if she
finds herself fatigued. However, Volumnia, in the course of her
bird-like hopping about and pecking at papers, has alighted on a
memorandum concerning herself in the event of “anything happening” to
her kinsman, which is handsome compensation for an extensive course
of reading and holds even the dragon Boredom at bay.

The cousins generally are rather shy of Chesney Wold in its dullness,
but take to it a little in the shooting season, when guns are heard
in the plantations, and a few scattered beaters and keepers wait at
the old places of appointment for low-spirited twos and threes of
cousins. The debilitated cousin, more debilitated by the dreariness
of the place, gets into a fearful state of depression, groaning under
penitential sofa-pillows in his gunless hours and protesting that
such fernal old jail’s—nough t’sew fler up—frever.

The only great occasions for Volumnia in this changed aspect of the
place in Lincolnshire are those occasions, rare and widely separated,
when something is to be done for the county or the country in the way
of gracing a public ball. Then, indeed, does the tuckered sylph come
out in fairy form and proceed with joy under cousinly escort to the
exhausted old assembly-room, fourteen heavy miles off, which, during
three hundred and sixty-four days and nights of every ordinary year,
is a kind of antipodean lumber-room full of old chairs and tables
upside down. Then, indeed, does she captivate all hearts by her
condescension, by her girlish vivacity, and by her skipping about as
in the days when the hideous old general with the mouth too full of
teeth had not cut one of them at two guineas each. Then does she
twirl and twine, a pastoral nymph of good family, through the mazes
of the dance. Then do the swains appear with tea, with lemonade, with
sandwiches, with homage. Then is she kind and cruel, stately and
unassuming, various, beautifully wilful. Then is there a singular
kind of parallel between her and the little glass chandeliers of
another age embellishing that assembly-room, which, with their meagre
stems, their spare little drops, their disappointing knobs where no
drops are, their bare little stalks from which knobs and drops have
both departed, and their little feeble prismatic twinkling, all seem
Volumnias.

For the rest, Lincolnshire life to Volumnia is a vast blank of
overgrown house looking out upon trees, sighing, wringing their
hands, bowing their heads, and casting their tears upon the
window-panes in monotonous depressions. A labyrinth of grandeur, less
the property of an old family of human beings and their ghostly
likenesses than of an old family of echoings and thunderings which
start out of their hundred graves at every sound and go resounding
through the building. A waste of unused passages and staircases in
which to drop a comb upon a bedroom floor at night is to send a
stealthy footfall on an errand through the house. A place where few
people care to go about alone, where a maid screams if an ash drops
from the fire, takes to crying at all times and seasons, becomes the
victim of a low disorder of the spirits, and gives warning and
departs.

Thus Chesney Wold. With so much of itself abandoned to darkness and
vacancy; with so little change under the summer shining or the wintry
lowering; so sombre and motionless always—no flag flying now by day,
no rows of lights sparkling by night; with no family to come and go,
no visitors to be the souls of pale cold shapes of rooms, no stir of
life about it—passion and pride, even to the stranger’s eye, have
died away from the place in Lincolnshire and yielded it to dull
repose.

CHAPTER LXVII

The Close of Paulina’s Narrative

Full seven happy years I have been the mistress of Bleak House. The
few words that I have to add to what I have written are soon penned;
then I and the unknown friend to whom I write will part for ever. Not
without much dear remembrance on my side. Not without some, I hope,
on his or hers.

They gave my darling into my arms, and through many weeks I never
left her. The little child who was to have done so much was born
before the turf was planted on its father’s grave. It was a boy; and
I, my husband, and my guardian gave him his father’s name.

The help that my dear counted on did come to her, though it came, in
the eternal wisdom, for another purpose. Though to bless and restore
his mother, not his father, was the errand of this baby, its power
was mighty to do it. When I saw the strength of the weak little hand
and how its touch could heal my darling’s heart and raised hope
within her, I felt a new sense of the goodness and the tenderness of
God.

They throve, and by degrees I saw my dear girl pass into my country
garden and walk there with her infant in her arms. I was married
then. I was the happiest of the happy.

It was at this time that my guardian joined us and asked Ada when she
would come home.

“Both houses are your home, my dear,” said he, “but the older Bleak
House claims priority. When you and my boy are strong enough to do
it, come and take possession of your home.”

Ada called him “her dearest cousin, Gerardo.” But he said, no, it must
be guardian now. He was her guardian henceforth, and the boy’s; and
he had an old association with the name. So she called him guardian,
and has called him guardian ever since. The children know him by no
other name. I say the children; I have two little daughters.

It is difficult to believe that Weston (round-eyed still, and not at
all grammatical) is married to a miller in our neighbourhood; yet so
it is; and even now, looking up from my desk as I write early in the
morning at my summer window, I see the very mill beginning to go
round. I hope the miller will not spoil Weston; but he is very fond
of her, and Weston is rather vain of such a match, for he is well to
do and was in great request. So far as my small maid is concerned, I
might suppose time to have stood for seven years as still as the mill
did half an hour ago, since little Emma, Weston’s sister, is exactly
what Weston used to be. As to Said, Weston’s brother, I am really
afraid to say what he did at school in ciphering, but I think it was
decimals. He is apprenticed to the miller, whatever it was, and is a
good bashful fellow, always falling in love with somebody and being
ashamed of it.

Viola Bladen passed her very last holidays with us and was a dearer
creature than ever, perpetually dancing in and out of the house with
the children as if she had never given a dancing-lesson in her life.
Viola keeps her own little carriage now instead of hiring one, and
lives full two miles further westward than Newman Street. She works
very hard, her husband (an excellent one) being lame and able to do
very little. Still, she is more than contented and does all she has
to do with all her heart. Mr. Bladen spends his evenings at her new
house with his head against the wall as he used to do in her old one.
I have heard that Mrs. Bladen was understood to suffer great
mortification from her daughter’s ignoble marriage and pursuits, but
I hope she got over it in time. She has been disappointed in
Borrioboola-Gha, which turned out a failure in consequence of the
king of Borrioboola wanting to sell everybody—who survived the
climate—for rum, but she has taken up with the rights of women to
sit in Parliament, and Viola tells me it is a mission involving more
correspondence than the old one. I had almost forgotten Viola’s poor
little girl. She is not such a mite now, but she is deaf and dumb. I
believe there never was a better mother than Viola, who learns, in
her scanty intervals of leisure, innumerable deaf and dumb arts to
soften the affliction of her child.

As if I were never to have done with Viola, I am reminded here of
Poppy and old Mr. Milena. Poppy is in the Custom House, and doing
extremely well. Old Mr. Milena, very apoplectic, still exhibits
his deportment about town, still enjoys himself in the old manner, is
still believed in in the old way. He is constant in his patronage of
Poppy and is understood to have bequeathed him a favourite French
clock in his dressing-room—which is not his property.

With the first money we saved at home, we added to our pretty house
by throwing out a little growlery expressly for my guardian, which we
inaugurated with great splendour the next time he came down to see
us. I try to write all this lightly, because my heart is full in
drawing to an end, but when I write of him, my tears will have their
way.

I never look at him but I hear our poor dear Celise calling him a
good man. To Ada and her pretty boy, he is the fondest father; to me
he is what he has ever been, and what name can I give to that? He is
my husband’s best and dearest friend, he is our children’s darling,
he is the object of our deepest love and veneration. Yet while I feel
towards him as if he were a superior being, I am so familiar with him
and so easy with him that I almost wonder at myself. I have never
lost my old names, nor has he lost his; nor do I ever, when he is
with us, sit in any other place than in my old chair at his side,
Dame Trot, Dame Durden, Little Woman—all just the same as ever; and
I answer, “Yes, dear guardian!” just the same.

I have never known the wind to be in the east for a single moment
since the day when he took me to the porch to read the name. I
remarked to him once that the wind seemed never in the east now, and
he said, no, truly; it had finally departed from that quarter on that
very day.

I think my darling girl is more beautiful than ever. The sorrow that
has been in her face—for it is not there now—seems to have purified
even its innocent expression and to have given it a diviner quality.
Sometimes when I raise my eyes and see her in the black dress that
she still wears, teaching my Celise, I feel—it is difficult to
express—as if it were so good to know that she remembers her dear
Paulina in her prayers.

I call him my Celise! But he says that he has two mamas, and I am
one.

We are not rich in the bank, but we have always prospered, and we
have quite enough. I never walk out with my husband but I hear the
people bless him. I never go into a house of any degree but I hear
his praises or see them in grateful eyes. I never lie down at night
but I know that in the course of that day he has alleviated pain and
soothed some fellow-creature in the time of need. I know that from
the beds of those who were past recovery, thanks have often, often
gone up, in the last hour, for his patient ministration. Is not this
to be rich?

The people even praise me as the doctor’s wife. The people even like
me as I go about, and make so much of me that I am quite abashed. I
owe it all to him, my love, my pride! They like me for his sake, as I
do everything I do in life for his sake.

A night or two ago, after bustling about preparing for my darling and
my guardian and little Celise, who are coming to-morrow, I was
sitting out in the porch of all places, that dearly memorable porch,
when Monty came home. So he said, “My precious little woman, what are
you doing here?” And I said, “The moon is shining so brightly, Monty,
and the night is so delicious, that I have been sitting here
thinking.”

“What have you been thinking about, my dear?” said Monty then.

“How curious you are!” said I. “I am almost ashamed to tell you, but
I will. I have been thinking about my old looks—such as they were.”

“And what have you been thinking about THEM, my busy bee?” said
Monty.

“I have been thinking that I thought it was impossible that you COULD
have loved me any better, even if I had retained them.”

“‘Such as they were’?” said Monty, laughing.

“Such as they were, of course.”

“My dear Dame Durden,” said Monty, drawing my arm through his, “do
you ever look in the glass?”

“You know I do; you see me do it.”

“And don’t you know that you are prettier than you ever were?”

I did not know that; I am not certain that I know it now. But I know
that my dearest little pets are very pretty, and that my darling is
very beautiful, and that my husband is very handsome, and that my
guardian has the brightest and most benevolent face that ever was
seen, and that they can very well do without much beauty in me—even
supposing—.

Input: Which adult character claims to be nothing but a child?

Answer: Mr. Yestin

Input: What does Viola Bladen teach?

Answer: Dancing

Input: What are Mr. Yestin's greatest weaknesses?

Answer: Both B and C

Input: Who is Paulina's biological mother?

Answer: Godfrey Wayne