At one o'clock an open carriage arrived for us, and a cart for our luggage.

At one o'clock an open carriage arrived for us.


Mrs. Jellyby charged us with many remembrances to her good friend Mr. Jarndyce; Caddy left her desk to see us depart, kissed me in the passage, and stood biting her pen and sobbing on the steps; Peepy, 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.

Mrs. Jellyby charged us with many remembrances to her good friend Mr. Jarndyce; Caddy left her desk to see us depart, kissed me, and stood sobbing on the steps. Peepy, I am happy to say, was asleep and spared the pain of separation (I feared that he had gone to Newgate market in search of me); and all the other children got up behind the barouche and fell off. We saw them, with great concern, scattered over the ground as we rolled away.


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.

In Lincoln's Inn Fields, the evening is hot, and Mr. Tulkinghorn's windows are wide open.


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.

Plenty of dust comes in at them, and plenty more has generated among his furniture and papers.


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.

In his atmosphere of dust, beneath the figure of Allegory, 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.

When he dines alone in chambers, as he has dined today, he descends with a candle to the echoing regions below the deserted mansion, and comes back with a bottle from which he pours a radiant nectar, fifty years old, that fills the whole room with the fragrance of southern grapes.


Mr. Tulkinghorn, sitting in the twilight by the open window, enjoys his wine.

Mr. Tulkinghorn, sitting in the twilight, 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.

He sits, and drinks, and ponders 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 everyone.


But Mr. Tulkinghorn is not alone to-night to ponder at his usual length.

But Mr. Tulkinghorn is not alone tonight.


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.

Seated at the same table, though with his chair modestly drawn a little way from it, sits a bald, mild man who coughs respectfully behind his hand when the lawyer bids him fill his glass.


"Now, Snagsby," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "to go over this odd story again."

"Now, Snagsby," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "go over this odd story again."


"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--"

"I remembered, sir, that you had taken an interest in that person, and I thought it possible that you might - just - wish-"


Mr. Tulkinghorn is not the man to help him to any conclusion or to admit anything as to any possibility concerning himself.


So Mr. Snagsby trails off into saying, with an awkward cough, "I must ask you to excuse the liberty, sir, I am sure."

Mr. Snagsby trails off into saying, with an awkward cough, "Excuse the liberty, sir."


"You told me, Snagsby, that you put on your hat and came round without mentioning your intention to your wife.

"You told me, Snagsby, that you 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."

That was prudent, because it's not a matter of such importance that it needs to be mentioned."


"Well, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby, "you see, my little woman is--not to put too fine a point upon it--inquisitive.

"Well, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby, "you see, my little woman is - not to put too fine a point upon it - 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. Snagsby 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?"

"Therefore you kept your visit to yourself?"


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.

My little woman is at present in a pious state, and attends the Evening Exertions of the Reverend Chadband.


He has a great deal of eloquence at his command, undoubtedly, but I am not quite favourable to his style myself.


My little woman being engaged in that way made it easier for me to step round in a quiet manner."

My little woman being engaged in that way made it easier for me to step round quietly."


"Thank you, sir, I am sure," returns the stationer with his cough of deference.


"It is a rare wine now," says Mr. Tulkinghorn.


But I am not surprised to hear it, I am sure.


After rendering this general tribute to the port, Mr. Snagsby 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.

Mr. Tulkinghorn leans back in his chair.


Then, with fidelity, though with some prolixity, the law-stationer repeats Jo's statement made to the assembled guests at his house.

The law-stationer repeats Jo's statement made to the 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. Snagsby 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.

Mr. Snagsby is dismayed to see, standing attentively at a little distance from the table, a person with a hat and stick in his hand who was not there when he came in and who has not entered since.


There is a press in the room, but its hinges have not creaked, nor has a step been audible upon the floor.

There is a wardrobe in the room, but its hinges have not creaked, nor has a step been audible.


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.

Yet this third person stands there with his hat and stick in his hands, a composed and quiet listener.


He is a stoutly built, steady-looking, sharp-eyed man in black, of about the middle-age.

He is a stoutly built, steady-looking, sharp-eyed middle-aged man in black.


Except that he looks at Mr. Snagsby as if he were going to take his portrait, there is nothing remarkable about him at first sight but his ghostly manner of appearing.

There is nothing remarkable about him but his ghostly manner of appearing.


"Don't mind this gentleman," says Mr. Tulkinghorn in his quiet way.

"Don't mind this gentleman," says Mr. Tulkinghorn.


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.

"I wanted him to hear this story," says the lawyer, "because he is very intelligent in such things.


Since our people have moved this boy on, and he's not to be found on his old lay, if Mr. Snagsby don't object to go down with me to Tom-all-Alone's and point him out, we can have him here in less than a couple of hours' time.

If Mr. Snagsby don't object to go down with me to Tom-all-Alone's and point this boy out, we can have him here in a couple of hours.


I can do it without Mr. Snagsby, of course, but this is the shortest way."


"Mr. Bucket is a detective officer, Snagsby," says the lawyer in explanation.


says Mr. Snagsby 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."

"And if you have no objection to accompany Mr. Bucket to the place in question," pursues the lawyer, "I shall feel obliged if you will do so."


In a moment's hesitation on the part of Mr. Snagsby, Bucket dips down to the bottom of his mind.

As Mr. Snagsby hesitates, Bucket reads his mind.


"Don't you be afraid of hurting the boy," he says.

"Don't you be afraid of hurting the boy," says Bucket.


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.

We shall only bring him here to ask him a question or so, and he'll be paid for his trouble and sent away again.


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."


And reassured, "Since that's the case--"


And lookee here, Mr. Snagsby," resumes Bucket, taking him aside by the arm, tapping him familiarly on the breast, and speaking in a confidential tone.

"And lookee here, Mr. Snagsby," resumes Bucket, taking him by the arm, 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.

"You're a man of the world, and a man of business, and a man of sense."


"I am sure I am much obliged to you for your good opinion," returns the stationer with his cough of modesty, "but--"

"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.

"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.

"Now, it an't necessary to say to a man like you that it's best and wisest to keep little matters like this 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?"

"I don't mind telling you," says Bucket with an engaging appearance of frankness, "that as far as I can understand, 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?"


says Mr. Snagsby, but not appearing to see quite distinctly.


"Now, what YOU want," pursues Bucket, again tapping Mr. Snagsby on the breast in a comfortable and soothing manner, "is that every person should have their rights according to justice.

"Now, what you want," pursues Bucket, tapping Mr. Snagsby on the breast in a comfortable manner, "is that every person should have their rights according to justice."


"To be sure," returns Mr. Snagsby 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?


"Why, I generally say customer myself," replies Mr. Snagsby.


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 Tom-all-Alone's and to keep the whole thing quiet ever afterwards and never mention it to any one.

"On account of which, and at the same time to oblige a good customer, you mean to go down with me, in confidence, to Tom-all-Alone's and to keep the whole thing quiet afterwards and never mention it to anyone.


That's about your intentions, if I understand you?"

That's your intention, if I understand you?"


"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."

"Then here's your hat," returns his new friend; "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.

They leave Mr. Tulkinghorn 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 Gridley, do you?"

"You don't happen to know a good sort of person of the name of Gridley, do you?"


says Bucket in friendly converse as they descend the stairs.


"No," says Mr. Snagsby, considering, "I don't know anybody of that name.


"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."

"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."


As they walk along, Mr. Snagsby 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.

As they walk along, Mr. Snagsby observes 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 right or left, he pretends to have a fixed purpose 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. Snagsby 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.

In a few instances, Mr. Bucket, coming behind some under-sized young man with a shining hat on his sleek hair, 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 Tom-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.

When they come at last to Tom-all-Alone's, Mr. Bucket stops for a moment at the corner and takes a lighted bull's-eye lantern from the constable on duty there, who then accompanies him.


Between his two conductors, Mr. Snagsby 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.

Between his two conductors, Mr. Snagsby passes along the middle of a villainous street, undrained, unventilated, deep in black mud, and filthy, 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. Snagsby sickens in body and mind and feels as if he were going every moment deeper down into the infernal gulf.

Branching from this street and its heaps of ruins are other streets and courts so infamous that Mr. Snagsby sickens in body and mind and feels as if he were going down into the infernal gulf.


"Draw off a bit here, Mr. Snagsby," says Bucket as a kind of shabby palanquin is borne towards them, surrounded by a noisy crowd.

"Draw off a bit here, Mr. Snagsby," says Bucket as a kind of shabby litter is carried 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.

As the unseen wretch goes by, the crowd hovers round the three visitors like a dream of horrible faces and then fades away up alleys and into ruins and behind walls.


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."

Darby replies that for 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. Snagsby as they go on again that he looks a little poorly, Mr. Snagsby answers that he feels as if he couldn't breathe the dreadful air.

Mr. Snagsby feels as if he can't breathe.


There is inquiry made at various houses for a boy named Jo.

Inquiry is made at various houses for a boy named Jo.


As few people are known in Tom-all-Alone's by any Christian sign, there is much reference to Mr. Snagsby whether he means Carrots, or the Colonel, or Gallows, or Young Chisel, or Terrier Tip, or Lanky, or the Brick.

Mr. Snagsby is asked whether he means Carrots, or the Colonel, or Gallows, or Young Chisel, or Terrier Tip, or Lanky, or the Brick.


Mr. Snagsby describes over and over again.

Mr. Snagsby describes him 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. Snagsby and his conductors are stationary, the crowd flows round, and from its squalid depths obsequious advice heaves up to Mr. Bucket.

Whenever the three are stationary, the crowd flows round them.


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.

Whenever they move, the crowd flits away up alleys, and into ruins, and behind 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.

At last there is a lair found out where Toughy, or the Tough Subject, lays him down at night; it is thought that he may be Jo.


Comparison of notes between Mr. Snagsby 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.

says Toughy has gone to the doctor's to get a bottle of stuff for a sick woman but will be here soon.


says Mr. Bucket, opening another door and glaring in with his bull's-eye.

says Mr. Bucket, opening another door and glaring in with his lantern.


The men are sound enough," turning back each sleeper's arm from his face to look at him.


There's no work down with us at present, but we have done no good by coming here, and shall do none, I expect."

There's no work there, 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.

"That's not the way to do much good," says Mr. Bucket, turning his head towards the unconscious figures on the ground.


"It an't indeed," replies the woman with a sigh.


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.

The room is so low that the head of the tallest visitor 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.

The candle burns sickly in the polluted air.


There are a couple of benches and a higher bench by way of table.

There are a couple of benches and a 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.

Lying in the arms of the woman who has spoken is a baby.


"Why, what age do you call that little creature?"


He is not at all rough about it; and as he turns his light gently on the infant, Mr. Snagsby is strangely reminded of another infant, encircled with light, that he has seen in pictures.

He turns his light gently on the infant.


"He is not three weeks old yet, sir," says the woman.


The other woman, who was bending over it when they came in, stoops down again and kisses it as it lies asleep.

The other woman stoops down 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."


Much better to think of dead than alive, Jenny!


"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'd stand between it and death with my own life if I could, as true as any pretty lady."

"I'd stand between it and death with my own life if I could, as true as any lady."


"Then don't talk in that wrong manner," says Mr. Bucket, mollified again.

"Then why do you talk in that wrong manner?" says Mr. Bucket.


"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.

"If it was never to wake no more, you'd think me mad, I should take on so," returns the woman, her eyes filling with tears.


I was with Jenny when she lost hers--warn't I, Jenny?--and I know how she grieved.

I was with Jenny when she lost hers, and I know how she grieved.


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!"

Think of the children that you come across in your business, 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."

"Well, well," says Mr. Bucket, "you train him respectable, and he'll be a comfort to you."


"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.

"But I have been a-thinking, being over-tired and ill with the ague, of all the 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 Jenny's child died!"

If I work for him ever so much, there's no one to help me; and if he should be turned bad in spite of all I could do, and 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!"


"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.

In doing so, she moves the mother's dress, but quickly readjusts it over the bruised bosom where the baby has been lying.


"It's my dead child," says Jenny, 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.

"It's my dead child," says Jenny, walking up and down as she nurses, "that makes us both love this child so dear.


While she thinks that, I think what fortune would I give to have my darling back.

She thinks of its being taken away from her, and 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!"

But we mean the same thing in our poor hearts!"


As Mr. Snagsby blows his nose and coughs his cough of sympathy, a step is heard without.

As Mr. Snagsby blows his nose and coughs his cough of sympathy, a step is heard outside.


Mr. Bucket throws his light into the doorway and says to Mr. Snagsby, "Now, what do you say to Toughy?

Mr. Bucket shines his light into the doorway and says to Mr. Snagsby, "Now, what do you say to Toughy?


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.

Jo stands amazed in the disk of light, trembling to think that he has offended against the law in not having moved on far enough.


Mr. Snagsby, 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.

Mr. Snagsby, however, assuring him, "It's only a job you will be paid for, Jo," he recovers; and on being taken outside by Mr. Bucket, tells his tale satisfactorily.


"I have squared it with the lad," says Mr. Bucket, returning, "and it's all right.


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."

First, Jo has to complete his errand of good nature by handing over the medicine he has been to get, which he delivers with the instruction that "it's to be all took d'rectly."


Secondly, Mr. Snagsby has to lay upon the table half a crown, his usual panacea for an immense variety of afflictions.

Secondly, Mr. Snagsby has to lay upon the table half a crown.


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.

Thirdly, Mr. Bucket has to take Jo by the arm above the elbow and walk him on before him, so that he is 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 Tom-all-Alone's.

They give the women good night and come out once more into black and foul Tom-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.

By the noisome ways through which they descended into that pit, they gradually emerge from it, the crowd flitting and skulking about them until


Here the crowd, like a concourse of imprisoned demons, turns back, yelling, and is seen no more.

it turns back, yelling like a concourse of imprisoned demons, and is seen no more.


Through the clearer and fresher streets, never so clear and fresh to Mr. Snagsby's mind as now, they walk and ride until they come to Mr. Tulkinghorn's gate.

Through the clearer and fresher streets, never so clear and fresh to Mr. Snagsby's mind as now, they walk and ride 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.

As they ascend the dim stairs to Mr. Tulkinghorn's chambers, Mr. Bucket mentions that he has the key 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.

He 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.

They come at last into the hall, where a lamp is burning, and so into Mr. Tulkinghorn's usual room.


He is not there, but his two old-fashioned candlesticks are, and the room is tolerably light.

He is not there, but his two old-fashioned candlesticks are, and the room is reasonably light.


Mr. Bucket, still having his professional hold of Jo and appearing to Mr. Snagsby to possess an unlimited number of eyes, makes a little way into this room, when Jo starts and stops.

Mr. Bucket, still having his professional hold of Jo, goes a little way into this room, when Jo starts and stops.


A female figure, closely veiled, stands in the middle of the room, where the light falls upon it.


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."

"Now, tell me," says Bucket, "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.

"Be quite sure of what you say," returns Bucket, narrowly observing him.


"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?"


"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.

"A-sparkling all over here," says Jo, rubbing the fingers of his left hand on the knuckles of his right.


The figure removes the right-hand glove and shows the hand.


says Bucket, evidently pleased though, and well pleased too.


"Hand was a deal whiter, a deal delicater, and a deal smaller," returns Jo.

"Hand was a deal whiter, and delicater, and smaller," returns Jo.


"Why, you'll tell me I'm my own mother next," says Mr. Bucket.


I will speak as long as you like if you are not sure.


Was it this voice, or at all like this voice?"


"Then, what," retorts that worthy, pointing to the figure, "did you say it was the lady for?"

"Then, what," he retorts, 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.

"Cos," says Jo with a perplexed stare, "cos that there's the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd.


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."

But that there's the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd, and they're wore the same way wot she wore 'em, and she giv me a sov'ring and hooked it."


says Mr. Bucket slightly, "we haven't got much good out of YOU.

says Mr. Bucket, "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. Snagsby, not by any means comfortable under these mysterious circumstances, alone with the veiled figure.

Bucket puts the coins into the boy's hand and takes him out, leaving Mr. Snagsby uncomfortably 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.

But on Mr. Tulkinghorn's coming into the room, the veil is raised and a good-looking Frenchwoman is revealed, though her expression is somewhat intense.


"Thank you, Mademoiselle Hortense," 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?"

"You will do me the kindness to remember, sir, that I am not at present employed?"


"And to confer upon me the favour of your distinguished recommendation?"

"And to give me the favour of your recommendation?"


"A word from Mr. Tulkinghorn is so powerful."


"It shall not be wanting, mademoiselle."

"It shall not be lacking, mademoiselle."


"Receive the assurance of my devoted gratitude, dear sir."

"You have my devoted gratitude, dear sir."


Mademoiselle 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.

Mademoiselle goes out; and Mr. Bucket shows her downstairs.


"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. Snagsby, I promised you as a man that he should be sent away all right.

Mr. Snagsby, I promised you that he should be sent away all right!"


"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--"

"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, Snagsby, no further use," says Mr. Tulkinghorn.

"Thank you, Snagsby," says Mr. Tulkinghorn.


"I am quite indebted to you for the trouble you have taken already."

"I am indebted to you for the trouble you have taken."


"You see, Mr. Snagsby," 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.

"You see, Mr. Snagsby," says Mr. Bucket, accompanying him to the door and shaking hands with him, "what I like in you is that


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.

when you know you have done a right thing, you put it away, and there's an end of it.


"That is certainly what I endeavour to do, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby.

"That is certainly what I try to do, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby.


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.

It an't what you try to do," says Mr. Bucket, still shaking hands, "it's what you do."


That's what I estimate in a man in your way of business."


Mr. Snagsby 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.

Mr. Snagsby makes a suitable response and goes homeward so confused by the events of the evening that he is doubtful of his being awake - doubtful of the reality of the streets through which he goes.


He is presently reassured on these subjects by the unchallengeable reality of Mrs. Snagsby, 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.

He is presently reassured by the unchallengeable reality of Mrs. Snagsby, sitting up with her head in a perfect beehive of curl-papers and night-cap. She has dispatched Guster to the police-station to tell them her husband has been made away with, and within the last two hours has passed through every stage of swooning.


But as the little woman feelingly says, many thanks she gets for it!


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.

Inspector Bucket has not yet struck his great blow, as just now chronicled, but is still asleep, 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.

Railroads shall soon traverse all this country, and with a rattle and glare the train shall shoot like a meteor over the wide night-landscape; but as yet such things are non-existent in these parts.


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. Rouncewell, so many years housekeeper at Chesney Wold, sits within the chaise; and by her side sits Mrs. Bagnet with her grey cloak and umbrella.

Mrs. Rouncewell, 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. Rouncewell is too thoughtful of her comfort to admit of her proposing it.

The old girl would prefer to be up in front, exposed to the weather, but Mrs. Rouncewell is too thoughtful of her comfort to propose 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.

She sits, in her stately manner, holding her hand, and puts it often to her lips.


"You are a mother, my dear soul," says she many times, "and you found out my George's mother!"

"You are a mother, my dear soul," says she, "and you found my George's mother!"


"Why, George," 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.

"Why," returns Mrs. Bagnet, "when George said to my Woolwich that when he grew to be a man, he hoped he would have never brought a sorrowful line into his mother's face or turned a hair of her head grey, then I felt sure 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."

He had often told me that he had behaved bad to her."


returns Mrs. Rouncewell, bursting into tears.


He was always fond of me, and loving to me, was my George!

"He was always loving to me, was my George!


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.

When he didn't rise to be an officer, I know he considered he had disgraced us.


For he had a lion heart, had my George, always from a baby!"

For he had a lion heart, had my George, 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 Leicester 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.

The old lady recalls, all in a tremble, what a fine, likely lad he was; how they all took to him down at Chesney Wold; how Sir Leicester took to him; the dogs took to him; 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.

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 George when I goes to call him in to tea (he pretended to be smoking his pipe outside), 'What ails you this afternoon, George, for gracious sake?

Mrs. Bagnet, with the instinctive skill of a good warm heart, leaves the old housekeeper to her emotions for a little while, and presently chirps up in her cheery manner.
"So I says to George when I goes to call him in to tea, 'What ails you this afternoon, George?


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 George, 'it's because I AM melancholy and penitent both, this afternoon, that you see me so.'

'Why, Mrs. Bagnet,' says George, 'I am melancholy and penitent this afternoon.


'Why, Mrs. Bagnet,' says George, 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 George 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 George how he comes to have such things on him that afternoon.

Now, ma'am, I draw it out of George how he comes to have such things on his mind.


Then George 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.

Then George 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.


So I says to George when he has done, who is this old lady he has seen?

So I says to George, who is this old lady?


And George tells me it's Mrs. Rouncewell, housekeeper for more than half a century to the Dedlock family down at Chesney Wold in Lincolnshire.

And George tells me it's Mrs. Rouncewell, housekeeper for half a century to the Dedlock family down at Chesney Wold in Lincolnshire.


George 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!'"

George is a Lincolnshire man, and I says to my old Lignum that night, 'Lignum, that's his mother for five and forty 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. Rouncewell.


"Bless you, and thank you, my worthy soul!"


cries Mrs. Bagnet in the most natural manner.


"No thanks to me, I am sure!" cries Mrs. Bagnet.


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 George 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.

"Mind, ma'am, what you had best do is to make George have every sort of help to clear himself of a charge of which he is innocent.


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.

It won't do to have truth and justice on his side; he must have lawyers," exclaims the old girl, apparently persuaded that the latter have dissolved partnership with truth and justice for ever.


"He shall have," says Mrs. Rouncewell, "all the help that can be got for him in the world, my dear.

"He shall have all the help that can be got for him, my dear," says Mrs. Rouncewell.


I will spend all I have, and thankfully, to procure it.

"I will thankfully spend all I have to get it.


Sir Leicester 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."

I - I know something, my dear; and will make my own appeal, as his mother."


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.

The extreme disquietude of the old housekeeper in saying this, her broken words, and her wringing of her hands make a powerful impression on Mrs. Bagnet, but she assumes they are through sorrow for her son's condition.


And yet Mrs. Bagnet wonders too why Mrs. Rouncewell should murmur so distractedly, "My Lady, my Lady, my Lady!"

And yet Mrs. Bagnet wonders why Mrs. Rouncewell should murmur so distractedly, "My Lady, my Lady!"


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.

The frosty night wears away, and the dawn breaks, and the post-chaise comes rolling on through the early mist.


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.

When they set out for the prison, the old lady


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.

looks staid and calm again, although her heart beats fast.


Approaching the cell, they find the door opening and a warder in the act of coming out.

Approaching the cell, they find a warder 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.

He allows them to enter and shuts the door.


So George, who is writing at his table, supposing himself to be alone, does not raise his eyes, but remains absorbed.

So George, who is writing at his table, supposing himself to be alone, does not raise his eyes.


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.

Only her fluttering hands give utterance to her emotions.


But they are very eloquent, very, very eloquent.


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.

They speak of gratitude, of joy, of grief, of hope; of a better son loved less, and this son loved so fondly and so proudly; and Mrs. Bagnet's eyes brim up with tears.


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.

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.


Always my favourite, and my favourite still, where have you been these cruel years and years?

Always my favourite, where have you been these cruel 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!"

as I knew you must be, if it pleased God you were 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.

Mrs. Bagnet wipes her eyes with her serviceable grey cloak, and quite enjoys herself like the best of old girls she is.


"Mother," says the trooper when they are more composed, "forgive me first of all, for I know my need of it."

"Mother," says the trooper when they are more composed, "forgive me."


She does it with all her heart and soul.


She tells him how she has had it written in her will, these many years, that he was her beloved son George.

He has always been her beloved son George.


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 George.


"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.

"Mother, I have been a trouble to you, and I have my reward.


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."

When I left home I didn't care much, mother - I enlisted making believe 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.

The trooper has dried his eyes, but speaks with an occasional 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.

"So I wrote a line home, mother, as you know, to say I had enlisted 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.

I always thought I would write home next year, when I might be better off; and when that year was done, the next year.


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."

So on, from year to year, till I began to get older, and to ask myself why I should ever write."


"I don't find any fault, child--but not to ease my mind, George?


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.

This almost overturns the trooper afresh. He clears his throat.


"Heaven forgive me, mother, but I thought there would be small consolation then in hearing anything about me.


There was my brother, as I read in chance North Country papers now and then, rising to be prosperous and famous.

I read in the papers now and then that my brother was becoming 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.

There was I, a roving dragoon, all my advantages thrown away, all my little learning unlearnt.


What business had I to make myself known?


After letting all that time go by me, what good could come of it?


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."

I knew by that time how you had mourned for me, and wept for me, and prayed for me; and the pain was over, or was softened, 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.

The old lady sorrowfully shakes her head.


"No, I don't say that it was so, mother, but that I made it out to be so.

"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 you respect an idle dragooning chap who was a discredit to himself?


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?

How could I look my brother's children in the face and pretend to set them an example?"


Such were my words, mother, when I passed this in review before me: 'You have made your bed.


Mrs. Rouncewell, 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!"

Mrs. Rouncewell glances at the old girl with knowing pride.


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.

The old girl relieves her feelings by giving the trooper a great poke between the shoulders with her umbrella.


"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.

"This was the way I brought myself to think, mother, that I had best 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.

And I should have done it but for my old comrade's wife here.


I thank you for it, Mrs. Bagnet, with all my heart and might."

Thank you, Mrs. Bagnet, with all my heart."


To which Mrs. Bagnet responds with two pokes.


And now the old lady impresses upon her son George, 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.

And now the old lady tells her son George, her own dear recovered boy, her joy and pride, the light of her eyes, that he must yield up his case to the greatest lawyers that can be got, that he must not be self-willed, 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.

"Mother," returns the trooper, stopping her with a kiss; "tell me what I shall do, and I'll 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. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson, she will find them of her way of thinking, and they will give her the best advice and assistance."

"If you'll acquaint her with Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson, they will give her the best advice and assistance."


"And, George," says the old lady, "we must send with all haste for your brother.

"And, George," says the old lady, "we must send 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."

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."


"Mother," returns the trooper, "is it too soon to ask a favour?"


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.

he has proved himself so different from me and has done so much to raise himself while I've been soldiering that I can't see him here, under this charge.


How could a man like him be expected to have any pleasure in such a discovery?


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."


"Why, mother, perhaps not for good and all--though I may come to ask that too--but keep it now, I do entreat you.

"Why, mother, perhaps not for always, but for now, I 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."

If it's ever broke to him that his rip of a brother has turned up, I don't know how he would react," says the trooper, shaking his head very doubtfully.


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.


"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.

"In all other respects, my dear mother, I'll be as obedient as you can wish.


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.

It's plain and regular; not a word in it but the facts.


I did intend to read it, straight on end, whensoever I was called upon to say anything in my defence.

I intended to read it when I was called upon to speak 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.

Time passing, 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. Rouncewell answers.


"Will you see my mother safe there in a coach, Mrs. Bagnet?

"Will you see my mother safe there, Mrs. Bagnet?


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 Dedlock mansion and handing Mrs. Rouncewell 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.

the Dedlock mansion; where, jumping out cheerfully and handing Mrs. Rouncewell up the steps, the old girl shakes hands and trudges off to the bosom of her own family.


My Lady 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.

My Lady is in the room in which she held her last conference with the murdered man, and is looking at the spot where he stood upon the hearth, when a tap comes at the door.


What has brought Mrs. Rouncewell to town so unexpectedly?


Oh, my Lady, may I beg a word with you?"


What new occurrence is it that makes this tranquil old woman tremble so?

What makes this tranquil old woman tremble so?


Far happier than her Lady, as her Lady has often thought, why does she falter in this manner and look at her with such strange mistrust?

Why does she falter in this manner and look at Lady Dedlock with such strange mistrust?


I have found my son--my youngest, who went away for a soldier so long ago.

I have found my son - my youngest, who went away for a soldier so long ago.


"Oh, no, my Lady; I would have paid any debt, and joyful."


"Charged with a murder, my Lady, of which he is as innocent as--as I am.

"Charged with a murder, my Lady, of which he is as innocent as I am.


Accused of the murder of Mr. Tulkinghorn."


What does she mean by this look and this imploring gesture?


"Lady Dedlock, my dear Lady, my good Lady, my kind Lady!

"Lady Dedlock, my dear Lady, my kind Lady!


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.


But think of my dear son wrongfully accused."


But others do, and he is in prison and in danger.


Oh, Lady Dedlock, if you can say but a word to help to clear him, say it!"


What power does she suppose is in the person she petitions to avert this unjust suspicion, if it be unjust?

What power does she suppose her Lady has?


Her Lady's handsome eyes regard her with astonishment, almost with fear.


"My Lady, 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.

"My Lady, when I came away last night from Chesney Wold, the step upon the Ghost's Walk was so constant 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 Lady, I got this letter."


The housekeeper looks round and answers in a frightened whisper, "My Lady, 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.

The housekeeper looks round and answers in a frightened whisper, "My Lady, I have not breathed a word of it, I don't believe what's written in it, I am 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 Lady, think of me, and conquer that reason, and let it be known!

If you know anything that is not known to others, if you have any clue at all, and any reason for keeping it in your own breast, oh, my dear Lady, think of me, and let it be known!


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 Lady, 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!

Pray, oh, pray, think of your faithful servant, and help to clear my son!


My Lady, my good Lady," 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!"

My Lady, I pray you not to be scornful of us if you can do us any justice at this fearful time!"


Lady Dedlock raises her without one word, until she takes the letter from her hand.

Lady Dedlock takes the letter from her hand.


"When I am gone, my Lady, if you please, and then remembering the most that I consider possible."

"When I am gone, my Lady, if you please."


I know of nothing I reserve that can affect your son.

"I know of nothing I keep back that can affect your son.


"My Lady, 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.

In truth she is not a hard lady naturally.


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.

But she is long accustomed to suppress emotion, long schooled to shut up the natural feelings of the heart like flies in amber.


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.

Spread out upon the paper is a printed account of the discovery of the body as it lay face downward on the floor; and underneath is written her own name, with the word "murderess" attached.


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 Guppy.


The words have probably been repeated several times, for they are ringing in her head before she begins to understand them.


Holding the letter in her hand, which she has taken from the floor, she tries to collect her thoughts.

Holding the letter, which she has picked up, she tries to collect her thoughts.


In the eyes of Mr. Guppy she is the same Lady Dedlock, holding the same prepared, proud, chilling state.

In Mr. Guppy's eyes she is the same proud, chilling Lady Dedlock.


"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. Guppy.

"Your ladyship may not be at first disposed to excuse this visit, but I hope when I mention my motives your ladyship will not find fault with me," says Mr. Guppy.


I ought first to explain to your ladyship," Mr. Guppy sits on the edge of a chair and puts his hat on the carpet at his feet, "that Miss Summerson, 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.

I ought to explain," Mr. Guppy sits on the edge of a chair, "that Miss Summerson, whose image was at one period of my life imprinted on my 'eart until erased by circumstances over which I had no control, told me recently that she particularly wished me to take no steps in any manner relating to her.


And Miss Summerson'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 Miss Summerson's wishes being to me a law, I consequently never expected to have the honour of waiting on your ladyship again."


And yet he is here now, Lady Dedlock moodily reminds him.


"And yet I am here now," Mr. Guppy 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. Guppy 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.

"But it is 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 Summerson 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."

If it was not for my promise to Miss Summerson, I shouldn't have darkened these doors again."


Mr. Guppy 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.

"Your ladyship may remember that the last time I was here I run against a party very eminent in our profession 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 Summerson's wishes.

That party certainly did from that time cut in against me in a way that I will call sharp practice.


Self-praise is no recommendation, but I may say for myself that I am not so bad a man of business neither."


Lady Dedlock looks at him in stern inquiry.


Mr. Guppy 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.

Indeed, it has been so hard to have any idea what that party was up to that I was gravelled.


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.

However, with the exertion of my humble abilities, and with the help of a friend by the name of Mr. Tony Weevle, 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?

First, may I ask your ladyship 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?"


"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."

, because I saw them at the door, and took time to avoid them."


"What have I to do with that, or what have you?


"Your ladyship, I come to put you on your guard.


Then I have only done my best to keep my promise to Miss Summerson.


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.

"Your ladyship, I strongly suspect 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 if there was anything to be blown open, it is blown upon.


That the visitors I have alluded to have been here this morning to make money of it.

That the visitors I mentioned have been here this morning to make money of it."


"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 Summerson's wishes in letting things alone and in undoing what I had begun to do, as far as possible; that's sufficient for me.

I have followed Miss Summerson's wishes in letting things alone and in undoing what I had begun to do.


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.

When he has been gone a little while, she rings her bell.


Mercury reports that he is at present shut up in the library alone.

The footman reports that he is shut up in the library alone.


"Has Sir Leicester had any visitors this morning?"


Mercury proceeds to a description of them, which has been anticipated by Mr. Guppy.


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 husband knows his wrongs, her shame will be published - may be spreading now - and in addition to the thunderbolt so long foreseen by her, 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.

Mr. Tulkinghorn was her enemy, and she has often wished him dead.


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.

And when she recalls how she was secretly at his door that night, 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.

hurries to and fro, flings herself down upon the couch, 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.

If she really were the murderess, it could hardly be 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.

Although she felt a wicked relief in the death of her enemy,


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!

what was it but the key-stone of a gloomy arch removed, and now the arch begins to fall in a thousand fragments!


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.

Thus, a terrible impression steals upon her that there is no escape except in death.


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.

Her shame, her dread, remorse, and misery, overwhelm her; 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:

She hurriedly addresses this note to her husband, seals it, and leaves it 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.

Believe no other good of me, for I am innocent of nothing else that you have heard.


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.

After he had left me, I went out 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 rang twice at his door, but there was no reply, and I came home.


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.

May you, in your just resentment, be able to forget the unworthy woman on whom you have wasted a most generous devotion - who feels deep shame - 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.

She 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, and flutters away in the shrill frosty wind.


Charley 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. Boythorn's house, so he accompanied us, and we were two days upon the road.

My guardian 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.

I found every breath of air, and every scent, and every flower and leaf, and every passing cloud, more beautiful and wonderful to me than I had ever found it yet.


How little I had lost, when the wide world was so full of delight for me.

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.

Since my guardian intended to go back directly, we agreed, 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.

I wrote her a letter, which he took back with him once we had arrived at our destination.


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.

If a good fairy had built the house for me with a wave of her wand, 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.

So many preparations were made for me, and all my little tastes and likings, that I could have sat down, overcome, a dozen times.


I did better than that, however, by showing them all to Charley instead.


Charley's delight calmed mine; and after we had had a walk in the garden, and Charley 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, "Esther, 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.

Our host 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.

I wrote a little note of thanks 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, 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.


My note finished and sent off to the post, I made myself very busy in unpacking and arranging; and I sent Charley to bed in good time and told her I should want her no more that night.

With my note sent off to the post, I made myself very busy in unpacking and arranging; and I told Charley 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.

I had always said to myself that I would begin afresh when I got here.


Therefore I had wanted to be alone, and therefore I said, now alone, in my own room, "Esther, 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."

Therefore I had wanted to be alone. I said now, "Esther, 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.


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.

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.

At first my face was quite strange to me.


Very soon it became more familiar, and then I knew the extent of the alteration in it better than I had done at first.

Very soon it became more familiar, and then I knew the extent of the alteration.


It was not like what I had expected, but I had expected nothing definite, and I dare say anything definite would have surprised me.

It was not like what I had expected, but I had expected nothing definite.


I had never been a beauty and had never thought myself one, but I had been very different from this.


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.


When they were withered I had dried them and put them in a book that I was fond of.


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 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.

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.

At last I came to the conclusion that I might keep the flowers if I treasured them only as a remembrance of what was irrevocably past and gone, never to be looked back on any more.


I took care to be up early in the morning and to be before the glass when Charley came in on tiptoe.

I took care to be up early in the morning and to be sitting before the glass when Charley came in on tiptoe.


"Yes, Charley," said I, quietly putting up my hair.


"And I am very well indeed, and very happy."


I saw it was a weight off Charley'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 Charley for being in the fresh air all day long.

Wishing to be fully re-established in my strength and good spirits before Ada came, I now laid down plans with Charley 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.

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 explore every road, lane, and field in the neighbourhood.


As to restoratives and strengthening delicacies, Mr. Boythorn'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.

As to strengthening delicacies, Mr. Boythorn's good housekeeper was for ever trotting about with something to eat or drink in her hand; if I was resting in the park she would come trotting after me with a basket, her cheerful face shining.


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.

Then there was a chubby pony with a mane all over his eyes expressly for my riding, so easy and quiet 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.

In a very few days he would come to me in the paddock when I called him, 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 Charley 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.

Once we put him in a little chaise and drove him triumphantly through the green lanes for five miles; but just as we were extolling him to the skies, he took umbrage at the circle of little gnats around his ears, and stopped.


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 Charley 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.

He steadily refused to move until I gave the reins to Charley and got out and walked, when he followed me with sturdy good humour, 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.

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.

Consequently I was obliged to lead the way; and in this order we returned home, to the great delight of the village.


Charley 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.

It was the most friendly of villages, I am sure, for in a week's time the people were so glad to see us go by 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.

I had known many of the people before, but now the very steeple began to wear a familiar and affectionate look.